“Bend down,” I said. “Put the gun on the floor. Gently.”
He bent his knees so he could reach the ground, but kept his waist completely straight. The move looked awkward. Rollins had told me he’d been injured in the lower abdomen during the shoot-out with Fothergill. I guess he was still feeling the effects of the surgery. Or at least, that he wanted me to think so.
“Stand up,” I said. “Raise your hands. And kick the gun away, behind you.”
So far, so good. Stopping him had been perfectly straightforward. And I was still wondering whether he would give up the gas canister just as easily when the front door was ripped off its hinges. Something had sent it hurtling down the corridor toward us, cannoning off the floor and walls and finally biting into the wooden boards at McIntyre’s feet.
It seems that the movies had a point about the inevitable sound of hooves in the distance. But there’s one thing those old Westerns never warned you about.
The cavalry might always arrive. But it isn’t always on your side.
FIVE
Civilians were mentioned a lot during our first couple of weeks of training. The instructors never missed an opportunity to remind us that members of the public always came first. Everything we were taught was ultimately aimed at preserving their safety and well-being. Because although our job was very specialized, when you boiled it down to the bare bones, it was actually extremely simple. We were there for one thing. To look after those who couldn’t look after themselves.
I didn’t have a problem with that. In fact, it made perfect sense. On the whole, I welcomed it. My only reservation was about the people who were capable, but wouldn’t look after themselves. Who chose not to. Who thought they were entitled to have someone else do all the hard work on their behalf. But in the end I didn’t have much time to waste thinking about them. As our exercises became more complex, mention of the wider population dropped off dramatically. Soon they were hardly part of our thinking at all. Not much more than a background presence. We were too focused on the job in hand.
Until one Saturday when we were sent out, on our own, to major cities around the country.
We were told that a fringe terrorist group was planning to activate a device that would release clouds of fumes into the crowd at a Premier League football match, later that day. The vapor was thought to be highly acidic. It was capable of causing horrific burns wherever it came into contact with bare skin. Possibly permanent blindness, if it got into the eyes. And even death, if enough was breathed in to destroy a victim’s lungs.
The attack was to be part of a protest against the working conditions the group alleged were forced on workers in clothing factories in the third world. The ones who made the replica shirts the supporters were so keen on wearing. It would be carried out by four people. All would be women. Our job was to help the police spot them, so they could be arrested before any damage was done. We had their pictures. We believed they would be arriving by train. But still, picking them out of a crowd of tens of thousands of people wasn’t going to be easy.
We were given our destinations as soon as the morning briefing was over. Mine turned out to be Birmingham. I made good time up the motorways, dumped my unmarked car on some waste ground near the spot where the Aston Expressway crosses Trinity Road, and started to make my way toward the railway station. This part was slow going, pushing my way through the unbroken river of people. Then, when I was nearly at the stadium, we stopped moving completely. Some sort of disturbance had broken out just ahead of me. I shouldered my way through the onlookers to find out what was going on. A knot of people had formed outside a pub. Two were supporters of the visiting team, and five were home fans. It was a dangerous combination, but still at the pushing and shoving stage. There was still time for it to be defused. I looked around for the police. There were none to be seen. I called it in, but was told that somehow, inexplicably, there was no cover in that sector. The nearest officers were ten minutes away. An eternity, in the circumstances. Punches started to be thrown. One guy went down. He took a kick to the head. A knife appeared. Then another. I scanned the crowd. People were sickened. Excited. Fascinated. Horrified. Delighted. But none of them was ready or able to intervene. The situation was out of control. It was on the verge of becoming a bloodbath.
Unless I stopped it.
I did step forward. But not to break up the fight. Instead I just eased around the edge of the mob and continued on my way. I had a job to do. The next ten minutes were difficult, pushing visions of the guy on the ground out of my head and trying to focus on the pictures of the terrorists I’d memorized that morning. Comparing them against the swarms of happy, smiling supporters. And trying to conceal my surprise when I finally spotted a face I did recognize.
One of my instructors.
The whole episode had been staged. There was no plot to release acid into the crowd. The point of the exercise was completely different. To see if you had the presence of mind to put the needs of the many ahead of the few. Even in the heat of the moment. Even when you had to get blood on your shoes to do it. Because that put the place of civilians in its full context. You don’t involve yourself with them on purpose, but occasionally they get caught up anyway. Sometimes by accident. Sometimes through their own greed. Sometimes because of stupidity. And sometimes, plain bad luck.
But whatever the cause, it wasn’t your problem.
You couldn’t allow anything to stand in the way of your objective.
When they saw the remains of the shattered apartment, the fire department wanted to take me to hospital. The police wanted to take me to jail. And Fothergill wanted to take me somewhere secluded so he could shoot me.
Fothergill came closest. He got the first half of his wish, at least.
After we’d disentangled ourselves from the authorities, I got him to stop at my hotel so I could change my clothes. The look on his face as we drove told me not to expect much hospitality once we reached the consulate, so I made him stop again at the nearest Starbucks. I was in need of a major dose of caffeine. And then, when I was well enough supplied, I let him drag me back to his office.
“Are you fit?” he said, glaring at me from behind his desk. “Can you at least continue?”
“Of course,” I said, dragging one of the visitors’ chairs across the room and sitting down.
“What did the paramedics say?”
“Not much.”
“They seemed to be worried.”
“They’re paid to be worried. It’s nothing.”
“Your head’s OK? They spent a long time looking at it.”
“I took a knock in New York, last time out. They saw where I’d been sewn up.”
“That’s all?”
All? Twelve stitches. Neatly done. Barely a scar left, now. Small beer, in the scheme of things. But it had caused way more than its share of trouble. Nothing good had happened since that incident. Looking back, it seemed more like a curse than a wound. I wondered if it would ever stop haunting me.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s all.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose,” he said. “Saves having to call for a replacement. The last thing I need to be doing right now is talking to London. Not till I’ve figured a way to explain this latest fiasco. How the hell did it happen?”
“Looks like McIntyre had a couple of friends in town we didn’t know about.”
“You’re sure they were friends?”
“They blew his door off its hinges and tried to haul him out of there. Who else could they be?”
“If they were friends, why break down the door? Why not just knock and wait to be let in?”
“ ’Cause of Rollins. He’d already knocked. I told him to do that and then run away. They must have bumped into him on the stairs.”