But the money didn’t interest her. And that was her most endearing feature. The tabloids had tried to tempt her with massive payments for appearing topless, but she always gracefully declined. There’s no doubt her tall, slender figure, shapely catwalk-model legs, long dark hair and large brown eyes, which always sparkled in a playful manner, would shift a shed-load of any crap the UK press could print, but she didn’t care. ‘I’m worth more than that.’ was her stock answer. Even when the press threatened to run stories about her to try to damage her public reputation, she wasn’t bothered.
‘I’ve only got a reputation because the papers gave me one, so what do I care if you take it away again?’ She’d once asked a hack who was threatening her after she turned down a photo shoot. He gave up, realising that the press didn’t have a hold over her at all.
She stopped at the department store and looked through the window at the enticing display. The dress was amazing. So was the price. It probably worked out to be fifty pounds in value for every square inch of material, of which there weren’t many, but still enough for it to cost a small fortune. She didn’t care though, she made good money in her own right, and would never spend Smithy’s cash. She enjoyed her independence too much.
It wouldn’t matter if England win or lose tonight, once she arrived at the players’ after-match dinner and George saw her in this dress, he’d forget all about the game, his mind only on the night ahead. She’d be sure to pop to the lingerie department while she was there. Smithy was going to score. Off the field at least.
She saw the flash of light reflect in the shop window a fraction of a second before she heard the explosion, sound being extremely pedestrian when compared to the speed of light. She didn’t have time to wonder what it was as the shock-wave hit her. Then time started crawling as she was lifted off her feet.
She felt like she was floating, uncontrollably. She felt her head make contact with the plate glass window, saw individual cracks appear in the glass, felt every shard that pierced her face, felt her blood start to leave her as slow as tar being poured onto a road. Why does time slow down for pain? She pondered as the window burst into a million pieces which started to rain down on her. She hit the mannequin which was modelling the dress she had intended to buy, landed awkwardly and rolled onto her back in time to see a ball of flames burst through the gap where the window had been just seconds earlier.
Looking up she noticed, for the first time, the exposed pipework which seemed to be all the rage in retail outlets these days. The air conditioning ducts and ventilation shafts. She noticed a piece of pipe start to fall away from its mountings. It was only about five inches in diameter, but it looked heavy. She watched as it fell. It seemed to take forever. She knew it was going to hit her, but she was powerless to do anything as the fire took hold of the store around her and shock rendered her immobile. She thought of George as the pipe pierced the skin of her throat. Come on England. Then nothing. Vertebrae broke and the pipe made its exit through the back of her neck, her head now only connected to her shoulders by tendons and skin.
Raynor heard the distant rumble and felt the explosion vibrate through the Knightsbridge Cafe where he was casually enjoying a cup of strong, sweet tea — just like in the army — and a Danish pastry.
The other cafe patrons stopped what they were doing and all looked up. They started looking at each other with concerned, confused looks and slowly, one by one, got up from their seats and headed for the door. Those eating outside at the pavement tables were already making their way up William Street, pointing to the plume of smoke rising above the rooftops.
The manager started calling after the departing patrons, insisting they pay before they leave, but even he put down his tea towel and joined the crowd when whispers of ‘explosion’, ‘smoke’ and ‘bomb’ made their way through the crowd.
Raynor checked his watch. Only four and a half minutes. Not bad. He smiled, but nobody would notice, everyone was too preoccupied with whatever was going on outside.
I’m a multi-millionaire. Sweet. He got up and joined the crowd heading up the street, feigning concern. At the top of the street, when it joined the A4, he allowed himself a glance to the left, just to check the chaos, before crossing the road onto Albert Gate and disappearing into Hyde Park.
The wailing of sirens could be heard in the distance. It had started. Now only he could decide when, and how, it would end.
Chapter Seven
Sam stood at the head of the table in a conference room in Thames House. Jayshree Virani sat in an adjacent chair, eyes on Sam, listening intently. Also present was Grant Bray, head of the MI5 Counter Terrorism section. A tall, slim man of fifty five, whose blonde hair and piercing blue eyes belied his age. He easily looked ten years younger. He was wearing a stylish, made to measure, dark blue pinstripe suit. Black patent leather brogues completed the ensemble along with a button down blue and white striped shirt and blue on blue diamond-patterned silk tie. It was a look a man half his age would struggle to pull off, but he managed it effortlessly.
Accompanying Jay and Grant were a number of analysts, along with the forensics team which had joined Sam on Salisbury Plain the previous day. In all, around fifteen people sat in the conference room.
The aroma of coffee assaulted Sam’s nose, he wanted a sip of his Vanilla Latte, but he was mid explanation.
‘So, it’s an IED.’ he said. ‘It appears to be well assembled, but, to be honest, there’s not much left of it to tell.’ He looked down at the table, where numerous clear plastic evidence bags were laid out, exhibiting the evidence collected from Salisbury Plain. He picked up a bag.
‘Detonation appears to be via mobile communications.’ He pointed at a small piece of circuit board, before placing it on a projector platen. A screen on the wall came to life, a huge piece of green circuit board projected onto it. The words kia 82 clearly visible. Sam continued.
‘This seems to be a piece of Nokia circuitry, and as you can see, the model number can’t be determined. However,’ he looked back at his audience, confidence growing. ‘We’ve matched the circuit patterns against our mobile database and have matched this piece of board to an 8210.’
Nick Upex, an up and coming forensics and technology expert, raised his hand.
‘Nick?’ asked Sam.
‘Yeah, sorry to interrupt Sam, but 8210’s haven’t been manufactured since the early two-thousands. Are you sure?’
Sam nodded his affirmation and continued.
‘We’re certain it’s an 8210. Fortunately, circuit board manufacturing has also moved on since the dawn of the century, so we were able to match materials and manufacturing processes to that period. The downside is, as it’s so old, it’s not a burner. Probably sat in a drawer for years before being sold at a car boot sale.’
Now Grant Bray raised a hand, looking a little sheepish.
‘Yes sir?’ asked Sam.
‘Sorry Sam, but would you just elaborate on what a burner is? Just in case anyone here isn’t sure?’
‘Of course.’ Replied Sam stifling a grin. ‘A burner is usually a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile, or free SIM card. Criminals will use these phones or SIMs when co-ordinating resources.’
Sam looked at Virani, who nodded slightly, acknowledging that he was doing a good job.