‘They assume, as the phones don’t need to be registered, that their usage is untraceable. To a certain extent, they’re right. However, any call made, text sent, web site visited et cetera, are all still monitored by GCHQ, and as most retailers will log the device serial number or phone number associated with a SIM card at time of sale, and we can link back to CCTV footage and try to match a buyer with a sale. It’s usually a very long shot, and the crims do seem to have the upper hand, but sometimes we’ll get lucky.’
Sam looked back at Bray, who nodded appreciatively.
‘Thank you Sam.’ Said Bray. ‘So what’s different this time?’
‘Well, as Nick pointed out, 8210’s haven’t been made since the early two-thousands, so there’s no chance of finding the retailer who sold it. Plus the fact that we didn’t find any trace of a SIM card.’
Sam glanced around the room, one face at a time, letting this snippet of information sink in. He pressed on. ‘So the current thinking suggests that this device was not detonated over a mobile network.’
People started muttering between themselves. This is obviously new territory thought Sam as he looked around. He continued.
‘Anyway, no SIM card means no mobile carrier, which means, as you’re all probably well aware, no ability to trace.’
As Sam was about to continue, Bray’s mobile rang. Bray blushed.
‘Excuse me.’ He said, as he pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
Then Virani’s mobile rang, followed by Nick’s. Within seconds, nearly every mobile in the room was ringing. This can’t be good. Sam thought.
At that moment, the conference room door swung open. An out of breath, slightly overweight man in his mid-twenties held himself up on the door frame.
‘Grant, Jay, we need you; now. There’s been an explosion in Knightsbridge.’
Chapter Eight
Lucas Fostervold stood gazing out of his fifty-seventh floor office window in The Shard. His company was one of the first to sign up as a commercial tenant in the recently opened structure, and it was a magnificent structure as far as Lucas Fostervold was concerned. Architect Renzo Piano had designed a three-hundred metre tall spire of glass and aluminium which would, for a while at least, dominate the ever changing London skyline.
While breath-taking, the structure wasn’t well received by all. Some had likened it to a middle finger, a talon of hate aimed at the people of London who could barely afford to live there. The building was required to have a public viewing area, and, for a fee, anyone was free to go and sample the amazing view. This led to further outcry regarding the privatisation of the city’s skyline. The theft of a space that should rightly belong to the citizens of the city.
Lucas Fostervold didn’t care as he continued to look across the city. It was just socialist claptrap as far as he was concerned. This, all he had attained, was capitalism at work.
He’d worked hard, as had his father and grandfather to build this company, this view was his reward. As far as he was concerned, he’d earned it. And it was spectacular. The sun, high in the sky, lit up the streets below and glistened like diamonds off the surface of the Thames.
London looked like a model village, the roads like a child’s play-mat covered in toy cars, the people like ants scurrying for food to return to their queen.
He slowly looked around, taking in the vista. He’d never get bored of this view. Eventually his gaze was drawn to the west where he saw smoke rising; about three or four miles away. Knightsbridge.
His office door swung open and James Culpepper, walked in; ashen faced and trembling.
‘Lucas, have you seen the news?”
Fostervold’s attention turned from the smoke rising in the distance and he smiled at his business partner of twenty years
‘James, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Whatever’s the matter?’
Culpepper walked up to Fostervold’s glass and aluminium desk, picked up a remote control and switched on the sixty five inch, wall-mounted television.
The blonde, far-too-attractive-to-deliver-bad-news, presenter sat behind her desk, a sombre look on her face. The Sky News logo sat in its usual place, top left of the screen, while the familiar black on yellow news ribbon scrolled along the bottom of the screen, announcing Knightsbridge Explosion: capital lockdown.
Culpepper took the TV off of mute.
‘… nwhile, all public transport has been suspended, and all flights in and out of Heathrow have been cancelled. The Prime Minister has called an emergency cabinet meeting and is expected to make a statement shortly.
‘However, at this time it’s not known whether the explosion was a terrorist act or an accident. No terrorist organisation has claimed responsibility.’
Fostervold turned to Culpepper. ‘Jesus.’ He moved from the window and stood in front of his huge leather chair, leaning, palms down, on his desk. Staring, unblinking, at the screen.
‘I know.’ Culpepper replied. He pointed the remote control back at the TV and pressed mute again. ‘Stocks are already falling, and when Wall Street starts trading later, you can guarantee it’s going to drop too. Yanks will think it’s a run up to attacks over there. We stand to lose millions. Could take months; Christ, years even, to recover from this.’
‘Jesus.’ was all Fostervold could manage, once more.
It was bedlam at Thames House. Sam stood in the now empty conference room. He sipped his coffee and watched through the window as people ran around shouting orders. The constant cacophony of phones ringing supplied the theme tune to a crisis. He’d never experienced anything like this before. He didn’t have a clue what was going on, or what he was expected to do.
The conference room door flew open. It was Virani.
‘Sam. Get a response team to Knightsbridge. Get the area sealed. I want forensics there in the next fifteen minutes.’
Sam just stood there, mouth agape, coffee mug halfway to his lips. Virani continued.
‘Then get this room set up as an operations room.’ She paused, sensing his unease. ‘Don’t look so panicked Sam, it’s not the end of the world.’ She tried a reassuring smile. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
‘Thanks Jay that fills me with confidence.’ Said Sam.
The joyful screams and shouts of children in a nearby play area drifted over the Italian Gardens in Hyde Park. The devastation and panic in nearby Knightsbridge lost on the innocent, for they didn’t know what was happening less than a mile away, and they didn’t care.
Raynor sat gazing over the four large rectangular water features, the fountains providing a constant soundtrack akin to a summer rain shower. He watched the smoke, still rising. A lot of people in the park seemed to be drawn to it, heading in the direction of Knightsbridge, pulled by a mysterious, invisible force like lemmings drawn to a cliff edge.
His wandering mind was stirred by the ring of his mobile.
‘Yes?’
‘Good job today, the results are better than expected.’
Raynor scanned his immediate vicinity. Nobody even realised he was there.
‘Thank you. And the delivery to me?’
The sounds of the playing children started to grow faint, everybody in the park now realising something big had happened a stone’s throw from their current location.
‘I’ve had confirmation that delivery has been made. It’s up to you now, you can carry on if you wish, but you know the rules, a maximum of fifteen will be delivered.’
Rayner stood and started heading north, out of the park.
‘Oh, and if you decide to continue, make sure there’s a distinguishing feature. So I know it’s your work. I wouldn’t want to start paying you if you suddenly inspire a copycat.’