Roger sounded very apologetic. ‘I seem to recall making a jotting or two. It’s hard to keep track of people entering through the immigration fast track process. Unfortunately, I can’t recall any details. We’re asked to process hundreds of people.’
‘Steve said that information in your notebooks might help us,’ said John.
‘Yes; I’ve a drawer full of cheap notebooks in which I make miscellaneous notes. As soon as we land I’ll go straight to the office and try to find my scribbles on their fish processing business. I hope I didn’t throw them away. All I can remember is that the location was somewhere in London. At the moment, I can’t recall anything more. We aren’t encouraged to muddy the waters. My scribbles aren’t welcomed on the files. Just a habit I suppose.’
‘A good one,’ said John. ‘We’ll arrange to have you picked up from the plane and taken to your office when you land. Will your wife and family be OK?’
‘Yes, no problem there; Felicity is well-organised.’
‘If you should remember anything in the meantime, do please let us know. When you get to the office, if for any reason you can not get through on the phone, please fax us with anything you have. The fax comes through to the middle of our office. Steve has put the numbers on your desk. Safe journey.’
John asked to speak to the captain.
‘How can I be of assistance?’
‘Mr Harewood is going to be helping us with important enquiries when he gets back to Manchester. He seems to have unwittingly uncovered a piece of information that might help us solve a serious crime. We could do with him being as alert as possible when he lands. Could you…?’
The pilot didn’t need to hear the rest of the sentence. ‘I’ll arrange for him and his family to be moved to first class for the remainder of the flight.’
‘Thank you. When you land, I will arrange for Mr Harewood to be collected from the boarding gate. Could you ask the control tower to give you landing priority, or should I?’
‘No problem, I can do that.’
‘This is hush-hush so another excuse would be appreciated. Thanks for your help,’ said John.
John thought for a moment, picked up the phone and spoke to Phil Scott, Rick Feldon’s assistant. ‘Apologies for waking you. I could do with a favour, please. I need to get a Roger Harewood from Manchester Airport to his office in Sheffield, when his plane lands just after 9 o’clock this morning. Time will be of the essence.’
‘It’s forty miles and at that time of the morning the traffic will be awful. I’ve got an idea. Can I ring you back?’ asked Phil.
‘No problem.’
A few minutes later, Phil came on the phone. ‘I’ve pulled some strings and booked the police helicopter. It will be waiting at Manchester airport, and I’ve arranged for an airport security car to take Roger from the plane across to it.’
‘Perfect, thanks very much,’ said John.
It was now a matter of waiting. Rafi looked at Kate. It was obvious that neither of them was optimistic.
‘What else can we do? How about we get the large scale London maps out again and see if we’ve missed anything?’
Kate gave Rafi a concerned look. ‘I don’t know how you do it. You’ve suffered more stress in the last week than most people deal with in their whole lives and you still keep going with a smile on your face. I’m absolutely shattered.’
He looked at Kate and saw a different, softer side to her.
‘It’s the company I keep, and an overwhelming desire to stop the terrorists,’ he replied.
Kate smiled at him. ‘You think the company is tolerable?’
‘Yes,’ he smiled, ‘When you walked into the interview room at Paddington Green, I doubt if you knew how close I was to folding. I shall be in your debt for…’ Rafi paused, trying to think how best to express his feelings.
But, before he could finish his sentence, Kate cut in. ‘It was David who said I should back you. For my part, I’d have left you to the wolves. But I’m glad that my first instincts proved to be so wrong.’
In the Ops Room the planning of Operation Counterpane continued at a feverish pace.
Time had slipped by – dawn would soon be breaking.
‘They are professionals, hardened in the tactics of guerrilla warfare,’ said Colonel Gray to his team. ‘If they’re half as good as the Russian Security Service say, we can expect them to be invisible right up to the last moment.’
At Cruden Bay in North Scotland, the expectation was for an attack shortly after daybreak. The SAS and paratroopers were waiting, but there was still no sign of the terrorist. However, the indications were that a terrorist had been in the vicinity. An outbuilding behind the vacant industrial unit in Peterhead had been occupied the previous day. Someone had been sloppy. Numerous fresh cigarette ends were found on the floor. In themselves they were nothing out of the ordinary, but in the circumstances they were like manna from heaven. In the FSB files was a miscellaneous comment on Sergy Kowshaya – he was a chain-smoker.
The brigadier’s two adjutants were having an increasingly frenetic time coordinating the Ministry of Defence’s press team and the release of information to the news desks.
The message they were trying to put across was: ‘Yes, there have been three terrorist attacks, but this is a matter for the armed forces and the police, not the politicians. The attacks have been partially successful. Thankfully, no nuclear material has been released. Security has been stepped up at all UK nuclear installations. Another attack couldn’t be ruled out. Nothing is being taken for granted and the military has been called in to provide a defensive ring around key installations. This is what the armed forces are trained for and the public should remain calm.’
The Air Chief Marshal spoke to those around him in the Ops Room and those on the video links. ‘Daylight will bring with it the real danger as the terrorists will be able to see their targets more clearly and the news cameras will capture any scenes of destruction. Be prepared for anything to happen. We have two highly dangerous terrorists out there. We have to find them and stop them.’
It was cold at Cruden Bay. A swirling sea mist lapped around the bulbous twin tanks of the oil pumping station, cloaking them in a soft, white blanket. The outline of the buildings was barely visible, making an accurate attack by a terrorist difficult.
Suddenly there was activity. A suspicious movement had been detected one and a half kilometres from the perimeter of the oil pumping station. From nowhere, there was the feint infrared image of an individual kneeling on the ground out in the open, with a missile launcher at his side. The enhanced pictures showed that in the blink of an eye the terrorist had the launcher up on its tripod and was ready to fire at the pumping station. It was clear he knew exactly what he was doing. The nearest SAS soldier was 500 metres to the terrorist’s left but, unfortunately, his line of sight was partially obscured by a small undulation in the terrain.
It was too late – there was a whooshing sound and seconds later one of the two oil storage tanks erupted into a fireball that lit up the grassland for miles around. The explosion was followed by a series of smaller explosions. It was like a gargantuan Chinese firecracker going off. Dense, grey smoke engulfed the whole facility.
The soldier broke cover and moved rapidly to a point where he could clearly see the terrorist in the distance. On the run, he opened fire. The terrorist seemed unfazed by the bullets whistling around him and fired a second missile into the thick pall of smoke. Another explosion was heard, but this time it lacked the cataclysmic intensity of the first. The dark, clawing smoke belched up into the sky. Anyone downwind was going to have an unpleasant time.
The terrorist’s position looked increasingly hopeless; three SAS soldiers with their automatic fire had him pinned down in his foxhole. Suddenly the ground around the terrorist started belching out thick white smoke, creating a smokescreen which rapidly obscured him from the view of the SAS – he was well prepared.