As he passed the meeting room where Emma was, he banged on the door and called for her to follow. Seconds later he barged into the Ops Room, skidded to a halt and shouted to Kate, waving the fax in his hand.
‘Roger confirms: it’s between Billingsgate and the A12; a large industrial property currently being refurbished.’
Rafi prayed that they weren’t too late and that the valuable minutes wasted with the junior minister would not be their undoing.
At 9.56 a.m. the PM finished briefing COBRA on the events of the past thirty-six hours.
The video-conference link showing the Wood Street Ops Room was switched on. The PM introduced the Air Chief Marshal, Sir Nigel Hawser, and asked him to update COBRA on the whereabouts of the missing terrorist.
Suddenly, the door behind the Air Chief Marshal burst open and in rushed a scruffy looking policewoman closely followed by a dark-skinned individual with an unshaven face, in a Harlequins rugby shirt, waving a piece of paper and shouting…
Kate and Rafi didn’t stand on ceremony and cut across the PM.
‘We have found the location of the last terrorist. He’s at a large industrial property in Stratford, East London, between the A12 and Billingsgate fish market. It’s being refurbished. I hope it won’t be too difficult to spot from the air.’
‘What’s the target at Stratford?’ asked the PM.
‘Could there be a nuclear waste train in transit near there?’ suggested Emma, who had arrived at the door. ‘It is the only thing left on our list that could fit.’
‘Find out, now!’ instructed the Air Chief Marshal to Colonel Turner. ‘Find the building and then the target should become obvious.’
At that moment John walked in. He sidled over to Rafi and passed him the tape of the interview with the junior minister. He said quietly, ‘I thought that you might like to have the tape as a memento.’
‘Thanks…’ said Rafi tucking the tape into his pocket. ‘They’re looking for the last location; it’s near Stratford, in East London.’
Meanwhile the Air Chief Marshal was on the scrambler. ‘What air cover do we have? A fighter over Sizewell in Suffolk? Excellent! Get it over Stratford as quickly as is physically possible.’
‘There’s also a Tornado preparing to land at Marham, in Norfolk,’ said the squadron leader on a video link with the Ops Room.
‘Get it here in double quick time,’ ordered the Air Chief Marshal.
‘Commissioner, alert the nearest police helicopter and get it to Stratford. The first to arrive will have to locate and take out the terrorist.’
The brigadier called across. ‘The Tornado will be at Stratford in seven minutes and the Jaguar from Suffolk will be there in eight and a half minutes. I’ve alerted the nearest anti-terrorist squad and they’ll be in the area in twenty-two minutes.’
‘Tell the pilots to look for a scaffolding tower, or a platform on the roof of an industrial building overlooking the railway tracks,’ ordered the brigadier.
The colonel meanwhile was getting agitated. He was having a frustrating time finding out where the nearest nuclear waste train was. The clock showed it was just after 9.58 a.m. He’d dialled through on the direct line of the control room coordinating nuclear trains, but he was being given the runaround by the computer-controlled switchboard.
‘Oh damn it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Bloody lift music! What on earth do they think that they are – some poncey retail store?’
A woman finally answered, apologising for the delay. ‘If you’ve come through to me, it means that either the phones in the control room are engaged or the people are busy.’
‘Do you work in the same building as the control room for the nuclear trains?’ enquired the colonel.
‘Yes; they’re on the floor above me.’
‘Excellent! Go right now and get someone in authority to pick up my call immediately. There’s an accident waiting to happen. This is vitally important – do it now!’
With that, the phone reverted back to what the colonel described as ‘bloody bog music’. His face had gone from a normal shade of pink through the spectrum to a bright red. A meek voice came on the phone a minute later.
‘Please excuse the delay… You caught me with my trousers down. How can I help?’ came the response.
‘Do you know the whereabouts of any nuclear trains near Stratford?’
‘Er… Yes and no,’ came an uncertain reply. ‘Sorry I’m not that sure; this is only my first week here. The board shows that there’s one scheduled to pass through Stratford. My boss has gone outside for a moment.’
‘Is there anyone else with you who can help us?’
‘Not really, my boss is away from his desk…’
‘Find him as quickly as humanly possible.’
‘He won’t like being disturbed,’ came the unfortunate reply.
‘Get him now; tell him there’s an emergency and you’ve COBRA on the phone.’
‘You what?’
‘Just get him, now. Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.’
‘Will do!’
Rafi looked up at the clock; it was 10 o’clock. He looked around the room. Everyone was holding their breath; there was a deathly hush. Moments later, the voice of an aggravated man came on the phone.
‘What do you want?’ he barked.
‘Do you have a nuclear train anywhere near Stratford?’ The colonel barked back.
‘Damn it! Who the hell are you?’ came the abrupt reply.
‘Colonel Bill Turner of the anti-terrorist squad; I have the Prime Minister alongside me.’
‘No shit!’ was the reply.
‘Do as he says, now!’ commanded the PM in a stern voice. ‘And before you ask, yes, I am the Prime Minister.’
‘Hold on a moment. Yes, the Sizewell train is running slightly late; it has just left Stratford station and is entering the North London branch line.’
The Colonel shouted down the phone, ‘Tell them to do an emergency stop!’
The voice of the controller was heard over the speaker. ‘Dick, STOP! Stop your train immediately; there’s a terrorist threat!’
‘Where exactly is the train, now?’
‘About 600 metres down the spur line past Stratford.’
‘Get it to back up the main line!’
‘That’s against the rules; I can’t do that!’
‘Do as he says,’ came the uncompromising voice of the PM.
The colonel continued, ‘Get all the trains on the main line stopped.’
‘One flaming thing at a time.’
‘Get them to back up now!’ barked the Colonel. ‘Get them to do it before it’s too late!’
‘Keep your hair on! They’re starting to back up as we speak.’
There was an expletive heard over the phone, followed by a couple of sentences heavily laced with choice words.
‘Did I hear you say that your train has disappeared off the screen… and the radio connection with them has been lost?’
‘Y..yes,’ stammered the coordinator. ‘There was a loud bang and they’ve effing disappeared off the screen.’
Rafi looked across at the clock; it read 10.02 a.m.
The shaky voice of the controller came back on the line. ‘I can confirm that I’ve lost contact with the driver and the satellite positioning marker is no longer functioning.’
The brigadier interrupted the silence. ‘The Tornado is one and a half minutes away.’
Rafi felt spellbound and sick with apprehension. They’d found the missing piece of the jigsaw, but were they seconds too late?
The voice of the Tornado fighter pilot came over the loudspeaker. ‘There’s been one – now two – explosions! The target is a train, just west of Stratford station.’
The Ops Room meanwhile had been patched into the pilot’s on-board camera showing an orange ball of flames erupting high into the air, and the remains of the train strewn across the track -one of the nuclear canisters was missing its front half and the top of the second canister was no longer there. Black smoke spiralled up into the sky, drifting north-west in the light wind.