‘You’re not to leave the van. Sorry, but my orders were clear.’
I sighed, reached forwards and touched his neck. ‘Sorry about this, but I know I can do this without any fuss, sieges or gunplay. I’ll be back shortly.’
I climbed out of the van, leaving the driver silent and unmoving inside, albeit far from happy. I had half-expected a need to leave the van at some point, so I was prepared; I pulled a hooded sweatshirt over my head, put on dark glasses, darkened my skin to virtually black and quietly thanked the ludicrous fashion which made it “cool” to wear sunglasses at night. As I was making these preparations, I wondered briefly about the changes in myself. My former incarnation was physically timid and would only have run from the prospect of violence. With my capable new body had come a new confidence and determination. Then I stopped introspecting and went hunting.
The two men were some distance down the side-street when I reached the end. I held back until I sensed that they had turned yet again, then rapidly went around the corner. The street was long and straight, dipping down before rising again to terminate at another junction. It was mostly lined with more terraced buildings, but this time lower and mainly residential. The street lighting was even worse, supplemented by glows from some of the windows.
The men were out of sight, but a vehicle access of some kind was visible in the distance. No-one else was visible, so I raced silently down to the access, then stopped. I sensed that they were close by, examining something. I crept around the corner. The access led into a courtyard surrounded by lock-up garages of the kind available for rent. One of the lift-up doors was slightly raised, light spilling out from underneath. They were inside.
I raced forwards again and stood by the entrance. There wasn’t enough space for me to slide under the door and I didn’t want to raise it – they would get too much warning. So I waited, listening to the voices speaking an unfamiliar language, until they started to move towards the door. The light went out and a loud creaking noise heralded the raising of the door. Two shapes emerged into the dimly-lit courtyard – much dimmer for them than it seemed to me, I realised, and their night vision would be gone anyway. I stepped forwards and touched them as they walked away.
I jogged back from the garage in which I had left their paralysed bodies, a set of keys in my hand. The flat was easy to detect, on the third floor of a building which had a textiles shop underneath. The residential entrance next to the shop had a stack of bell pushes in illuminated plastic, next to name tags faded with age. The second key fitted the lock and I went in and moved up the stairs as silently as I could, remembering from some long-forgotten thriller to stand on the edges of the wooden stairs to reduce the chance of any noise.
The door at the top was closed. I checked the set of keys – the small one was for the garage, the next was for the front door, one was obviously a car key leaving one more which had to be for the flat. I slipped it in the lock and slowly turned the key, then paused to concentrate.
The men were together in a room, talking. I pushed the door open and went into overdrive, rushing along the corridor and into the room where they were just beginning to turn, their faces showing surprise. One of them shouted something and leapt for a bag on the nearby table but he was slow, far too slow for me.
I looked down at their still forms, then checked the bag. The gun was short, square and ugly, a magazine protruding down from the upright pistol grip halfway along it. Some kind of compact sub-machine gun, obviously. I looked around the flat, but as I suspected there were only four beds. I went back to the car.
Richards was coldly furious. He had come up to the Birmingham safe house as soon as he heard the news from my disgruntled driver, and marched straight into the kitchen where I was enjoyed a refreshing glass of spring water to wash down my usual meal of fruit (apple) and nuts (walnuts and brazils). Pity really, I could have done with champagne.
He waited until the driver went off with Richards’ usual pair of heavies to where I had left comatose bodies distributed about Birmingham, then glared at me with those hard eyes. ‘That was an unacceptable risk,’ he began coldly. ‘You should have left this to us – we know how to handle such situations.’
‘And what would have happened? They were armed and alert. At best there would have been a very public shoot-out, if not a siege, conceivably even hostage-taking. I have certain abilities beyond just being your personal bloodhound – it’s stupid not to use them.’
‘You are a precious asset. I can’t afford to put you at risk.’
‘Then let me go back to healing my patients – they must be overflowing the town’s hotels by now. If you want me fighting terrorism, then let me do it my way. I know what I can do, and believe me I’m not a risk-taker.’
Richards paced around the room, still angry. ‘We could have watched them for a while; they might have led us to other terrorists.’
‘No chance. There were only four in this cell, and judging from their mental states they were ready to strike. If they know anything more, I’ll get it out of them.’
He sat down suddenly and glared at me. I realised that much of his ill-humour was down to tension. He was responsible for countering the terrorists, and was scared of the consequences if he got it wrong – body parts littering the streets of England. He sighed and relaxed suddenly. ‘Very well. You question them, then we’d better get after the London group before they realise something’s wrong.’
The next morning Richards was in a much better humour – the garage had contained a van loaded with explosives, C4 packed around with fertiliser. A simple fuze circuit was in place, leading to the driver’s compartment – clearly a suicide bomb, ready to go. Maps found in the flat indicated that the target was probably the Birmingham International Convention Centre, where a conference on Anglo-Jewish relations was due to commence on the following day.
I questioned the terrorists, whose tongues loosened after a judicious exposure to their own terrors, but they knew little of value except for a recollection of a place in London which one of them had passed through. He didn’t know the address, but we were able to identify the approximate area and he revealed a key fact – a street market had been in full flow directly outside the building.
It seemed that the London group was supposed to attack at the same time as the Birmingham cell – in two days time – to maximise the effect, but none of them knew the London target.
Later that day we moved to east London, to a flat in Bethnal Green, and the process started again. This time there was no garden but fortunately, with the aid of the terrorist’s information, it took only a couple of hours of trawling the streets to make contact.
It was a Saturday morning and the Hoxton Street market was in full flow despite unseasonably cold weather and a steady drizzle of rain, thronged with people wandering past the stalls of clothes, towels, food and assorted electrical goods. The road was closed so we turned right and parked in Falkirk Street. Hoxton Street was lined with shops, pubs and other businesses, many with flats above the ground floor, and I was able to pinpoint the terrorists’ location only with some difficulty against the background mental noise of the scores of shoppers. The driver called up reinforcements and we sat and waited.
‘There are four of them again, similar sort of set-up to Birmingham. They’re all inside, doing nothing. They seem tense but calm.’ I briefed Richards when he slipped into the van. ‘Presumably they’ll have a garage somewhere nearby, and we’ve only got one day to find it.’