The actors were dressed in medieval attire and speaking lines that no one could hear due to the traffic on the bridge overhead. What was the bloody point? Perkins wondered.
The driver sat in the cab bobbing his upper body in a strange fashion. He appeared to be Middle Eastern — he had a dark complexion and black facial hair.
Perkins stepped up to the window and rapped loudly on it.
“Listen here! You’ve got to move! You’re not supposed to be here!” Perkins shouted.
The driver didn’t look at him. He continued to bob back and forth, muttering something to himself.
“Sir! Please lower your window! I’m speaking to you!”
Perkins rapped the window once more and then he understood what the driver was doing.
He was praying.
As soon as the realization hit him, Perkins’s heart nearly stopped. He gasped and stepped back from the lorry, but it was too late.
The explosives were so powerful that they obliterated the lorry and its troupe of suicide “actors,” eight vehicles on Theatre Avenue, and caused a section of Waterloo Bridge to collapse. Fourteen motorcars fell off the bridge, causing a massive, burning pileup. The side of the theater facing the blast was singed and several windows were broken. Sixty-two people were killed and nearly a hundred and fifty were injured.
Constable Perkins never had to supervise traffic at the National Theatre again.
Each major broadcast network covered the disaster in the U.K., but it was BBC-2 that featured an exclusive interview with a Turkish terrorism expert that happened to be in London on business. A bright female reporter caught Namik Basaran as the fifty-two-year-old man rushed out of the Ritz Hotel to travel to Embankment and view the scene personally. Close beside him was his bodyguard, a broad-shouldered man wearing a turban.
“Mr. Basaran, can you tell us what your visit to London entails?” the reporter asked.
Basaran, a swarthy man with a noticeable skin condition, spoke to the camera. “I am the head of a not-for-profit charity organization in Turkey called Tirma. For the four years of our existence we have provided relief aid to victims of terrorist attacks all over the world. The United Kingdom is no exception. I hope to authorize the release of several thousand pounds to help the victims of this horrible tragedy.”
“It is said that you’re an expert on terrorism. Could you elaborate on this?”
Basaran shook his head. “No one is an ‘expert’ on terrorism. That is nonsense. Terrorism is fluid. It changes daily. Terrorism used to be hijacking an aircraft and forcing the pilot to take it to another location. This evolved into holding hostages aboard the craft to force governments to do something. Now we have hijackers willing to die on an airplane and kill every passenger along with them. Terrorists have become more desperate and bold.”
A label identifying him appeared on the screen—“Namik Basaran, president and CEO, Akdabar Enterprises — Chairman, Tirma.”
“Is it true that you’re a victim of terrorism yourself?”
Basaran lightly touched the skin on his face. Had it been grafted? “That’s a very painful subject for me and I’d rather not go into it here on television. Suffice it to say that I’ve experienced tragedy in my life and have dedicated the personal profits I make from my legitimate company, Akdabar Enterprises, to benefit Tirma. I have spent years studying the terrorist situation in the Middle East and other parts of the world and have made contacts that are beneficial for those of us who want to stamp out terrorism.”
“Do you have any idea who was behind what happened on the South Bank this evening?”
Basaran’s eyes flared as he said, “It’s too early to say for certain, but I wouldn’t be surprised if tomorrow the British government receives a message from the Shadows claiming responsibility.”
“Sir, do you think the Shadows are the most dangerous terrorist network in the world? Some say that they have surpassed the prominence formerly held by such groups as al Qaeda and Hizballah.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree that this is true. The Shadows are becoming more powerful every day. They are a force that the governments of the world will soon be reckoning with on a major scale. That’s all, I must hurry. I want to see the site firsthand so I can make a report to our board of ambassadors back in Turkey. Thank you. Come along, Farid.”
The bodyguard led Basaran out of the way of the camera, and they both got into the back of a limousine.
The reporter addressed the camera: “That was Namik Basaran, chairman of a victim-relief charity organization based in Turkey. If what Mr. Basaran says is correct, then the Shadows have struck again. To date this mysterious group of terrorists has claimed responsibility for several recent attacks in the Middle East, Asia, and Europe, the most recent one being the tragedy two weeks ago in Nice, France. This is Susan Harp for BBC-2.”
5
I drive a 2002 Jeep Grand Cherokee when I’m at home in Maryland. It’s one of the Overland models, a rugged 4×4 with a potent 265-horsepower V8. For the city, it’s way too much car, but there are times when I like to take it over more rugged territory. I recently had an assignment for Third Echelon tracking down a suspected terrorist who was hiding out in Las Vegas. I drove my Cherokee cross-country and it was a blast. I happen to enjoy road trips. Anyway, I ended up taking the Jeep off-road several times during that mission. The car serves me well.
On the way down from Towson I listen to NPR and hear about a suicide bombing in London. It has just occurred on the South Bank and part of Waterloo Bridge was destroyed. They don’t know how many people were killed or injured. It sounds pretty bad. I wonder if my meeting with Lambert has anything to do with this.
Lambert and I usually find a public place to meet. I avoid the government agency buildings in and around D.C. just in case someone’s tailing me. Seeing me enter the NSA or the CIA buildings would certainly be a tip-off that I work for the Feds. Lambert and I vary the locations, but we usually meet in shopping malls. He knows I hate shopping malls, so I think he picks them on purpose just to annoy me. Lambert has a sick sense of humor.
Today I drive down to D.C. on I-95 and then swing west toward Silver Spring. I follow the directions to City Place Mall on Colesville Road, park the Jeep, and go inside. The Food Court is easy to find, and there’s Lambert waiting for me at one of the tables. Today he’s dressed in a short-sleeved knit golf shirt and khaki pants. He never wears his uniform when we meet in public. It looks like he’s got himself a Big Mac Combo Meal and is actually enjoying it. I nod at him and approach one of the fast-food rackets to pick up something for myself. Since it’s the middle of the afternoon and I’m not particularly hungry, I end up buying a slice of pizza from Sbarro’s. How come every mall in America has the exact same combination of fast-food restaurants? It’s one of the mysteries of the universe.
I may be a little older than Lambert, but I look younger. He reminds me of the actor Danny Glover. His curly hair has grayed completely, and the bags under his eyes show the strain of being in charge of a major intelligence department for the U.S. government. Don’t get me wrong — he’s a very energetic guy. He’s ambitious and smart, and I’m not sure if he ever sleeps. He drinks more coffee than he sucks air. Lambert’s the kind of guy who’s always busy and never relaxes. He has a funny habit of rubbing the top of his crew-cut head when he’s nervous.
Colonel Lambert has been in the Intel business since he was a young man. I know he had a lot of responsibility during the Gulf War. Today he’s very well connected in Washington, although I get the impression that he’s minimally trusted. He’s never been acknowledged publicly, but I believe he prefers it that way.