It was definitely time to get off, Cole decided.
49
Edwards was travelling rapidly across London in a seconded police car, sirens blaring, when he got the message. He was on his way to St Paul’s station, where the target was hopefully going to be waiting, either captured or — he hoped — already dead.
But then came the news — three more agents down, and Cole once again escaped. According to the garbled report, the man had pulled the emergency brake, throwing the whole train into chaos, and had then run through the cars, smashed a window and leapt out into the tunnel. So far, he had not emerged at either St Paul’s or Chancery Lane.
Damn, Edwards thought in despair. Damn!
50
Instead of running down the lines to one of the stations, Cole had found an access tunnel coming off the side of the main tunnel and had followed that until he came to a staff area. There were mercifully few people, and he ignored anyone that spoke to him. Nobody challenged his presence there, which only reaffirmed his belief that security was still a joke at almost every important institution in the country. Unlike most of the general public around the world, who were shocked in the rise of terrorist actions over the last few years, Cole was surprised there hadn’t been more.
Eventually, he came to a fire exit which he followed down a corridor, up a long flight of bare metal steps, and then out into fresh air; or at least what passed for fresh air in the small dirty alleyway off the main thoroughfare of Cheapside that he emerged into.
Straightening himself out as best he could — although, with his ripped and dirty jacket and bloodstained shirt, he realised he now looked like he’d had a very bad day at the office — he then stepped out from the alley into the mass of humanity steaming along the pavement of Cheapside.
There were people everywhere, and everywhere there would be people looking for him, he was under no illusions about that now. He needed to get out of the area, and fast.
Looking to the street, he saw the perfect answer — a gleaming red double decker bus. Stuck in traffic, Cole took his chance and casually strolled over to it, hopping onto the footstep.
He smiled at the conductor, and gave him a story about his day. It worked well, Cole thought, and then he started to wonder just how bad he must look — the man had not only let him on, but had refused money for the journey.
But no matter — the bus was moving once again, and Cole was on his way.
51
Edwards had almost lost hope. Countless agents dead, his mission failed. He was starting to doubt whether they’d ever get this man.
But then something miraculous had happened — across the road, not twenty feet from his own car, Edwards had seen Cole wander out from an alleyway and casually board a bus. He had to blink his eyes twice to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, but he wasn’t — it was definitely the same man, Edwards would have recognised him anywhere.
‘That’s him,’ Edwards said quietly, under his breath, almost as if Cole would be able to hear him.
‘Who?’ his driver asked.
‘Him,’ Edwards replied simply. ‘There.’ He pointed towards the bus.
‘What do you want to do?’
Edwards considered the matter for some time. ‘Which bus is that?’ he finally inquired.
‘The RV1. Goes across Tower Bridge,’ his driver offered.
Edwards thought for some moments more. This was a gift, he knew that; the thing was, how to capitalise on it?
Moments later, the answer struck him. ‘Don’t get too close,’ he told the driver as he reached for the radio, ‘follow him from a distance.’
52
Cole headed up the narrow spiral staircase to the upper level of the bus. He wasn’t entirely sure that upstairs would offer the best location for him — he would be further from the exit — but there was always a trade-off, and in this case, Cole wanted to have a good view so that he could monitor any activity around the bus.
The vehicle was less busy upstairs, and Cole was able to take a seat by one of the windows. What passengers there were paid him no attention whatsoever; there was not so much as a casual glance. Londoners, Cole knew, had long since disassociated themselves from everything and everyone around them, and were dyed-in-the-wool experts on ignoring anything that didn’t directly involve them. Cole again found himself wondering why there weren’t more terrorist attacks in the capital; the utter disinterest of its population left it wide open.
He wasn’t worried about people seeing him from outside the vehicle either — he knew that the effect of the bright winter sun shining onto the dirt and grime of the window glass would make him all but invisible to those on the street below.
He once again scanned the occupied seats, casually observing and assessing the other passengers, and was again satisfied that there was nothing to arouse his suspicions. He almost began to relax, but didn’t, knowing that such a thing could well prove fatal. He was a firm believer in the old samurai adage that when the battle was over, it was time to tighten the helmet straps.
And so, whenever the bus stopped and let on more passengers, Cole was alert. Sometimes new passengers would come upstairs, sometimes old ones would leave; at others stops, there was no movement upstairs at all, people choosing to stay on the level below. But slowly and surely, Cole was able to chart the bus’s progress along the Embankment and towards Tower Bridge. He’d soon be over the river.
Not five minutes later, he saw the huge, imposing mass of the Tower of London, regal in its ancient architecture; and then the massive twin gateways of Tower Bridge, holding sway over the River Thames like two sentinel guardians.
He rose and stretched, testing his side and finding it didn’t hurt as much as before — then started to go around the upper deck to make quick checks out of all the windows. He acted like a tourist wanting to take in the sights, but really wanted to assure himself that nobody was following him.
As he moved from window to window, sometimes having to excuse himself to other passengers in his friendly-tourist-just-visiting-what-a-great-city manner, he started to feel that he really would be able to get out of this mess. He’d get across the river, lose himself in the back streets of the East End, contact his family and then move to meet them at the emergency rendezvous. And then? Well, Cole considered, he would just have to think about that later, and –
Cole stopped short. He had seen something out of the rear window, just a glimpse. But what had it been?
He squeezed himself between two Chinese teenagers, no longer worried about his friendly pretence. What had he seen? He scanned the street below, sectioning the vista before him into manageable chunks — at first halves, now quarters, now eighths — and scrutinized them carefully.
Then he saw it — the blue Ford Mondeo. A new registration, which meant that the radio aerial on this model should be housed invisibly within the windscreen. So why was there a large antenna on the front of the roof? Cole knew it could be used for picking up secure satellite communications, as used by the Security Service’s renowned A Branch. Or maybe the car just belonged to a sales rep who wanted a bit more of a selection of radio channels on a long drive?