Then the car directly in front of the Mondeo pulled away, and Cole momentarily caught a look at the vehicle’s tyres. Far too wide for such a saloon normally, and certainly too wide to be offered as a factory-fitted option, but perfect for holding the road during high-speed car chases. So it was an A Branch car. The question is, Cole thought desperately, is it following me? Or is it just out searching the streets randomly?
The unfortunate reality was confirmed just seconds later, when Cole saw Edwards lean forwards from the passenger seat to look up at the bus, as if to check it was still there. So, that was it — he’d been spotted. When? Where? Cole knew that it no longer mattered. Who knew how many cars they had following him?
He looked to the front of the bus — they were already on Tower Bridge, passing under the first big arched gateway. Then something else caught his eye — a flash of blue light. He raced to the front of the bus, looking through the dirty window straight ahead, across the bridge. Already, the traffic was slowing up, and Cole could see why — there were uniformed police setting up a road block on the far side. Doubtless, armed members of the Met’s SO19 specialist firearms unit would be there to ‘assist’.
Cole ran back to the rear window. Sure enough, the bridge was beginning to be closed off by a series of unmarked cars. Cole could see armed agents running through the traffic from behind the bus, and armed police moving in from the front. Edwards was out of the Mondeo, a gun in his hand and an eager look across his face, starting to run with the other agents.
The bus finally rolled to a stop. Cole was a sitting duck, trapped and with nowhere to go.
Looking out of the windows, Cole could see disgruntled drivers jumping out of their cars to complain, then jumping straight back in again when they saw the men with their large automatic rifles running along the bridge towards the big red bus.
The other passengers were starting to talk, in a cacophony of rising panic — ‘What’s going on?’ — ‘Who are they?’ — ‘They’re coming towards us!’ — ‘They’re heading for this bus!’, but Cole ignored them completely, his mind elsewhere. He watched Edwards and his A Branch driver reach the trapped vehicle, and decided to waste no more time.
He turned to the nearest window on the left and lashed out savagely with a kick. The window shook with the force, but didn’t break. It was enough to worry the passengers though and, realizing for the first time just why the armed police might be heading towards this particular bus, they screamed in panic and bolted for the stairs, getting jammed in the stairwell as they all tried to cram through the narrow opening.
Good, Cole thought as he attacked the window with another kick. At least it would stop Edwards and his men from getting upstairs, for a few vital moments at least.
The third kick did it, smashing the window entirely. Cole felt the rush of cold air hit him. He heard shouts behind him, and knew Edwards was trying to beat a path up to him. With no time to lose, Cole climbed up into the window frame, balancing precariously on the thin metal edge.
He looked both ways and saw a cordon of men start to surround the bus, weapons all trained up at the upper level. Further to each side, he could see the huge towers looming over the bridge, massive figures of authority that seemed to be judging him silently. He saw the American team along with British policemen and MI5 operatives caressing their triggers, and couldn’t help but wonder what that judgement would be.
Then his mind cleared, and he jumped.
53
Having wrestled his way to the top of the stairs, Edwards’s pistol now led the way. The head and body soon followed, with a face that registered complete disbelief. ‘No!’ he cried. ‘No!’
He saw the legs disappearing out of the window and raced to the huge gaping hole, followed by more agents. He looked out of the shattered glass and saw his target propel himself through the air, straight over the side of the great bridge into a picture-perfect dive towards the icy depths of the tumultuous river below. In frustration, he raised his pistol and loosed off the entire magazine at the rapidly descending figure, but it was too little, too late.
The man was gone.
54
It was almost twenty minutes later when Cole made it onto dry land. He’d let the river’s powerful flow sweep him along towards the east, let the men on the bridge see him struggle helplessly as he was swept along, and then had allowed himself to be pulled under.
Summoning up all his strength, he had then managed to swim back underwater — unobserved by the surrounding security forces — towards the west, fighting hard against the current. He knew he could do it — he had used the same strategy evading his instructors during escape and evasion training when he was one of the youngest ‘tadpoles’ in the SEALs, and was used to holding his breath for extended periods of time.
The task had been made infinitely harder though, due to the pain from his bruised ribs, and for five agonising minutes he had battled, until he was forced to come up for air. He had surfaced near the south bank, and had made about a hundred metres against the current; it wasn’t far, but it was far enough. After seeing him being swept away, the search would be conducted almost exclusively to the east of the bridge.
But he couldn’t risk approaching the bank just yet; there were too many curious onlookers about and, although their attention was directed towards the bridge, the sight of a tired man in a soaking wet business suit pulling himself out of the Thames would soon set alarm bells ringing. But as he continued his exhausting battle against the river, he knew he would have to get out soon — the chilling water of the Thames would soon send him hypothermic, and he’d become unable to swim, or even to move. He could feel it even now, the cold seeping through his skin, into his veins, until it was like ice coursing through his entire body. But he had to press on, he had to keep going until he found a better spot.
He had swum the best part of half a mile by the time he finally pulled his exhausted, pain-wracked body out of the river, collapsing onto a remote, muddy shore of the South Bank. His entire body shivered uncontrollably, wracked with a piercing, numbing coldness that bit into his bones. He knew he couldn’t afford to rest, and clambered the rest of the way up the slippery bank, pulling himself over some old wooden pilings and up onto an abandoned concrete dock.
He started to jog towards a shabby group of old warehouse buildings, but his legs failed him and he stumbled helplessly, weak from both cold and fatigue. He would have to get out of these clothes soon, he thought, or things would get bad for him. But first, he had to find a telephone.
55
Yet another call had come through to Albright on the emergency line. He listened intently, nodding his head as if the caller could see him. He finished the call with a simple ‘Yes sir,’ and replaced the receiver, turning to his men.
‘Okay guys,’ he started. ‘The target in London has been confirmed as having escaped. We are now expecting his family to move to an RV with him, and our task is therefore to follow them, without their knowledge, in order to locate the primary target. Any questions?’ There were none. ‘Okay, good. Mr Hansard is none too happy, so let’s not screw this up.’
He turned and moved towards the stairs up to the deck. Damn. He didn’t like changes of plan. And he’d rather been looking forward to storming the house. No expected defences, easy targets; just the way he liked it. He stopped in front of a mirror half way up the stairs, examined himself for a few moments, and then adjusted a few strands of rich blond hair that had strayed across his tanned forehead. There, he thought with some satisfaction. That’s better.