Chapter Fourteen
The police in Eastbourne searched the Bertram and had no trouble discovering two more bodies in the suite below deck. Word was quickly sent to Scotland Yard that the man they were after, seen by three officers, was likely responsible. They also made note of a large, polished steel, cylindrical object on a stand near one of the bodies. The officer in command, understandably on edge as a result of the carnage around him, elected to assume the worst and ordered the entire dock evacuated. He called in the bomb disposal unit from London’s Metropolitan Police.
The technicians from London arrived an hour later. The man in charge had considerable experience defusing all sorts of small, homemade explosive contraptions; credit that to the IRA. He took one look at the sleek, well-machined device on board the yacht and quickly decided he might let someone else have a crack. Whatever it was, it looked military, and the Army lads up at Wimbish would do better with it. In the meantime, he suggested that the evacuation perimeter be expanded. The few operating businesses on the waterfront were ordered closed, and a handful of year-round residents were rousted from their homes. By one o’clock that afternoon, only those with official purpose were allowed within a block of the harbor.
The 58th Field Squadron had existed, under various banners, for over a century. As one of the few Royal Engineers units to specialize in explosive ordnance disposal, the 58th managed a brisk business in places like Northern Ireland, Bosnia, and Kosovo. More recently, its charter had been expanded to conduct “search operations in confined and environmentally harmful situations,” a euphemism for tangling with the occasional weapon of mass destruction.
Based in Wimbish, the soldiers of the 58th took nearly two hours to arrive. By then, crowds had begun to gather outside the cleared area, concentrated at those points that held a good view of the harbor. Reporters prowled the access points, peppering anyone in any sort of uniform with questions about what was going on. Aside from acknowledging that three bodies had been removed from the scene, little was said.
The 58th brought their best men and equipment, and got right to work. A robot might normally have performed the initial work, however their preferred unit was designed for streets, buildings, and warehouses. Its tracked wheels where wholly incompatible with stairs and, anyway, the contraption was far too big for clambering around such tight spaces. That being the case, the scene reverted to one not much different from what it had been back in World War I — one volunteer, in the best protective gear available, would go below deck on Lorraine II and deal with the weapon. Yet while the concept was reminiscent of another era, the technology was not. A small camera on the soldier’s headgear transmitted real-time pictures to a mobile command center outside, where the officer in charge watched every move.
It was obvious they were dealing with some sort of military device, but unlike any they’d ever seen or been briefed on. It was similar in shape to an air-dropped munition — a five-hundred pounder, perhaps — and they all saw what looked like fin attach points at the rear. But the lack of any external fuse or guidance package seemed peculiar. The point man identified what seemed to be a serial number at the base of the cylinder, and technicians outside fed these numbers, along with a physical description of the weapon, into a laptop computer. The computer cross-checked through its substantial database of weaponry, but found nothing to match.
The officer in charge was vexed. He recalled his specialist, not wanting to risk anything more until he knew what they were dealing with. It was one of his subordinates who suggested they use their new machines from the States, Ranger and Alex. Both were made by a small, highly specialized American company. Ranger’s function was to detect the slightest signature of certain radioactive isotopes, while Alex was used to identify a wide range of metals with potential nuclear uses. The machines had been unpacked only weeks earlier, but long enough for the curious engineers of the 58th to decipher their operation. Both were quickly brought forward to bear analysis on the enigma that lay below Lorraine II’s stern deck.
The results were immediate, conclusive, and stirred a convulsion of anxiety in the control room. The soldiers there, among the steadiest in the British armed forces, fought to maintain their professional equilibrium.
There were two immediate options. Evacuate the entire city, or tow the Bertram out to sea. Since the first option would necessitate revealing the need for the evacuation, a technique sure to incite panic, the second was selected. Arrangements were made to commandeer a small tug while the whole matter was sent up the chain of command. Far, far up.
It took twelve minutes to reach Nathan Chatham. He was already grim, having received word earlier of the triple homicide in Eastbourne. The assailant, seen by police, was almost certainly their man. That on his mind, he was called unexpectedly up to Shearer’s office, where the Assistant Commissioner filled him in on the latest bad news.
“We don’t know where it’s come from,” Shearer said, “but our technical people are working on it. This is a military device, not something slapped together in the IRA’s basement. Perhaps stolen from Russia. We’ve been worrying about that kind of thing for years.”
“Or Israeli,” a somber Nathan Chatham said, thinking out loud.
“What was that?”
“I said Israeli. It’s either their weapon, or perhaps one that’s been got-ten hold of by their enemies. That’s all that makes sense.”
Shearer tried to follow. “What makes you so sure?”
“We’ve been able to identify one of the bodies from that boat. He’s Israeli.”
“Mossad again,” Shearer offered.
“We don’t know much about him, but I can’t imagine otherwise.”
“And the fellow who got away?”
“It’s him,” Chatham fumed, wringing his hands together. His frustration was boiling over into anger. “Eastbourne?” he rumbled. “What in the devil would he be doing down there?”
“Yes,” Shearer agreed, “I thought that odd. As far as we can tell, this thing is not armed, and with Eastbourne not a politically significant target, I think we can assume it was headed elsewhere.”
“But it doesn’t make sense to leave something like that sitting at a dock. How long did you say the boat has been there?”
Shearer reviewed the message on his desk. “Two days. And there’s no evidence they were about to move.”
“Two days,” Chatham huffed. “You might make port for fuel, but then you’d be on your way, wouldn’t you?” He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and began pacing, his head bent low.
“I’m told the fuel tanks were nearly empty. And they hadn’t made any request to put into the fueling dock.”
“Wasn’t there any kind of inspection? Customs?”
Shearer shrugged, “Seems they slipped through somehow.”
Chatham scowled. “There’s a reason for everything here. I’m just not seeing it yet.”
“Needless to say, this has gone straight up. The Prime Minister has scheduled a meeting in an hour. I’d like you to be there. It’s at Number 10,” Shearer added, referring to the address on Downing Street.
Chatham looked at his watch. “Good,” he said forcefully, “I’ve got a few things I’d like to discuss with the Prime Minister.”