Harrison pulled the contraption over his son’s head, gave him a thumbs-up and a smile of reassurance. Archie’s eyes looked back nervously through the lenses.
‘Keep close,’ Monk said. ‘ We’ll stay next to the wall’
Harrison put his arm round the boy’s shoulders and followed Monk out of the office.
Flame was now licking out of the stairwell door like a dragon’s tongue, the conflagration taking hold on the flimsy partitioning. The main area itself was now filled with dense, choking black smoke and clouds of cordite as Monk edged along the east wall, his Heckler at the ready.
The shooting had ceased, but amid the evil fog Harrison could see the sharp stabs of torchlight as SAS soldiers scoured the floor for signs of survivors, friendly or hostile.
They kept moving steadily, Monk arcing his MP5 left and right as they passed the halfway point. Harrison followed, a reassuring arm still hugging his son close to his side. Meanwhile the fire at the north end was sweeping through the office partitioning. The flame was almost white in its intensity, its heat like a furnace now, flickering sparks like fireflies drifting towards them, the force of the flames beginning to clear the smoke.
Harrison heard the sudden gunfire, saw Monk fall away, spinning as the shot tore into his shoulder. His weapon flew from his grasp.
Ahead the smoke parted momentarily and he glimpsed the south stairwell door. Just feet away stood Clodagh Dougan, light thrown by the raging fire dancing in the hair that swung around her shoulders. Armalite rising, aiming at anything that moved.
Saw him now. Not knowing who it was behind the respirator. Taking aim as she edged back towards the door and her escape route.
Harrison felt for the Browning in his holster, fumbling at the restraining strap, knowing he was going to be too late.
They all heard it then. The whirring motor and the sound of glass and debris crackling under its tiny caterpillar tracks. Clodagh Dougan turned towards the stairwell in surprise. Dazzled by the Wheelbarrow’s mini-spotlight.
Was it Heathcote at the controls or the chubby corporal? Suddenly Harrison felt he knew. It was Clarke. In his element, a kid of the electronic age, wizard at Nintendo and the arcade computer games. Reflexes like lightning.
It must have been an instantaneous decision. Harrison heard the crack of the giant Hotrod disrupter as the waterjet fired, caught the glint of light on the plastic plug as it flashed through the blackness. Seven hundred metres a second.
She couldn’t have seen it coming, smashing into her chest at that speed. It was as though she was struck by a thunderbolt from the gods. Didn’t even scream. Was just hurtled backwards into the smoke and vanished from view.
Black-gloved hands came from nowhere. They grabbed Harrison and his son, propelled them forward, the boy’s feet not even touching the ground.
Within seconds they were running down the stairs, past SAS troopers coming up. They passed Heathcote, in full bombsuit, making safe some device, but he was too busy to notice them.
Then they were out on the concrete apron beside the helicopter, respirators ripped off and gulping down fresh air. Harrison turned and glanced back. A trooper was helping Monk out of the doorway. The less fortunate were being half carried, half dragged.
Beyond the compound gates he saw the flashing lights of the ambulances pulling up. Soldiers and police officers were everywhere, stepping back as he and Archie came through.
Pippa appeared as though from nowhere in the crowd and swept her son into her arms.
Harrison looked on, feeling happy for his wife’s relief and joy, yet feeling somehow apart. It was all different now.
‘Tom, are you all right?’
It was Casey, standing and grinning at him stupidly, tears rolling down her cheeks.
‘I’m fine. Archie’s fine.’
She rushed to him, burying her head on his shoulder as he held her close. ‘God, I can’t tell you…’
‘I love you.’ Suddenly he felt elated, free.
She laughed. ‘How much, bomb man?’
‘Almost as much as I’d love a hamburger. I’m bloody starving!’
Epilogue
The senator was the last one to leave Trafalgar House. Most of the Unionist delegates, at least those who hadn’t, already stormed out in protest over one thing or another, had left on the Friday. A few who were working on the various subcommittees stayed on until the Saturday to complete their tasks.
But Abe Powers already knew what they optimistically refused to admit. The hopes and plans for a new Independent Ulster were dead in the water.
There may have been many small agreements, but the divisions on the bigger issues had become veritable chasms. Down to Bishop McLaverty’s quiet sabotage, he suspected, but then perhaps the outcome had been inevitable anyway.
Further talks were scheduled but Powers knew they would come to nothing, just wither away. Soon they would be overshadowed by events at the United Nations as the American-led demands for a United Ireland grew. And it would be he, Senator Abe Powers III, who orchestrated them. Already he had a series of meetings lined up with the President for the following week to expand on his proposals. His grandmother would have been proud of him.
On the Sunday morning he rose early. After a shower and shave he breakfasted in his room and admired the view. The sundrenched water meadows of the Avon and the distant spire of Salisbury Cathedral.
The newspaper he read was full of events which had culminated the previous weekend but had happened too late for the previous Sunday’s editions. Now the newshounds had chapter and verse on the IRA abduction of a bomb-disposal expert and the siege of a derelict brewery building. With extra days to put together the reports, there were eyewitness accounts, photographs, detailed diagrams, profiles of the terrorists and the main players involved. Fascinating stuff. Two SAS soldiers dead and two seriously wounded, many with more minor injuries.
Maybe the Brits wouldn’t be so keen to smirk now at the efforts of his own country’s special forces.
And the terrorists. Two dead and the two leaders badly injured, the woman still in intensive care, her life hanging by a thread.
He couldn’t agree with the endless speculation that had been in the press all week that there was some political motivation behind it — to put pressure on the government to agree to the rumoured new American initiative. Bishop McLaverty had assured him the IRA didn’t do that sort of thing and he should know.
His breakfast eaten, Powers finished packing his suitcases and called down for his chauffeur to collect them. On his way out he thanked the SAS major in civvies who had been in charge of security.
‘Just glad we had no problems, Senator.’
‘All your lads gone home?’
‘Left an hour ago. The locals will be pleased to have the road open again.’
‘And you, Major, posted off to somewhere exotic now, I expect?’
A wry smile. ‘Northern Ireland. Some things never change.’
Already the first of the removal vans had arrived to return the furniture, paintings and objetsd’artto the government repositories. In a few hours Trafalgar House would be empty again.
The major watched from the top of the steps as the American’s limo pulled smoothly away and disappeared down the drive towards the gatehouse. Heading for Alderbury on the edge of Salisbury, he knew, through a particularly beautiful and uninhabited stretch of countryside before taking the road towards Basingstoke and the M3 to London.
Sunlight warmed the soldier’s face and momentarily he closed his eyes, enjoying its comfort. Hadn’t seen much of this during the past few months. It had been another lousy English summer.
The explosion was unmistakable, even at that distance.