As he eased open the fire door, the sound of rushing water became louder. He was close to the source.
The bedroom door stood open, inviting, the urgent hiss and splutter of a fully open tap roaring in his ears. Cautiously he peered inside: the light still on, a dressing table littered with cosmetics, a brassiere lying on the crumpled cover of the bed, a pair of trousers discarded on the carpet. His heart began to thud as he edged open the bathroom door — only to be immediately engulfed in steam. With a gasp of surprise he stepped back to regain his breath. The noise was like a waterfall in full torrent. Taking a lungful of air, he plunged back into the billowing damp fog and blindly sought the hot tap with his fingers. Suddenly he hesitated, his hand poised. What if…? Then, his decision made, he spun the tap hard until the rush of water subsided, the sound replaced by an expectant silence.
He was aware of his heartbeat slowing as he straightened his back. What the hell was the matter with him? Who’d ever heard of a device triggered by a water tap? As he checked out the room he found himself assessing’how it could be done — then forced himself to stop. Paranoia was not a luxury he could afford. Christ, the bastard AID AN really was starting to get to him. He couldn’t remember such a profound sense of foreboding since… When? Memories of the boobytrapped devices of the early eighties flooded back into his mind. A feeling of dejdvu.
Still chiding himself, he completed his search of the furniture, checked the toilet cistern and the bath panel. Now satisfied, he stepped back into the corridor. It was still eerily silent. Deserted, empty. He looked left towards the elevator doors. Then right, back the way he had come. Then he saw it. His eyes seemed to zoom in on the object that stood beside the corridor fire door. In his eagerness to get to the bedroom, he must have walked right past the thing. Could so easily have kicked it. A case tucked carefully against the wall.
He took a step towards it. A silvery aluminium photography case, a name label attached. It looked innocuous enough. Discarded when the firebell rang. In fact the Unit Search Team had probably overlooked it. Just a piece of luggage — the one thing that never looked out of place in an hotel. The one item that could be taken in and out without a second glance. And it wasn’t as though it was in an obvious position to do any specific damage… Yet its positioning could well place it above the syndicate room on the floor below.
What had Trenchard said? That the venue had only been confirmed that morning. And therefore it would have been virtually impossible for a terrorist planting a bomb to book the exact bedroom he wanted, even if he knew which one was best. Therefore this might be the closest he could get.
Treading lightly, Harrison retraced his footsteps and crouched down beside the case. It looked solid. Expensive with combination locks. The leather name tag read: Mrs J Maker, 27 Rose Gardens, Bangor, Co. Down. A nice, respectable Protestant seaside town.
It occurred to him that, without the benefit of Trenchard’s warning, he too might have thought little of it. How many other suitcases had the Unit Search Team found in the twelve storeys of hotel corridor. Probably several.
He glanced at his watch. Paranoia or not, timewise he was on a knife edge. Returning quickly to the bedroom he had just left, he picked up the telephone handset and dialled reception.
Heathcote answered.
‘Peter, I’ve got a suspect IED up here in the corridor on the third floor. Looks like a photographer’s case ‘
‘Aluminium, boss?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was reported by the Unit Search Team. Belongs to a Mrs Maher — in fact she told us she left it behind, too heavy.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘She was evacuated to the Quality Plaza with the other residents. Want me to find her?’
Harrison’s mind was racing. Was he making a fool of himself? He only had Trenchard’s warning to go on. Yet a secondary device would explain the elaborate hoax in reception. Let them think they’d got it, then take out members of the follow-up search teams, police or ATOs. No civilian casualties, just security forces. Point made and good publicity. Not killing the members of the meeting, but letting the British government know that PIRA knew. Not much doubt about that when the ceiling of the secret meeting room had collapsed.
He said: ‘Yes, Peter, find the woman. But meanwhile I intend to destroy the case.’
‘Boss?’ The ATO’s voice betrayed his scepticism. His SATO had lost touch with reality.
‘You heard,’ Harrison rebuked, ‘and I don’t have time to argue. And, look, this case could be a tough nut. I don’t want to chance a Pigstick, it might not be man enough for the job. Can you get a MiniFlatsword up here pronto?’
‘Wilco, boss, but it’ll take some time to get up the stairs.’
Heathcote was correct. Lifts were never used during a bomb scare, and the ATO was right to remind him about the ticking minutes. In his mind’s eye Harrison imagined the circular face of a Memo Park timer edging remorselessly towards zero, the attached nail just a fraction of an inch from the contact point. And it would take a good ten minutes for laden troops to sweat and lumber their way up the flights of stairs.
He said: ‘Just throw all the kit I need in the lift and send it to the third.’
Heathcote acknowledged briskly and hung up, leaving Harrison to await the lift’s arrival. It was an unnerving five minutes that felt like an eternity as he sheltered out of line-of-sight in a bedroom doorway. When he returned to the lift his eyes were drawn magnetically to the aluminium case, at any moment anticipating the blinding flash and the instant avalanche of masonry from above and the floor collapsing beneath his feet.
He watched, mesmerised, as the floor numbers blinked above the elevator door, deliberately delaying its arrival to annoy him. Finally the doors slid reluctantly open with a pneumatic wheeze. Quickly he pulled the load clear. As well as the MiniFlatsword, ‘ Heathcote had thrown in a bomb helmet and an improved-body armour flak vest.
Harrison took one glance at his wristwatch and decided that the extra time spent struggling into one wasn’t worth the risk. The delay might mean he’d be standing over the case when it blew.
His decision made, he carried the MiniFlatsword across to the case and assembled the steel firing-frame. Encased in green plastic, the charge itself comprised a flat rectangular slab of PE4 plastic explosive from which protruded a tempered steel blade at right angles. Like a symmetrical shark’s fin. It fitted horizontally to the firing-frame so that, when detonated, the cutting edge would be blasted sideways in a guillotine motion, slicing through the main body of the bomb. It had originally been designed to disarm devices packed into fire-extinguisher cylinders; there was a large version for use against milk churns or steel beer kegs.
Taking a deep breath, he positioned the erected MiniFlatsword alongside the aluminium case. It seemed to have grown in size and menace. Big, silver and smugly evil. Playing a game with him. Am I or aren’t I? Will I explode or won’t I? He could almost believe he could hear the damn thing ticking.
While he worked, checking the electrical connections, his awareness that time was inexorably running out began to build up the mental pressure. It slowed the function of his brain. He felt as though he were in a trance, drugged, his actions slow and ponderous like a man freezing to death. It took a deliberate effort to clear his head, to focus his attention. At last, clumsily he thought, he completed his task. Unaware then that he had done the job in record time.
He played out the firing cable, ran it under the fire door and back along the corridor to the relative safety of the emergency exit staircase he had climbed earlier. As he began fitting the wires to the Shrike exploder box, he heard the sound of hurried footsteps from below.