‘Are you quite happy for me to publish that?’ She shook her head in amazement. ‘I mean after that lecture I got from Sir George this afternoon. Is it really something you’d want the bombers to know?’
‘It doesn’t matter. When an ATO or one of London’s Expos is tasked to a device he can never be sure what he is going to find. And over the years, each one of us has come across every variation imaginable. You can never double-guess a bomber. You can never take anything for granted. All I’m telling you is, at this stage of this particular campaign, we’ve mastered AIDAN’s antihandling techniques and we’re getting them defused well within the warning times…’ His voice trailed off.
‘What is it?’ she asked, turning round in her seat to see what he was looking at.
The waiter had been standing on the pavement by the open door, his outline intermittently edged in blue light from a police car in Haymarket. Now he had been joined by the restaurant owner and one of the chefs; they were talking to a passerby.
‘Something’s going on,’ Harrison observed. They had both become aware of the sinister background howl of sirens above the low rumble of the city’s traffic.
The chef turned back towards his kitchen, dessert orders to attend to. His expression was glum as he wiped his hands on his apron.
Casey called him as he passed. ‘Excuse me, do you know what’s happening?’
He shook his head sadly. ‘There is a bomb warning fifteen minutes ago. The Trocadero centre in Piccadilly.’ The Italian looked gloomily around the empty bistro. ‘Look, tonight only you and one other couple. Another bomb alert. I do not think you will be coming back tomorrow, eh? Even for my famous castagnaccio?
They all heard it then. A distant low thud. There was no mistaking the sound. The chef raised his eyes to the heavens and crossed himself.
11
Memories of Seven Dials flashed through Casey’s mind. When she spoke, a slight quake had entered her voice. ‘Is k that it, Tom, the Trocadero?’
He shook his head, eyes narrowing as he calmly appraised the direction and volume of the sound. ‘No, too far away for that. A smallish device. Just a few pounds, I’d say.’
‘You can tell?’ This man really was amazing, she thought.
‘I’ve heard enough of them in my time.’
Then there was another, similar sound. But, although much farther away this time, its deep bass resonance was profoundly more chilling and ominous.
Harrison called for the bill. ‘Casey, I need to find out what’s going on.’
As he spoke there were two more explosions, almost simultaneous. One was much closer, causing the windows of the bistro to shake and the coffee cups to rattle on their table.
‘Jeez!’ Casey gasped, instinctively reaching for his hand as though his mere presence could in some way protect her.
‘It’s okay,’ he reassured and, as she released her grip, she realised that her nails had been digging deep into his flesh. ‘Do you want to wait here until I get back?’
She managed to regain some composure and forced a smile. ‘C’mon, Tom, what d’you take me for? Am I an intrepid reporter or what?’ A nervous half-laugh followed. ‘Besides, I’d feel safer with you.’
Harrison settled the bill and they stepped out into the street, walking the short distance to the junction with Haymarket. It was a bizarre and nightmarish scene. The wide roadway had been sealed off by police at the north end by Piccadilly, cutting off the one-way traffic flow and leaving the normally learning thoroughfare uncannily empty of traffic. A cacophony of car horns filled the air like angry birdsong as the surrounding streets became clogged with anxious and bewildered motorists.
Beyond the taped cordon, Harrison could see that two Explosives Section Range-Rovers had established an ICP. Flickering neon advertisements continued mindlessly on, the dark buildings bathed in the revolving sweeps of purple light from the emergency vehicles.
As they approached the cordon Harrison flashed his security pass at the young constable. ‘And the lady’s with me. Who’s in charge here?’
‘The Senior Expo, sir. Over there.’
Al Pritchard was standing by the open door of the leading Range-Rover, talking into the radio mike. Perspiration glittered on his balding crown and his*eyes were dark-rimmed with fatigue. He caught sight of Harrison and lifted a hand in weary acknowledgment.
He continued talking for a few more moments before signing off. ‘You a bloody clairvoyant, Tom? You’re right in the thick of it.’
‘Just happened to be passing, Al. So what’s going on?’
‘You tell me. Les Appleyard’s in the Trocadero — a half-hour warning. Then fifteen minutes in, a device went off without warning at Oxford Circus, apparently concealed in a lamppost. Just after that there were three others — again, all in lampposts. On Piccadilly near Hyde Park Corner, at Leicester Square, then Cambridge Circus. All small but they caused some injury and damage — and total chaos!’
Harrison knew exactly what he meant. In the very heart of London, it was an area surrounded by a maze of streets. Thousands of people would be running in all directions from the smaller devices only to come up against crowds of pedestrians being evacuated from the original threat at the Trocadero.
Casey listened, horrified. It sounded as though the whole of central London had been surrounded with explosive devices. ‘It’s just like Seven Dials, but on a massive scale,’ she murmured aloud to herself.
Pritchard noticed her for the first time. ‘Who’s the lady, Tom?’
‘Casey Mullins from the Standard,’ Harrison replied, expecting to feel the full power of Pritchard’s wrath.
Only when the man said in a reasonable tone, ‘Sorry, Tom, no press tonight, please,’ he remembered that Trenchard had told the Senior Expo that she was being cultivated for public relations purposes.
But Harrison had been struck by Casey’s words. Just like Seven Dials. ‘Al, have all the manhole covers around here been checked?’
Pritchard clearly took the question as a challenge to his competence. ‘Of course. And wastebins, postboxes, the works. There’s no way I’m going to allow the police to let us walk into another Seven Dials.’ Haymarket, the only traffic-free route out of the area, was now filling with hundreds of walkers evacuated from all around the West End. ‘Look, Tom, by all means stay with us. But first take the lady away, there’s a good chap. You’ll probably find traffic’s still moving in The Mall. Put her in a taxi and send her home.’
At that point Les Appleyard appeared from the Trocadero centre, carrying his bomb helmet under one arm and trailing a disrupter from his other hand. He crossed the eerily deserted street and approached the cordon. ‘You’re going to love this, Al. The bomb was an elaborate phoney. Fully working TPU with a trembler, but the Semtex was dummy material.’
‘Christ!’ Pritchard spat. ‘They’re just playing silly buggers with us.’
Appleyard sniffed heavily and wiped the film of sweat from his forehead as he viewed the tide of anxious humanity filling the Haymarket. ‘They’re trying to terrorise the city, Al, it’s as simple as that.’
‘And they’re bloody well succeeding,’ Pritchard growled. Then he noticed Harrison again, which did nothing to improve his humour. ‘Are you still here?’
Harrison raised a hand in mock surrender. ‘Okay, Al, we’re leaving.’ Casey clutched at his arm. ‘I can’t, Tom, not down there.’
‘Haymarket, whyever not? That’s the way everyone’s going.’