‘Jesus,’ Harrison breathed. ‘If AID AN says don’t go close, he means it.’
The local police inspector was standing listening to their conversation. Despite the pompous tilt of his jaw and the steely glint in his eyes, Harrison recognised instantly that he was a man out of his depth. ‘Look, you people, I’ve still got officers clearing the area. There’s an old people’s home not a hundred metres away, over there, so what are you recommending?’
Pritchard said: ‘Nothing’s guaranteed, sir, but we’ve a squad from Northern Ireland here, the best. We’re pushing the end of the time limit anyway. If they go in with a controlled explosion…’ He glanced at Harrison.
The SATO nodded. They had nothing to lose, they were between a rock and a hard place and they knew it. A few minutes either way would make no difference.
‘Go ahead,’ the police chief decided.
Pritchard turned to Harrison, the invisible smile unmistakable. ‘Over to you, Tom.’
Harrison called across to Captain Heathcote who stood beside the Wheelbarrow, Corporal Clarke next to him, big, eager and with his large red face perspiring brightly. ‘Go!’
‘WAIT!’ Pritchard shouted suddenly.
All heads turned.
‘Can you run her on cable?’ the Sexpo asked.
Heathcote nodded. ‘Sir?’
Pritchard was clearly tired, leaning against the side of the Rover, thinking back. ‘This is AID AN.’
Harrison nodded, indicating to his captain to rerig the robot. ‘So?’
‘Before your time, Tom. I’m reminded of the late lamented Hughie Dougan, back in — when? — the early seventies. He fixed some crude device from a radio-controlled model aircraft… The bomb was triggered by radio waves.’
‘We’ve no ECM here…’ Harrison began.
Pritchard regarded him closely, for once almost as a friend. ‘Indulge an old man’s whim, Tom.’
‘It’s being done, Al.’
Clarke had worked at lightning speed and already the robot was making its way down the street.
Harrison and Pritchard joined Heathcote at the back of the Tactica as he watched the monitor. The view from the Wheelbarrow’s front camera swung round to show the corner shop, the picture jerking as the tracks negotiated the kerbstone, the telescopic arm probing at the front door. It swung open at a touch.
‘How close did the constable go?’ Harrison asked the local police chief.
‘Just peered into the back room, thank God, then beat a hasty retreat.’
‘Did he actually step into the room?’
‘He says not, but then he was a bit unnerved afterwards.’
The barrow’s spotlight played over the debris within the shop until Clarke located the back door. Again the picture began to shake as the corporal tentatively edged the robot forward, its steel arm punching open the door.
They all glimpsed it: the squat, shiny black drum.
Then the picture trembled as the door crashed back against the wall and the screen went blank.
The sound was simultaneous, a low deep-gutted roar that shook the damp night air. They felt it through the soles of their shoes and the trembling of their hearts, vibrating like trampolines on stretched tendons. Falling glass made small sharp detonations as it shattered, followed by the heavier sound of roof slates crashing to the pavement.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Pritchard said and began running forward, Harrison and Heathcote hard on his heels.
Turning the corner, they came skidding to a halt, the scene before them reminiscent of the wartime German blitz. The shop doors and windows had been blown across the street and one wall had collapsed. Fire now engulfed the entire corner, flames leaping from the banisters and doorframes and rubbish that had accumulated on the derelict shop floor. A geyser of water fountained from a fractured main causing the fire to crackle and fizz, sending eerie elongated shadows dancing down the walls of the narrow street, flickering light glittering on the carpet of broken glass. Only the base of the Wheelbarrow remained recognisable. The top hamper of the robot had been ejected skyward from the shop and had ploughed through the roof of a house opposite. Later it was found in the kitchen, having collapsed two ceilings during its fall from orbit.
‘What do you think it was?’ Heathcote asked.
Harrison’s eyes narrowed as the flames devoured fresh material and increased in intensity. ‘My guess is some type of trembler, but…’
Pritchard completed the sentence. ‘I doubt we’ll ever know. The bastards.’
The police chief had joined them, the fires from the street reflected in his eyes, his face devoid of colour. ‘Why? Why here, for God’s sake?’
‘Who knows,’ Pritchard murmured.
The policeman forced his attention away from the mesmeric scene. ‘There were still some old people in that home. Only a few minor cuts, but some are badly traumatised. Can I continue to evacuate?’
Pritchard said: ‘There could be a secondary. This bomber’s known for it.’
‘So what do I do?’
‘It’s your decision, but they’re probably safer where they are. I’d get your men to search the entire block and surrounding streets first, if I were you.’
They turned at the sound of Les Appleyard running towards them. ‘Al, it’s Midge on the radio. Looks like there’s another one.’
‘I just knew it. Where?’
‘Over the river. Deptford. Shall I task another of Tom’s teams?’
Pritchard turned to Harrison. ‘I hope you’re satisfied, Tom? AIDAN’s now having great fun deliberately wasting our barrows on low-grade targets.’
Harrison could find no reply. Pritchard knew he was waging a propaganda war, but how could he tell the man the full extent of the plan, a dangerous gamble of which he disapproved but had been obliged to participate in.
‘The Provos could be drawing us out of the city,’ Heathcote observed. ‘Poplar, then Deptford. We’ll have nothing left if they’ve got a spectacular planned for Westminster or the West End.’
Harrison and Pritchard looked at each other for a long and acrimonious moment; neither could deny the captain from Belfast might very well be right.
The Sexpo made his decision. ‘Tell Midge we’re on our way. Keep Tom’s teams in reserve.’
Harrison touched Pritchard’s arm. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Al. We’ve still got our two Mk8s immediately to hand as well as your two.’
The other man turned, the anger clear in his face. ‘But for how long? You saw what just happened. We’ll handle Deptford my way.’
Harrison caught Les Appleyard’s eye, saw him give a shrug of resignation.
It was the last one.
Muldoon pulled in at the kerbside, his nerves still frayed after their close encounter at the police checkpoint.
Instinctively he didn’t like the location. It was too bright with street lights, too overlooked. But it was also too late to do anything about it.
Same procedure, the girls parked behind in the red Escort while he and Dougan planted the sign by the window, forced the door of the one-time fashion shop and wheeled the final bomb inside. Barely seven minutes in total.
Til finish off,’ Dougan said.
Muldoon nodded. This one was going to be different. A totally separate three-pound Semtex secondary charge wrapped in three inch galvanised nails held in place with strips of plastic parcel tape. Detonated by a pressure mat hidden somewhere under the flooring. If that was triggered it would no doubt also set off the oil-drum bomb. Blow up half the fucking street, Muldoon thought.
He left Dougan to it, pleased to be away. His nerves had suffered enough for one night. Twice now he had backed away from one of Hughie’s boxes of black tricks. Holding his breath, feeling the sweat coursing down his back, the damp seeping into his underpants. Terrified to breathe, terrified that he’d bang into something in the dark, create some inadvertent vibration that would be enough to set the bugger off. Or some local resident’s radio alarm would go off for the early shift and trigger the passive signal detector. Only the X-ray-sensitive switch held no fears. As for the rest of Hughie Dougan’s gadgets, hell, he wouldn’t want to be the poor bastard who had to defuse them.