In minutes they were across Lambeth Bridge then racing east along the northern embankment before sweeping up to avoid the building congestion of traffic at Westminster, Waterloo and then Blackfriars Bridge where the Section’s Expos were at work. It was a diversion that cost them many precious minutes.
By the time they were approaching St Paul’s Cathedral, Midgely was on the radio with his updated sitrep. ‘We’ve got a problem, Tom. Police on the scene say some sort of anti-approach device has been rigged to each side of the dumper. Looks like those automatic porch lights, similar to the one they used at the West Drayton flyover bomb.’
That’s all I bloody need, Harrison thought angrily. ‘Go on.’
‘As you know, the tunnel runs south to north. The south side is chocka with cars, but at least it’s now been cleared of people, apart from those poor sods trapped in the Mercedes. Of course, no one’s been able to get near them. The ICP has been set up in the empty north sector — fire brigade, police and paramedics in attendance. Again, they haven’t approached within a hundred and fifty metres.’
‘How much longer on the clock?’
‘If you want to believe them — and it’s been confirmed this time in calls to Reuters and AP and traced to Dublin — you’ve got thirty-four minutes precisely.’
‘Cheers.’ He set his watch.
Now they were overtaking a long line of jammed traffic, Harrison following the police escort on the wrong side of East India Dock Road. The roadblocking cordon was opened to admit the two-car convoy before it turned onto the A102 tunnel approach road which was totally and eerily devoid of traffic.
The tunnel mouth beckoned, emergency vehicles queued in one lane, ready for the all-clear and the call to action.
It was strange to be suddenly enveloped in the soulless manmade artery beneath the Thames, with its stark and clinical overhead lighting and soot-encrusted walls discoloured by the exhaust from the thousands *of vehicles that passed through each day. At any moment Harrison half expected to be confronted by the headlights of cars bearing down in the opposite direction.
How small and confined the two-lane carriageway suddenly seemed, its historical origins now blatantly clear. Built in 1897, Harrison knew, for the horse and cart. The second tunnel had been added in 1967 to carry southbound traffic and was over two feet higher. It didn’t sound much, but it made a big difference.
The patrol car was slowing, pulling over behind three ambulances and two fire tenders. Harrison continued to crawl forward, finally braking beside the lead vehicle.
And there it was. Over a hundred metres distant, slewed at an angle like a steel blast door blocking the tunnel completely, the upper edge of the dumper’s cargo body seeming to touch the roof.
The senior police chief was at his window. ‘God, am I pleased to see you. How d’you want to play this?’
It was no time for niceties. ‘First of all, you’ll have to back these vehicles right out of the tunnel.’
‘We wanted to be able to move in the moment you’re finished.’
‘I understand. But if that bastard goes up you’ll be blown out the runnel like a cannon. Better to drive out in one piece and wait there. Now tell me, is this the closest anyone’s got?’
‘On this side, yes. But on the other side one of our officers was within forty feet.’ In the tunnel the man’s voice had an echoing ring to it.
‘How long ago?’
‘Just after the incident.’
That didn’t mean a thing. There must have been a time delay before the anti-approach devices were armed in order to allow the terrorists to make good their own escape. ‘Infrared?’
The police chief nodded. ‘Almost certainly passive infrared linked to the registration of movement.’
‘Usual range about ten metres?’
‘Yes, but these ones are sited high up on each side of the cargo body, so there’s probably a longer throw than in the usual domestic situation. I wouldn’t take any risks under twenty metres.’ The man looked painfully worried. ‘I’ve got a firearms unit on standby. I wondered if you wanted to shoot out the sensors?’
Harrison shook his head. ‘Too risky. It might do the job but it’s just as likely to trigger it.’ He turned round. ‘Fetch me the senior paramedic, will you?’
The officer beckoned a man in green overalls. He must have been in his fifties: white hair, a lined face and steady dark eyes.
‘Do you have space blankets on board?’ Harrison asked. ‘You know, the foil types used for hypothermia?’
‘Sure.’
‘Get me two. Some scissors^and some cord.’
‘What are you going to do?’ the policeman asked as the paramedic returned to his ambulance.
‘Infrared reacts to body heat. Foil has a reflective quality. That’s the theory anyway.’
‘Does it work?’
‘We experimented in Belfast at a friend’s flat with an interior security sensor. Used a whole roll of Bacofoil.’
‘Did it work?’ the officer repeated.
‘Almost. Nearly crossed the room before it registered. We’d run out of foil for one arm.’
‘Jesus.’
The paramedic returned. ‘Tie one round my waist,’ Harrison ordered. ‘Like an apron.’
For someone of his age, the man worked with remarkable deftness; after years of witnessing motorway horrors and countless dangerous situations, he was totally unflappable. Once fitted and adjusted over the trousers of his flameproof overalls, the hem of the blanket rested just half-an-inch above the tarmac.
‘I’ll need a ladder to get me up to the sensor,’ Harrison said, then fitted his bomb helmet before the second blanket was placed over his head, covering the armoured flak vest like a poncho. He stood, sweating in the darkness, until the paramedic had cut an eye-slit away in front of his visor.
Christ, he thought, I must look ridiculous. A lampshade made of silver foil.
His watch told him that there were just twenty minutes to go. There was no time for second thoughts. For a moment he watched the first of the emergency vehicles begin the long reverse back out of the tunnel. Then, picking up the Pigstick disrupter on its anglepoise mounting, and the lightweight aluminium ladder from the fire brigade, he began walking towards the dumper.
All he could hear was his own laboured breathing and the gentle rustle of the space blankets. He was alone now, totally. The tunnel began to take on a character of its own, seeming to adopt a new shape, shrinking in on both sides, the roof lowering as he walked. The white centre line on the tarmacand the crash barriers on each side emphasised the perspective like the work of a surrealist artist. All lines narrowing, leading to infinity. Infinity ending at the huge slab side of the dumper.
God, he felt lonely.
There was no one else in the world. It was like walking through a bad dream. His heart thudding, sweat running down his temples, along his jawline and starting to drip from his chin. His visor starting to fog despite the internal helmet fan. Bloody things never did work like they were supposed to.
He drew to a halt. That was it. Twenty metres, give or take. He could see the small white plastic sensor now, just below the upper rim of the cargo body. Tilted slightly down. Like a watchful eye. AIDAN’s eye. Ready, alert, all-seeing. Itching to react. Daring him to make a mistake. Willing him to.
No going back now.
Instinctively he drew his hands up under the blanket poncho. Unable to be sure, he prayed neither showed beneath the foil. If they did, AIDAN’s eye would see them. Just a glimpse of warm flesh would be enough for the passive infrared sensor.
Cars and derelicts. The old dreads. Only this time it wasn’t a car, it was something a thousand times worse.