Greenleaf nodded, moved back along the corridor, and stopped in front of Commander Trilling, talking to him softly.
Elder was questioning the guard called George. He was beginning to get a sour feeling in his stomach about all of this, the whole setup.
“I’m not even sure it was her,” George was saying now. “I mean, it’s hard to tell with some women, isn’t it?”
“Well, has there been anyone else, anyone new to you?”
The guard shook his head. From Elder’s walkie-talkie came information that the procession of cars was leaving the Conference Centre, moving in slow convoy past the building he was standing in. He felt like screaming.
“Look,” said the guard, “I’ve got to get back to work.” He walked over to the outside door, where a police officer was stopping a man in a pinstriped suit from entering the building.
“He’s all right,” said the guard to the policeman. “It’s Mr. Connaught from the third floor.”
“I only went out to get these,” Mr. Connaught was explaining, waving some documents. “I’d left them in my boot.”
The policeman looked to Elder, who nodded assent. The officer moved aside, letting Connaught into the building.
“What’s going on?”
“Security,” the guard explained. “Some woman they’re after.” This reminded him of something. “Who was that blond lady you were with?”
Connaught shook his head. “Met her at the lift. Don’t know who she was exactly.”
“Oh, Christ!” said Elder, making for the stairs.
There was that shuffling sound again, like someone who was seated moving their feet on the floor. Doyle took a deep breath and knocked, keeping his back hard against the wall to the side of the door, rapping with his fist and then removing it from any line of fire. Silence.
He knocked again, a little harder. “Anyone in there? We’ve got a meeting starting in five minutes. Hello, anyone there?”
Silence. From their distance, Greenleaf and Trilling were watching him. When Greenleaf spoke, he spoke in an undertone which Doyle couldn’t catch. Trilling’s idea of an undertone, however, would not have gone unheard in a football stadium.
“I see... Yes, of course... As you see fit...” Then a message came over Greenleaf’s radio (Doyle had switched his off: it sat on the ground beside him). Greenleaf listened and mumbled something into the radio.
Doyle licked his lips. No use pretending any longer; no time left in which to pretend. Traynor was returning, pushing past Greenleaf and Trilling. He had four men with him.
“Net curtains are in the way,” Traynor whispered. “Nobody across the street can see anything. No movement at all.”
Doyle nodded. “I can hear somebody, though.” Patches of sweat were spreading from beneath his arms. And now Greenleaf was creeping forwards.
“They’re passing the building right this second.”
“Can’t hang around any longer then,” said Doyle. He withdrew his pistol, raising it high above him, gripped in both hands and pointed ceilingwards. He closed his eyes for a moment. “Right,” he said to the men around him. “We’re going in.” They were all withdrawing their weapons now, a series of quiet snicks as safety catches were slipped off. Doyle looked at Traynor. “You keen to kick down that door?” Traynor nodded. “Okay, two of you behind me, two of you other side of the door. Soon as the door opens, we’re in. My side low, other side aiming over our heads. Take the diagonals. Got that?”
They nodded, assumed their positions. Doyle, back to the wall, crouched low. Traynor stood in front of the door, took a moment to size it up. Greenleaf, who had gone back along the corridor to let Trilling know the score, had withdrawn his own weapon and was now advancing again, walkie-talkie gripped in his free hand, watched by Trilling. Doyle gave Traynor the nod. Traynor took a step back, both hands around the butt of his gun, aiming it straight at whatever was behind the door. He raised his right knee, so that the sole of his shoe faced the door, just below the handle. And took a deep breath.
Dominic Elder ran up the stairs, across the reception area, and out of the glass doors on to Victoria Street. He ran into a crush of people, waving, some of them cheering, held back by metal-grilled barriers from the road. There was a dull slow roar from the motorcycle escorts. And then there was glitter in the sky, and a net curtain, blown out from its window and wafting in the breeze.
And then there was the explosion.
A dull boom. Not a large explosion by any means, but enough to panic the crowds. The motorbikes suddenly speeded up, as did the cars. Front fenders dented back fenders as the cars behind put their foot down. They were speeding away from the scene, and the security men on the street had guns in their hands and were trying to see what had happened. But it was raining glass. That was what was happening. Large and small shards and splinters, landing at velocity. And the screams were no longer solely of fear.
“What happened?” he yelled into his walkie-talkie. “John, what the hell happened?” He was jostled by people fleeing the scene. Doors were kicked open as people attempted to find shelter. Anywhere but on the street. Barriers clattered to the ground as people scrambled over them.
The walkie-talkie crackled. He struggled to hear it. “Bomb inside the door. Hair-trigger.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“Traynor, leg blown off. Doyle...”
“What about Doyle?”
“Concussion.”
“The room, John... is there anyone in the room?”
A pause. “Negative, Dominic. The room’s empty. Repeat, the room is empty.” Then: “Jesus Christ.”
“What is it?”
“Chickens, two supermarket chickens.”
They’d walked straight into a bloody trap! If Witch had left nothing else, she’d left yet another warped calling card. Which meant what? That the real attempt would take place elsewhere? Up ahead maybe? The motorcade was moving off in disarray. Christ, a trap... he couldn’t believe... couldn’t take it in. Why? What was the point? Suddenly, a hand gripped his arm. He reached inside his jacket, turning towards the — But it was only Barclay.
“Jesus, you gave me a fright.” His grip on the pistol relaxed. Barclay saw what had been about to happen.
“Sorry,” he said. “What’s going on?”
Elder nodded upwards, where the curtain still fluttered like a flag. It didn’t look like a flag, though; it looked like a shroud. “Bomb,” he said. “Witch led us into a trap.”
Sirens were nearing, ambulances. Uniformed police officers were attempting to comfort the prone and wounded bodies. A helicopter surveyed the pandemonium from on high. The convoy had disappeared from view. Barclay was yelling something above the noise.
“What?” Elder yelled back.
“I said we know who she’s —”
The ambulances were drawing to a squealing halt in front of them. Barclay put his hand out towards Dominique, palm upwards, only to find that she wasn’t there. She was ten feet away, tending to a woman’s cuts. He walked over, opened the flap of her shoulder bag, and took something from it, then came back to Elder, handing him a folded page from The Times. Elder looked at it. A full-page advert for British Aerospace.
“Other side,” yelled Barclay. Elder turned the page over. The obituaries column. There were four, a couple of churchmen, head of an Oxford college, and... Marion Barker, the Home Secretary’s wife.
Elder’s face creased into a huge frown. He looked at Barclay, who was nodding. Dominique, looking paler than ever, was coming back to join them. An ambulanceman had taken over from her. She watched as he worked on the woman. The woman caught Dominique’s eye and smiled at her, mouthing “thank you.”