Crisis (Luke Carlton 1) (54 page)

Authors: Frank Gardner

BOOK: Crisis (Luke Carlton 1)

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But the police driver leaned out of his window and shook his head. ‘Sorry, ma’am. We haven’t got it. It was sent up to Manchester, remember?’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Kate shouted. It was 1044 hours.

‘Hang on, though,’ yelled the driver, his face lighting up. ‘We’ve still got the dome in the back.’

Oh, you beautiful man, thought Kate. ‘Get it down here now!’

‘It’s bloody heavy.’

‘Sergeant Bamford!’ yelled Kate. ‘Get everyone over here, put the dome in place, then move everyone back to behind the Guards Memorial over there.’ She pointed to the nearest solid structure that could provide any cover at all.

The sirens were still wailing as the six EXPOs manhandled a large metal-and-plastic dome out of the back of the truck and staggered over to the cordoned-off area, knocking over orange cones as they went. On Kate’s command, they lowered it to the surface of the gravel, looked at her for the nod and sprinted for the shelter of the memorial. At 1057 hours her team were crouched behind the stone pillar when one of the two scientists from Aldermaston spoke up.

‘When this thing goes off,’ she told them, ‘we’ve got to move away fast. Even with the dome there could be seepage out of the sides. This area is going to take days to clean up, maybe weeks. You do realize,’ she added grimly, ‘we’re all going to have to be checked for radiation after this?’

For Kate Bladon’s team of EXPOs, crouched behind the Guards Division Memorial that day, those three minutes were perhaps the longest of their lives. They were the only people left on Horse Guards. Downing Street had been evacuated, Whitehall had been cleared – even the police helicopter had moved off. To all of them down there, squatting just ninety metres from a buried and primed dirty bomb, it seemed an incredibly lonely moment, as if they were the sole survivors left in London. At five seconds before the hour Kate looked down at her feet and said quietly: ‘Stand by. Here we go.’

The detonation, when it came, would have been a gigantic disappointment to Nelson García. It was the very antithesis of the toxic fireball he imagined enveloping his enemy’s capital. To the nine men and women close enough to hear it that morning it sounded like a muffled thud, almost a dud explosion, which, in a way, was what it was. Instead of jetting upwards in a vertical shower of radioactive isotopes, coating hundreds of buildings and streets all over Westminster, the blast reverberated ineffectively against the heavy composite underside of the Dome, almost completely containing and absorbing it.

Three seconds after the explosion they were about to pull back into St James’s Park when Kate turned to Sergeant Bamford in amazement. He was holding something above his head.

‘I don’t bloody believe it!’ she said. ‘Were you filming all that on your phone, Sergeant?’

‘I was, ma’am. Got to have something to show the grandkids one day.’

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ she replied, smiling. ‘Send it to my phone and I’ll make sure it gets to the operator who discovered the intel just in time. He sounds like one hell of a guy.’

Epilogue

‘PLEASE, BABES,’ SHE
purred, putting a finger to his lips, ‘just don’t answer it.’

Luke rolled over in bed, glanced at the incoming call and winced. ‘Sorry, I think I’d better take this one,’ he said.

Elise sat up, pulled her knees to her chest and pouted at him, feigning disapproval. ‘You promised,’ she whispered, scowling.

As he hesitated, he reached behind her and gently massaged the back of her neck with the tips of his fingers. Elise closed her eyes, tilted her head and smiled. My God, she looked beautiful, even with the traces of a bruise where the Colombian woman had hit her. Right now, Luke felt he wanted never to leave her again. Yet he still picked up the phone. ‘Luke speaking . . . Oh, right . . . What? In forty minutes? That doesn’t give me a whole lot of time . . . OK, I’ll be there.’

‘It seems,’ he said, leaning over to kiss Elise on the lips, ‘that I’ve been summoned. To see the Chief.’

‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’ she murmured, her eyes still closed as he massaged her shoulders.

‘You know what? With these people, I have no bloody idea. They’re probably going to keep me guessing right up until the moment I walk into his office.’

He moved to get up off the bed but Elise opened her eyes,
reached out and held him, suddenly serious. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I want you to know something important.’

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘I did a lot of thinking while I was being held by those people.’

Luke looked at her warily. ‘Elise, I promise you. You don’t need to worry about them ever again. They’re all behind bars now, every one of them. And that’s partly thanks to what you offered up in the debrief.’ He smiled as he remembered something. ‘You know what my mate Jorge at the Colombian Embassy tells me?’

‘What?’

‘That García will never again see the light of day. They’re holding him in solitary at a jail just outside Bogotá. But once the legal paperwork comes through from DC the Americans will ship him to a Supermax prison in Colorado.’

Elise had released her grip on his shoulders and Luke was up and pulling on a pair of trousers, then walking over to the wardrobe to choose a shirt and tie.

‘Still can’t believe that Ana María woman tripped up like that,’ he said, selecting a woven navy tie. ‘Getting traced back through her mobile phone. From what you said, it sounded like she was smarter than that. Anyway, sorry, Lise, I interrupted you. You were about to tell me something?’

‘Well, what we’ve both been through these last few weeks has changed the way I look at things,’ she said. ‘Call it a one-eighty, if you like. But I think I understand now what it’s all about, and what it is you do, and I suppose what I’m trying to say is . . . I’m proud of you, I really am.’

Luke stopped buttoning his shirt and for a moment, just a moment, he felt quite emotional. He loved her so much. ‘Good to know,’ he said lightly, ‘but remember I’m still only on contract to them.’

Luke was right. The Service was not going to tell him anything before he got to the Chief’s private office. Not even Angela had given him the heads-up this time. Travelling in the lift to the sixth floor, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, and as
he straightened his tie he thought that the face looking back at him had aged since they had first sent him to Colombia. It seemed as if years had passed since that fateful morning meeting in October. Yet what had it been? Four weeks? Five? Barely that. And already in that short time he had added another unwelcome scar to his growing collection, a dark red weal on his foot where it had encountered that electric drill.

‘This way, Mr Carlton.’ Sir Adam Keeling’s PA pointed to the door, gestured for him to go through it, then closed it quietly behind him. Luke took in the scene at a glance: the spectacular picture window looking across the river to Millbank, the modern Azerbaijani carpet, the portrait of the Queen, and all those unsolicited gifts from around the world, balanced on the windowsill. A curved dagger from Bahrain, an incense burner from Oman and, bizarrely, a life-size replica of a seagull.

But it was the people assembled in the room who caught his attention. ‘Ah, Carlton,’ said the Chief, limping towards him and holding out his hand. ‘Well rested, I hope. So, I think you know everyone here?’ He swept an arm towards the others. ‘Carl Mayne, our director of Ops, Sid Khan, director of CT, Angela Scott, your line manager, of course.’ He nodded to each of them in turn, exchanging his warmest smile with Angela. ‘And, last, because you can never have too many lawyers present, I’ve asked John Friend to join us.’

For a second Luke saw a man in his pyjamas, framed in the doorway of a Colombian hotel room, his eyes wide with horror as he took in the scene of carnage on the floor in front of him. Then he shook his hand. ‘Hi, John.’

‘Hello, Luke.’

‘Before I say what I want to say,’ said Sir Adam, ‘I believe you had some concerns regarding how we dealt with García’s family in El Salvador.’

Luke had another image in his mind now: the look on García’s face when he heard his own sister’s scream down the phone and
the noise of that electric drill somewhere in the background. ‘That’s true, Chief.’ Luke looked pointedly at Carl Mayne. ‘I was assured they wouldn’t be harmed.’

‘And nor were they,’ replied Sir Adam. ‘And I’m pleased you did have those concerns, because I want you to know that not a hair on her head was touched. The same goes for all his extended family.’

Luke relaxed a little, but he wanted to know more.

‘We actually used the Vortex programme that Sid Khan helped develop when he was in Tech Division,’ said the Chief. Luke glanced across at Khan, who gave a slight bow. ‘We took a sample of his sister’s voice, recorded while she was in custody after they landed, and morphed it into a scream. Then we simply added in the effects of the drill and played it down the line from San Salvador. I think we can agree it did the trick, don’t you?’

‘You mean she was never under any duress at all?’

‘Luisa García,’ said the Chief, with a mischievous smile, ‘does not even know her brother was on the end of that phone call. No, she’s fine. They’re out of custody now. They’ll be back in Colombia by the end of the week. Now . . .’ Sir Adam Keeling cleared his throat and looked knowingly at the others gathered in his office. ‘We’ve asked you here today,’ he said, ‘because you’ve done an outstandingly good job for us. This country, and my Service in particular, owes you a debt of gratitude.’

‘Thank you, Chief.’ Luke was surprised to find he was blushing.

‘As you know, because of our line of business,’ continued Sir Adam, ‘you won’t get any public recognition for it. That’s not our way. But we do have something else to offer you. Angela?’

The Chief turned to his right as she passed him a crisp white envelope. ‘Please open it,’ he said, as he leaned against the corner of his desk.

Luke took the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of vellum, folded into three. It was addressed to him and signed in green ink.

‘It’s your letter of engagement,’ said Sir Adam, quietly, ‘should
you choose to accept it, of course.’ He held out his hand again. ‘You’ve made the grade, Carlton. We’d like to offer you a permanent job here as a case officer in the Secret Intelligence Service. Oh, and Carlton? Just one more thing. We’ve got an interesting situation developing . . . somewhere that might appeal to you. We’d like you to take a look at it. If you’re up for it, that is?’

Acknowledgements

My thanks go to my ever-loyal publishers, Transworld, for backing this book, and in particular to my brilliant editor, Simon Taylor. Annoyingly, it was hard to argue with any of your suggestions. I am extremely grateful to my agent (publishing agent, that is), Julian Alexander from LAW, for believing in this whole project from Day One. Thank you to those of you I consulted who drew on your many years of experience in dark and dangerous places (notably Whitehall). To James, Mal and Chris for your input on the Royal Marines and the SBS, to Richard, John, EG, Admiral Lord West and others for your advice on intelligence and security matters. To Steve Johnson for sharing some of your profound scientific knowledge and to Brett Lovegrove for your hard-earned expertise on counter-terrorism policing. To Sir Tim Berners-Lee for your help on digital technology and to Matt and G for advice on IEDs. To Linda Davies and Mike Ridpath, for passing on some of their bestselling novelists’ tricks of the trade, and to Rupert Wise, Linda, Tina and Charles Blackmore for hosting your anti-social guest when he typed away in your homes. To Sasha Gardner for helping out on the Cornwall recce. Last, thank you to the people of Colombia. Yours is a wonderful country. May the years ahead be peaceful.

No input was asked for from, or offered by, any arm of Her Majesty’s Government.

About the Author

Born in 1961,
Frank Gardner
has been the BBC’s Security Correspondent since 2002, reporting on issues as diverse as terrorist attacks and hostage-taking, Afghan security and Arctic endurance challenges. He holds a degree in Arabic & Islamic Studies and was previously the BBC’s correspondent in Dubai, then Cairo. In 2004, while filming in Saudi Arabia, he and his cameraman were ambushed by terrorists. His cameraman was killed and Frank was left for dead with eleven bullet wounds. He survived his injuries, returning to active news reporting within a year, and he still travels extensively. The author of two bestselling books,
Blood and Sand
and
Far Horizons
, Frank has also written for
GQ
, the
Economist
and the
Sunday Times
. He was awarded an OBE in 2005 for services to journalism. He lives in London with his family.