Invasion (5 page)

The train slowed, pulling into the next station. Target One took out his cell phone and jammed the device between the seats, pushing
his travel card after it. He stood up, waiting for the doors to open. When they did, he moved further up the platform and re-boarded the train.

So far, so good, he smiled.

Khan pointed through the windshield
as the van weaved through the traffic towards the station at Clapham Common.

‘There he is!’

Max swung the wheel to the left and slid into the kerb. Spencer jumped aboard.

‘Lost him,’ he puffed. ‘Carried out an area search, but nothing. Sorry.’

‘Forget it,’ Khan said. ‘Who knew he was going to take the bloody tube? This is my fault. He put us to sleep.’ The alarm bells were ringing urgently now, his gut feeling that something major was in progress becoming stronger by the minute. He keyed his radio.

‘Control, this is
Kilo-Whiskey Seven, requesting immediate surveillance assistance, over.’

Overhead, the speaker hissed back.

‘Copy that, Kilo-Whiskey Seven. Wait Out.’

Wait
Out?
Khan keyed the radio again. ‘Control, Kilo-Whiskey Seven, surveillance target may be operational at this time. Requesting assets for priority reacquisition, over.’

The speaker crackled, the controller’s voice laced with irritation. ‘Kilo-Whiskey
Seven, Control, message received, stand by.’

Khan shared a look with Max and Spencer. What the hell was up with Control? Didn’t they understand the urgency of the situation? Khan was about to key his radio again, when another voice echoed inside the van.

‘Kilo-Whiskey
Seven, what’s your location?’

‘Outside Clapham Common tube station.’

‘Where did you lose your target?’

‘Down on the platform. Target was travelling northbound. How soon can I
get those assets?’

‘You can’t,’ the voice replied. ‘Seventeen targets have just gone active in the
London area. We’re swamped.’

Khan stared at the speaker, his blood suddenly cold.

At Stockwell underground station, Target One left the carriage and made his way up the escalator to the ticket hall, his eyes scanning the concourse…there. A tall Arabian man wearing a hooded sweatshirt waited near the gate line. Target One veered towards him, pushing through the crowd.

‘Easy, bruv!’

He glanced over his shoulder. He’d cut across the path of a black man, the same one he’d hidden behind on the train. He mumbled an apology and moved towards the Arab who, seeing Target One approach, palmed him a ticket. They
moved quickly out of the station and into the bright sunlight, turning left into
Binfield Road. The Arab set a brisk pace.

‘Your journey was okay?’

‘I was followed,’ confessed Target One.

The Arab slowed his pace, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Explain.’ Target One recounted the details of his journey, leaving nothing out. ‘You are certain that is all?’

‘Yes, I…’

A voice boomed behind them. ‘Wait up, bruv!’

Without slowing, both men glanced behind them. The black man from the station was advancing quickly towards them. ‘Yeah, you!’

The Arab slipped a hand under his sweatshirt. He turned to Target One.

‘I will deal with this. Say nothing.’

They stopped and turned as the black man marched up to them. He was in his early twenties, over six feet tall and roughly two hundred pounds, nearly all of it muscle. And he was angry. Without breaking stride, he planted both hands on Target One’s chest and shoved hard, sending him stumbling backwards onto the pavement. The Arab stepped sideways to distance himself, caught off-guard by the sudden attack. The black man ignored him, loomed over Target One and jabbed a thick finger in his face.

‘You dissing me? You know who I am, ya piece of shit?’

Target One’s eyes blazed with anger. This Infidel had laid his unclean hands on him, had disgraced him with his physical assault. Target One could smell the man’s disgusting breath on his face as a fine spray of spittle dampened his cheek. He tried to get up, but the black man raised his fist.

‘I’ll beat ya down, get me? Teach you some fucking-’

Target One saw the tiniest flicker of confusion in the black man’s eyes as the barrel of the pistol touched the side of his head, just before the flash and crack of the ten millimetre round blew out a hole above his left ear. He toppled over into the gutter, the wide rent in his skull pumping blood onto the road. The Arab slipped the gun back under his sweatshirt and grabbed Target One’s hand, dragging him to his feet. Behind them, a scream split the air.

‘Move!’

The Arab shoved Target One
forward, who smiled as
he stepped over his assailant’s lifeless body. They reached the junction of Binfield Road and Lansdowne Way, crossing quickly into Guildford Road and dodging the early evening traffic that blasted their horns at the men’s reckless passage. The Arab pointed to a battered Ford saloon car parked along the street. There was a man behind the wheel, the engine running.

‘Get in,’ commanded the Arab. Target One slid into the back while the Arab jumped into the front passenger seat. The car accelerated away from the kerb
and turned down another side street, heading in the direction of the city. In the distance, they heard the rising wail of a police response vehicle.

Harry was seated alone in the Cabinet Room, lost in thought as he pored over his notes in preparation for the evening’s engagement with the US Ambassador. Although he had his own private office in the building, the Cabinet Room exuded a certain gravitas that sharpened his mind for the task at hand. He took a moment to glance around the room that never failed to impress him. A rather flattering oil painting of Sir Robert Walpole, the man considered to be England’s first Prime Minister, hung above the fireplace; the chairs, which were arranged around the large antique table, had been used in this room since the reign of Queen Victoria. How could anyone
fail to be impressed by these surroundings?

For Harry, being Prime Minister was more than just the pinnacle of his political career. He understood the responsibility of office completely, could feel the weight of history bearing down on him, yet it didn’t make him uncomfortable. When he thought about the men – and, of course, Mrs Thatcher – who had all occupied the seat he was now sitting in
,
well, it made him feel quite humble. And it gave him a determination to be worthy of the post of Prime Minister of Great Britain. His thoughts were interrupted by a tap at the door. David Fuller entered the room.

‘David. What
is it?’

‘Sorry to disturb you, Harry, but something’s come up. An urgent security matter.’

‘Really? What kind?’ asked Harry without looking up, sifting through the papers before him.

‘Intelligence reports a number of their surveillance targets have suddenly disappeared. They think it could mean something.’

Harry put down the papers. ‘What
targets?’

‘SIS has all the details. They believe
it’s significant.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘In the
last hour. They’ve collated some preliminary information and prepared a report. They’d like to brief you at five in the CMC.’

Damn it
, cursed Harry privately. He was running out of time and he still had a lot of work to do. He stood quickly, gathering his papers together.

‘Fine. Get Peter over here, too.’
Peter Noonan was
the Deputy PM, a competent politician with a cool head in any crisis.

‘Peter’s giving a speech, at the Press club in Mayfair,’ replied Fuller. ‘Do you want me to pull him out?’

Harry thought about it for a moment then shook his head. ‘If
he was anywhere
else I’d say yes. What time is he due to finish?’

‘Five-thirty.’

‘Get a message to him, discreetly please, David. I want him over here as soon as he’s done.’

Fuller turned on his heel, pulling out his cell phone. Harry followed on behind, pausing to retrieve his own phone and speed-dialling his wife’s number. After a few rings her voice clicked on the line.

‘Hi, darling. How are things at Greenwich?’

‘Fine. Everything’s going very smoothly.’

In the background Harry could hear the hubbub of conversation and the scrape of china crockery. He smiled. ‘You’re better at this than I am.’ Making an effort to keep his tone casual, he continued. ‘Look Anna, something’s come up.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing to be concerned about, just a security matter. What time are you finishing?’

‘Twenty minutes. Thirty tops.’

Harry checked his watch. ‘I’ve got a brief in ten minutes. Can you call me in an hour? Let me know where you are?’

There was a pause on the line, then Harry heard the first traces of concern leaking into her voice. ‘Should I be worried, Harry?’

‘Jesus, no. Look, it’s probably nothing. Twenty minutes, did you say?’

‘Maybe thirty.’

‘Call me, okay?’

‘Sure. See you soon.’

‘Anna? Can you put Matt on the line, please? I’d like a quick word.’

There was a pause as the phone was passed to Matt Goodge, a tough Geordie and a Detective-Sergeant in Anna Beecham’s security team.

‘Sir?’

‘Hi, Matt. Look, a possible security situation has arisen.’

Goodge’s voice was all business. ‘
Any specifics, sir
?’

‘None yet. I’m probably overreacting, but just get Anna back here as soon as possible. Take all the usual precautions, but don’t alarm anyone. And I don’t want you whisking her out of there before she’s finished. Just make sure that you waste no time getting her home.’

‘
Of c
ourse.’

Harry flipped his phone closed, ending the call. He wasn’t sure if telling Goodge was a wise idea. He had no information about this so-called security situation and sometimes a little knowledge can be dangerous. All of Anna’s bodyguards carried weapons. What if someone popped a balloon or slammed
a door too hard? Those guys operated on a hair-trigger at times. He shook his head, chastising himself. He was being stupid. They were professionals, for God’s sake. He glanced at his notes, an untidy scrawl of talking points and information to be memorised. He’d
try and delegate this security matter and wrap the meeting up as quickly
as possible. As far as Harry was concerned, kick-starting Britain’s economy was the real issue.

Anything else could wait.

Alex Taylor left his motorcycle in the garage on Ravenscourt Road and decided to walk the mile or so back to his apartment in Chiswick. It was a beautiful afternoon and he was looking forward to a couple of days off. Not that being a firearms officer in the Metropolitan Police was tremendously taxing – most of his operational time was spent driving around in cars or on a firing range somewhere. But the job could be stressful at times and it was nice to get a break every now and then, especially when it was quiet. And it had been quiet for weeks. True, London’s gangland was still blowing lumps out of each other but, apart from that, it was relatively peaceful in London and Alex hoped it stayed that way.

He’d left the station in Southwark at five, weaving his BMW Tourer across London to the garage in Hammersmith for its annual service. After chatting with the mechanic for a few minutes, Alex hefted his small rucksack over his shoulder and set off towards the river.

When he got home he would grab his gym gear and go to the club for a workout, he decided. After that, he’d wander down to the pub, where he’d enjoy the rest of the evening sipping beers by the river. And who knows, maybe Kirsty would join him.

Kirsty Moore lived on the top floor of his apartment block and Alex had been well and truly smitten since the first day he’d set eyes on her. That was a few months ago now and he’d been trying to find the right opportunity to ask her out on a date, but fate had often played a hand and screwed the timing. They’d pass each other in the hallway, Kirsty pounding
down the stairs, hair wet and late for work, or Alex would be heading off to Southwark for an evening shift, just as Kirsty arrived home from her job in the city.

What little contact they enjoyed was casual
;
they’d smile and enquire after each other’s health before going their separate ways
,
but Alex felt that there was a connection there and he was almost certain Kirsty felt it, too. It wasn’t anything obvious, just a glint in her deep brown eyes, a subtle look over her shoulder
as they passed; not much to go on, but Alex saw them as positive signals. So, the time had come to bite the bullet and make his intentions known. If Kirsty was home this evening, he’d ask her to join him down the pub on a date. If she wasn’t home
he’d scribble a note and pop it through her letterbox. Either way, he’d make plain his interest and take it from there. Alex smiled to himself. The thought of asking her made him a little nervous.

He crossed
over into King Street and headed south, cutting through the
subway under the A4 arterial road that carried traffic in and out of West London. At this time of day, the road was very busy in both directions and the sound and smell of the crawling vehicles soured his mood slightly. He watched the traffic as he strolled towards the river, feeling sympathy for the sweating drivers trapped in their cars and vans, the impatient horns, the revving engines, the thumping music, all overlapping
into a cacophony of headache-inducing noise. Thank God he rode a bike. Still, even on a road like the A4 a bike could sometimes be a chore, too.

He turned down a side street and reached the riverbank a few minutes later, taking the towpath alongside the slow-moving waters, the sudden peace and
tranquillity
a world away from the river of metal behind him. Technically, the tow path was a longer route home, but he wasn’t in much of a hurry and he felt like walking, anyway. He was in good spirits as he checked his watch: five twenty-five.

Deep inside his rucksack his work phone remained unanswered, the four missed calls drowned out by the slow-moving
traffic beyond the rooftops.