He’d made sure there would be none of that.
A metal plate had been welded to the base of each of the larger cylinders, with a small hole in the bottom for an electric wire. The wire was passed through the hole into the cylinder, and one of the igniters was attached.
Twelve of these cylinders were placed inside the metal framework, which had already been welded to the floor of the camper van. They were each arranged at fractionally different angles, according to instructions given by Dave Smethurst, who supervised the entire process and checked the results with extreme care. He had spent two hours test-firing shells from that remote cwm, far from prying eyes, then processed the results and determined an individual trajectory for each of his projectiles.
Only when the cylinders were positioned exactly as he wanted them were they filled about one-third deep with the fuel mix of icing sugar and fertilizer, just as an old-fashioned muzzle-loading cannon would have been filled with its load of gunpowder.
The result was a multi-barrel launcher, filled with propellant. All that was missing was something to propel.
That wouldn’t be long in arriving.
Under Smethurst’s direction, two of Gryffud’s men had removed the valves from a dozen of the smaller cylinders. The explosive mix was poured in through the hole where the valve had been, then the fuse and detonator assembly was inserted and the hole resealed.
The small cylinders were placed in the big ones, like one Russian doll inside another, so that the fuse wire from the bottom of the shells nestled in the fuel mix.
The wires from the bottom of each of the launch cylinders were connected to a junction box, along with a thirteenth wire which led to a large plastic jerrycan filled with petrol. The junction box was in turn connected to a timer located by the passenger seat.
The rear door of the van opened vertically. When the multiple launcher was complete and loaded, the door was lowered and welded shut. Then the open top of the camper van was covered with a large sheet of paper, lacquered to improve its strength and water-resistance, and sprayed white to match the van. It was sealed to the roof with clear vinyl tape. Only the closest inspection would reveal that anything had been done to the roof. Only a torrential downpour would break through the lacquered, painted paper. This, too, was another old IRA ploy.
The weapons had been made and loaded. The mission was ready to go.
31
London
Grantham called while Carver and Alix were in the cab. ‘So, did you speak to your old girlfriend?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And…?’
‘And you were right. Magda Sternberg and Celina Novak are one and the same person. And she was just as tricky then as she is now: manipulative, sadistic, totally cold-blooded. “Celina can make you do anything,” was the way Alix put it.’
Carver put a hand over the phone and mouthed ‘Grantham’ at Alix, who shook her head with a rueful sigh.
‘Don’t tell me you’re getting lovey-dovey with her again…’ Grantham asked, almost as if he’d seen Carver’s gesture.
‘Not with Ginger, that’s for sure.’
‘You know that’s not who I meant.’
‘No comment.’
‘Unbelievable. Some people never learn… Well, if you don’t mind me interrupting your true romance, I have details of tomorrow’s operations.’
‘Fire away.’
‘You’re on the list for this absurd publicity stunt, sorry, this vitally important meeting on energy security. You’ll be Andy Jenkins, a member of the Ministry of Defence support staff. There’ll be a few of them around.’
Carver was having a hard time paying attention to what Grantham was saying. Alix’s hand was making its way up his inner thigh. Grinning, he swatted it away, then did his best to focus on business.
‘Support staff? Sounds like another way of saying non-uniformed special forces.’
‘Your words, not mine,’ said Grantham. ‘But it shouldn’t be too far out of your comfort zone.’
‘So where do I have to be, and when?’
‘Cardiff Gate services on the M4. There’s a motel there called the Ibis. Go down tonight. Check in under any name you like. In the morning, all your Andy Jenkins documentation will be waiting at reception. Your contact will be called Tyrrell.’
‘Is that a first or second name?’
‘It’s the only name you’re getting. He’ll be waiting for you in the motel car park at 7.00 a.m. in a 58 Reg, metallic-grey Audi A4.’
‘And then what?’
‘Get in the car and go with friend Tyrrell to your destination.’
‘But what is my destination?’
‘An oil refinery.’
‘On Milford Haven, presumably,’ said Carver, thinking of the nearest major installations to Cardiff.
‘That’s one presumption, yes. But anyway, keep your eyes open. Check out as much as you can. See if it helps you in any way to find out what the hell Zorn’s up to. When you get back we can discuss what you plan to do about him. Assuming you know.’
‘Oh, I know what I’m doing,’ said Carver. ‘I just don’t know if it’ll work.’
He ended the call and looked at Alix.
‘Were you talking about me just then?’ she asked, with a spark of humour in her eyes. ‘When you said you didn’t know whether it would work?’
‘Of course,’ said Carver. ‘What else could I possibly be talking about?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ she murmured, leaning towards him and gently putting her hand back between his thighs.
32
Lambeth
‘ Sorry about this,’ Carver said as he opened the door to his flat. ‘It’s not exactly five-star.’
‘But you’re in it,’ Alix said, gazing at him.
‘Yes I am.’
‘Then I love it.’
He took her in his arms then, holding her body against him with the fierceness of a man who never wants to let go. He felt himself get hard, and the press of her hips as she responded to it. The scent of her — not just her perfume but her skin, her hair, even her breath — filled his senses as intoxicatingly as any drug. He covered her mouth with his, and kissed her with a decade of pent-up longing and frustrated desire.
Alix needed the strength of his arms around her. Without them she might not have been able to stand upright. After all this time she was still not immune to him, still failing to retain her self-control as sensations buried for years flooded back with all their old overwhelming power. She felt her body mould to his without any need to think what she was doing. There was no artifice, no tension, just the knowledge that she felt so close, so intimate and so absolutely known to this man that she could barely tell where she ended and he began. The softness of his lips, the rasp of his chin, the way his tongue entered her mouth, the taste of him, the smell of him… It was ecstatic and yet also destabilizing. All her resolution, her determination to remain strong, independent and separate, dissolved. They stumbled through the flat, their lips still locked together, their arms entwined as he led her into the bedroom.
Carver kicked open the door, and only once they were standing right beside the bed did he let go of her. Alix stepped back from him, and in a single fluid movement reached behind her neck, pulled at the bow and let the dress fall to her feet. She stood there in her knickers and her heels, and the sight of her stopped him dead. All this time he’d been imagining what it would be like to see her again, and still he wasn’t prepared for the reality of it. He shook his head in disbelief, and with deep seriousness said, ‘My God, you’re so beautiful.’ And then he was kissing her again, and her fingers were prising open the buttons of his shirt, undoing his belt, unzipping him and slipping under the waistband of his underpants.
As she took hold of him she giggled and said, ‘Hello, old friend.’