‘I’m trying to tell you what’s going on!’ Nina protested. ‘I need to talk to the ambassador, right now! Please!’
But her captors refused to listen, picking her up and frogmarching her towards the embassy building.
Where a cell awaited her — one that she was certain she would still be inside at noon.
38
Brice stood back to regard his handiwork. The lead box, still partially hidden beneath the tarp, was now propped up at one end by tools — directly in line with the Elizabeth Tower.
The great clock told him it was almost noon. He took out a smartphone and brought up an app. It soon confirmed that the part of his plan over which he had no direct control was nevertheless going as expected.
The screen showed a live television feed from the House of Commons chamber. As he had hoped, the green benches along each side of the political duelling ground were full.
The MPs of the governing party were on the left, facing the Opposition. Even on a phone, Brice could see the difference in attitude between the two sides. Those in government, while plainly spoiling for a verbal fight to back up their leader, seemed haunted; the look of politicians who knew they could well be not just out of power, but out of a job entirely, before long. The Opposition MPs were more smug, boisterous — eagerly awaiting one last chance to put the boot into their enemies.
That chance would never come. Brice kept watching as Christian Lombard, the Home Secretary, entered and occupied what would normally be the Prime Minister’s place. His appearance prompted mocking boos and catcalls from the Opposition: where was Quentin Hove? Was he too scared to face his critics?
The clock’s opening chimes rang across Parliament Square. At the first strike of Big Ben itself it would be noon, and PMQs would begin. Brice crouched beside the box. It was time.
He pulled back the tarpaulin and lifted off the heavy lid. The Shamir rested inside the casket, the odd greenish stone glinting. Almost immediately, he felt it respond to the daylight, the van seeming to buzz as its vibration was transmitted through the metal. He lifted the ancient weapon to aim it at the clock tower.
Another look at the phone. Lombard was now talking. Even with no sound, Brice knew what he was saying; protocol demanded an explanation for the Prime Minister’s absence. ‘An urgent matter of national security’ would stoke the fires of the conspiracy theorists, but within the Commons itself there would be little comeback other than snide mutterings.
And in a few minutes, nobody would be able to deny the urgency of said matter.
He switched off the phone, then dropped down and started to lay out road cones to block off an area of pavement behind the Transit — both so that he appeared to be working, and also to keep passers-by clear of the invisible beam. He couldn’t afford anyone to raise an alarm, not now.
The rising noise from the Shamir became noticeable, but over the bells and traffic noise, he was sure nobody else would register it.
Until it was too late.
‘Listen to me, listen!’ Nina cried as the marines carried her into the embassy. ‘I’ve got proof of who brought down Flight 180 — and the same people are planning a terror attack on the Houses of Parliament right now!’
Her captors showed no sign of caring. One marine moved ahead to clear the way to a bank of elevators, waving back embassy staff. Nina changed tack, addressing the officials instead. ‘I’ve got the video confession of the man who rescued Philippe Mukobo and killed everyone else on Flight 180!’ she shouted. ‘If you don’t believe me, watch it yourself!’ While the claim drew shocked interest, still nobody attempted to intervene. ‘My name’s Nina Wilde — I saved President Cole’s life at the United Nations five years ago, dammit! I stopped New York from being nuked, I’ve saved the entire goddamn world — more than once! Somebody listen to me!’
The marines reached the elevators. One pushed a call button. Doors immediately opened, the car beyond waiting to carry the struggling redhead into the building’s depths—
‘Wait, wait!’ someone called behind her. ‘Hold on there!’
She desperately turned her head to see a balding middle-aged man carrying a briefcase break from the crowd, holding up his ID badge. ‘Anthony Huygens, State Department. That is Nina Wilde — I recognise her.’ Though Nina generally felt faintly embarrassed about being famous enough to be identified by strangers, this was not one of those times.
‘Sir, this woman violated embassy security and broke in here in the middle of a firefight,’ the marine replied. ‘She’s under arrest, and until I receive word from—’
‘You’re receiving word from me, marine!’ Huygens snapped. ‘We thought Philippe Mukobo was killed on Flight 180. If she’s got evidence that he wasn’t, we have to verify it. And if there’s an imminent terrorist attack on London, then we have to warn the British, right now!’
The marines holding Nina remained still, uncertain whether the official had authority over them. The elevator doors started to close — until she thrust a foot into their path, causing them to retract again. ‘The video’s on a flash drive in my pocket. Please, just look at it, please.’
‘Hold those doors,’ said Huygens. One of the men in the elevator kept them open. ‘I’ve got a laptop with me,’ he continued. ‘If she’s got nothing, then you can take her away. But I have to check.’ There were benches near the lobby’s windows. ‘Bring her over here.’
The marines turned to the most senior of their number, who looked irate, but nodded. They brought Nina to a bench. ‘Okay,’ Huygens said. ‘Let’s see this video.’
‘Shit,’ Eddie gasped as he heard Big Ben start to strike twelve. He had run through the back streets of Pimlico and Westminster as fast as he could, but even though Chelsea Bridge and the Houses of Parliament were less than a mile and a half apart as the crow flew, the shortest route on the ground was far less direct.
He was also rapidly tiring. At his prime in the SAS, the journey would have been a few minutes shorter and he would have been barely winded by its end. Despite his best efforts to stay in shape, the better part of twenty years had taken their toll.
He emerged from a shortcut through the grounds of Westminster Abbey on to the southern edge of Parliament Square as the bell’s last echoes faded. If Brice was going to attack, he was still sure it would be from here. The Shamir needed to be outdoors with clear line of sight on its target, and every rooftop overlooking Parliament would be under constant observation, while any unusual activity on the Thames would draw immediate attention. From what he had seen in the Congo, he didn’t think that the Shamir had the range to bring down the building from the river’s far side.
That left the square, a busy public place where the MI6 officer could easily hide amongst the crowd. He looked across the road at the park. Even though it was a cloudy day, there were still lots of people, mostly tourists pointing cameras and phones at the clock tower. His gaze darted between them, searching for the spy.
No sign of him — but his view was repeatedly obscured by buses and vans rounding the square. He had to get closer. He waited for a gap, then ran into the road. A speeding black cab’s brakes screeched, the driver hooting angrily at him. Eddie ignored him, pausing to let another cab go by before dashing for the safety of the far pavement.
Breathing heavily, he surveyed the square. It was busy enough that it would be almost impossible to check everyone…