One of the Speaker’s assistants behind the dais felt his phone vibrate. The number was known only to a few, and those who did had instructions not to call it while Parliament was in session — except in the most exceptional circumstances. He slipped out of sight of the chamber and answered in a whisper. ‘Yes?’
‘Please hold for the American ambassador,’ said a woman. The assistant raised a quizzical eyebrow. Why on earth would the US ambassador be calling?
At that moment, a loud bang came from outside — alarmingly close by.
Eddie looked up in shock as a dust cloud rolled down the Elizabeth Tower, hunks of broken granite dropping from it like giant hailstones. Cracks spread across the clock’s western face — then the whole glasswork disc exploded, a razor-edged rain showering over the grounds of Parliament.
More stonework shattered under the Shamir’s sonic assault, the invisible beam chewing into the tower’s south-western corner. The outer cladding broke away to expose the iron beams and girders within — which in turn blew apart, metal as vulnerable as mineral to the ancient weapon’s effect.
Even as the architect of the destruction, Brice was just as shocked by the sight of a national icon crumbling before his eyes. But he overcame it first, slamming an elbow against Eddie’s head.
The Yorkshireman still had one hand clamped around Brice’s wrist, forcing the gun away from him. He struck back, driving a fist hard into the other man’s sternum. The SIS officer grunted in pain. Eddie shifted his grip, managing to dig his fingers in between those of Brice’s gun hand.
Brice twisted, trying to get upright. Eddie kicked, catching his ankle and sending him stumbling back to the pavement. But the taller man was now on top of him — and took full advantage, using his elbow again to deliver one, two, three brutal jabs to Eddie’s chest and stomach. The Yorkshireman gasped, but refused to relinquish his hold—
The tip of his forefinger found ridged metaclass="underline" the magazine release.
He pushed it. The magazine popped out, bouncing off Eddie’s forearm and clattering to the ground.
One threat reduced — but not removed. There was still a round in the gun’s chamber.
Brice shoved his free arm across his opponent’s throat, pushing down hard. Eddie gasped, unable to breathe. He swung his fist at the other man’s face, but only landed a glancing strike. The SIS officer’s grip tightened around the gun, forcing Eddie’s straining fingers away.
The Yorkshireman tried to pitch his opponent off him, but didn’t have enough leverage. He felt his strength fading, lungs burning as Brice regained his hold on the pistol—
‘Drop the gun! Drop it!’
An armed policeman at the roadside raised an MP5 at the pair—
Brice snapped his weapon around and fired. The bullet hit the cop in the chest. His body armour took most of the impact, but he still stumbled backwards — and was hit by a car. The policeman was thrown along the road, his gun clattering away.
But Brice’s own gun was now empty. He looked down for the magazine—
Its corner slammed against his eye socket.
His weight had shifted when he raised the gun, momentarily easing the pressure on Eddie’s throat — and the bald man found a final surge of energy, snatching up the fallen mag and driving it into his adversary’s face. Brice fell, blood spurting from a deep cut beneath his eye. The Yorkshireman rolled free, tossing the magazine under the Transit’s tail.
Another thunderous crash of falling stone came from the clock tower.
Eddie glanced at Brice — then scrambled to the van’s tailgate. The Shamir poked out from the end of the lead box. The lid lay beside it. He clambered into the pickup bed and picked up the heavy slab. If he sealed the Shamir back in its case, cutting it off from its power source, he could still stop Brice’s plan—
The Transit jolted as the MI6 agent jumped up after him. Eddie spun, whipping the lid around — and pounding it into his lunging opponent like a club.
Brice reeled back, face twisted in pain. Eddie swung it again to knock him off the van—
This time Brice was prepared. He twisted, catching the lid and trying to use Eddie’s own momentum to throw him from the pickup.
The Yorkshireman realised the danger just in time to fling himself bodily at the other man—
They both fell, the lid between them. It hit the pavement edge-on — and smashed into three jagged pieces.
Eddie stared at them in horror. There was now no way to shield the Shamir!
The Speaker listened to the urgent message from his assistant, then raised his voice over the growing hubbub of the Commons chamber. Dust and grit began to cascade from the vaulted ceiling as the building shook. ‘If I can have everyone’s attention, please!’ he called, trying to maintain decorum even in an emergency. ‘We need to evacuate immediately. If everyone can make their way to the nearest exit, calmly but quickly—’
Pandemonium erupted.
Everyone leapt from their seats in a desperate attempt to flee the chamber. Those on the front rows had the clearest route to the doors with nothing in front of them except carpet, but everyone farther back was penned in by the rows of benches. Men and women were knocked down and trampled as their frightened colleagues piled up behind them.
The first MPs reached the doors and threw them open to flee into the lobbies beyond. But the nineteenth-century chamber had only a handful of exits — and almost six hundred people inside. More were crushed against the walls and door frames by those behind as they tried to squeeze through the openings, choking the escape routes still further—
A terrible noise sounded over the panicked screams, bells ringing all at once in a crazy cacophony.
Another explosion of glass came from the clock tower as a second face shattered. Eddie was shocked by the sight of the structure’s upper half visibly rocking, tipping towards the Commons chamber before rolling back with a clamour of bells. More dust and debris erupted below as the Shamir’s devastating beam continued to devour the stonework.
The Shamir! He couldn’t seal it in its box — but he could still point it away from Parliament—
He pushed himself up — only to be slammed flat as Brice hit him across the back with one of the broken chunks of lead.
Groaning, Eddie rolled on to his side to see the rogue agent grab the empty gun and scramble to the van. He clawed beneath it for the magazine.
Eddie forced himself to move. The pain in his back was excruciating, but he clenched his jaw and stood upright.
Brice’s hand closed around the mag. He pulled it out, slapping his prize into place and chambering a new round as he turned to find Eddie—
He was already there.
Eddie’s fist ploughed into the spy’s face. ‘Fuck you, double-oh shithead!’ the Yorkshireman roared. He body-slammed Brice against the pickup’s tailgate. ‘You’re no patriot, you’re a fucking psychopath!’
Both men again grappled for the gun. Eddie was still breathless and in pain — but his fury was enough to prevent Brice from overpowering him.
But only just. The SIS officer strained to raise his right arm above his head, using his greater height and reach to inch the weapon from Eddie’s grasp. ‘I’m doing what has to be done to protect my country,’ he rasped. ‘I’ll let history judge me — but you’ll be long forgotten!’
He stretched up as far as he could — and jerked the pistol from his opponent’s grip. Eddie clawed for the gun, but it was now out of reach—
He saw something behind Brice — his last chance to save both the day and his own life.