‘Oh, my God…’ she whispered. ‘He did it. He actually did it…’
Quentin Hove stared at a television in 10 Downing Street. One of the news channels had a helicopter airborne over the capital, and had cut live to it when it became clear that something was happening at the Houses of Parliament. His face was ashen, eyes wide in shock, but he couldn’t avert his gaze. ‘What have you done?’ he said, voice barely audible.
The only other person in the room was C. ‘What have we done, Prime Minister,’ Armitage reminded him. ‘Brice’s plan was approved by both of us.’
Hove rounded on the intelligence chief. ‘But — I didn’t — I didn’t know he was going to do this!’ He stabbed a finger at the television. The helicopter was orbiting Parliament, revealing the destruction in almost three-dimensional clarity. The fallen clock tower had almost totally demolished the north wing of the Palace of Westminster, the House of Commons beyond a collapsed shell.
An urgent knock at the door. ‘Prime Minister!’ called a frantic aide, rushing in without waiting for a reply. ‘It’s Parliament, there — there’s been an attack!’
Hove hurriedly attempted to compose himself, with little success. ‘I know. I know! I’ll be out in a moment. Wait outside. Get out!’ he added, voice cracking, when the man did not immediately retreat.
C felt his phone buzz and quickly checked its screen. He had already ignored two calls from SIS headquarters, which he knew would be his staff trying to inform him about the disaster, but the number told him this was one he needed to take. ‘Yes?’
‘Sir, the operation is completed,’ Brice replied.
‘I know, the PM and I are watching on television. What’s your status?’ The other man sounded as if he was running, but there was also definite stress behind his breathlessness. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Yes, sir, but that’s not important. I needed to speak to you. Chase showed up.’
C tried to conceal his concern from the politician beside him. ‘GB63 didn’t catch him? What about the American woman?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I haven’t been in contact with ops. You may need to follow that up.’
‘I most definitely will. Where are you now?’
‘In St James’s Park. I’m going to get clear of the area, then go to the safe house. Sir, I… I’ll need medical treatment.’ The request sounded like an admission of defeat.
‘Is that him?’ Hove demanded before C could reply. ‘Is that Brice? Let me speak to him!’
Armitage shook his head. ‘Sir, that would be inadvisable—’
‘Do what I tell you!’ The command was almost a scream. C reluctantly put the phone on speaker. ‘Brice, you — you maniac!’ Hove shouted at it. ‘You blew up Big Ben!’
No reply came from the phone, but C spoke for his subordinate, voice calm and cold. ‘His inference was quite clear, Prime Minister. When you chose to send the Home Secretary to PMQs in your stead, I took that as confirmation that you were fully on board with the operation.’
‘The operation!’ The Prime Minister’s voice rose almost to a screech. ‘We — you, you’ve destroyed Parliament! You must have killed everyone inside!’
C stepped closer, both for a better look at the television and to apply subtle physical intimidation to the smaller man. The helicopter was now over Parliament Square, cameras zooming in on the growing crowd spilling out of the building. ‘Not everyone, it would seem. There are survivors.’ They both kept watching. ‘Quite a few survivors.’ He sounded almost surprised.
‘Sir, if there isn’t anything else,’ Brice prompted, ‘I need to get to the safe house.’
‘Go,’ C told him. ‘I’ll send a medic to meet you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ He disconnected.
C turned back to Hove. ‘I need to return to Vauxhall Cross, Prime Minister. There are some matters that require my attention.’
The Prime Minister’s watery eyes widened again. ‘What? What do you mean? Have we — have you been exposed? If MI6’s involvement comes out—’
Armitage cut him off. ‘Nothing like that. A cover story’s already been prepared, that Islamic terrorists smuggled explosives into the sewer tunnels under the tower’s foundations. It gives us both a believable scapegoat, and justification to cancel the election and implement a national state of emergency.’ He put a hand on Hove’s shoulder; the other man flinched. ‘You’ve done the right thing, Prime Minister. This will allow us to secure our borders and crack down on internal dissent. You will be the one to lead us through this most difficult time. You must seize the opportunity — as long as you don’t weaken, everything will turn out to the nation’s advantage.’
‘I… yes, yes,’ said Hove, nodding. ‘I’ll prepare a statement immediately.’
‘Good. We will rebuild, sir. Britain will come out of this stronger than ever before. And so will you.’
The churning ripples from the Transit’s plunge into the Thames faded. Despite their fear, some of the people on Westminster Bridge had still rushed to look for any signs of the driver who had crashed into the waters below.
There were none. A man took off his jacket, about to dive after him in a rescue attempt—
‘There he is! There!’ someone cried.
Eddie broke through the waves, gasping. The sinking van’s wake had dragged him down, the Yorkshireman needing all his strength to break free. But now he was being carried along by the strong current, passing beneath the bridge. He struck exhaustedly towards shore — not the one from which he had come, but the south bank. It was farther away, but was clear of the chaos that had erupted around Parliament — and, he hoped, would be free of SIS assassins.
While Nina and Huygens hurriedly discussed events, a member of the official’s staff had continued watching the video. ‘Mr Huygens, sir!’ he called. ‘Dr Wilde was right. This guy,’ he gestured at a freeze-frame of Brice, ‘talks about this Shamir thing being a sonic weapon that can destroy buildings from a distance, and his first thought is to use it for a decapitation attack.’
‘Which he’s just done,’ said Nina. Someone had switched on a television, which was showing grim helicopter footage of the devastation.
‘But is there conclusive proof?’ Huygens asked. ‘This biblical weapon — it sounds too fantastic to be real.’
‘How real does it have to be?’ she demanded, jabbing a hand at the screen as a replay of the clock tower’s collapse began. ‘And it’s still out there! Brice still has it. Eddie, my husband, went after him, but…’ She trailed off as an awful thought formed. Eddie had failed to stop the attack — or may not even have had the chance to try. ‘You’ve got to get someone over there to find him!’
‘We won’t be able to get close,’ Huygens told her. The replay continued, the helicopter’s cameraman zooming in on fleeing people before pulling back to show the whole terrifying scene. ‘The Brits’ll close the entire area off, if they haven’t already — it’s just around the corner from Downing Street and less than a mile from Buckingham Palace.’
‘You’ve got to try, though! He might be—’ Something on the television caught her eye. A white pickup truck was moving against the other vehicles, heading towards the crumbling tower. The cameraman had also spotted the unusual activity and zoomed in again, keeping the building in frame as the truck approached it.