There was a grey rectangular object in the vehicle’s bed — its dimensions and colour triggering a jolt of recognition. She darted closer to the screen, but the shape broke down into fuzzy pixels. Was it the Shamir’s lead case? She couldn’t tell — but there was something inside it, a greenish smear that might have been the strange stone itself…
‘Holy crap!’ someone gasped. Nina withdrew — and watched in shock as the clock’s hands plunged to the ground, impacting so close behind the truck that it visibly jolted. ‘That’s the luckiest guy on earth, right there!’
‘Where’s he going?’ asked Huygens, transfixed. ‘The bridge is blocked, he can’t get over it—’
He broke off as they saw that the driver wasn’t trying to cross the bridge. The pickup deliberately swung at the railings — and crashed through, nose-diving towards the water below.
Nina saw the driver bail out as it fell. Another shock of recognition, this time with fear at the sight of a bald man in a leather jacket disappearing into the Thames. ‘Oh my God! That was him, that was Eddie!’ She stared at the screen, hoping to see him surface, but now the camera had fixed upon the clock tower as it began its inexorable collapse. The room went silent, everyone watching in stunned horror.
The scene played out to its devastating conclusion as a dust cloud swept up from the ruins. The channel cut back to a grim-faced studio presenter. Nina turned to Huygens. ‘That was Eddie in that truck, I’m sure of it — and I’m also sure the Shamir was in its back. That means the Shamir’s in the river… and he might still be alive. You’ve got to get somebody down there to find him. Please.’
The State Department official tore his gaze from the screen. ‘I’ll… I’ll see what I can do.’
It took Eddie the better part of ten minutes to find a way up to ground level, penned in by the sheer wall running along the South Bank’s waterfront. By the time he did, the streets were filled with the whoops and screams of sirens as emergency services from all over London poured into Westminster. Helicopters buzzed ceaselessly overhead, the civilian aircraft that had been first on the scene ordered away to clear space for air ambulances and police choppers.
He squelched up a flight of steps at a jetty near Lambeth Bridge. The riverfront was thronged by onlookers. He pushed through them to stare back at Parliament, half a mile upriver.
The sight that greeted him was wrong, grinding the gears of his mind as it struggled to process the absence of Big Ben from the skyline. The clock tower was familiar to every Briton even if they had never visited the capital, a symbol of the nation that had seemed eternal and unshakeable.
But now it was gone.
Anger surged through Eddie. Partly at himself, for failing to stop the attack — but mostly at Brice and his backers for carrying it out. Despite the agent’s sneering claims to be acting for the good of the country, he was no patriot, rather the biggest traitor in Britain’s history. Guy Fawkes had only planned to destroy the Houses of Parliament; Brice had succeeded.
His fury had no target, though. Brice had escaped, wounded but very much alive. He could now be anywhere. And he had no idea whether or not Nina had reached the American embassy with the evidence against the rogue MI6 man…
Images of his wife and daughter flashed through his mind. He had to find out what had happened to Nina, and get word to someone who could save Macy from Brice’s watchers. He was now only about a mile from the US embassy — but the most direct route to it would take him literally past the front door of SIS headquarters.
He moved back through the crowd and started along the waterfront. Some areas of London, especially along the river, had changed nearly beyond recognition in the fifteen years since he had lived in the capital. He needed to figure out how to get to the embassy without being caught…
‘Mr Chase? Eddie Chase!’
He whipped around, ready to run — or fight. A large black SUV had pulled up at the roadside, but it was an American model, even bigger than the Range Rovers that had been pursuing him. Its registration plate was a non-standard format, three numbers followed by a ‘D’ revealing that it was a diplomatic vehicle. The man calling his name had an American accent. ‘Who’s asking?’ Eddie replied warily.
The young man held up an identity badge. ‘My name’s Thomas Roston, from the US embassy. Your wife asked us to find you — although we didn’t expect to see you right there on the sidewalk!’
‘Yeah? What’s my wife’s name?’
‘Nina Wilde. Why, you got amnesia?’
‘Funny bastard,’ the Yorkshireman rumbled, but the mere fact that Roston was willing to talk rather than gun him down on sight made him more inclined to believe his story. ‘Did you get what she was bringing to you?’
The other man nodded. ‘The ambassador’s watching the video right now. We’ve been asked to take you to him. I hear you’ve had some problems with the British security services?’
‘You could say that.’
‘We’ll get you past them. Get in.’ He tipped his head towards the rear door.
Eddie was still suspicious, but if Roston’s superiors had Nina, he would have to deal with them one way or another. ‘Okay,’ he said, opening the door. ‘Apologies in advance, though.’
‘For what?’
He sat down, his sodden clothes squishing under him. ‘For ruining your upholstery.’
Roston was indeed telling the truth. It took some time for the SUV to reach the embassy, the police having set up roadblocks and checkpoints at several junctions, but eventually they pulled into an underground parking lot.
They took a lift up into the main building. ‘We’ll get you some dry clothes,’ Roston’s driver told Eddie.
‘Wouldn’t bother,’ he replied sardonically as the doors opened. ‘Took so long to get here, they’ve pretty much dried out on their own.’
‘You do need a change, though,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Because they stink.’
‘Nina!’ cried Eddie in delight and relief as he saw his wife hurry out from a stern-faced reception committee. ‘You okay, love?’
Nina held up her left arm, which was now supported by a sling. ‘Nope. Got shot. But that’s okay, they took care of it — and gave me an injection of something that kinda makes me want to get shot more often.’ She smiled to assure him that was a joke, then they embraced.
‘Nothing too powerful,’ one of the embassy staff said. ‘We need you both to be clear-headed.’ He extended his hand to Eddie. ‘Alvin Crane, Deputy Chief of Mission here in London. The ambassador is currently talking to the President. I can tell you right now, the video your wife brought to us is… explosive. If what this John Brice says on it is true—’
‘It’s true,’ Eddie told him firmly.
‘Then it’s going to seriously impact the US — UK relationship, if it turns out the downing of Flight 180 really was carried out by a British agent with approval from the top.’
Even veiled in diplomatic terms, the Yorkshireman still picked up on the implied threat against his country. ‘We don’t know if Quentin Hove specifically signed off on crashing the plane to rescue Mukobo,’ he said, wanting to pin the blame on specific individuals rather than the nation as a whole. ‘But it seems like he authorised Brice to do whatever he wanted to start a civil war in DR Congo. Problem was, Brice is a fucking psycho.’