‘Everyone inside,’ said Washington. He turned to the old man and said, ‘The van. Keys are in the ignition. Go!’
No one moved. ‘Get the hell outta here before I change my mind,’ shouted the American.
George Pike helped his wife into the cab and then climbed in after her. The others all quickly piled into the rear and pulled the door closed. Pike started up the engine and eased the vehicle forward. As he slowly passed the American, he wound down the window and said, ‘Thank you.’
The masked man lowered the gun and nodded, then pointed to the road at the edge of the farmyard. ‘That way. It’s about eleven miles to the village.’
Washington waited until the van was on its way down the hill, then slipped the gun into his waistband. He pulled off the uncomfortable balaclava and ran his hands though his hair and over his face. The rain had stopped, and a hint of sun was beginning to show through the breaking cloud. A swift movement in the sky caught his peripheral vision, and then there it was. The peregrine was back. He watched it swoop for a few seconds, and then he turned and went back into the barn. He picked up two heavy cans of petrol and humped them back into the house. He left one in the big room and took the other into the rear communications room. He stood for a moment looking at his former henchmen, then opened the can and poured the fuel over the bodies, being careful not to get any on himself. He spread the rest of the can around the backroom and threw the empty container in the corner.
The second can was carefully spread around the big room, with a trail leading towards the open door. The rank pungent smell made him gag, but the fresh air soon settled the feeling of nausea. He moved a few yards away from the door then took out a Zippo lighter. He could see the van weaving down the hill, over a mile away. The old man was driving carefully, as the road twisted and turned down the incline.
He flicked the lighter and the small yellow flame fluttered in the breeze. He threw the Zippo through the open door and quickly stepped back as the fuel caught and the flames appeared with a whoosh.
He watched for a few more seconds as the fire took hold, then quickly returned to the barn. In the corner was a large tarpaulin, which he carefully removed to reveal a powerful Yamaha motorcycle. He pushed the bike out, took the helmet from the handlebars and pulled it over his head. The bike fired up at the first press of the starter and the engine growled as he turned the throttle. The house was well ablaze now and the flames had totally engulfed the ground floor. The wooden floors and ceilings would go up like matchwood. There’d be nothing left except a blackened, solid stone carcass.
As he turned the bike towards the fields, the falcon flew overhead, then swooped a few yards away from him. Washington could clearly see its bright eyes as the elegant creature snared its prey. He waited until the bird flew off, then gunned the engine and headed across the fields.
At the bottom of the hill, George Pike brought the van to a stop and looked back at the thick pall of black smoke, rising into the evening sky like the plume from a rumbling volcano.
Chapter Thirteen
The subsequent forty-eight hours had been spent on damage control and containment.
HMS Poseidon had abandoned the short sea trial and returned to its base in Faslane. The crew to a man, had been de-briefed by Naval Security and, again to a man, had been reminded, they, as members of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, were subject to the stringent parameters of the Official Secrets Act.
Any breach of security and mention of recent events on Poseidon, by any member of its crew, would render said individual liable to a charge of treason, resulting in a minimum term of fourteen years imprisonment.
MI5, MI6, Special Branch and the National Counter Terrorism Office, had taken it in turn to interview the hostages. No real information, or intelligence had been forthcoming, other than; they all wore black coveralls and balaclavas. The leader spoke American and the others had East European accents.
After a rigorous twelve hours of questioning, Lady Grainger and her daughter Caroline, Kathy Dowling and her sons, along with the Pikes, were released, but not before they too had signed and been made aware of the consequences of breaching the Official Secrets Act.
Special Branch had taken over the investigation at the Welsh farmhouse, but the fire had, as was intended, destroyed anything that could offer a clue as to who the terrorists were. The four bodies were recovered but were burnt beyond recognition. DNA was extracted and sent for analysis, in the hope there may be a hit on the system to identify someone.
The van the hostages were given, had been dismantled and every inch of the vehicle had been inspected by the best forensic team in the country, resulting in absolutely nothing.
Nothing had appeared in the media… Yet.
Within an hour of the three billion pounds being paid, the Prime Minister had convened a meeting with the Director General of the Security Services. The meeting was brief.
The PM had stood in front of the big oak desk, her eyes narrowed, voice clear. ‘I want you to bring all our assets to bear and find the perpetrators of this attack on our country. I want them all brought to justice, in whatever shape or form that justice maybe. Do you understand?’
The Director General nodded and said, ‘Yes, ma’am, I…’
The PM raised her hand and continued. ‘And I want our money back.’
Chapter Fourteen
In his late-fifties, Jack Castle was tall, reasonably fit and healthy. That said, and according to his wife Nicole, losing a few pounds would not go amiss. He had a wicked sense of humour and an infectious personality which appealed to most people, although recently he was becoming less tolerant and somewhat short tempered.
The death of his parents on his 21st birthday had affected him very badly and, instead of pursuing his planned career in medicine, he’d joined the British Army. Fifteen years of hard work and dedication saw him rise to the rank of captain in the Special Air Service, after which, he’d moved into the world of private security. The company he’d joined all those years ago now belonged to him and, with the help of his partner and friend, Tom Hillman, they’d grown the business into a respected international entity.
The last three years however, had been interspersed with a couple of covert missions for British Intelligence.
Mathew Sterling was Jack’s younger brother. They’d grown up in the north of England, in a beautiful home on the edge of Lake Windermere. Like Jack, Mathew also joined the army but trod a different path. He’d initially worked in Military Intelligence and then spent many years as a field operative. He too rose quickly through the security service and now, based in London’s Vauxhall Cross building, he was head of MI6. For security reasons he’d chosen to use his mother’s maiden name and for the last twenty years or so, had been known as Mr. Mathew Sterling.
In his 9th floor office, Mathew stood and looked out the window. The pleasure craft on the Thames, the busy traffic on Vauxhall Bridge and the hundreds of people going about their business. The knock on the door broke into his thoughts. ‘Come in.’
‘Mr Castle, sir.’ said his secretary.
‘Thank you, Victoria. Could you bring us some tea please?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Jack, great to see you,’ said Mathew.
The two men smiled and embraced.