The showroom had an overhead garage door for deliveries. The space was perfect for loading the bomb into a vehicle for the run down to the park. Out of sight, but with a fast exit. It was all coming together, he thought.
Turning off the flashlight, he slipped out the door and walked across the street to a pub near the Savoy Hotel. Then he ordered a pint and dreamed of death and destruction.
35
THE DATE WAS December 30, 2005. Bob Meadows and Eddie Seng were on the road to London. The traffic was thick and the roads were slick with rain. Seng adjusted the radio to receive a weather report, then listened as the announcer gave a detailed outlook. The dashboard of the Range Rover glowed in the dim light and the heater was blowing.
Seng clicked the radio off.
“Rain turning to sleet in the next hour,” he said. “How do people live here?”
“It’s dismal, that’s for sure,” Meadows said, staring out at the growing darkness, “but the people are surprisingly upbeat.”
Seng ignored the comment. “Friday-night traffic,” he said, “people must be going into London for the shows or something.”
“I’m surprised Mr. Hanley has not called back yet,” Meadows said.
After leaving the pub, Meadows had called in to report their findings.
“The Oregon’s probably in some rough seas right about now,” Seng said as he slid to a slow crawl behind a line of traffic that stretched for miles ahead.
IT WAS COLD on the North Sea, but not as rough as it could have been. The storm that was advancing from the north was laying down the seas and, other than a ten-degree decrease in temperature in the last hour, those on board the Oregon had noticed little change.
Belowdecks in the Magic Shop, Kevin Nixon was actually warm. The last few days he had been working on Al-Khalifa’s recovered satellite phone. The unit had been immersed in seawater when his body had been thrown overboard. Since the thermal vents had bloated the body quickly and it had floated to the surface with the phone still in the pocket, the insides had not had a chance to corrode much.
Nixon had taken the unit apart and cleaned it thoroughly. But when he reassembled the phone it still did not work. He’d decided to bake the chip boards in a small toaster oven to make sure that all trace of moisture was gone. Removing the parts from the oven carefully with medical forceps, he reassembled the unit then added the freshly charged battery.
The unit lit up and the message icon flashed.
Nixon smiled and reached for the intercom.
HANLEY AND STONE had been working on Seng and Meadows’s information. They had managed to hack into the British Motor Vehicles Registry and match a name and address with the motorcycle license plate. Then they ran the information on Nebile Lababiti through a different database and located bank information and his visitor visa information. Stone was cross-checking everything now.
“His rent checks don’t match the address he gave passport control,” Stone noted. “I ran the name of the building his rent checks are made out to through a mapping program and found the location. He told passport control he lives in the Belgravia section of London. The building he pays rent to is a few miles away, near the Strand.”
“I know the Strand,” Hanley said. “Last time I was in London I ate at a restaurant on the Strand named Simpson’s.”
“Any good?” Stone asked.
“It’s been in business since 1828,” Hanley said. “You don’t stay around that long if the food is bad. Roast beef, mutton, good desserts.”
“What’s the street like,” Stone asked, “the Strand itself?”
“Busy,” Hanley said, “hotels, restaurants, theaters. Not the perfect place for a covert operation.”
“Sounds like an excellent place for a terrorist to strike.”
Hanley nodded. “Find me the closest heliport.”
“I’m on it,” Stone said.
Then the intercom buzzed and Nixon asked Hanley to come down to the Magic Shop.
LABABITI HAD FINISHED two pints of ale and a double shot of peppermint schnapps. He stared at his gold wristwatch then smoked a cigarette. When that was finished he snubbed it out in the ashtray, tossed some pound notes on the bar and walked outside.
The Yemeni who would drive the bomb to the location was due to arrive on the bus from the airport in the next few minutes. Lababiti found the bus stop just up the street, then leaned against the building and smoked another cigarette while he waited.
London was alive with holiday cheer. The shop windows were decorated for the season and people crowded the streets. Most of the hotels were booked solid as people arrived in London for the New Year’s Eve celebration. There was an Elton John concert planned for Hyde Park. And at both Green and St. James’s Parks near Buckingham Palace, the trees had been adorned with thousands of colored lights. The streets near Hyde Park would be closed, and food courts, temporary pubs and outdoor restrooms would be placed on the streets for the massive party. Fireworks would be launched from barges anchored in the River Thames. And the sky would burn with celebration.
Lababiti smiled with a secret only he knew. He would be supplying the most powerful fireworks, and when it was done the party, and all who attended, would cease to exist. The bus pulled up and Lababiti waited as it unloaded.
The Yemeni was nothing more than a child, and he appeared scared and confused by the unusual surroundings. Stepping timidly off the bus after most of the others at the stop had disembarked, he clutched a cheap suitcase in his hands. He was dressed in a tattered black wool overcoat that must have been bought used. The thin outline of a mustache that would never have time to fill in adorned his upper lip like the mark left from a glass of chocolate milk.
Lababiti stepped forward. “I’m Nebile.”
“Amad,” the boy said quietly.
Lababiti steered him down the street toward the apartment.
They had sent a child to do a man’s job. But Lababiti didn’t care—there was no way he would do it himself.
“Have you eaten?” Lababiti asked when they were away from the crowd.
“I had some figs,” Amad said.
“Let’s get your bags in my apartment and I’ll show you around.”
Amad simply nodded. He was visibly trembling, and speech would not come.
HANLEY LISTENED TO Al-Khalifa’s messages, then saved them.
“His voice prompt is short,” Hanley noted.
“It may be enough,” Nixon said.
“Get on it then,” Hanley said.
“You got it, boss.”
Leaving the Magic Shop, Hanley walked back to the elevator and took it up. He walked along the passageway and entered the control room. Stone pointed to a screen with a map of downtown London being displayed.
“We can put them right there,” he said, “Battersea Park.”
“How far is it from Belgravia and the Strand?” Hanley asked.
“The heliport is built on pilings on the Thames,” Stone said, “between the Chelsea Bridge to the east and the Albert Bridge to the west. If they cross over the Albert Bridge on the Queenstown Road, they’re in Belgravia. From there it’s only a short drive to the Strand.”
“Beautiful,” Hanley said.
MEADOWS REACHED FOR the telephone on the first ring.
“Go to Battersea Park,” Hanley said without preamble, “there’s a heliport there out in the Thames. Cabrillo will be arriving shortly in the Robinson.”
“Have you made arrangements for a hotel?”
“Not yet,” Hanley said, “but I’ll book several rooms at the Savoy.”
“So you located our man?” Meadows asked.
“We think so,” Hanley said. “He should be right across the street.”
“Perfect,” Meadows said, disconnecting.
NEXT HANLEY CALLED Cabrillo to report. After giving him the locator numbers for the heliport, he explained that Meadows and Seng would meet him there.