EVERY MI5 AGENT on the rooftops nearby had their scopes trained on the second floor.
“Nothing,” they called in one by one.
The MI5 agent who had walked through the lobby then out again reentered the building. Walking over to the elevator, he saw the indicator light still on number two.
“Still on two,” he radioed to Fleming.
In the hotel across the street, Fleming was staring at his watch. Four minutes had passed since the principal had stopped the elevator on the second floor. “Go up the stairs,” he ordered the agent.
AMAD STARED AT his instructions written in Arabic, then flipped back the hinged panel over the arming mechanism. The symbols were Cyrillic but his diagram was easy to follow. Amad turned a toggle switch up and an LED light began to flash. Turning a knob, he adjusted the time to five.
Then he climbed on the Ural and kicked the engine to life. Once it started, he reached for a garage door opener duct-taped to the handlebars, and pushed the button. He shifted into first and was doing nearly ten miles an hour as the door rose six feet in the air and continued up.
Everything began to happen at once.
THE AGENT REACHED the second floor and reported it empty at the same instant the garage door began to open. “We have a door opening,” Fleming said into the radio as he raced through the lobby for the door.
He was just at the inner glass doors when the motorcycle appeared and drove onto the street. Amad was at the corner crossing onto the Strand in a second.
“The principal is on a motorcycle,” he shouted into the radio.
The sharpshooters followed Amad, but he turned before the order to fire came.
On the Strand, three taxis driven by MI5 agents heard the radio call. They pulled from the side of the street and tried to block the Ural. Amad swerved and took to the sidewalk to pass them, then angled back onto the road and twisted the throttle to the stops. Gaining speed, he swerved in and out of traffic like a madman.
Ahead, a truck driven by an MI5 agent tried to block the road, but Amad squeezed past.
They’re on to me, he thought. Now he just had to deliver the bomb to the chosen area or die trying. Either way, he’d be a martyr. Either way, London would burn.
CABRILLO STARED DOWN the street and saw the vehicles from MI5 were being outfoxed. They had not planned on the principal using a motorcycle, and it threw a screw into the operation. There was only one thing to do—and Cabrillo did not hesitate.
Yanking a newspaper rack off the sidewalk, he threw it through the window of the classic motorcycle dealership’s front window. The burglar alarm started blaring. Cabrillo climbed through the broken glass. The 1952 Vincent Black Shadow on display had the key in the ignition. Using his boot to clear the edges of glass from the frame, Cabrillo stomped on the kick start and the engine roared to life. He lifted the front end of the Vincent over the windowsill, clicked it into gear, and rode over the windowsill and down to the sidewalk.
The Ural pulled abreast of the dealership then headed down the Strand.
Cabrillo twisted the throttle and leapt in behind. The Ural was fast, but there is no motorcycle like a Black Shadow. If the Ural had not had a block head start, the Shadow would have caught him within seconds.
“THE PRINCIPAL IS on a dark green motorcycle with a sidecar, he’s heading down the Strand,” Fleming shouted over the radio, “he has the bomb aboard. Repeat, the bomb is in the sidecar.”
The Robinson with Adams and King took to the air. Near Trafalgar Station, Jones and Huxley drew their weapons and aimed down the road. Hundreds of people were milling about and they angled for a clear shot but could find none. In front of the War Cabinet Room, Murphy and Lincoln turned away from the Victoria Embankment and started sighting down on Hyde and Green Parks. On Piccadilly Street, Kasim and Ross separated and began covering both ends of the street.
TRUITT WAS KEPT away from the others backstage until it was time to walk in front of the microphone. Stepping from foot to foot he waited.
“It’s time,” John’s agent said.
Truitt glanced over at the MI5 agent, but he was talking on the radio, so Truitt walked onto the stage and approached the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “could you please join me in welcoming in the New Year with England’s favorite musician, Sir Elton John.”
The stage was dark except for Truitt. Then a spotlight appeared on Elton John sitting at an elevated piano. Still dressed in the yellow jumpsuit, his head was covered with a British army Kevlar field helmet.
The introduction music for the song “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting” started to play. A second later, John began to sing.
Truitt walked off-stage and approached the MI5 agent.
“He’s headed this way on a motorcycle,” the agent said.
“I’m going into the crowd,” Truitt said.
THE URAL RACED past Nelson’s Column with Cabrillo and the Vincent Black Shadow hot on its heels. Cabrillo wanted to open his coat so he could get to his shoulder holster, but he couldn’t take his hands off the handlebars to get at the weapon. Twisting the throttle, the Vincent shot ahead and came abreast of the Ural just as they passed Charing Cross. Huxley and Jones ran into the street and tried to line up shots as the two motorcycles passed, but Cabrillo was too close and the crowds too great.
At the intersection of the Strand and Cockspur Street, Cabrillo pulled up next to the Ural and kicked at Amad with his boot. The Yemeni swerved but retained control.
“They’re going straight down the Mall,” Jones shouted over the radio.
Kasim and Ross started running down Queen’s Walk toward the concert.
Murphy could become excitable, but with a sniper rifle in his hands he was always quite calm. Lincoln was spotting for him and scanned the parks in front. “The only clear shot through the trees is when they almost reach the Queen Victoria Memorial,” Lincoln said.
“The street around the memorial runs clockwise, right?” Murphy said.
“Correct,” Lincoln said.
“I’ll plink the bastard as he slows for the turn—JFK style,” Murphy said.
“I’ve got them,” Lincoln said, just catching the front end of the motorcycles.
ADAMS MADE A left turn above the Old Admiralty Buildings and started down the Mall to the rear of the racing motorcycles.
“Head and shoulders,” King said through the headset.
“Shampoo?” Adams said.
“No,” King said, “where I’m going to shoot this little shit.”
He sighted in his scope and regulated his breathing. The cold wind through the open door of the helicopter was making his eyes tear, but King hardly noticed it at all.
CABRILLO GLANCED AHEAD. There was a line of food vendors and booths ahead lining the circular drive where the Queen Victoria Memorial sat. They were nearing the edge of the concert grounds. He pulled alongside in preparation to leap over to the Ural.
“FOUR, THREE, TWO, one,” Lincoln said.
Murphy squeezed off a round at the same time King let loose a quick volley from the helicopter. Amad was almost to the circle when blood burst from his head, chest and shoulders. He was dead a second later, almost exactly the same time Cabrillo jumped from the Vincent across to the Ural. His hands grabbed a lifeless corpse.
The Vincent hit the pavement in a shower of sparks and rolled end over end before stopping. Cabrillo tossed Amad to the ground; he bounced across the pavement like a crash dummy dropped off a table. Reaching for the clutch, he took the Ural out of gear and applied the brakes. The motorcycle rolled to a stop near the line of vendors.
Cabrillo looked over at the timer. The countdown had just passed two minutes. He only hoped it was regular time and not metric time.