I looked at him, puzzled, then looked ahead and realised what was happening. Red lights glowed through the rain as the great bascules rotated, the road decks reaching towards the sky. Tower Bridge was opening – which meant that the road was closed. The traffic was locked in place – there was nowhere else to go.
‘Go boy!’ Richards said softly.
I scrambled out of the back of the vehicle, feeling even sillier in my sunglasses in the rain, which had intensified into a steady downpour. I walked briskly along the pavement and spotted the van, fortunately stopped just before the start of the railings which separate the roadway from the pavement. The driver was in a state of high tension and I realised that he could blow the bomb at any moment. I walked until I was just behind the van, out of the line of sight of the door mirrors, then turned in towards it. I had to get this right, first time, with only a second’s grace.
The clouds were so heavy it was as dark as twilight. Lights gleamed off the wet vehicle. The van door was in front of me – I was just behind it, now hidden from the driver on the other side of the vehicle. I had to assume that the door was locked. The handle was horizontal, of the type fixed rigidly at both ends, the opening catch being at one end of it, on the outside. It would have to do.
I took a deep breath, seized the handle with my right hand and punched through the side window with my left, using the door handle for the leverage to throw myself across the cabin at the driver. His shocked face turned towards me as he grabbed at the cable lying on the seat next to him, then my outstretched fingers reached his hand and he froze in place. His hand was almost touching the plunger contact at the end of the cable.
I pushed myself back out of the cab window, brushing broken glass away, conscious of the startled attention of the motorist behind. Richards walked up nonchalantly, looked through the van window, spotted the plunger, and winced. ‘Too close for comfort,’ he muttered. ‘OK, let’s get this traffic moving again.’
He made another phone call, and shortly afterwards the bridge began to lower. By then, the comatose terrorist had been pushed into the passenger’s footwell and the van was being driven to safety, rather nervously, by one of Richards’ men. Richards was unsympathetic; ‘serves him right for losing the guy in the first place.’
We went back to Richards’ headquarters where the other captives had already been assembled. Seven were paralysed, the other three had just been picked up by Richards’ men. I spoke to Richards; ‘let me try something.’
He looked at me, then evidently decided that he could trust my judgment. ‘OK.’
First I walked up to the active terrorists and painlessly knocked them out. Then I went to each one in turn, placing my hands around their heads, and concentrating intently for several minutes. I focused on their abnormal brain patterns, the solid and unthinking belief that formed the core of their personalities. Probing deeply but with maximum sensitivity, I located the precise patterns of brain activity, noted the blockages preventing any questioning of their beliefs. Then I changed them, clearing the blocks, allowing free movement of thoughts, undermining the solid core of their beliefs.
Afterwards I stepped away, feeling suddenly tired.
Richards looked at me curiously. ‘What have you done?’
‘Implanted a mental virus – a virus of sanity, reasonableness and critical thinking. An anti-faith virus, if you like. They’re all asleep now, but when they wake up they’ll be active, so they’ll need securing. But they should gradually start to think and act like normal human beings again. Better watch the leaders in particular, though – it may be such a shock to them that they try to commit suicide.’
Richards considered this in his usual practical fashion. ‘Will we be able to turn them? Make them double agents?’
I sighed. ‘Quite possibly. If you think you have, call me and I’ll check they’re genuine. Now I want to go back to the base.’
It wasn’t quite as simple as that. The occupants of the car behind the van at Tower Bridge had evidently recognised me – I remembered that in hurling myself through the side window my hood had been pushed back for a few seconds. I was greeted the next morning at the military base by newspaper headlines:
There followed a lurid account of my assault on the van. Richards had evidently chosen not to publicise the capture of the terrorists for the time being and the reporter’s enquiries at the security services had been blandly deflected, so the newspaper didn’t have much to go on – which didn’t stop them speculating, of course. Had I been recruited by the Secret Service? Was I the new James Bond? The article was accompanied by the inevitable photo montage of 007, in classic pose with his gun, with my face superimposed.
Despite this, I was able to get on with seeing my patients undisturbed, the Army evidently keeping at bay all press enquiries. Two days of hard work later and I was making good progress with the backlog. Then Karen announced the next patient. ‘Sophie Reynolds, continuing neck pain resulting from a whiplash injury.’
I nodded and went into the consulting room where a young woman was lying face down on the plinth. As I stood over her I realised first that I couldn’t detect any pain, and next that something about her mind seemed familiar. ‘Sit up.’ I said.
She rolled over and sat on the plinth, looking at me steadily. I recognised her instantly – she was the hackette whose pleasure switch I had innocently flipped, what seemed like an age ago. I looked back at her and waited in silence.
Her mouth quirked. ‘So you’re not going to call the MPs to throw me out, then?’
‘Probably – but you’ve got a few seconds to explain why you’re wasting time I could be spending on genuine patients.’
She shrugged. ‘I would have thought that was obvious. I’ve been following your career with great interest – I don’t suppose you’ve read any of my articles? No, well, never mind. I’m probably the country’s greatest expert on you now, and got a better job on the strength of it.’ She leaned forwards and gazed at me intently. ‘You did something to me, you know – I’ve not been the same since that day you tampered with my nervous system. You owe me.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Sounds as if you’ve already got your reward.’
She shook her head impatiently. ‘I want to know what you’re up to. Was it really you by Tower Bridge? What were you doing?’
I sighed. ‘Sophie – is that you’re real name? OK, well if you think I was involved in a security operation, then you should approach the security services for a statement. Because if I was involved, I wouldn’t tell you about it, and if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.’
She grimaced. ‘Very neat. Alright then, I’ll take that as a “no comment”. How about a more general interview? I promise not to endanger national security!’
I sighed, tempted to call Karen to have her escorted off the premises. On the other hand, she was an interesting and attractive young woman, and it had been a long time since I had just chatted to someone. I thought wistfully of Zara. ‘Go next door, we can talk after I’ve seen the rest of the afternoon’s patients.’
She grinned and hopped off the plinth, sauntering into the kitchenette where I waited for patients.
Shortly afterwards, Karen came in, her expression stern. ‘What’s she doing in there?’
‘She’s a reporter. I’m going to talk to her afterwards.’