A three-mile exclusion zone had now been set up around the burnt-out gas lorry, and a major evacuation of the area's residents was already underway, although the effects of the phosgene had been severely limited by the rain that was still falling, coupled with the lack of a strong wind. So far the only confirmed casualties were the lorry's driver, who'd been incinerated in the blast, and his passenger, who'd been rushed to hospital suffering from the gas's effects and who was not expected to live.
The barn lay just a few hundred yards outside the exclusion zone, and three separate fire crews were still working to bring the blaze under control. Further back, behind the police lines, Mike Bolt and Mo Khan, both of them exhausted, stood watching them alongside the police and ambulance crews. Big Barry Freud had arrived by helicopter a short while earlier and was now in the process of taking charge of the crime scene from his colleagues in Essex on behalf of Counter Terrorism Command.
Bolt, still hyped up by his recent experiences, was drinking a hot mug of coffee, while Mo was smoking a sneaky cigarette, having fallen off the non-nicotine wagon once again. When Bolt had given him a disapproving look, Mo had answered simply, 'It's the stress of working with you,' and Bolt could hardly disagree. Neither had said much to the other since their narrow escape from the bomb nearly an hour earlier. They were both still getting over the shock of it, and Bolt knew that there was no way either of them was going to be sleeping much tonight.
Tina, meanwhile, had been transferred to hospital, where she was now being treated for her injuries. She'd drifted in and out of consciousness in the immediate aftermath of the explosion so Bolt hadn't been able to ascertain what had happened to her during the thirty or so hours she'd been missing, but the word from the hospital was that she was going to be OK, and he was looking forward to visiting her there as soon as he could.
In the end, things had worked out as well as they could have done. The mustard gas lorry had been intercepted; a woman believed to be Jenny Brakspear had been rescued alive from the burning building by one of the armed response officers; and it seemed that Hook had never made it out, and was therefore almost certainly dead. Bolt was pleased: someone like him didn't deserve the comparative luxury of a British prison. But he would have liked to look into his eyes while he died and say, 'This is for Leticia Jones, you callous bastard.' Bolt knew that some people would say acting like that made him almost as bad as Hook, and he could see their point. Ordinarily he didn't believe in the death penalty, yet there were people out there – not many, but some – who were so corrupt, so depraved, and most important of all so dangerous that it was more of a crime to let them live. Hook was just such a man, and when the time came, Bolt would raise a glass to his passing.
'You two did well tonight,' said Big Barry, coming over to join them.
Bolt nodded a thanks, thinking that it was typical of his boss to arrive and take charge of the scene long after the danger had passed and all the hard decisions had been made.
'We could have had a disaster on our hands,' continued Big Barry. 'If that bomb had gone off in a crowded area and it hadn't been raining…I don't even want to think about the implications.' He concluded by announcing that he was going to be recommending the two of them for bravery awards.
Mo grinned, and Bolt was pleased to see how happy he looked as he thanked their boss. Bolt thanked him too, but he was less effusive. In the end, an award didn't mean as much to him, although he knew his mother would be proud. He was more interested in getting an answer to the one question that had been bothering him through all this. 'Have we any idea what on earth this is all about, sir?' he asked.
Big Barry nodded. 'We're beginning to, yes, although we're still a long way from a definitive explanation. But you were right: the key's Sir Henry Portman.'
Bolt frowned. He knew that the photo in Dominic Moynihan's house couldn't have been a coincidence, but it was still a shock to think of Portman as a central player in this whole conspiracy. 'How come?' he asked. 'And what did Moynihan have to do with it?'
'Moynihan's a partner in Sir Henry's hedge fund, HPP. It's a very small and exclusive outfit, mainly dealing with wealthy private clients, and it's had a good reputation for making money over the years. But in the last year they've piled into some risky financial and banking stocks at exactly the wrong time, as well as some pretty iffy-looking mortgage-backed securities, and they've taken some big hits. Or, more to the point, their clients have.'
'One of whom's Paul Wise,' said Mo. 'He's been investing in them through one of his holding companies, hasn't he? We were looking at it just yesterday.'
Big Barry nodded. 'That's right. Ratten Holdings. They've got roughly thirty million with HPP. But twelve months ago it was a lot nearer fifty. Wise hasn't done at all well out of Sir Henry, but here's the strange thing. A lot of Sir Henry's clients have been taking their money out of the fund and putting it elsewhere because of its poor performance, but in the last three months Ratten Holdings have actually been putting more money in. In fact, they're now helping to keep Sir Henry in business.'
'But what's that got to do with all this?' asked Bolt, waving a hand towards the burning building. 'And what's it got to do with a lorry load of mustard gas?'
'Have you gents ever come across the term "short-selling"?'
'I've got a little bit of an idea,' answered Mo.
Bolt just shook his head. He'd never had much of an interest in finance.
'Basically, it's when someone sells a share they don't own, then buys it back at a later date, hopefully at a lower price.'
Bolt pulled a face. 'How the hell do you sell something you don't own?'
Big Barry shrugged. 'That's the financial industry for you,' he said, as if this explained it. 'I'm not sure how it works exactly but it seems the person rents the share from someone else, and then they just hand it back to him at an agreed time. Apparently, it's a very common practice among hedge funds. Anyway, the thing that's significant from our point of view is that HPP have been short-selling huge numbers of shares in British retail, leisure and insurance companies in recent weeks – hundreds of millions of pounds' worth. If the prices of these shares stay static or rise, then HPP are going to be in a lot of trouble, because they're already stretched financially. On the other hand, because of the size of their holdings, if the prices of all these retail, leisure and insurance companies were suddenly to fall significantly – and by significantly I mean ten, fifteen per cent – then they're looking at making the kind of profits that are going to reverse all their bad calls of the last twelve months. But it would take a catastrophe affecting the whole of the FTSE to cause that to happen.'
'My God,' said Mo, who looked genuinely gobsmacked. 'You think that they were going to blow that lorry load of mustard gas to cause some kind of stock market crash?'
'Well, given the individuals involved in this plot, it stands to reason. A big London-based terrorist attack would cause an automatic knee-jerk reaction on the stock market, and the shares whose prices would suffer most are those in the sectors that HPP were shorting.'
'This is Paul Wise's work,' said Bolt, who was finding it hard to believe himself. 'It has to be. I know some of these City boys don't have that much in the way of moral scruples, but there's no way someone like Sir Henry Portman would have had the contacts to get something like this up and running. But Wise… I wouldn't put anything past that bastard.'