"Drugs, I bet."
A telephone rang, right beside me.
"Pick it up," I told Mike.
"Answer it in Russian."
He lifted the receiver and said, "Da?" He listened briefly, went, "Khorosho. Spasibo," and put the phone down. Barrakuda was glaring.
"What did they say?" I demanded.
""Everything's in order. Precisely three hours from now."
I checked my watch and said, "Ten twenty-one. That gives us until thirteen twenty-one. Thirteen twenty."
Immediately the phone rang again.
Again Mike said "Da?" and listened, but this time nobody spoke.
"Keep grilling him," I told Mike.
"Back in a moment."
I went through the shattered door on to the landing, out of earshot. I knew the telephone line had been tapped that morning so the spooks could trace the calls. Now that the flat was secure, the SAS ought by rights to hand control over to the police and get out; but I'd had another idea.
I jabbed my press el and said, "Red leader. I need to speak to the CO."
"Here," said the boss immediately.
I reported the calls and said, "If they can trace the source, we need to hit it. But I've got another idea."
"Carry on.
"The Barrakuda guy's obviously trying to do a flit. He's got his flight out booked for this afternoon. But I'm sure he knows where the bomb is. He knows it's not far away, and that it's set to go off three hours from now. We could try beating hell out of him to get the information, but my hunch is that wouldn't work.
On the other hand, if we just keep him on site, he's soon going to start shitting himself."
"OK. I'll square it with the Director and the Police Commissioner that you remain on target. How many men do you need?"
"Red team will do fine."
"All right. Blue can pull out, then. The QRF will remain on standby outside."
"Roger."
The six guys from Blue team disappeared down the stairs. I put two of our own lads to guard the back door of the flat, two outside the front door, on the landing, leaving myself, Darren Barnes and Mike the interpreter to harass the prisoners.
"Tell him he's not going to Malta," I said.
"Tell him he's not going anywhere. He's staying here to enjoy his own little explosion."
Mike translated. Barrakuda remained impassive but the big guy immediately began to look sick.
"Go through the briefcase," I told Mike.
"Every bit of paper I turned to Darren and said, "Get a brew on, for fuck's sake. See what you can find in the kitchen."
He went out and rummaged in cupboards.
"There's tea," he called, 'but no milk."
"Black tea, then."
The big guy started trying to say something to his partner. I waved at him to shut up and asked Mike, "What was that?"
"Couldn't get it. Must have been Chechen."
We hustled the two men to opposite ends of the room and sat them on chairs facing away from each other so that they couldn't communicate even with a look.
"Sugar?" shouted Darren from the kitchen.
"Three," I called.
"Make it four."
The scene had started to seem surreal. There were these two guys sitting handcuffed, back to back. Outside, London was enjoying a peaceful Sunday. Overhead, the cloud was breaking up, with occasional blue sky showing though. The odd jet went over on its way into Heathrow. Down in the street, cars accelerated as they headed north along Seymour Place.
Somewhere not far off, a nuclear device was ticking its way towards detonation.
I began to feel light-headed, almost as if I was floating.
Darren brought the tea. It was black as pitch and tasted like syrup, but it helped bring me back to reality. I got half the cup down my neck, then noticed some keys on the table beside the briefcase. One of them fitted the suitcase in the hall, but the luggage turned out innocent spare suit and shirts, pyjamas,
shaving kit.
Looking round the living room, I saw that it had oldfashioned mouldings, like fake panelling, on the walls, but that in an attempt to make it look more modern, somebody had put up large, abstract prints of geometrical designs, mostly black and white. The furniture was modern too, and expensive, the centrepiece a three-seat sofa covered in white hide.
Time crawled. After what seemed like an hour I found that only eighteen minutes had passed. I'd put my radio on listening watch, to conserve the battery.
Then, at 10:45, I got a double hiss and switched on again.
"Red leader," I said.
"Your two calls." It was Joe Darwent, the ops officer.
"The first was from a mobile. Sweeper vans are out, but it was too short for them to get a fix. The second call came from a house in St. John's Wood, just north of you. Blue team are on their way there now.
"Roger. What else is happening?"
"The top brass are meeting in the COBR. The Director's there, with the Home Secretary and a few others."
"What about the police?"
"They've evacuated your block."
"Is that all?"
"They're searching suspect houses, but they can't start mass evacuation unless they know where the device is. They might find they were moving people into a danger area."
"Roger."
For twenty minutes I sat on the window-sill and let silence go to work. With my covert radio switched on, I heard Blue leader reporting the arrival of his team at the location in Elm Tree Road, behind Lord's cricket ground. Quickly they deployed on both sides of the house and blasted their way in, only to find the place deserted. A search revealed no sign of the bomb.
At 12:10 the big guy began to get restless, shifting his arse around on his chair. At last he said something, which Mike translated.
"He wants to have a shit."
"He can have a shit if he tells us where the bomb is." It sounded ridiculous, as though I was bargaining in an attempt to make some child behave well.
"Otherwise he can shit in his pants.
The man was in obvious physical discomfort, which my answer only increased.
"Tell both of them there's only one way they're getting out of here," I said to Mike.
"That's by giving us the information we want.
Mike translated. Suddenly Barrakuda began to talk in Chechen at the top of his voice.
"Shut up!" I shouted but he carried on regardless, even when I belted him across the side of the head. Soon he was yelling like a madman in a high, hoarse voice. The big guy began to bellow back, and all at once I felt glad, because I saw that stress was getting to the pair of them.
I left them to it, and from out on the landing I called Control.
"They've started arguing like lunatics," I reported.
"Their nerve's going."
"It had better break soon," snapped Joe.
"Things are getting bloody fraught around here."
"Same here," I told him.
At 12:25 the big guy shit himself. The smell was repulsive, so I opened a window. Cold air blasted in, but it was better than the stink.
Barrakuda went quiet again. At 12:40, when I stood in front of him, his face looked white as flour, and his eyes seemed to have sunk into his head. After I'd watched him for a few seconds, he said something.
"He wants to make a deal," Mike interpreted.
"Oh yes?"
"If he gives you the information, will you guarantee him free passage to Malta?"
"Fucking hell! Who does he think he is? Tell him not a chance. Not the remotest bloody chance."
I waited while the information was conveyed. Then I ostentatiously ripped the lead out of the telephone and said, in a series of short sentences, waiting for Mike to translate each one.
"What's going to happen is this… The police have already evacuated the city… In ten minutes' time we're getting out too…
We're not going to wait for the explosion… We're going to cuff you to your shitty friend, tie you up and leave you here… Talk now, or it'll be too late."