‘A stealth plane?’ Verma echoed in disbelief. ‘This is absurd!’
‘We don’t have time for this!’ Kit growled. He tried to push past Verma to the door, but his assistant moved to block him—
Mac suddenly planted both palms squarely on Verma’s chest and shoved him backwards. Arms flailing, he crashed against his subordinate. Both men fell to the floor in an ungainly heap.
Everyone nearby was shocked - then several of the Indian contingent rushed at Mac . . . including the men guarding the courtyard doors. The Scot winked at Kit, the slight flick of his eyes towards the exit giving the younger man a clear instruction. Alderley, hemmed in by the charge, realised what he was doing and swung a punch at one of the men trying to grab Mac before he too was swarmed.
Leaving the doorway clear.
Kit hopped over the outraged, flapping Verma and into the courtyard. Ignoring the resurgent pain in his injured leg, he hurried forward, pulling out his ID and holding it above his head. ‘Interpol!’ he cried. ‘Everyone inside - there’s a terrorist—’
A pair of black-suited US Secret Service agents dived at him, slamming him to the ground. The world leaders looked round in surprise at the commotion, some reacting with alarm at the last word.
The agents grappled with Kit, forcing him on to his chest and pulling his arms up painfully behind his back. He struggled, but couldn’t break free: the only thing that could escape was his voice. ‘They’re going to crash a plane!’ he cried. ‘A suicide flight - 9/11! Get out of here! Get out!’
Those two numbers got everyone’s attention. One agent released Kit’s arm, putting a hand to his earpiece to listen to an incoming transmission over the hubbub - then jumped up and pulled Kit to his feet. The other American agents mobilised as one to surround Cole and clear a path for him to get indoors. To the Secret Service, any hint of a threat to the life of the President was treated as confirmed until proved otherwise; the potential consequences of under-reacting were infinitely worse than the opposite.
The security details of the other leaders took their cue from the Americans. The courtyard had several exits, all of which led inside the palace; the group split up to run for them.
The two agents bustled Kit back towards the door. Over the shouts and screams, he heard another noise - a high-pitched buzz, the rasp of an aircraft propeller.
Getting louder . . .
Nina and Eddie, watching the news feed, saw the camera pan sharply to catch Kit being tackled by a pair of agents. His mouth moved as he shouted, but the screen had no sound.
The picture jolted as the press corps panicked, someone bumping the camera. Its operator valiantly tried to cover the action, aiming it at the world leaders, but by now they were scattering in all directions. ‘Oh, shit,’ Nina whispered.
‘Any second,’ Khoil croaked. ‘Any second now . . .’
The image tipped downwards as the cameraman abandoned his post and fled, only flagstones and a section of red carpet visible. Running shadows flickered across the screen.
A flash—
The picture jolted, then broke up into stuttering pixellated squares for a moment before cutting out entirely. The screen went black.
Eddie looked frantically at the remaining screens in the hope that one would reveal more information, but nothing was forthcoming. ‘What happened?’ Nina asked. ‘Oh, God, what happened?’
Khoil managed a bubbling, coughing laugh. ‘The Kali Yuga has ended, Dr Wilde. That is what has happened. The global collapse is inevitable . . . Lord Shiva will destroy the old age to begin a new one.’
‘We can still tell everyone what you’ve done,’ Nina told him, helplessness turning to anger. ‘There won’t be any war if they know you were behind it - no matter what you’ve rigged Qexia to say.’
‘This is no longer a time for reason,’ the billionaire said. ‘Emotion will rule - anger, fear, vengeance.’ His gaze moved to a screen above her. ‘Look. There it is . . . the image that will change the world.’
The live news feed was back, displaying a view from a different camera - this one in the grounds of the Rashtrapati Bhavan, shaking as its operator was jostled by people around him. The enormous palace, lit by banks of floodlights, stood out sharply against the black sky - as did a rising column of smoke and dust, drifting across to obscure the huge dome that was the building’s centrepiece.
‘You see?’ rasped Khoil, with rising triumph. ‘They are dead. Qexia is already blaming Pakistan. I . . . I have won!’
‘The only thing you’ve won is a kick in the bollocks,’ Eddie snarled, drawing back one foot. Khoil flinched, but Nina grabbed her husband’s arm before he could deliver the strike.
She pointed up at the screen. ‘Eddie, look!’
The picture had changed again, to another hand-held camera. The image jerked as the cameraman ran down a corridor, glimpses of ornately decorated walls briefly visible through a pall of swirling smoke. The broadcast was coming from somewhere inside the palace . . . but how far from ground zero? People staggered past, half-seen ghosts with clothing and faces caked in dust.
Nina and Eddie stared up at the screen, barely daring to breathe. The camera entered a large room. A ragged hole in the far wall was briefly visible before the cameraman turned his attention to the people around him. Those nearest the broken wall were covered in rubble, clearly dead. Others were still moving, dark blotches of blood standing out through the pale dust.
But despite the carnage, the cameraman was following his journalistic instincts. The image steadied, fixing on individual groups of people. Searching for the surviving world leaders.
If there were any.
Black suits, turned grey by the covering of smashed stone and plaster. Secret Service agents. Clustered around someone. The camera shakily zoomed in.
An agent, blood on his neck and shoulder, slumped back - to reveal the dirtied face of President Leo Cole. But he was still, a pale statue. Nina gripped Eddie’s hand, unable to speak for fear. Was he alive or dead? She couldn’t tell . . .
He moved, mouth widening in a silent cough. Opening his eyes, he wiped his face and spoke to one of the agents.
‘Yes!’ Nina exclaimed, squeezing Eddie’s hand tightly. ‘Never thought I’d be so happy to see a politician talking!’
The image moved away from Cole, reacting to something offscreen. It hunted through the drifting smoke before settling on another leader: the Indian president, leaning against a wall as two men hurried to help him. ‘The bigwigs got out okay, then - some of ’em, anyway.’ Eddie watched the screen as the camera searched for more survivors. ‘What about Mac, though? And Kit?’
‘And Peter,’ Nina reminded him, getting a non-committal grunt in reply. The cameraman continued through the room, people rushing past to help the injured. More powerful faces appeared, the Indian prime minister and Russian president being guided towards clearer air. Behind them—
‘Mac!’ Eddie cried, catching a glimpse of the Scot limping towards an exit. His suit was torn, blood smeared over one arm, but he didn’t appear badly wounded. Following him was Kit, supported by a Secret Service agent. An overweight, bearded Indian man jostled through the crowd to speak to him, then the cameraman moved on.
Nina turned to Khoil, whose expression was slowly collapsing into dismay. ‘They survived. We managed to warn them in time. I guess Qexia couldn’t predict everything. So the question is: what now?’
‘We still need to shut down that jammer,’ said Eddie. ‘Soon as we do, Probst can send an SOS.’
‘Or we could do it here.’ Nina moved back to the sensor unit, raising her hand to her ear to make another virtual phone call. The keypad reappeared on the screens. ‘We’ll just call—’