At four in the afternoon the thin slab of Semtex concealed in the lining exploded. One civilian storekeeper was killed outright and a policeman lost his arm. There was severe structural damage to the building.
No one claimed responsibility.
However the AntiTerrorist Branch of the Metropolitan Police had no doubt that it was also part of a new campaign by the Provisional IRA. Each was virtually a repeat incident of an occurrence in Northern Ireland during the preceding three 1 months. And all of those had followed warnings with the codeword AIDAN.
There was no doubt now. Unannounced or not, AIDAN had come to mainland Britain.
The news editor covered the mouthpiece of the telephone. ‘It’s a fucking bomb warning.’ ťImmediately his deputy turned away from the story he was scanning on the Apple Mac’s VDU.
Had he heard right? Was his boss taking the piss or was he pissed? Despite the popular misconception that bombers phoned newspapers, that happened rarely nowadays. Modern Xsystem exchanges automatically logged the source numbers of all incoming calls and the terrorists knew that. Even in the old days, warnings were made to the switchboard, not a bloody person-to person to the news editor. And that’s what this call had been. The deputy knew because he’d taken it initially as the news editor was sauntering back from the toilets.
Now his boss was scribbling frantically on his pad. ‘ Where was that?’ he was asking.
But the caller wasn’t falling for delaying tactics. Instead he continued with his message, if anything talking faster so that the newsman needed all his rusty shorthand skills to keep up.
Christ, the deputy thought, this is genuine.
He snatched up the handset of his own phone. Who were you supposed to call? Special Branch, the AntiTerrorist Squad, the Bomb Squad? He didn’t have the numbers of any to hand. It would have to be 999 and all round the sodding houses.
The dramatic effect of the bomber’s call spread like a ripple on a pond through the first-floor editorial offices of the London Evening Standard overlooking Kensington High Street. Unlike the newspaper offices of old Fleet Street, the fully computerised nerve centre exuded the air of activity and suppressed tension of a merchant bank. Ringing telephones and crashing typewriters had been replaced by electronic bleeps and the muted clack of terminal keyboards. Even what little noise there was now fell away to a hushed silence as the whispered word passed from the editorial hierarchy on the so-called Back Bench. It spread through the work stations of the reporters and copy-takers on one side of the vast carpeted floor and the features and diary desks on the other.
By the time the news editor replaced his receiver it seemed that everyone on the floor knew.
Casey Mullins, the American features writer, had been passing the news editor’s desk and had just sweet-talked veteran Fleet Street reporter Eddie Mercs into parting with one of his bacon sandwiches when the call came through.
‘Is this for real?’ she asked incredulously, her hunger pangs suddenly forgotten.
Mercs shrugged. ‘Looks like Steve thinks so,’ he replied through a mouthful of brea4 as the news editor switched to the deputy’s line and repeated details of the bomb warning to the police.
When the conversation ended, Mercs asked: ‘Genuine threat you reckon, Steve?’ His bulky presence, reinforced by the inevitable combination of rolled shirtsleeves, askew tie and voluminous trousers supported by garish braces was not easy to ignore.
‘Seemed so, Eddie,’ the news editor replied quietly. By contrast to the reporter, the man was reed-thin and swarthily handsome with a thick mane of black hair. Despite the absurdly long shifts that he worked, he looked much younger than his forty-eight years. ‘Something about it being a protest by the IRA against some secret talks now being organised by the Americans.’
‘Yeah, I’ve heard that rumour. Mind you, when aren’t there rumours about secret talks? What did the police say to that?’
The news editor grinned as the executive and picture editors rushed to join them. ‘Nothing, of course. Told me to mind my own fucking business. I think he was pissed off’cos it was too late for an instant trace on the call.’
‘Where’s this bomb supposed to be?’ Mercs asked, determined to be first in the queue when the job was allocated.
The news editor glanced at his scrawled hieroglyphics. ‘Tower Street, off Shaftesbury Avenue.’
‘I know it, just off Seven Dials.’
‘In a blue rented van — actually gave the registration number.’
Mercs grunted. ‘That’s thoughtful of the buggers.’
‘And unusual, I think. They gave a sixty-minute warning.’
As unflappable as ever, the exec ed was consulting his watch. It was eleven o’clock and they’d just cleared a second slip of the City Prices edition. ‘If there’s anything in it, it’ll be too tight for Late Prices, but we should make the West End Final, even if we have to go for an extra slip.’
That gave them until two in the afternoon to clear. Just three hours.
‘Do you want me to take it, Steve?’ Mercs offered.
‘You free?’
‘Nothing that can’t wait.’
The decision was made. ‘Then get yourself down to Seven Dials. Like pronto!’
‘And take Hal Hoskins with you,’ the pics ed added.
It was the second reference to the location that triggered Casey Mullins’s recognition of the name. She had been watching on, bemused to find herself caught up in the middle of one of the numerous bomb scares of recent weeks. Mostly, like everyone else, her experience was secondhand through television and newspaper reports.
‘Oh, my God, did you say Seven Dials?’
Eddie Mercs turned. The tall American had been sitting on the edge of an adjacent desk, long legs outstretched as she munched idly on his hijacked sandwich. Now the muscles in the face framed by wavy, pale copper hair had frozen, her blue eyes wide.
‘Seven Dials,’ Mercs confirmed.
‘Near Covent Garden?’
“That’s the one.’
‘My daughter’s there at dance school.’ ‘You sure?’
She smiled weakly. ‘It’s called the Seven Dials Academy, how sure do you want me to be? Jesus!’
‘She’ll be all right,’ Mercs said. ‘If it’s not a hoax the police will evacuate…’
But Casey had gone, sandwich dumped on the nearest desk as she sprinted back to her own telephone.
Mercs and the news editor exchanged amused glances. Americans!
It took Casey two misdials before she got through to the office of her estranged English husband whose legal practice was in sumptuous offices in Pall Mall.
Then she hit the usual brick wall. ‘Randall Thurlow and Partners, how can I help you?’ That disdainful nasal voice.
‘May I speak to Mr Thurlow, please, it’s urgent.’
‘Who is that calling?’ Condescending.
Cow! You know bloody well who it is, I’ve spoken to you enough times over the past six years. ‘It’s his wife.’
Not a flicker of recognition, not an iota of humanity. Just — ‘I’m afraid Mr Thurlow is in conference with an important client at the moment ‘
‘I don’t care if he’s in conference with God Almighty, this is a matter of life and death — just put him on!’
That did the trick, but it was still several minutes before she recognised her husband’s voice on the telephone. The irritation in his impatient silence managed to convey itself down the line as he listened to her garbled story.
‘Listen, Casey, I’m with a client, I can’t just leave.’
She glared at the handset. ‘For God’s sake, Randall, your office is just down the road from the studio — can’t you get someone to just jump in a cab and collect her?’