‘They tried to break out Fox. They failed. Cecil Boorman’s dead. So’s Fox. And another gunman they think might be Cain.’
‘Did Fox talk before he died?’
‘Not enough to give us anything useful.’
He sighed. ‘Then we’ve failed.’
Tina shook her head and squeezed his hand. ‘No,’ she said, ‘we didn’t. The men behind today’s attacks are dead, the Shard’s still standing, and Jetmir Brozi’s in custody facing charges that are going to keep him in prison for the next twenty years. I’d call all that a success.’
Bolt managed a weak smile. ‘That’s what I like about you, Tina. You don’t let things drag you down.’
‘And nor should you.’ She bent down and pecked him on the cheek — a gesture that surprised both of them. ‘Go to sleep now,’ she said. ‘I’ll come back to see you tomorrow.’
‘You’re not in any trouble, are you?’ he asked as she said goodbye and turned towards the door.
She smiled. ‘Course not. You know me.’
And with that, she went back out into the corridor where the CTC officers were waiting.
Eighty-two
23.45
Alone in his spacious living room, Garth Crossman smiled.
It had been a difficult few hours watching the stories unfold on the TV screen. A huge part of him enjoyed the seemingly non-stop scenes of chaos: the Shard spouting flames; the Prime Minister pale and shaken as he addressed the nation; the burning prison surrounded by riot police; the aerial view of the police convoy that had been escorting Fox, with one of its cars on fire and the bodies of several black-clad police officers clearly visible on the ground. These scenes were the electric shock treatment that the nation needed to jolt it from its complacency, and they demonstrated Crossman’s power, because he had made them happen. But they’d also shown his vulnerability. Such was the scale of the attacks that the hunt for the perpetrators would be intense and all-consuming, and for the last two hours Crossman had had to wait to discover whether either Cain or Fox — the only two men who knew his part in all this — had been captured alive after the botched attack on the convoy.
The reason for his smile was that the news anchor had now confirmed that not only was Fox dead but so were the two as yet unidentified gunmen who’d helped him escape. Since Crossman knew that Cain had only used one other man in the attack, that meant that he too had to be one of the fatalities.
It had been, Crossman would be the first to admit, a close-run thing, but ultimately the day had been a success. It had always been a major priority to get rid of Fox. The problem was that Fox was cunning, highly intelligent, and he played by his own rules, which meant he couldn’t be trusted. Crossman had therefore decided to concoct a plan to break him out from prison before he opened his mouth to the wrong people. He’d considered having someone try to kill him inside, or indeed paying extra to the man they’d used to attack Fox to actually kill him. But in the end, he’d concluded it was best to play it straight until they had him somewhere where he could be disposed of properly and efficiently.
But now there was no longer any need for such subterfuge. The war was temporarily over, and without anyone left who could point the finger at him, Garth Crossman was, as far as the world was concerned, a victim in all this. It still made him shudder to think how close his wife had come to ruining everything. He would have to be careful that others didn’t discover the secrets he’d worked so hard to hide.
He stood up, poured himself a glass of brandy from the drinks tray, and took a long sip.
It was time to contemplate the next stage of his career.
One Month Later
Eighty-three
I used my stick for support as I walked across the park. I’d been out of hospital just over a week, but this was my first time outside on my own. If my doctor knew what I was doing, he’d blow a gasket. According to him, I had to take everything very, very slowly. It was, he claimed, a miracle I’d made it through at all. I’d lost three-quarters of my blood by the time they got me to the hospital and, apparently, had died twice on the operating table, although I don’t remember any out-of-body experiences or seeing a bright light at the end of the tunnel, or any of that kind of thing. In fact, I slept through the whole lot.
The medical people hadn’t wanted me to leave hospital. Apparently, I was only 50 per cent into my recovery and they’d wanted me to remain under observation for another week at least so they could monitor my progress. But, to be honest, I’ve never been one for hospitals, and the one I was in reminded me too much of prison, so I’d exercised my citizen’s rights and walked. Or hobbled at least.
Also, there was something I needed to do. A wrong that needed righting.
The weather was sunny and unseasonably warm, and the world had returned to normal after February’s seismic events. In fact if Cecil and Cain had still been alive, they’d have been mortified to see how little long-term effect all their actions had had. The Shard was being repaired and would soon be back to its former glory; the government might have tottered a little on the day, but it hadn’t fallen; and there’d been no race riots on the streets. In fact, people had pulled together in the face of the barbarity that had been inflicted on them. The whole bloody day had been a colossal waste of lives, including very nearly my own. If Mike Bolt hadn’t found me when he did there’s no way I would have made it, and for that I’d be forever grateful to him.
Around me, the park was bustling with activity. A group of schoolkids were playing a loud, anarchic game of football; people were walking dogs; others just sat soaking up the sun’s rays; young mothers chatted and laughed as they pushed prams; an old couple walked hand in hand. This was what it was all about. Ordinary life.
And yet, in truth, I’d never been able to settle back into it since leaving behind the army, and the two foreign wars I’d fought, all those years ago. The real world — this place of reality TV shows, anti-social behaviour, obesity and obsession with Z-list celebrities and the weather — seemed so utterly meaningless when compared with the things I’d done and seen, and the friends I’d lost or who’d been maimed for life by the RPGs and the roadside bombs. These people enjoying the park in the sunshine knew nothing of what was going on in hellholes like Afghanistan, in their name, or of the sacrifices that were being made every day on their behalf. They didn’t even really know what was going on all around them, of the tide of crime being committed by a vast and ever-growing army of thugs whose activities were only just being kept in check by an overstretched and embattled police force. These people lived in a cocoon.
But, you know, maybe that’s the best way to be. I no longer felt bitter about the way things were. People had been good to me since the events of a month earlier. I’d been treated as a hero in the media — the man who’d infiltrated the terrorist cell and narrowly escaped death when the terrorists had turned on him. Somehow, too, there’d been no mention of the gun battle at the scrapyard with the Albanians, which was being looked at as a separate murder inquiry. The investigating officers from CTC seemed to accept my story that I’d only seen the Stinger after it had been obtained and had no idea where it had come from. A businessman hearing about my plight had offered me the use of his company apartment rent-free for as long as I needed it. Gina and Maddie had visited or spoken to me every day, Gina telling me how proud she was of the part I’d played in trying to stop the missile attack. Incredibly, it turned out she’d been in the Shard when it had been attacked, and had only narrowly escaped death herself. I’d been shocked to the core when I heard that. If anything had happened to her, it would have killed me, given my own involvement in procuring the Stinger.