Red Notice

62

Gavin raised his binoculars and stood in front of the hangar, taking in the lie of the land. He scanned the terminal, the rail tracks and the throng of hi-vis jackets that marked the inner police cordon around the tunnel entrance. He checked his mobile, still hoping that Tom was alive and capable of letting them know at some point what the fuck was happening.

Gavin had as much information as he needed on the tunnel’s layout, and was pretty sure he knew why they had no radio comms with the train. Laszlo had had no reason to cut them. Why would he, halfway through a conversation? And the design team had assured him the system was fire- and flood-proof…

He was suddenly aware of puzzled glances from the nearest of the guys in hi-vis vests, and realized they must have seen his shoulders shake, possibly even heard him laugh.

The design team reckoned they’d thought of everything. But they hadn’t met Tom Buckingham.

He gave them a grin and stepped into the building.

As the situation developed, Gavin’s boys would be free to roam the hangar, check out the latest content on the boards, ask questions and listen in to the radio traffic between Woolf and Laszlo, and from the call-signs on the ground. Every single member of Blue team would need to know exactly what was happening, when, how and why.

Gavin gave the heli pilot the nod, and he did the sensible thing — got some tea brewing and talked squash with one of the signallers while they waited for the assault group to arrive.

Woolf sat at his rapidly constructed desk, headphones and boom mic already in place, mobile stuck under one of the cans to keep him linked with COBRA. As he listened to the committee going round in an endless series of circles, his bored expression told Gavin all he needed to know about progress in Whitehall.

Woolf had met Clements on a number of occasions under the SAD lighting and hadn’t liked him from the get-go. Woolf was a self-made man. He’d left school at sixteen to work in Coventry’s MG factory as a trainee upholsterer, but soon learned that he should have thought about university instead of following his parents, who both worked in the same plant. His trainee salary had gone to finance night school, and eventually a University of East Anglia BA in philosophy, politics, economics, Adnam’s bitter and one-night stands. It had come as a complete surprise when he was approached by the Security Service. They asked if he would keep an eye on a group of fellow students who were developing unhealthily romantic leanings towards Irish nationalism — which they feared might turn into support for the Provisional IRA. He had turned out to be so good at this task that MI5 had offered him a full-time job before graduation.

Clements trumpeted himself as a champion of social mobility, but only for public consumption. He’d congratulated Woolf on his first COBRA appearance, but privately believed that people like him were made for reasonably effective middle management, that the real power should be left in the hands of those who’d had the upbringing and education to know how to use it. Woolf had read his body language loud and clear within the first minute of that first meeting, which was why he was more than pleased to be in the holding area today, doing the job he was paid to do, rather than pissing around in a Westminster bunker.

‘Right.’ The signaller tapped on Woolf’s can and motioned for him to lift it. ‘We’ll establish a universal power-line bus and set it to private protocols. You’re jacked into the train with either device. All channels are open to you and London.’

Woolf felt his brow furrow as he tried and failed to decipher the geek-speak. He was glad to see Gavin come back over to the briefing area. ‘How much longer till the rest of your crew get here?’

Gavin checked the wall screen that displayed the satellite tracking of each of the call-signs driving from Hereford: two clusters of vehicles, Blue just over the Dartford Bridge, and Red hitting the M4 at junction fifteen. ‘Another thirty minutes.’

‘Let’s hope we have some contact with the train — or Buckingham — by then.’ Woolf kept his volume low, but he couldn’t disguise his growing anxiety. ‘If there have been more casualties, London will send you in immediately. There’ll be no negotiation.’

Gavin shared his concern. That was the worst option: there would almost certainly be high casualties within the team, and the Yankees would be at the sharp end of it all. Emergency response, almost inevitably, tended to do pretty much what it said on the tin. All he could do right now was issue a set of orders based on what he knew — and that was precious little more than what the train looked like, how it worked and where it was located.

Gavin shook his head. ‘Well, if Laszlo does make contact you’d better get your finger out of your arse and persuade him to give himself up. For fuck’s sake, you lads are supposed to be able to sell sand to the Arabs, aren’t you? Get the fucker to come out of his hole and have a brew with us.’

Woolf sighed, replaced his mobile and headset, and listened again to the Whitehall debate.

The pilot returned with a steaming paper cup. Gavin nursed it as he worked out how the team would respond if they were given control in less than forty-five minutes’ time. From time to time, he checked his mobile for a signal and that he hadn’t accidentally switched it to silent.