Cell

34

'All here

'Abdullah. Zero hour is close.'

'I know. We're on the site of the merger. We should be ready for the demonstration to our client.'

'The equipment is in position then?'

'We're at phase two. By tomorrow morning we'll be at phase three. Gives us a margin on timing of the demonstration.'

'The guard worries me. He knows his job?'

'He's ours. We know his wife too. A man followed the guard home yesterday. So Vince Proctor…'

'No names! So he is happy, knowing his wife has someone with her until he gets off his long spell of duty.'

'He is happy. His wife is happy. We are all happy.'

Abdullah once more slammed down the phone. Ali shrugged. He was getting used to it. He left the public phone-box and stepped into the heavy mist. He walked slowly back to the 'site'.

Inside a small terrace house in a side street in Balham, Mrs Proctor sat on a heavy chair in the kitchen. The chair had been brought from the parlour by the man who had earlier rung the bell, then forced his way in, holding a gun in one hand, the index finger of his other hand pressed to his lips.

She now sat with her wrists roped together, another rope imprisoning her ankles. A third rope was tied round her waist and to the back of the chair. A pleasant red-faced woman in her fifties, she was terrified.

When her captor had arrived he'd worn a waterproof slouch hat, concealing his face, and a long raincoat. Since then, after tying up Mrs Proctor, he had removed the hat and the raincoat. He was now clad in a camouflage suit and she could see his complexion was brown, his hair trimmed short. He was an Egyptian and his name was Haydar. Information he had not provided Mrs Proctor with.

'We have Peter,' he'd said when she was tied to the chair. 'As long as you do nothing silly he will not come to any harm. Do something silly, like trying to warn a neighbour, and he will be shot.'

Saying which, he produced a photo of her husband seated in a chair. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap and his expression was tense. A hand, holding a gun to his head, also appeared in the photo.

'Oh, no,' Mrs Proctor had gasped. She swallowed. 'Where is he? At the power station? Who are you?'

'Questions,' Haydar explained quietly, 'come under the heading of being silly. I shall feed you, give you something to drink. Sit quiet and all will be well when we have moved the drugs hidden on one of the barges. You will then be free, your husband will be freed and will come home unharmed. He is in a safe place. Does anyone come here at night?'

'Sometimes Mrs Wilkinson from next door visits for a chat. Not every night.'

'What will Mrs Wilkinson do if you don't answer the door?'

'She'll think I'm having a nap and go away.'

'Then we have nothing to worry about,' Haydar went on lying.

The truth was Mrs Proctor would never leave the house alive. Once the operation was completed he would shoot her in the back of the head with his silenced gun. The same fate awaited her husband, trapped inside Dick's power station.

Haydar would know when the operation was completed. He had turned on the small TV set screwed to the wall with the sound turned down but still showing a programme.

He had been told that when the operation had taken place all normal programmes would cease. Breaking News would start. As it had done in New York on September 11.