Cell

51

'No sign of the SAS jeeps,' Harry called out.

Paula had helped him up into the rear of the jeep driven by Tweed. She looked back. Harry was right. There were three jeeps behind them but they carried the rest of Tweed's team. Beyond that there was empty Embankment as they headed for Albert Bridge. Driving with one hand, Tweed reached for his radio-telephone, hoping it had not been disconnected.

'Sarge, any hope of saving Albert?'

'Sorry. None. We have used up our special equipment. Only just come into service. I raided the store. Keep well clear of Albert. I leave it to you and Buchanan to deal with any enemy who might survive. My unit has been proud to cooperate with yours. Until next time…'

Then the connection was broken. The SAS had gone, as invisibly as they had arrived. Paula caught a glimpse of police cars racing along the opposite bank, keeping pace with Tweed's unit.

'I at least want to see Albert,' she said.

'But not too close,' Tweed warned.

'At least we've saved five out of six major bridges,' Newman commented over the phone, which was independent, but had earlier been linked with Sarge's communication system.

Tweed parked close to the Chelsea Royal Hospital area. The other three jeeps pulled up behind him. He jumped out, went back to them.

'I am now giving you a direct order. You will stay here and go no closer to the bridge. You probably heard Sarge's warning. We can do nothing to save Albert. But, as Newman said, five out of six major bridges saved is a good score.'

'We may be able to take a few more of them,' said Harry, now standing beside Tweed, his sub-machine gun tucked under his right arm.

'It's coming now,' Paula shouted.

On the opposite shore Buchanan stood outside the lead police car. Many vehicles were parked behind him. The dreadful silence had returned, the silence Paula found so eerie. She was standing on the Embankment, holding her camera. She knew the pictures she would take would be horrific but she felt she needed a record. She took two quickly.

The sixth barge, which had, according to plan, left Dick's wharf so late, was hardly moving as its bows thrust under Albert Bridge, reminding Paula of the snout of some monstrous shark.

In the deckhouse Ali was controlling the barge's momentum with great care. He had fled in his speedboat back to the last barge when he realized his operation had ended in disaster. And Abdullah had promised it would make the Trade Center operation in New York look like child's play.

He reversed the engines briefly, to halt the barge with the main hatch under the centre of the bridge. Then he ran out, along the deck, dropped down the ladder into the main hatch. He threw away the ladder.

He was going to press the two buttons for detonation himself. Ali would die with his remaining men. He stared round at the men with him on the base of the hull. They were kneeling on their prayer-mats, facing east.

Ali took a deep breath. Then pressed the first button, then the second. The huge shell-like bomb streaked upwards, aimed at the the centre of the bridge. He clasped his hands in prayer, his last movement.

Gazing through the viewfinder of her camera, Paula saw a huge object hurtling upwards. A brief vision. Then the world exploded. Deafening thunder rolled down the river. A swift blinding flash.

The entire centre of the bridge shattered, great sections of it hurtling into the sky, taking for ever to descend and disappear under the water. Waves rolled towards both shores. Fragments of white-painted railing hurtled up even higher to greater altitudes. Chunks of masonry the size of huge boulders flew across the Embankment, crashed into the houses in the Cheyne Walk area. The initial ear-splitting crash when the bomb hit had died down. Now they could hear the masonry fragments hitting buildings like a bombardment. On both sides of the river. A lot of black smoke obscured the wreckage which had once been a bridge. The breeze blowing downriver cleared the smoke, revealing the ghastly spectacle of the remnants of the bridge which had spanned the Thames for so many years.

Paula could take no more photos. She stood staring, camera held in hand by her side. The barge had gone as if it had never existed. Confined under the bridge, it had taken the full force of the devastating explosion. Later its entire savaged hull was found on the river bed.

Only one section of the bridge still seemed intact. On the left bank side a third of the span perched over nothing. Tweed pressed his binoculars to his eyes. Just in time to see the span wobble, give way, plunge down into the river. Albert Bridge was no more than a memory.

'Well,' Newman said, 'now we can see what we saved the other major five bridges. London would have been bisected for years.'

Paula turned away. She no longer wished to look. As she did so she heard on her headset Buchanan's firm voice.

'I think everyone might like to know Proctor, the hostage guard at Dick's wharf, was rescued. Alive and well, he's on his way home to meet his wife.' 'Thank God,' Paula whispered.