Dark Winter

37

Sunday 11 May, 00:04 hrs

The glow of London bathed the horizon, and before long the huge towers of Canary Wharf cut into the skyline, their navigation lights strobing through the low cloud.

The clean-up team probably accounted for one or more of the sets of headlamps below us, heading out of the city on their way to King’s Lynn. Their job would be to sterilize the place before first light, on the pretext of investigating gas leaks or whatever. They wouldn’t have a clue what had happened, and they’d never ask – the body would be taken away, then they’d throw the Immigration boys into a wagon and eventually introduce them to Simon. The chopper pilot and Frodo the tech would join them later. No way would any of them be let loose until this was over.

The pilot had some chat into his headset and we kicked right. It wouldn’t be long now before we were landing at RAF Northolt in West London. For a moment I wondered if we’d be taken to the command control centre for a briefing, as I had been during the Kosovo and Bosnia campaigns. It was like something out of a James Bond film, big screens all over the place and everybody being very busy and efficient as they hit keyboards and drank coffee out of polystyrene cups. But I somehow thought that wasn’t going to be for us today. Our shirts just weren’t crisp enough.

Soon we were over the A40, the busy dual carriageway cutting into London from the west, and minutes later were starting our approach into the darkened military airfield that bordered it. Rain began to spatter against the Perspex and the pilot gave the wipers a quick burst.

We were coming down near two saloon cars and a van, all parked with their headlamps on. In the orange strobe of our navigation lights I could see the shapes of the people inside them, dodging the downdraught from the rotors and the rain. One of the cars was one-up, the other two were both two-up.

Our skids settled on the hard standing and the rotors lost momentum as the whine of the turbo engines gradually subsided. The pilot turned, gave me the OK to pull the door handle, and I clambered out. The heat from the exhaust, the rotor wash and the stink of aviation fuel meant I hardly felt the rain. Suzy pushed out our two ready bags, then followed.

As we ran towards the vehicles a figure emerged from what looked like a Mondeo, and I realized it was Yvette, pulling up the hood on her Gore-Tex. She stayed by the driver’s door as the rotors came to a halt.

Two men in jeans and sweatshirts jumped out of an unmarked white Transit and ran towards the aircraft. As they got closer I could see it was Sundance and Trainers, ignoring me as they went past. Yvette beckoned to us. As we crossed the pan, she was busy opening a large aluminium box down by the nearside wheel. We could only just hear her voice. ‘Please, the canisters in here.’

I squatted down with my ready bag. The two crew were led towards the back of the van. The pilot was flapping big-time and looked to me for support. ‘What’s going on here?’

I shrugged as one of the guys in jeans replied for me: ‘Don’t worry, everything’s fine. Just hop in the back, mate.’ The way Sundance and Trainers were gripping them, they didn’t have much choice.

‘And could I please have the Peugeot keys so we can clean up in Norfolk?’

Suzy put her ready bag down and fished in her jeans while I went into mine. I pulled out the carrier-bag, smeared with dry blood, that contained everything we had taken from the woman apart from the phone, and put it into what looked like a cool-box, except this thing was fastened with four latches to keep it airtight.

By the look on Yvette’s face, she was starting to get a noseful of the contents of Suzy’s bag as she handed over the key.

‘It’s in the racecourse car park.’ Suzy’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet, maybe trying to mimic the Golf Club. ‘By the sports centre.’

Yvette nodded a thank-you. ‘You need to call him for an update. There are antibiotics in the glove compartment and a complete new set of NBC protection in the boot for you both.’

The back doors of the Transit slammed shut and it pulled away. I closed the lid on the container and saw a smile appear under the Gore-Tex hood. ‘Well done, both of you. Over to your right you can just see a flashing blue light where the van is going. Head for that and you’ll be let out of the airfield. Good luck.’

She picked up the box and carried it to the back of the other car, a dark Vauxhall Vectra. The engine turned over as soon as the box was strapped in place with a seatbelt. The driver spun the vehicle and drove off towards the flashing blue light as soon as Yvette was in the passenger seat.

While Suzy took the ready bags to the back of the Mondeo and started to scrape out her vomit, I pulled out the moan-phone, turned it on and dialled the Yes Man. The phone rang twice this time but, as normal, the Yes Man had no time for ceremony.

‘Where are you?’

‘Northolt. We have the car.’

‘Well, get mobile. The source says he knows nothing about King’s Cross. He will call but doesn’t want to get involved. He feels he could be compromised.’

‘Tough.’

‘Exactly. Do what needs to be done, and I want minute-by-minute sit reps from you on the ground. Roger that?’

‘Roger that.’

He’d be lucky. I cut him off and called to Suzy, ‘No time to clean up. Get your phone on. Fuck-face is going to call.’

Suzy got the boot open and started preparing the new NBC kit for the ready bags. I helped take it out of its packaging, and punched through the arms and legs.

Damp from the rain, we jumped into the car and she got her foot down towards the flashing light, wipers on double-time. It turned out to belong to an MoD police Land Rover, parked by one of the crash safety gates in the chainlink fence that marked the airfield’s perimeter. The yellow fluorescent-jacketed MoD plod waved us through and closed the gate behind us. Not having a clue where to go from here, we just headed for the lights we thought were the A40, then chucked a left, heading east towards the city, every speed camera we passed flashing us a hello.

We didn’t speak much: there was nothing much to say. I didn’t know what was preying on her mind sufficiently to keep her quiet, but I had more than enough on mine.

I took the antibiotics out of the glove compartment and swallowed four, not having a clue if I was overdosing with these things. They certainly gave me a stomach ache, but didn’t they turn your teeth yellow or something? The plastic-coated capsules scraped down my throat as I pushed out another four for Suzy and handed them over on an open palm.

‘I’ll take ’em once we get there.’ She passed a couple of cars on the inside lane and their spray splashed against our windscreen. ‘I can’t dry swallow, fucking horrible.’

I felt my guts start to rumble. Either they were telling me it was a long time since tea at Morrisons, or the antibiotics were already hard at work killing off all my flora. I didn’t care how much good stuff they took with them as long as they blitzed every atom of whatever-it-was-called- pestis they came across.