Dead Halt

Chapter Ten

Sabrina reached out a hand for the telephone on the bedside table, fumbling in the darkness until she felt her fingers curl around the receiver. She picked it up.

“Good morning, Miss Carver, this is your five o’clock wake-up call,” a friendly female voice announced on the other end of the line.

“Uh-huh,” Sabrina muttered sleepily, dropping the receiver back into its cradle.

All she wanted to do was turn over again and go back to sleep. She forced herself to sit up, then, switching on the bedside lamp, she pulled back the covers and swung her legs out of the bed. She had been on call that night and was wearing a gray tracksuit. Her plimsolls lay within easy reach of the bed. But there had been no calls. At least that had been some consolation …

She ran her fingers through her disheveled hair and rubbed her hands slowly over her face. She hated getting up early in the morning. And that meant any time before eight-thirty. She was essentially a night person. She finally stood up and switched on the kettle. If she had to start the day at such an obscene hour, then a cup of strong, black coffee would help to make it that little bit more bearable.

The telephone rang. She groaned then reached over and answered it.

“Morning. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Mike?” she said in surprise. “What are you doing up at this godforsaken hour? And why do you sound so bloody cheerful?”

Graham chuckled. “Sounds like someone got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

“You know I’m never at my best this early in the morning,” she retorted gruffly. “Why are you calling?”

“You want some company on your run this morning?”

“I thought you usually went for your run around eight?” she replied.

“Yeah, usually. But I thought, what the hell, I might as well run with you guys this morning.”

“I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you run with Scoby and I’ll go back to bed?”

“Nice try, Sabrina. Now get your butt out of bed. I’ll be around in ten minutes.”

“Make it twenty and you’ve got a deal,” she replied.

“OK. Twenty minutes.” The line went dead.

She replaced the receiver and stifled a yawn. She hated jogging almost as much as being forced to get out of bed at five in the morning. Almost. She knew Graham and Whitlock were both avid joggers but she couldn’t see the point of running from one spot to another. What purpose did it serve? She preferred to work out in aerobic classes four times a week. And, when she wasn’t on assignment, she taught karate to housewives two nights a week at a community center in Manhattan. She had gained her black belt in karate when she was still in her teens.

Pushing any thoughts of aerobics and karate from her mind, she reluctantly got to her feet and went through to the bathroom.

Cross and Johnstone, the two anti-terrorist squad detectives who had also been assigned to accompany Scoby on his early morning run, were already waiting in the corridor when Graham and Sabrina arrived punctually to meet Scoby at five forty-five outside his suite. Graham, as usual, was wearing his New York Giants tracksuit and a white headband knotted loosely at the back of his head.

“Is he ready?” Graham asked, gesturing to the door.

“Dunno,” Cross replied with a shrug. “We just got here.”

Graham rapped on the door and moments later Scoby answered it, still wearing his dressing gown. He appraised Graham’s shellsuit slowly. “A liberal and a Giants fan?”

“Mike used to play for the Giants,” Sabrina said, coming to Graham’s defense.

Graham shot her a dirty look.

“Really?” Scoby said in surprise. “Why wasn’t there any mention of it in your dossier?”

“It wasn’t relevant to the case,” Graham replied brusquely.

“Graham? I can’t say I remember the name. What position did you play?”

“Quarterback. But I never played at senior level. I was sent to ’Nam a month after I signed for them. I picked up a shoulder injury over there and that was the end of my playing career.”

“Sounds like you had a narrow escape. Let’s face it, there is only one team to play for in New York. And that’s the Jets.”

“The Jets did try to sign me when I got back from ’Nam,’ Graham replied poker-faced. “I was told that even with my screwed-up arm, I was a damn sight better than any of their regular quarterbacks. But, much as I loved the game, I just couldn’t bring myself to sink that low. Not the Jets.”

“That’s very good,” Scoby said with a forced smile then, excusing himself, went to change. He returned a few minutes later wearing a black and red shellsuit and a black peaked cap.

“Do you always wear that when you go running?” Graham asked.

“This, or a black and yellow shellsuit. Why, what’s wrong with it?”

Graham and Sabrina exchanged glances.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Graham asked.

She nodded.

“Can you drop the telepathy act and tell me what’s going on?” Scoby demanded.

They told him.

“Stop that!” Fiona snapped at Mullen.

“What?” Mullen retorted.

“Drumming your fingers on the wheel.”

“Was I?” Mullen replied with a shrug. He folded his arms across his chest then looked across the road at the entrance of the Grosvenor House Hotel. “I thought you said he always went for his run at six. He’s already ten minutes late.”

They were sitting in a light blue Volkswagen Polo which Mullen had stolen from an estate in Notting Hill earlier that morning. By the time the owner reported it missing, they would already have dumped it on the other side of town. They had thought about torching it but decided it would only draw unnecessary attention to themselves. Not that there would be any prints. Both had on gloves. Fiona was also wearing a shoulder-length red wig. A pair of dark sunglasses lay on the dashboard in front of her. Mullen’s long, straggly hair was hidden under her black trilby. He also had a pair of sunglasses which were tucked into the top pocket of his corduroy jacket. Fiona looked at her watch. They had been there for the last forty minutes. So where was Scoby? It wasn’t like him to be late.

“Hey, look,” Mullen suddenly blurted out, pointing to Cross and Sabrina as they emerged from the hotel. “That could be Scoby’s security team.”

“Could be,” Fiona replied absently, without taking her eyes off them.

Cross and Sabrina looked around them slowly then indicated to the third figure in the doorway behind them.

“It’s Scoby,” Mullen hissed, immediately recognizing the distinctive black and red tracksuit which had been mentioned in the directive.

Fiona retrieved the Skorpion machine-pistol from under her seat. Checking it was loaded, she cradled it in her lap, her eyes fixed on the three figures standing in front of the hotel. They crossed the road, heading in the direction of Grosvenor Gate. Fiona tightened her grip on the machine-pistol. She had the perfect shot. Suddenly she cursed under her breath and ducked down out of sight, pushing Mullen down as she did so. As soon as she judged that they had entered Hyde Park, she sat up again.

“Why didn’t you take him out?” Mullen demanded.

“Because it wasn’t Scoby,” she snapped. “It was a decoy.”

“A decoy? That means Scoby’s probably ducked out through another entrance while we’ve been sitting here watching this lot.”

“Exactly.”

“Where to?” Mullen asked, reaching for the key in the ignition.

“Nowhere. I’ve got a feeling they’re all going to meet up somewhere in Hyde Park. We can’t miss them if we stay here.”

Mullen looked at her but said nothing.

Barely a minute had elapsed when Fiona spotted two figures emerging from Upper Grosvenor Street at the side of the hotel. Both were wearing tracksuits.

“We’re in luck,” she murmured, smiling to herself. One of them was Scoby.

Sabrina, Cross and Johnstone, who was wearing Scoby’s shellsuit and black peaked cap, stopped running when they reached the Ring Tea House inside Hyde Park.

Sabrina unclipped the two-way radio attached to her belt. “Come in, Mike.”

“Yeah, Graham here,” came the breathless reply. “Where are you?” she asked.

“We’re at Brook Gate,” he told her. “Did you attract any attention?”

“No, everything’s quiet. Well, as quiet as can be expected around here. But no sign of any trouble.”

“OK, we’re moving on,” Graham said. “We’ll meet you, as arranged, at the Fountains in ten minutes.”

“Right. Over and out.”

Cross rubbed his gloved hands together. “It’s a bit parky out here this morning.”

“Parky?” Johnstone snorted. “It’s bloody freezing. Why would anyone in their right minds want to be out jogging on a morning like this?” He looked at Sabrina. “I know where I’d like to be.”

The insinuation wasn’t lost on her. She gave him a mock innocent smile. “Me too.”

“Yeah?” Johnstone said, grinning knowingly at Cross.

“Sure. The Fountains. Let’s go.”

Cross laughed at Johnstone’s pained expression as Sabrina led the way to their rendezvous.

“They’ve stopped,” Mullen said, reducing speed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Stay in the slow lane,” she told him, activating the electric window. “And put on those sunglasses.”

Mullen snatched the sunglasses off the dashboard and slid them over his eyes. They were less than forty yards away from their target when a white Rover appeared behind them. It passed them and swung into the lane in front of them. Inside were two men, one of whom waved them on as the Rover crawled along, keeping pace with the joggers.

Mullen swore angrily. “It’s got to be part of his security team. Now what?”

“Stay behind them,” Fiona replied, tightening her grip on the machine-pistol. “We’re almost in range.”

“We’ll never outrun that Rover even if you do manage to hit Scoby,” Mullen wailed. “It’s too risky, Fiona. We’ve got to abort.”

“Pull out after the next car,” Fiona said, glancing behind her. It shot past them. “Now!”

Mullen swung out from behind the Rover and Fiona waited until they were almost parallel with Scoby and Graham before raising the machine-pistol to fire.

Graham saw the Skorpion at the last possible moment and grounded Scoby with a bruising football tackle a split second before a row of bullets ripped into the tree behind them. The Rover immediately accelerated after the Polo as it sped away from the two crumpled figures on the pavement.

Fiona leaned out of the window and fired a burst at the Rover before ducking back inside the car. The bullets dimpled the bullet-proof windscreen but the Rover stayed with them. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and looked around desperately as the Rover continued to gain on them. It would only be a matter of time before the Rover managed to force them off the road. Mullen eased his foot on the brake pedal as they reached the Cumberland Gate. Marble Arch loomed up ahead of them. He swung out from behind a black taxi and, as he turned into the bend, Fiona fired a burst at the taxi’s tires. She scored a direct hit on the left tire and the taxi skidded out of control, forcing the Rover’s driver to slam on his brakes. The wheels locked on the icy road and the Rover plowed into the side of the taxi which mounted the pavement and smashed head-on into a wrought-iron fence. By the time the driver had managed to regain control of the wheel the Polo had already maneuvered around Marble Arch and on to the other side of Park Lane. Seconds later it disappeared up North Row.

Graham reholstered his Beretta at the back of his tracksuit then helped Scoby to his feet. “Are you all right, senator?”

“I think so,” Scoby replied, still visibly shaken by what had happened.

Graham radioed Sabrina and told her what had happened. She arrived minutes later with Cross and Johnstone, all of them still breathless from the run.

“Where’s Corbyn and Turnball?” Cross asked.

“They went after the car,” Graham told him. “I heard gunfire but they haven’t reported in yet.”

“May I borrow that?” Cross said, gesturing to the two-way radio in Graham’s hand. He managed to get through to Turnball.

“The bastards got away,” Turnball hissed furiously as he told Cross what had happened.

“Have you called for backup?” Cross asked.

“It’s on its way. I’ve also radioed in for an ambulance for the cabbie. Is the senator all right?”

Cross glanced at Scoby. “He’s a bit shaken up but otherwise unharmed.”

“We almost had them, Pete. Another ten seconds and we would have rammed them off the road.”

“Yeah, I know,” Cross said despondently and handed the radio back to Graham.

“The first thing we’ve got to do is get you back to the hotel,” Graham said to Scoby.

“There should be a car along from headquarters any time now,” Johnstone added.

“Forget it,” Sabrina said. “We’re exposed out here in the open. What if the assassins decide to come back?”

“What do you suggest?” Johnstone asked her.

“Simple,” she replied, then moved to the edge of the road and flagged down the first black taxi that came along.

Whitlock was waiting for them in the foyer. “Senator, are you all right?” he asked anxiously as they entered the hotel.

“Yeah, thanks to Mike. If he hadn’t sacked me when he did, I’d be on the way to the mortuary right now.”

So now it’s Mike again, Graham thought sarcastically to himself. Until the next time they crossed words and it would be back to Graham again. Not that it bothered him what Scoby called him. He didn’t like the two-faced son-of-a-bitch one little bit and he’d be glad to see the back of him after the weekend.

As long as he survived that long. But irrespective of his feelings toward Scoby, he’d make damn sure no harm came to him while he was under UNACO’s protection. He knew Sabrina and Paluzzi shared those sentiments. Sabrina seemed to dislike the man even more than he did, regarding him as conceited, arrogant, devious and self-opinionated. All necessary attributes to become a future President of the United States.

“Sabrina, why don’t you and Mike come up to the suite and have a coffee with us?” Scoby said. “I know Melissa would like to meet you both.”

“Go on,” Whitlock said. “I’ve called Eastman, he’s already on his way. We’ll sort out everything with the local boys. I’ll see you back here in a couple of hours.”

Sabrina shot Whitlock a thanks-for-nothing look then followed Scoby and Graham to the lift.

Melissa Scoby was still in the bedroom when they arrived at the suite. Scoby went through to explain what had happened and a few moments later she followed her husband into the lounge. Sabrina noticed that her eyes immediately went to Graham, who was standing by the window, appraising him carefully and smiling faintly to herself. Suddenly aware of Sabrina’s watchful gaze, Melissa Scoby eyed her coldly, then looked away sharply and extended a hand of greeting toward Graham. “Jack told me what happened this morning. Thank you.”

Graham shrugged it off awkwardly, easing his hand from her lingering grip. Scoby then introduced her to Sabrina. She shook Sabrina’s hand with a grip that was hard and uncompromising. Sabrina could sense the animosity toward her and knew it stemmed from Melissa Scoby’s interest in Graham. But Graham and Scoby seemed unaware of the atmosphere: only Sabrina had seen through the façade straight away. And Melissa Scoby knew that …

Scoby ordered four coffees from room service. Graham and Sabrina declined the offer of breakfast. They would eat later with Whitlock.

“Please, sit down,” Scoby said, gesturing to the chairs behind them.

Graham sat on the nearest sofa. Sabrina was quick to sit beside him and immediately noticed the sharp look from Melissa Scoby. She smiled pleasantly as she met Melissa Scoby’s eyes.

Scoby sat down in the armchair opposite them. “I have to admit I initially thought UNACO had got it wrong when your Mr. Whitlock told me that the IRA might try and assassinate me when I came to Britain. But it would seem you’ve been right all along. I still don’t see what they hope to achieve by killing me though. It would only serve in turning even more Americans against the IRA. The funds would dry up overnight. It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“It doesn’t make any sense to us either,” Sabrina told him. “But until we get some answers, we’ve got to treat the situation very seriously. That much is apparent after what happened this morning.”

“I refuse to cancel any of my engagements,” Scoby was quick to tell them.

“It would be a major propaganda victory for them,” Melissa Scoby said, perching on the edge of the armchair beside him.

“Not just for them,” Scoby replied, taking her hand. “Imagine what damage the Democrats could do with that kind of propaganda in a future Presidential election. But it’s more than just that. I’ve always believed that the only way to defeat terrorism is to confront it head on. Because the more we avoid confrontation, the stronger they become.”

“We’re not suggesting you cancel your engagements, senator,” Sabrina assured him. “But there will be a tighter security presence around you for the rest of your stay here in Britain.”

There was a knock at the door. Johnstone answered it and took the tray from the room service waiter and brought it through to the lounge. Having poured the coffees, Melissa Scoby handed them around. There was another knock at the door. This time it was Tillman who, clearly agitated, brushed past Johnstone and entered the lounge. “Jack, are you all right?” he asked, approaching Scoby.

“Sure,” Scoby replied with a quick smile. “Sit down, Ray. You want a coffee?”

“Jack, why didn’t you call me when you got in?” Tillman crossed to the window then turned back to Scoby, his fingers tapping nervously against the side of his legs. “Whitlock told me what happened. You should have told me, Jack.”

“What’s there to tell you? They took a shot at me and missed,” Scoby said with surprising calmness. “And that’s all there is to it. I didn’t see any need to wake you up just to tell you that. You’d have found out soon enough.”

Tillman turned on Graham. “Why wasn’t the car picked up before it reached the senator? It sounds like a serious breach of security on your part.”

“Ray, sit down!” Scoby snapped, pointing to the armchair by the window.

Tillman glared at Graham then sat down, his hands now clenched tightly in his lap. “I still say your men should have spotted them earlier.”

“There will be an inquiry,” Graham assured him. “And if you’re right, those responsible will be reprimanded. Does that satisfy you?”

Tillman said nothing.

Graham finished his coffee then stood up. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to take a shower and change out of these clothes.”

“Me too,” Sabrina said, leaving her coffee and getting to her feet.

Scoby walked them to the door. “Mike, I know there’s nothing I can ever do or say to repay you for saving my life this morning. But thank you.”

Graham shook Scoby’s extended hand and followed Sabrina from the room.

“I’d watch Melissa Scoby if I were you,” Sabrina said once they had reached the lift and were out of earshot of the two detectives on duty outside the suite.

“What are you talking about?” Graham asked, pressing the button.

“It’s obvious she fancies you.”

“What gives you that idea?” he replied in amazement.

“Call it intuition.”

“Intuition?” he said sarcastically. “I should have guessed.”

She bit back her anger. “I’m just telling you what I saw, that’s all.”

“Well you saw wrong,” he told her firmly.

The doors opened onto their floor and they walked down the corridor toward their rooms.

She took her key card from her tracksuit pocket as she reached her door. “I know I’m right about this, Mike.”

“No, you’re not right about it. You’ve obviously latched on to what C.W. told us last night about Melissa Scoby being a bit of a flirt back home and now you’re reading all sorts of nonsense into it. I suggest you put your personal feelings to one side and get on with the job.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Mike Graham,” she snapped angrily as she pushed the key card into the lock and shoved open the door.

He waited until the door had closed behind her then shook his head sadly to himself and made his way to his room.

“Can we talk, Jack?” Tillman asked once Scoby had seen off Graham and Sabrina.

“Sure,” Scoby replied. “What about?”

Tillman glanced at Melissa Scoby. She got the message and disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

“So talk,” Scoby said, extending a hand toward Tillman.

“You were dealt a friendly card this morning, Jack. Next time you might not be so lucky. I want to make sure that you get back home in one piece. And that means your security team will have to be a lot more vigilant than it was today.”

“Why don’t you just come out and say what you really mean, Ray?” Scoby said icily. “That if I die, you’ll suddenly be caught between the Colombians and the Mafia. Am I right?”

“That’s not true, Jack,” Tillman replied sharply. “I’ve always had your best interests at heart. You know that.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever taken you for an altruist, Ray,” Scoby said scornfully. “You’re in this for yourself just as much as I’m in it for myself. So let’s not kid each other, shall we? And if it’s any consolation to you, I’d also like to get back to New York in one piece.”

Tillman ran his fingers through his hair. “Just listen to us. We’re squabbling like a couple of school-kids over a date.”

“And if I remember correctly, I was always the one who won those arguments,” Scoby said with a satisfied smile.

“Yeah you did, didn’t you?” Tillman said between clenched teeth. “But then you’ve always had the looks and I’ve always had the brains.”

“Well, if you’re so brainy, why didn’t you sort out the security arrangements properly last night?” Scoby demanded. “You had every opportunity to do so.”-

“I’m not a security consultant,” Tillman shot back. “I assumed Whitlock knew what he was doing.”

“Then I suggest you check again. It’s for your protection just as much as it is for mine. Remember that. Because without me, there is no deal between either the Colombians or the Mafia. And that would leave you very isolated indeed, wouldn’t it?”

Tillman wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I’ll talk to Whitlock when he gets back to the hotel.”

“You do that, Ray. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to take a bath before I go downstairs for breakfast.”

“What time are you having breakfast?”

Scoby patted Tillman on the arm. “Don’t worry, Ray, I’ll make sure I call you this time and let you know.”

Tillman bit back his anger and strode from the room.

Fiona and Mullen abandoned the stolen car near Claridges then took the tube back to the safe house in Finsbury Park. Once there she opened the wall safe, hidden behind a Van Gogh print in the lounge, and removed the envelope marked “B,” the plans for the hit on Scoby on the pleasure-boat trip that afternoon. She sat down and tore open the envelope. Inside was a sheet of paper and a single key on a plastic key ring. She put the key ring on the table beside her and unfolded the sheet of paper. She read through the details of the operation then used the remote control to switch on the television set in time to watch the early morning news.

Mullen appeared with two mugs of tea. He put them on the table beside her and gestured to the screen. “Anything about us?”

She shook her head then held out the sheet of paper to him. “Read this.”

Mullen sat down on the sofa and read through the text carefully. “Brady’s gone to a lot of trouble to set this one up for us.”

“My thoughts exactly,” she replied. “So we’ve got to make sure we don’t screw up again.”

Mullen took a sip of tea and smiled to himself. “We won’t. We’ve got him this time, Fiona. We’ve really got him.”

“I’ll believe it when he’s dead,” Fiona replied, then indicated the mug in his hand. “Drink up, we’ve still got a lot to do this morning.”

Whitlock phoned Graham and Sabrina once he returned to the hotel and told them to come to his room. Graham arrived first. Eastman and Paluzzi were already there.

“There’s food there if you’re hungry,” Whitlock said, gesturing to the trolley by the bed.

Graham helped himself to three rashers of bacon which he layered between two slices of toast. He then poured himself a coffee and sat down on the bed.

When Sabrina arrived Whitlock again indicated toward the trolley.

“I’ll just have a coffee, thanks,” she replied.

“Mike, pour Sabrina a coffee,” Whitlock said.

“I’ll get it myself,” she retorted brusquely, crossing to the trolley.

“OK, what’s going on?” Whitlock demanded.

“Nothing,” Sabrina replied innocently.

Whitlock’s eyes flashed angrily as he looked from Sabrina to Graham. “Mike?”

“I’ve got no beef with Sabrina,” Graham replied truthfully.

“You’d better sort out your differences smartish. Both of you. Because if you can’t work together, I’ll bring in a team that can. Do I make myself understood?”

Sabrina gave Whitlock her best winning smile as she sat down beside Paluzzi. “There’s no problem, C.W.”

“This is me you’re talking to, Sabrina. I know when the two of you are squabbling. I saw enough of it when I worked with you. Just see that it’s sorted out by this afternoon.” Whitlock held up his hand before she could say anything. “That’s all I have to say. Now, can we get down to the briefing? Keith’s just received word from Scotland Yard that the getaway car’s been found.”

Eastman nodded. “It was abandoned in Brook Street, about fifty yards from Claridges. The area’s been sealed off in case there were any booby trap devices left in the car. There’s a team of ATOs, a bomb-disposal unit, at the scene now.”

“How far’s Brook Street from where we lost the car?” Sabrina asked.

“A mile, if that,” Eastman replied. “The car was obviously abandoned in a hurry. The doors were unlocked and the keys were still in the ignition.”

“They must have known it would only be a matter of time before they were spotted from the air,” Paluzzi deduced.

“Did anyone see them fleeing the car?” Sabrina asked.

“The car was left outside a shop. The owner said they went up Binney Street in the direction of Oxford Street. Binney Street is also a couple of blocks away from Bond Street tube station. We’ve got uniformed officers there now with pictures of Mullen, hoping someone may have seen them entering the station. The tube seems to be the most logical escape route.”

“And they could have gone anywhere once they reached the tube station,” Paluzzi said.

“We can only keep asking, hoping to jog someone’s memory,” Eastman replied with a shrug. “We’re concentrating mostly on the London Underground staff.”

“Yeah, that red hair of hers was pretty distinctive,” Graham said thoughtfully. “Guys would notice something like that.”

“You saw her?” Eastman said in surprise.

“I caught a glimpse of her hair, that’s all.”

“And her face?” Eastman asked.

Graham shook his head. “It all happened too quickly.”

Whitlock poured himself another cup of tea. “I had a visit from Ray Tillman before I called you here. He wasn’t too happy with the security arrangements this morning.”

“Yeah, he had a go at us as well,” Graham said, looking across at Sabrina.

“Personally, I don’t know what else we could have done to protect the senator apart from sealing off Park Lane and the surrounding streets. I advised him even before we left New York not to go running in the mornings. But he wouldn’t have any of it. He was adamant he would go for his morning run.”

“Do you want me to double the security tomorrow morning?” Eastman asked.

“He’s not going running in the morning,” Whitlock retorted sharply.

“Did he tell you that?” Paluzzi said.

“No, I told him after I’d thrown Tillman out.”

Graham smiled. “What did he say?”

“He wasn’t too happy about it at first but when I pointed out that although I couldn’t stop him from running in the morning, I could stop you from going with him, that seemed to do the trick. So at least that’s one area we don’t have to worry about anymore.” Whitlock took a folder from his attaché case and opened it. “I spoke to Commander Palmer earlier to finalize the security arrangements for this afternoon. It’s been decided that the Metropolitan Police will be responsible for security around the Thames. Commander Palmer will be taking charge of the operation himself. I’ll be in charge of security on the river itself.” He turned to Paluzzi. “Fabio, you’re the only one here who can fly a chopper. I want you as an eye in the sky this afternoon. Mike will be with you. You’ll be in an unmarked police helicopter. There will be other police helicopters up there as well but they’ll be covering a much wider area. I want you to stay as close to the boat as possible.”

“I assume that means I’m on the boat with Scoby,” Sabrina said.

“We’ll both be on the boat,” Whitlock told her. “Well, that’s all for now. Sabrina, we’re due at Charing Cross Pier for nine to check over the boat with the River Police and a team from the bomb-disposal unit.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to the Yard,” Eastman said, getting to his feet. “I assume you’ll be at the pier if I do need to get in touch with you?”

“I should be there for the rest of the morning. But if not, I’ll leave a number where I can be contacted,” Whitlock replied.

“Fine. See you later.” Eastman left the room.

“And where will we be?” Paluzzi asked, gesturing to Graham.

“You two have got a briefing with the Air Police at ten. They’re sending a car over for you.” Whitlock picked up his attaché case and moved to the door. “You may as well finish that breakfast since it’s been paid for. Just make sure you close the door behind you when you leave. Come on, Sabrina, we’ve got work to do.”

She shot the others a despairing look then jumped nimbly to her feet and hurried after Whitlock.

Fiona and Mullen took the tube to Great Portland Street Station. From there they walked the short distance to a nearby car park where they found the white Peugeot estate with the registration number which corresponded to the numbers printed on the plastic key ring in her bag. They both slipped on gloves but when Mullen held out his hand for the key ring Fiona shook her head and climbed behind the wheel. Mullen just shrugged and got in beside her.

She had already memorized their route on an A to Z of London before they left the house and she drove to a deserted warehouse off Grosvenor Road, close to the Pimlico Gardens. The lock-up garage was annexed to the building. The doors were padlocked. Fiona handed Mullen the key. He got out of the car, looked around slowly, then crouched down and unlocked the doors. He waited until Fiona had driven the Peugeot into the garage then replaced the padlock and opened the door leading into the warehouse and went inside, closing it again behind him. The warehouse had been abandoned for more than two years. Most of the windows had been smashed and graffiti covered the walls. The floor was littered with empty wooden crates, many still bearing the company logo. He crossed to the door which connected the warehouse to the lock-up garage to join Fiona. The garage was a lot bigger than it looked from the outside. No wonder the company had gone bankrupt if the managing director needed a place this big just for his car, Mullen thought to himself.

Preparations for the operation had been meticulous. A plaid rug had been spread out over the floor of the Peugeot’s boot. Underneath it were two Ingram MAC II machine-pistols; a radio transmitter, not much bigger than a cigarette packet; two wetsuits; two sets of closed-circuit oxygen breathing apparatus; two plastic-handled knives and a pair of autofocus binoculars. Mullen unloaded the gear then Fiona lifted the floor covering. Lying beside the spare wheel was a hermetically sealed case containing an eight-kilogram Russian RPG-7 anti-tank launcher and two OG-7 high-explosive grenades. Like the machine-pistols, they were secured in waterproof wrapping. Mullen lifted out the case and Fiona replaced the covering and closed the boot.

“Put this on,” Fiona said, tossing one of the wetsuits to Mullen.

“Here? Together? We’re not–” Mullen said uncomfortably. “I mean, you and Sean–”

“For God’s sake, Hugh, this is a job, not a seduction.” Briskly she pulled off her T-shirt to reveal a white vest underneath, but Mullen was still staring awkwardly at her. “Go into the warehouse if it’ll make you feel better.”

Mullen blushed and disappeared into the warehouse, closing the door behind him. She pulled on the wetsuit and zipped it up to her chin. She was still adjusting the hood when there was a discreet knock on the door.

“Come in, Hugh,” she called out.

As Fiona had done, Mullen stuffed his clothes into a holdall on the backseat of the car. Fiona picked up the binoculars and crossed to a row of rusted metal stairs which led up onto a catwalk. Once on the catwalk she crouched beside one of the broken windows and slowly scanned the river with the binoculars. Mullen watched her from the foot of the stairs.

“Well?” he asked as she lowered the binoculars.

“Brady was right. You can see Lambeth Bridge from here with these binoculars.”

“And the barge?”

“It’s there. Exactly where Brady said it would be.” Fiona scanned the NCP car park on the opposite side of the river. The blue transit van was in position. The small explosive charge would already have been attached to the undercarriage of the vehicle, close to the petrol tank. She instinctively glanced at the transmitter on her belt. The explosion would be the perfect diversionary tactic. And in the confusion they could slip unnoticed onto the barge and set up the rocket launcher. She descended the stairs and crossed to a pile of empty crates which had been tossed haphazardly in the corner of the room. Mullen helped her move them. They had been concealing a small, wooden trapdoor. She eased it open. A rusted ladder led down to the water. She switched on her torch and shone the beam into the semi-darkness. Two cigar-shaped swimmer delivery vehicles, both four feet in length, were secured to the ladder. She glanced at her watch. The pleasure boat was due to leave Charing Cross Pier shortly.

“Get the scuba gear,” she said to Mullen. “We’ve got to be ready to move the moment the boat reaches Lambeth Bridge.”

He nodded and hurried back to the car. She returned to the window and trained the binoculars back onto the water. All they could do now was wait …

John Moody was a true Cockney, having been born within the sound of the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow church in the Cheapside area of London. Now in his late fifties, he had been piloting pleasure boats on the Thames for the last forty years. He was an instantly recognizable figure with his white peaked cap tugged down firmly over his bald head and a brier pipe clenched firmly between his nicotine-stained teeth. Both items were on show as he stood in the wheelhouse of his boat, the Merry Dancer, which was berthed at Charing Cross Pier.

He had taken an instant liking to both Whitlock and Sabrina when he had met them earlier that morning. They had been honest with him from the very beginning and that was a characteristic he had always admired in people. At eleven-thirty the mayor and his entourage arrived at the pier with Jack and Melissa Scoby. The paparazzi had a field day. They had even hired a pleasure boat of their own, hoping to keep close to the Merry Dancer in case a second attempt on Scoby’s life was more successful than the first. The cameras were primed and ready …

Moody smiled at Sabrina when she appeared at the wheelhouse door. “Ready when you are, luv.”

“We’re ready,” she replied then gestured to the saloon directly beneath them. “Not that I think any of them would know whether the boat was in motion or not. They’re all tucking in to the buffet.”

Moody guffawed, then leaned out of the wheelhouse window and shouted at a teenage youth to cast off the ropes.

“I’d better get back to keep an eye on the senator,” Sabrina announced, then descended the stairs and entered the saloon where the food had been laid out on three trestle tables in the center of the room.

Scoby approached her. “I’d like a word if you’ve got a minute. In private.” He gestured to the stairs. “Could we go on deck?”

“You know you’re not to take any unnecessary risks,” she reminded him. “You were told that even before you got here. If the IRA do have an assassin somewhere out there–”

“OK, we’ll stay down here,” Scoby replied with a dismissive shrug, taking her arm and leading her across the room until they were out of earshot of the others. “Are you happy at UNACO?”

“Sure. Why?”

“I’d like to offer you a job. Head of my security team.”

“I didn’t realize you could choose your own security team,” she replied with a faint hint of sarcasm in her voice.

Scoby smiled. “I’ve got contacts in the right places. In fact I could get you transferred to the Secret Service on the same day as you tendered your resignation to UNACO. What do you say?”

She could see through his scheme straight away. He wasn’t interested in her talent but rather in the fact that she was a woman. What better way to win over more of the female vote than by having a woman as head of his security team? But she doubted women would go for it anyway. It was too transparent for someone like him. She smiled to herself – would he have been so quick to offer Whitlock a position on his security team? It might win him a few more liberal votes but she doubted the Ku Klux Klan would be too pleased about it. Then again, to be fair to Scoby, there had never been any proof of his involvement with the Klan and his lawyers had already issued a writ against the newspaper which had published the article suggesting there was.

“You find my offer amusing?” Scoby said.

“No, I’m flattered that you asked but I think I’ll stick with UNACO.”

“And what happens if UNACO’s disbanded? It’s certainly a possibility after the events of the last few days. What will you do then?”

“The only way UNACO would be disbanded is if we slipped up and let the IRA get to you. That’s why we’re living in your shadow until you’re returned to the protection of the Secret Service back home. So it wouldn’t really be in your interests if that were to happen, would it?”

Scoby eyed her intently then the familiar smile creased his face. “Well then, let’s hope UNACO isn’t disbanded. At least not until I get home.”

Melissa Scoby approached them. She shot Sabrina a disdainful look then addressed her husband. “Darling, the mayor’s already making noises about your absence from the table. Can we humor him, please?”

Scoby kissed his wife on the cheek then looked at Sabrina. “What would I do without her? The voice of my conscience. And always there when I need her.”

“Jack,” she hissed.

Scoby followed his wife back to the table. Sabrina went up on deck and leaned her arms on the railing. They were passing the Jubilee Gardens. She looked at the second boat tagging along in the wake of the Merry Dancer. The Press. Vultures, waiting for the kill. The River Police had forbidden them to travel beside the Merry Dancer because two of the police’s own launches would be flanking it for the duration of its journey on the river. She looked up at the white helicopter twenty yards ahead of the boat. Paluzzi and Graham. She couldn’t see either of them in the cockpit. As she turned back to the stairs she noticed Moody in the wheelhouse. Moody smiled and gave her a wave. She returned the wave and went below again.

Eastman saw Palmer’s car from the window of the mobile police van and went out to meet it.

“Morning, sir,” Eastman said.

Palmer looked at his watch. “Actually, it’s afternoon, Keith.”

Eastman acknowledged his mistake with a forced smile. It was barely ten minutes into the afternoon. But he knew better than to say anything. The old bastard was obviously in one of his moods.

“I was hoping to get over here before the boat left but unfortunately I was held up at the Yard. The Commissioner wanted to see me. And when he gets talking, there’s no stopping him.” Palmer fumbled in his overcoat pocket for his cigarettes. “Cigarette?”

“Thank you, sir,” Eastman replied then took out his lighter and lit both cigarettes.

“Did the boat get off on time?” Palmer asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“What about the security arrangements? Is everything going according to plan?”

“It’s all under control, sir,” Eastman replied. “I’m in constant touch with Whitlock. I’ve also deployed our men at regular intervals along the route so if something should happen I can bring them into play at a moment’s notice.”

“And who’s running the helicopters?”

“I am, sir. I’ve got three police choppers up there and UNACO have an unmarked chopper sticking close to the boat. And on top of that, there are two police launches flanking the boat and another five patrolling the route. The IRA won’t be able to make a move without it being spotted either from the air or from the water.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Palmer took a long drag on his cigarette then looked up as a police helicopter swooped low overhead, heading toward Lambeth Bridge. “Dave Thompson rang me this morning.”

“Dave Thompson of the Guardian?”

“Yes. He received a call earlier today from Kevin Brady.”

“So the IRA have accepted responsibility for the attempt on Scoby’s life this morning?”

“On the contrary, Brady was quite insistent that the IRA had nothing whatsoever to do with it. He claims the IRA don’t have a contract out on Scoby.”

“And I suppose he’s just as insistent that Gallagher, Mullen and Kerrigan aren’t members of the IRA.”

“Kerrigan’s dead,” Palmer said.

“Did Brady say that?”

“No, I received word of it this morning from the Swiss authorities. The helicopter that they used in Switzerland was found abandoned near a chalet about ten miles outside Lucerne. Kerrigan’s body was found in the chalet. He’d been shot.”

“First Lynch and now Kerrigan,” Eastman said, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “What do you make of it, sir?”

“I don’t know. Not yet.”

“You don’t think there could be some kind of internal power struggle going on within the IRA, do you, sir? It’s no secret that Brady and Lynch never got on. That was one of the main reasons why Lynch chose to settle in Switzerland when he got married. And Kerrigan was always close to Lynch. What if Lynch was planning to return to Ireland to launch a campaign to oust Brady as Chief-of-Staff of the Army Council?”

“It’s a possibility,” Palmer conceded. “But it still doesn’t explain where Scoby fits into all of this.”

“Dom Lynch was close to Sean Farrell and Fiona Gallagher. What if Lynch and Farrell planned to kill Scoby and then blame Brady for it? After all, a directive like that would have to come from the head of the Army Council. Farrell’s arrested before Scoby gets here so it’s handed down to Gallagher to carry on in his place. I know it’s all hypothetical, sir, but it would give a motive for the murders of Lynch and Kerrigan.”

“But Farrell and Gallagher would be implicated as well.”

“Not if they were supposedly carrying out an order from the Army Council,” Eastman replied.

A rare smile touched the corners of Palmer’s mouth. “You know, Keith, you might just have something there. We’ll discuss it further this afternoon.” The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “I’ve got to get back to the Yard. I’ve got a meeting with my opposite number in Special Branch at one o’clock. I want to be kept up to date on the situation here.”

“Even if nothing’s happening, sir?”

“Especially if nothing’s happening. At least if I know it’s all quiet it might help me to cut down on these damn things.” Palmer dropped the cigarette onto the ground, crushed it underfoot, then got back into the car.

Eastman returned to the mobile van. There were five uniformed officers seated in the back of the van, each wearing a pair of headphones, who were in constant touch with the various arms of the Metropolitan Police involved in the security arrangements on and around the river. One of the men caught Eastman’s attention and informed him that Whitlock was waiting to talk to him. Eastman sat down in his chair by the door, slipped on a pair of headphones, and was patched through to Whitlock.

“Where have you been?” Whitlock asked.

“The Commander’s just been here,” Eastman replied. “I had to brief him.”

“Well, it’s all quiet out here. The highlight so far was when the mayor’s wife spilt a glass of red wine down the front of her dress.”

“Sounds nasty,” Eastman said with a smile. “Oh, by the way, I’ve got a bit of news for you. Kerrigan’s dead. The Swiss authorities found his body in a chalet earlier today. He’d been shot.”

“First Lynch, now Kerrigan. Do you think the murders are somehow linked?”

“There doesn’t seem to be any evidence to suggest it at present but I’ve got my own little theory which I’ve already put to Commander Palmer. I’ll discuss it with you later over a beer.”

“You’re on. Well, I’d better check in with the launches. Talk to you again soon.”

“Right. Over and out.”

Mullen wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. The wetsuit had become uncomfortably warm. Or was it just his nerves? Fiona looked ice cool as she crouched on the catwalk, scanning the river with the binoculars. He had already tried to talk to her but she had held up a hand to silence him without taking her eyes off the river. He now paced the floor, anxiously waiting for her to give them the go-ahead to move out.

She suddenly cursed loudly.

“What is it?” he asked, pausing mid-stride to look up at her.

“There’s a police chopper coming this way,” she hissed, pressing herself against the wall as it buzzed low over the warehouse. She waited until the engine had died away then peered cautiously out of the window.

“Can you see it?” Mullen called out.

“It’s heading toward the Albert Bridge. It’s the first time it’s been this far down river which means the Merry Dancer can’t be too far behind.”

She trained the binoculars back on to the Lambeth Bridge. The unmarked white helicopter was already hovering close to the bridge. She smiled to herself as the bow of the Merry Dancer came into view. There were two men in the wheelhouse. One was Whitlock. The other was Moody. She watched as he removed his sweat-stained peaked cap, ran his arm across his forehead, then tugged it back over his bald head. She lowered the binoculars and looked round at Mullen, the smile still fixed on her face. She didn’t need to say anything. He crossed to the trapdoor and began to strap on his breathing apparatus. The waiting was over …