Secret Asset

54

At nine-fifteen Liz listened intently as the briefing began. She was sitting on one of a row of uncomfortable plastic chairs in the Operations Room of the Thames Valley Headquarters in St. Aldates, facing a projector screen that had been pulled down on the far wall. Along the side of the room, hanging from brackets, was a bank of television monitors.

Next to Liz on one side sat Dave Armstrong, who had come down the night before, and looked tense and exhausted. On her other side were Wetherby and the Chief Constable, a hawk-like man named Ferris. Further down the row sat other senior police officers, including the head of Special Branch, clutching a plastic cup of coffee.

The Deputy Chief Constable, Colin Matheson, in charge of the operation, was addressing them, holding a long wooden pointer the length of a pool cue. He was a trim man in his late thirties with jet-black hair and a line in dry wit. His manner was brisk and professional, but there was palpable tension in the room, which nothing he said did anything to allay.

Matheson raised his pointer to signal to someone at the back of the room, and at once a map of the city centre appeared on the screen. “From what you’ve told us,” he said, looking at Wetherby, and moving his pointer along Broad Street to the Sheldonian, “this is the focal point.”

“We think so,” said Wetherby. “The Installation of the Chancellor is going to be there, and then Encaenia.”

“Would the Chancellor be a target?”

“It’s difficult to predict the target. These are Islamic extremists who want to do as much damage as possible in the most visible way. I think a single assassination would not be their first choice.”

Chief Constable Ferris turned to Wetherby. “Do we know if they’re armed?”

Wetherby shook his head. “No, we don’t. I think it’s unlikely they would carry weapons, but we can’t rule it out. We do know they possess explosives—we found traces of fertiliser in a safe house they were using in Wokingham. Given that, and their affiliations, and recent history in this country, everything points to their trying to blow something up and kill as many people as they can. Particularly if they’re ‘important’ people,” Wetherby added, his tone acknowledging the distinction’s absurdity. “That’s even better.”

“So which ceremony are they likely to attack?”

“I’d say Encaenia rather than Installation is the likelier. Don’t misunderstand me: these people would be perfectly happy to kill the Chancellor, but it would be better from their point of view if they can kill a lot of other dignitaries as well.”

“Any sense of how they’ll do it?” the Chief Constable asked, unable to mask his anxiety.

“I think there are two possibilities,” said Wetherby. “It could be a suicide bombing on foot, in which case at least one of them will have to get close to the procession, wearing some sort of apparatus. Or they’ll use a vehicle, which we think is more likely. We know they have a white Transit van and that the buyer was one of the three main suspects. He was particularly interested in its load capacity, apparently.” He looked at Matheson. “Your Special Branch have all the details, including the original plate numbers, though I’m sure they’ve changed them.”

Matheson nodded and pointed to the blank monitors on the wall. “We’re rigging some temporary video to cover the target area as well as we can. We’re using fixed cameras so no one can duck them as they rotate. We expect to have them working in the next half hour.

“Sniffer dogs have come in from Reading and are checking the building for explosives. The handlers are there now. It’s going to take a while: I’ve told them to be extra careful. In addition, there are library stacks from the Bodleian that run underground right next to the Sheldonian. They’re serviced by a kind of antique train that runs from the New Bodleian across the street to the Old Library, and then on again to the Radcliffe Camera.” He tracked the train’s path with his pointer on the projector screen.

“Do many people know this railway’s there?” asked Liz.

Matheson shrugged. “Most people walking through the courtyard wouldn’t have a clue that there’s a subterranean world beneath them. On the other hand, every Oxford mystery story from Inspector Morse back to Michael Innes seems to have an underground finale set beneath the Bodleian. If that’s what they’re planning, we’ll stop them.”

“I doubt they are,” said Wetherby, with a shake of his head. “From what you say, it’s too obvious, but I’m glad you’re checking anyway.”

The head of Oxford’s Special Branch spoke up. “There was a bit of a hitch with the photographs you sent, but we’ve got copies now. They’re being distributed to all the men in the area.”

He passed copies to Wetherby, who looked at them, then passed them on to Dave and Liz. Rashid looked terribly young, thought Liz. As young as Marzipan.

“Every armed response unit in the Thames Valley has been called in,” said Ferris next to Wetherby. “And there will be armed officers all along the route.”

“We’re also placing four sharpshooters up high as well, with sniper rifles,” Matheson said, putting the pointer directly on the Sheldonian. “One here in the cupola.”

Liz remembered the stunning view from her tourist’s visit to the top with Peggy.

“Another here,” he said, pointing to the Bodleian, “to cover the courtyard between the Clarendon Building and the Sheldonian. And two on Broad Street, one facing east from the top of the Blackwell’s music shop. The other facing west from the same position. We’ll also have a dozen Special Branch officers in plain clothes mingling with the spectators. All of them will be armed.”

He went on. “We are looking for any van in the middle of town. We’ve briefed all the traffic wardens and we’ve got extra shifts of uniformed officers walking the streets. White vans are not exactly uncommon, and of course they may have painted the van a different colour. But we’re doing everything we can.”

After this recital of preventive measures, a silence filled the room. No one seemed eager to break it.

“So,” concluded Matheson at last, his face grim, “let’s all hope that we’re fully prepared.”

“And that the levees don’t break,” added Dave Armstrong under his breath.