Secret Asset

57

Where was he? Why hadn’t Rashid rung? Bashir disobeyed the Englishman’s instructions and dialled Rashid’s mobile, only to find it was switched off. Damn! He checked his watch—the procession would be reaching Broad Street at any moment. What had the Englishman said? “If there’s any hiccup in communications, just go. Whatever happens, you must not be late. Late means too late.”

He would wait another thirty seconds, he decided, staring at his digital watch. Next to him Khaled suddenly stirred, and pointed through the windscreen. Looking out towards the end of the street, where the lush green lawns of University Parks were visible in the background, Bashir saw them.

One was in uniform, two were in plain clothes, walking briskly in and out of the street, checking each parked car, then moving on quickly. They were coming this way.

Please ring, please ring, Rashid, Bashir exclaimed, in what was almost a prayer. He saw one of the plain-clothes men point towards his end of the street, and then Bashir realised that he was pointing at him. The uniformed policeman looked up and broke into a sprint, grabbing his helmet with one hand while he shouted into a radio held by the other. The two plain-clothes men were behind him, and all three ran at full speed down the middle of the road.

He couldn’t wait any longer. He turned the ignition and the van coughed into life. Revving the engine, he pulled out sharply, intending to accelerate towards Parks Road, where he would turn onto the half-mile street that would lead them to their target. Seeing him start up the van, the man in uniform veered off onto the pavement, and one of the plain-clothes policemen drew a gun from inside his coat, and crouched behind the rear of a parked car.

Then Bashir saw a large van—the kind used to ferry policemen back and forth from football matches—stop directly across the far end of the side street, blocking his exit. He braked sharply just in time to swerve into a small road that circled behind the back of Keble College. Racing along behind the modern extensions at the back of the College, he negotiated the ninety-degree left turn with a small screech of his tyres. But he cursed out loud when he saw another police van pulling up to block off this side road as well. There was nothing for it: Bashir floored the accelerator, driving straight towards the police vehicle, then just short of it he threw the steering wheel abruptly right. His front tyre hit the high corner of the pavement and the van shot into the air, missing a passing girl by inches. She screamed, the noise filling the air like a siren, slowly dying away as the van landed with a heavy thump on Parks Road.

Bashir regained control and accelerated down the tree-lined street towards the Encaenia procession. It must have reached the Broad, he told himself. Mustn’t be late, mustn’t be late. The road was free of traffic but he forced himself to slow down as the speedometer reached sixty-five. He was worried he wouldn’t make the turn. He touched the brakes lightly once, then twice, and got ready. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Khaled grip the free end of the rope tightly.

The traffic light ahead was turning amber but he ignored it, praying no one would shoot out from Broad Street. Instead, ahead on his left, a student emerged from Holywell Street, riding a bicycle. As if in a film, a policeman came from nowhere and threw himself at the student, knocking him and his bicycle to the ground.

Before Bashir could fully take this in, he was in the junction, turning sharply right. He scraped inside the far pavement, just in front of the lower steps of the Clarendon Building, and struggled to aim the van towards the procession that should be heading straight towards him. He was going to drive along the pavement and then Khaled would pull the rope. The explosion would kill anyone within a hundred yards. That was what the Englishman had said. A hundred yards.

But the Broad was absolutely empty. There was no one on the pavement or on the street. No procession, no pedestrians, not even a student on a bicycle. It was like a ghost town.

Bashir began to panic as he felt a heavy thump against his front left tyre. What had he hit? Then almost simultaneously he felt the heavy whoomph of another tyre blowing. Suddenly he lost control of the steering.

The van skewed sharply left, in a curving skid propelling him directly towards the wall in front of the Sheldonian. Bashir knew in a flash that Khaled didn’t need to pull the rope. The impact alone would trigger the detonators, he thought.