Secret Asset

58

Liz crouched with Charles Wetherby behind one of the police cars, taking cover as soon as she saw the first tyre shot out by the marks-men. She waited for an explosion, and covered her ears with her hands. Beside her, Wetherby spontaneously threw a protective arm around her shoulders.

There was a harsh, grating sound of metal hitting an immoveable object, and a muffled thump which seemed half sound, half vibration.

And then there was silence. Liz began to raise her head but Wetherby pushed her down again. “Wait,” he said. “Just in case.” But there was no explosion, and as the pressure from his arm eased, Liz peered cautiously over the bonnet of the police car.

The van had hit the retaining wall and been thrown upwards, where it lay against the tall iron railings, pointing towards the sky, its front tyres spinning in the air.

Matheson moved out from the protection of the cars and began shouting orders. A fire engine appeared from Debenhams behind them. Avoiding the forbidding bollards at that end of the Broad, it trundled heavily up along the pavement by the shops, squeezing slowly through the narrow gap before accelerating, siren now blaring, towards the van.

As it arrived, armed policemen emerged from the crannies and doorways where they had sheltered, and moved towards the crashed vehicle. A Special Branch officer in plain clothes got to the van first, reached up and tugged at the driver’s door, fruitlessly. He’s brave, thought Liz, since there was a petrol tank that could still detonate.

She came out from behind the car and began to walk with Wetherby cautiously towards the van. Dave Armstrong joined them, breathless and looking stunned. “What was that about?” he asked. Neither Liz nor Wetherby responded.

As they moved down the Broad, firemen were shooting powerful jets of foam over the van.

Liz said, “I don’t understand why Tom made the phone call.”

“Well he didn’t warn us about the van,” said Dave sharply.

Wetherby shrugged. “Perhaps he felt he didn’t need to.”

Liz looked at him inquiringly, just as Matheson intercepted them. “There were two men in the van. They’re both dead,” he announced.

“Killed by the crash?” asked Wetherby.

Matheson nodded. “They had a fertiliser bomb in the back of the van, but it didn’t go off. It’s too early to say for sure, but it looks as if the detonators didn’t work.”

“I’m not sure they were meant to,” said Wetherby slowly.

Liz looked at him again; Wetherby’s expression seemed entirely enigmatic. “You think they knew there wasn’t going to be an explosion?” she asked.

“No, but I think Tom did,” said Wetherby. “You said yourself that you couldn’t understand why he’d want to kill so many innocent people. He wanted the van to get through, but he knew it wasn’t going to blow up.”

“Why would he do that?” asked Liz. “What would the point be?”

Wetherby shrugged. “I suppose to demonstrate it could be done. To show us up as dangerously incompetent.” He pointed up the street, where Liz could see a television crew advancing. “That may be a local crew,” said Wetherby, “but you can be confident their footage is going to make the national news this evening. None of us is going to look good after that kind of exposure.”

“So that’s what he wanted?” asked Liz. “To destroy the Service’s reputation?”

“Something like that.”

“Hang on,” interrupted Dave. “He didn’t care if the two blokes died, did he?” he asked impatiently, gesturing towards the crashed van.

“Of course he didn’t,” said Wetherby. He gave a mirthless laugh. “I’m not defending Tom. I’m just saying I think his objective was more subtle than we gave him credit for. And thank God.” He looked around the Broad, full of policemen standing by while the firemen continued to cover the van with foam. “Think how many people could have been killed. If Tom hadn’t phoned, this place would have been full of people…”

They were standing in the middle of the Broad, only yards from the van. Liz looked around, still amazed that there had been no explosion, and no casualties other than the driver and his passenger. Then along the high railings above the wall which the van had hit, she saw that two stone pedestals were empty—their “Roman Emperor” heads had gone. It was surreal.

Wetherby pointed at some smashed fragments littering the Broad. He said wryly, “Somehow I don’t think those are the only heads that are going to roll.”