Siege

Twelve

THE VAN WAS just passing Notting Hill Gate tube station when Fox heard the faint boom of the explosion through the open window.

That’ll be the train bomb, he thought.

He took a quick breath as the enormity of what he was involved in was brought home to him. In the van, everyone was quiet. Even Wolf had stopped drumming his fingers on the dashboard – something he’d been doing for most of the journey – as he waited for what they knew would happen next.

They were moving faster now, the traffic easing up, probably because they were heading away from the earlier blast at the Westfield and the numbers of emergency vehicles moving towards it had temporarily thinned out. The new explosion would stretch them even further, and trigger the first real signs of panic in the capital. It was, thought Fox, incredibly easy in the digital age, where information was only a second away, to sow fear and chaos among the population with only the most basic weaponry.

Two minutes later, just as they came towards Lancaster Gate, they heard the second blast.

Wolf nodded slowly and rubbed his pockmarked face. Fox had never met the man who’d just turned himself into a walking bomb but he knew he was one of Wolf’s protégés. He watched as Wolf reached for his phone and dialled a number.

‘It’s out of service,’ he said. ‘He’s gone.’

‘I can just imagine what it’s like in Scotland Yard’s control room now,’ said Fox. He had nothing but disdain for the politically correct leadership of the Metropolitan Police and their bosses the politicians, all of whom would be in a state of wide-eyed confusion now as they realized how truly powerless they were in the greater scheme of things.

‘It’s time to rain down some more havoc,’ Wolf responded, putting the phone on loudspeaker as he dialled another number.

After a good minute a woman’s voice came on the line, her tone harassed. ‘Evening Standard, Julie Peters.’

‘In the last five minutes two bombs have exploded at Paddington railway station,’ Wolf announced, using his heavy Middle Eastern accent to maximum effect. ‘One on the First Great Western train from Bristol, the other a martyrdom operation by a young mujahideen warrior on the concourse. These bombings, and the bombing at the Westfield Shopping Centre, were carried out by the Pan-Arab Army of God in direct retaliation for Britain’s involvement in the NATO attacks on Arab nations and their occupation of Muslim lands. There are four more bombs planted on trains coming into Waterloo, St Pancras, Fenchurch Street and Liverpool Street. We give you this warning to show that we are prepared to negotiate.’

‘And what is it you want?’ asked Julie Peters breathlessly, but Wolf had already ended the call. He switched off the phone and removed the SIM card, which he flung out of the open window. By the time it was found it would be of no use whatsoever.

Fox knew that Wolf had given the Evening Standard reporter enough information about the bombings to confirm that he was involved in them, so his warning would be taken seriously, and a vague warning of multiple potential targets would stretch resources to the absolute limit.

And it would be all for nothing. There were no more bombs on trains. They weren’t needed.

Their real target was somewhere else entirely.