The Tick Tock Man

16

The monstrous dumper truck thundered up the A102 motorway towards the Blackwall Tunnel, its huge steel sides rattling with the speed. Its headlamps were like eyes burning fiercely into the wet night and the jetting sprays in its wake became glittering silver wings.

Its target was in sight. And closing.

High in the cab McGirl adjusted the driving mirror. Just treble-checking. The two motorcycles were still keeping position some hundred metres behind. Muldoon and Doran ready, the empty van already placed and waiting in West Ham across the river.

‘Half-a-mile,’ Clodagh Dougan confirmed.

They both wore balaclavas, rolled up to look like woollen hats.

McGirl nodded his acknowledgment, taking one hand from the wheel and fumbling in his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. He tipped the packet, pulling out one of its contents with his teeth, then hunted for his lighter.

Clodagh noticed. Nerves, she thought. This front-line Provie hero is human after all. ‘No, Pat, not now.’

He glanced sideways, saw the dash lights throwing the taut pale skin of her face into highlight and shadow, and grinned. ‘No, of course not.’ And just clamped the cigarette in his mouth, unlit. A comfort to his jangling nerves.

‘Something coming up,’ he said, eyes back on the mirror. There had been little traffic at this late-night hour, but now a car was gaining rapidly in the fast lane. Doing a ton or more, he gauged, already passing the two motorcycles.

Motorway Ends.

The sign flashed by as the road began to narrow, their northbound carriageway separating from the southbound as they hurtled towards the Blackwall Tunnel entrance.

Target close and closing. Huge circular gantries looming.

More height warnings for the old tunnel. Thirteen foot four inches. McGirl content, the tyre pressures reduced to clear them by a whisker.

Defeated by the spray from the dumper, the overtaking car had slowed to fall in behind the lumbering ten-wheeler. McGirl squinted in the mirror; it was white, flashy, judging from the grille, a Mercedes.

‘Oh, Sweet Mother of Jesus,’ he breathed. He could see the pulsing blue light catching up fast. Some zealous cop wanting to catch the Merc. An excuse to go back to the station, out of the rain and a cup of tea. ‘Shit!’

Clodagh turned in her seat. ‘What is it?’

They were plunging down towards the tunnel now, the cutting lit in a blaze of yellow sodium light, height-alarm gongs hanging overhead and the bright mouth opening to swallow them.

KEEP IN LANE — KEEP IN LANE demanded the signs.

‘Police car,’ McGirl snapped. ‘About three vehicles back.’

‘After us?’

And they were in, the pressure blast hitting them, shaking the windows, the stark strip lights enveloping them, the noise of the dumper reverberating around the tunnel as it closed in over their heads.

‘No!’ McGirl had to shout above the deafening din. ‘After a speeding car behind us!’

The illuminated tarmac ribbon opened up ahead of them, the first red tail-lights visible fifty metres ahead.

McGirl grinned harshly, the cigarette shredding between his teeth. He spat it out. ‘Time for an executive decision.’

‘This is my da’s dream, Pat. My dream.’

He spared her a fleeting glance, then averted his eyes back to the mirror. ‘Then we go!’

Balaclavas down.

Shifting his foot, he stabbed the brake pedal. Then again, and again. Then he hit the airhorns. A double blast like a soul from hell, the aching sound of a dying whale, trembled along the tunnel. In his mirror he saw the Mercedes backing off as the dumper’s red lights continued blinking. McGirl stamped on the brakes again, this time long and hard, heard the hiss of compressed air as they began to bind.

Now, now, the silent voice yelled in his head.

He spun the wheel, felt the monster begin to slew, aware of the plaintive shriek of burning rubber. Saw the signal flasher of the Merc. Could imagine the face of the impatient driver as he pulled out to overtake.

‘Stupid bastard!’ McGirl screamed.

The dumper’s wheels locked, seven tons of truck and three thousand pounds of explosive on the slide. Its front nose struck the tinplate crash-rail, friction sparks trailing like a shooting star, the cargo body rocking as it swerved to block both lanes.

As it came to an ear-grirfding halt, the nose embedded in the buckled rail and began to tear at the tunnel lining. Simultaneously they felt the earth-shaking thud of the Mercedes as it crumpled into the dumper’s side.

Christ, McGirl thought.

‘Get going!’ Clodagh shouted. Already she was adjusting the final settings to the complex TPU that would protect and then ultimately fire the mammoth bomb.

McGirl took the automatic from beneath his seat, switched on the vehicle’s hazard flashers and kicked open the door. Looking back along the flank of the dumper, he could see only half of the Mercedes. Its bonnet had disappeared under the truck’s chassis and the roof had caved in beneath the steel-ribbed underbelly. Steam and scalding water billowed and the saloon’s hooter had become jammed on at full pitch, its piercing wail filling his head, blotting out his thinking process.

He jumped the few feet to the oil-sodden tarmac. A black slick like treacle was advancing from the wreckage where he could see the crushed driver, the man’s blood-splattered face mouthing silently for help.

He ignored it, and glanced across the tunnel to check his handiwork. Excellent! The dumper’s rear end was just feet from the far wall. No room for a car to pass, but enough for a motorcycle. The following cars had come to an untidy halt, each driver having to swerve to avoid the vehicle in front. McGirl shielded his eyes against the dazzling array of light, one throbbing blue police car strobe amid the white brilliance of headlamps. The two motorcycles had slowed with the rest of the traffic, waiting for everything to stop. Now Muldoon and Doran revved their machines, bucking as they raced to join the dumper and leaving skid marks scorched into the road surface as they braked.

Muldoon jerked to a standstill beside McGirl and handed over a spare helmet. While he put it on, dazed drivers were emerging from their cars, doors opening. Then the two police officers pushed through, hastily pulling on their peak caps, ready to take charge, beginning to run.

McGirl raised his automatic. ‘GET BACK! THIS IS A BOMB!’

The policemen took a second to comprehend, to register the gun and the meaning of the words, McGirl’s harsh Ulster accent. They skidded to a halt in mid-run, one sliding on the spilt oil and stumbling. The other was younger, looked no more than an adolescent. He reached out his hand, palm up.

‘Don’t be silly, sir. Hand over the gun.’

Christ, thought McGirl, what the fuck do they teach them at Hendon? ‘IT GOES OFF IN ONE HOUR!’

The officer didn’t flinch, didn’t appear to hear. Took a step forward, then another. His hand still held out. ‘Let’s be having it, sir.’

Are you fucking deaf?! ‘THIS IS AN IRA AIDAN BOMB, GODDIT?! AIDAN! YOU’VE GOT AN HOUR TO CLEAR THE TUNNEL! AND DON’T APPROACH IT OR IT’LL BLOW!’

‘Andy!’ called the policeman on the ground. ‘Keep back, it’s the bloody IRA!’

Another step forward. McGirl’s eyes seemed to zoom in like a camera on the thin young face, the clear eyes, the pimples on his chin.

The single shot took him out. Ear-shattering in the enclosed space, the 9mm round acted like a rug pulled from beneath the officer’s feet, flinging him backwards onto his companion.

Glodagh shoved the gun into her pocket, pulled on her helmet, and threw herself astride Doran’s pillion. ‘LET’S GO.’

The gleaming tail pipes exploded in a cloud of choking exhaust and the first motorcycle was on the move, slowing for a wobbly passage between the dumper’s rear end and the tunnel wall. Then it was away, the noise of its violent acceleration vibrating back and forth beneath the Thames, McGirl and Muldoon adding to the nerve-shattering clamour as they followed close behind.

On the ground Police Constable Pete Williams hugged PC Andy Collins in his arms, seeing the gaping chest wound and feeling the life leaking out of the young body.

With his free hand he pressed the send button on the radio clipped to his lapel, gave his call sign. He heard a response, the voice like it was coming from Mars, the signal breaking up.

Underground, he thought, and tried again. Nothing but hiss and static.

Underground. His eyes travelled to the massive dumper jammed across the tunnel, then up to the arched roof.

A massive bomb, how big? The blast directed straight up out of the steel sides of the cargo hold. And above, how many million gallons of river water pressing in on them? Immense, unimaginable pressure. God knew how many cars were now bumper-to bumper in the jam. Young Andy dying in his arms.

And his sodding, fucking, bloody bastard radio didn’t work.

The shutter of the camera blinked silently again as they left.

From the pavement opposite it was impossible to see the image-intensifying telephoto lens, hidden as it was in the shadow of the missing roof slate.

The technician from 14 Intelligence Company was satisfied. He slid the slate back into place, hunkered down in the confines of the roof space, and pulled off his earphones.

Beside him the SAS minder, wearing a civilian green anorak and with a stubby Heckler & Koch sub-machine-gun resting across his knees, nodded sagely. ‘Interesting?’

‘Could be, Ran.’ The technician switched off the tape machine, made himself comfortable and began scribbling in his note pad.

Ran Reid watched him without comment. The technician was an insular bastard, he thought. Kept things to himself. Operational silence was second nature to them both. Especially in OPs. But, after all, this was a permanent covert OP in a safe house. An occasional exchange of words wouldn’t go amiss.

The previous owners had been driven out nine months earlier when the place was firebombed. It was an anonymous attack and no one knew who was responsible, although Ran Reid could guess. There had not been much damage but it was enough to persuade the Protestant couple that it was time to move for the sake of their child. The husband worked for a construction company contracted to the RUC and he knew for that reason he was considered fair game by the Provisional IRA.

The property had come on the market at a snip, the new owner a single woman in her thirties who said she worked as a secretary in the Northern Ireland Office. In fact she was RUC Special Branch.

It was an ideal situation because every day she could take the tapes and rolls of film into work without the need to make surreptitious journeys.

That wasn’t to say that Ran Reid or the technician, or the other teams on rota, could ever afford to drop their guard. Because if King Billy ever discovered the bug transmitter that fed perpetually off the electrical circuit in his drinking club, or the OP in the rooftop opposite, they knew he would not hesitate to act. The betting was it would be an incendiary device that would roast them alive. No one doubted that in truth King Billy’s loyalty as a Loyalist was nowadays mostly to himself. It was anyone’s guess if the Quick Reaction Force from the local army base would arrive in time to rescue them.

The technician passed the note to Ran Reid. ‘Can you encrypt and send, please. Priority.’

It took just a few minutes for the words to be electronically coded and then fired into the airwaves in a burst transmission lasting a fraction of a second. The signal was so fast that it would defy any of the scanners known to be used by paramilitaries on both sides.

The duty officer in the high-security operations room of the Intelligence and Security Group Detachment at Lisburn received the signal and decoded it minutes later. Known colloquially as ‘Int and Sy’, or more menacingly as simply ‘The Group’, it was, depending on one’s viewpoint, the most revered, despised, feared and notorious of the several covert intelligence units operating in Northern Ireland. In order to preserve its shadowy anonymity, its official title and that of its component parts had been changed from time to time over the years to mislead the enemy as to its true function. The Group comprised 14 Intelligence and Security Company, drawing on suitable officers and NCOs from all branches of the army and Royal Marines for undercover surveillance work, the Field Intelligence Unit — manned by the Army Intelligence Corps to run agents in the field, who were frequently ‘turned’ terrorists — and a small contingent of SAS troopers for hard backup.

Lieutenant Bryant read the signal for a second time before calling Don Trenchard on his bleeper. The liaison officer had been enjoying a round of cards and sharing jokes with colleagues over a late coffee in the mess bar. He always found it easy to relax in the place with its plush burgundy carpet, matching drapes and heavy mahogany panelling: it simply reminded him of home on the Bedfordshire estate that had been in his family for generations.

Feeling tired and more than ready for sleep, he overcame his initial irritation and walked briskly back up to the ops room, leaving his winning hand unplayed.

‘Thought you’d want to see this. From the OP opposite Billy Baker’s club. That’s the gist of the meet. Full transcript and photographs will be in by 0830 tomorrow.’

Trenchard studied the signal, lowered himself into a chair. ‘Eddie Mercs and Casey Mullins,’ he murmured.

‘Says she wants to name the bombers.’

‘Don’t we all.’

‘What’s King Billy up to, Don?’

‘Judging by the lecture on the Protestant case, he’s out to win friends and influence people.’

Bryant shook his head. ‘I don’t mean that. The way he’s left it. It’s almost as though he thinks he can help them. As if he knows something.’

‘More likely bravado and pride. Doesn’t want to admit he knows bugger all.’

‘But if he does?’

‘He knows we’ve got first call.’

‘So what do we do?’

Casey Mullins, Trenchard mused. Friend, now lover, of Tom Harrison, Ulster’s Senior ATO and up to his neck in AIDAN’s London bombing campaign. Made the story her own, latest darling of what was Fleet Street, hungry for success and on the scent.

‘She’s at the Park Avenue. Get someone down there to keep a watch. Check with the airport car-hire companies and get a registration number if there is one. Then feed everything into Crucible. Our access only. I want to know everywhere she goes and everyone she sees.’

‘It’s as good as done.’

It was half past midnight when the first signal came through to the Section admin office.

Midgely had just glanced at his watch. ‘I know a place where we can get a late-night curry and a lager, if you fancy it? Celebrate your departure in style.’

Harrison put a brave face on it. ‘Sounds good, and it’s the best offer I’m likely to get. But promise me, no crying in your beer.’

The Yorkshireman almost smiled. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to live without you.’

‘You’ll get over it in time. Al will look after you.’

Midgely chuckled and glanced over his shoulder to be sure Pritchard wasn’t around. The Senior Expo had come in with the twelve to eight a.m. shift, overlapping with their own by one hour. The terrorists’ favourite time to strike.

Not that they were expecting anything. Since AIDAN’s own goal in Lambeth, there had been a sudden lull in activities. Clearly the incident had set the Provos back, maybe even resulted in a premature end to the whole campaign.

Perhaps his successor, arriving from Germany the next morning, would have nothing more exciting to do than supervise the 321 squad’s return to Belfast. Either way, it was no longer any of Harrison’s concern.

He put down the copy of the Royal Logistics Corps Gazette he was reading as he heard the duty officer take the radio call. ‘Central Ten Five Five receiving… Yes… Where?… Location Westminster Bridge, status not confirmed…’ The man swivelled in his seat, still listening intently to the voice in his headset and gave a thumbs-up. ‘Wilco, sir. We’re on our way. Please clear the area and check and secure an ICP on the north bank.’

Midgely was on his feet. ‘I’ll call Al.’

The desk phone rang and Harrison reached for the receiver. Til take it.’

As the Yorkshireman disappeared into the corridor, the voice of the AntiTerrorist Branch detective was almost shrieking on Harrison’s line. ‘Call from the Samaritans. Car bomb threat for vicinity of Westminster Bridge. Forty-five minutes warning received 0028 hours.’

‘Anything else?’ Harrison demanded.

‘That’s it.’

‘No codeword?’

‘No.’

Shit! A hoax or what? ‘Definitely not AID AN?’

‘Negative.’

, He hung up and the duty officer called across from the radio console. ‘Is that our confirmation?’

‘Yes, but no codeword.’

‘It looks like a car pulled up on the pavement, dead centre of the bridge. Hazard flashers on, bonnet up, and the driver walked away. Sound familiar?’

Harrison paled. ‘The flyover bombs.’

Another signal was coming up on the console and the duty officer turned away.

Al Pritchard strode into the room, Midgely at his heels.

‘Suspect car bomb on Westminster Bridge now confirmed,’ Harrison reported and gave the details.

Midgely grimaced thoughtfully. ‘No codeword, so it could be a copycat.’

Pritchard’s eyelids half lowered. ‘Or a rerun of the flyover bombs.’

‘And no codeword — to deliberately slow our response?’ Harrison suggested. *

The Sexpo nodded. ‘Midge, put out an all-units to have all bridges in central London checked and watched. If it is them, let’s get ahead of the game.’

But it was already too late for that. The duty officer had finished with the latest caller. ‘Vauxhall Bridge now, Al, the same setup. And this console’s lighting up like Blackpool seafront. I need backup, fast.’

Midge yelled down the corridor for the new shift members to man the switchboard and Harrison’s phone rang again. It was via another branch of the Samaritans. Vauxhall Bridge confirmed. No codeword.

‘You want my lads tasked, Al?’

Pritchard had accepted the inevitable. The prospect of car bombs, even if they weren’t AIDAN’s, left him with no real choice. ‘Your lads, Tom, but not you. You’ve barely fifteen minutes left to run, so let’s call it a day, eh?’

Bastard! ‘Sure, Al, if that’s the way you want it. You’re the boss.’

The acid smile. ‘I always have been.’

Within five minutes four Range-Rovers and four Expos with their backup were on the road together with three British Army Tacticas, which included the big Attack Barrow. They were racing after a rapidly mounting number of suspect river bridge car bombs, Waterloo and Battersea Bridges now added to the list.

Only Harrison and Midgely were left. The Yorkshireman telephoned the remaining Expos on leave and told them to report in — like yesterday! He also requested the army unit at Northolt be put on immediate standby.

Earlier Harrison had found himself thinking about Casey and whether they might be able to steal a few days away together. Maybe a quiet country hotel somewhere. Now all such fantasies were pushed rudely to the back of his mind. ‘Something else is brewing,’ he observed, lighting up his small briar pipe. It always helped his concentration.

‘How d’you mean?’

‘These bridge bombs aren’t hoaxes, Midge. No hoaxer abandons four cars — even someone else’s — simultaneously on one night. To my mind, no such idiot would find three friends daft enough to go along with it. That means it’s PIRA — but no codeword.’

‘So?’

‘They’re going for a spectacular. I don’t know where or how, but that’s what they’re setting up. I can feel it. Maybe these bridge bombs are quite basic, put in place by a regular mainland active service unit, or even their regular logistics people. They’ve spread our resources and now they’ll go for the big one. Then we’ll get our codeword.’

Midgely looked chastened, shivering suddenly in an imagined draught. ‘Al was right, Tom, you’ve just a few minutes left to run. Why don’t you go home? Close the door on all this. It’s not your worry any more.’ He smiled and placed his porky hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Sorry about that curry.’

The duty officer was busy again; both men turned as he completed his conversation. ‘Got something here, Midge,’ he called. ‘A fucking great dumper truck in the middle of the Blackwall Tunnel. And it’s AID AN.’

‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ Midgely murmured, stepping forward to snatch the task-sheet. He stared at it, hardly believing. ‘A truck blocking the northbound tunnel. Car crashed into the side of it with a couple and a baby trapped. One policeman shot dead… What the fuck, this is some kind of sick joke!’ He shook his head. ‘Forty-five minutes to go, verbal to surviving police officer who confirms AIDAN codeword and a specific warning not to approach the vehicle.’

Harrison stared at the large-scale wall map of the London streets. ‘No one else is going to be free for half-an-hour at best. Midge. When will the first relief get here?’

‘He’s driving in from Carshalton.’

Too long, Harrison decided. ‘Then it’s you or me. I’ll toss you for it.’

Midge said: ‘Someone’s got to stay here, Tom, and you don’t qualify. Take the last Rover and get down there, I’ll join you as soon as the first relief arrives. With a police escort hopefully he’ll make it in another ten.’

Harrison was already on his way to the door. Til need a complete sitrep on my way, Midge. Update me on the radio.’

Outside the tarmac of the compound glistened with the rain that had been falling all evening without let-up. He splashed through the puddles as he ran to where the Range-Rover stood, white and shiny under the bright lights of the open garage. As he swung up into the driver’s seat, the allocated police escort vehicle was already moving into position, its blue strobe gyrating around the compound.

In minutes they were across Lambeth Bridge then racing east along the northern embankment before sweeping up to avoid the building congestion of traffic at Westminster, Waterloo and then Blackfriars Bridge where the Section’s Expos were at work. It was a diversion that cost them many precious minutes.

By the time they were approaching St Paul’s Cathedral, Midgely was on the radio with his updated sitrep. ‘We’ve got a problem, Tom. Police on the scene say some sort of anti-approach device has been rigged to each side of the dumper. Looks like those automatic porch lights, similar to the one they used at the West Drayton flyover bomb.’

That’s all I bloody need, Harrison thought angrily. ‘Go on.’

‘As you know, the tunnel runs south to north. The south side is chocka with cars, but at least it’s now been cleared of people, apart from those poor sods trapped in the Mercedes. Of course, no one’s been able to get near them. The ICP has been set up in the empty north sector — fire brigade, police and paramedics in attendance. Again, they haven’t approached within a hundred and fifty metres.’

‘How much longer on the clock?’

‘If you want to believe them — and it’s been confirmed this time in calls to Reuters and AP and traced to Dublin — you’ve got thirty-four minutes precisely.’

‘Cheers.’ He set his watch.

Now they were overtaking a long line of jammed traffic, Harrison following the police escort on the wrong side of East India Dock Road. The roadblocking cordon was opened to admit the two-car convoy before it turned onto the A102 tunnel approach road which was totally and eerily devoid of traffic.

The tunnel mouth beckoned, emergency vehicles queued in one lane, ready for the all-clear and the call to action.

It was strange to be suddenly enveloped in the soulless manmade artery beneath the Thames, with its stark and clinical overhead lighting and soot-encrusted walls discoloured by the exhaust from the thousands *of vehicles that passed through each day. At any moment Harrison half expected to be confronted by the headlights of cars bearing down in the opposite direction.

How small and confined the two-lane carriageway suddenly seemed, its historical origins now blatantly clear. Built in 1897, Harrison knew, for the horse and cart. The second tunnel had been added in 1967 to carry southbound traffic and was over two feet higher. It didn’t sound much, but it made a big difference.

The patrol car was slowing, pulling over behind three ambulances and two fire tenders. Harrison continued to crawl forward, finally braking beside the lead vehicle.

And there it was. Over a hundred metres distant, slewed at an angle like a steel blast door blocking the tunnel completely, the upper edge of the dumper’s cargo body seeming to touch the roof.

The senior police chief was at his window. ‘God, am I pleased to see you. How d’you want to play this?’

It was no time for niceties. ‘First of all, you’ll have to back these vehicles right out of the tunnel.’

‘We wanted to be able to move in the moment you’re finished.’

‘I understand. But if that bastard goes up you’ll be blown out the runnel like a cannon. Better to drive out in one piece and wait there. Now tell me, is this the closest anyone’s got?’

‘On this side, yes. But on the other side one of our officers was within forty feet.’ In the tunnel the man’s voice had an echoing ring to it.

‘How long ago?’

‘Just after the incident.’

That didn’t mean a thing. There must have been a time delay before the anti-approach devices were armed in order to allow the terrorists to make good their own escape. ‘Infrared?’

The police chief nodded. ‘Almost certainly passive infrared linked to the registration of movement.’

‘Usual range about ten metres?’

‘Yes, but these ones are sited high up on each side of the cargo body, so there’s probably a longer throw than in the usual domestic situation. I wouldn’t take any risks under twenty metres.’ The man looked painfully worried. ‘I’ve got a firearms unit on standby. I wondered if you wanted to shoot out the sensors?’

Harrison shook his head. ‘Too risky. It might do the job but it’s just as likely to trigger it.’ He turned round. ‘Fetch me the senior paramedic, will you?’

The officer beckoned a man in green overalls. He must have been in his fifties: white hair, a lined face and steady dark eyes.

‘Do you have space blankets on board?’ Harrison asked. ‘You know, the foil types used for hypothermia?’

‘Sure.’

‘Get me two. Some scissors^and some cord.’

‘What are you going to do?’ the policeman asked as the paramedic returned to his ambulance.

‘Infrared reacts to body heat. Foil has a reflective quality. That’s the theory anyway.’

‘Does it work?’

‘We experimented in Belfast at a friend’s flat with an interior security sensor. Used a whole roll of Bacofoil.’

‘Did it work?’ the officer repeated.

‘Almost. Nearly crossed the room before it registered. We’d run out of foil for one arm.’

‘Jesus.’

The paramedic returned. ‘Tie one round my waist,’ Harrison ordered. ‘Like an apron.’

For someone of his age, the man worked with remarkable deftness; after years of witnessing motorway horrors and countless dangerous situations, he was totally unflappable. Once fitted and adjusted over the trousers of his flameproof overalls, the hem of the blanket rested just half-an-inch above the tarmac.

‘I’ll need a ladder to get me up to the sensor,’ Harrison said, then fitted his bomb helmet before the second blanket was placed over his head, covering the armoured flak vest like a poncho. He stood, sweating in the darkness, until the paramedic had cut an eye-slit away in front of his visor.

Christ, he thought, I must look ridiculous. A lampshade made of silver foil.

His watch told him that there were just twenty minutes to go. There was no time for second thoughts. For a moment he watched the first of the emergency vehicles begin the long reverse back out of the tunnel. Then, picking up the Pigstick disrupter on its anglepoise mounting, and the lightweight aluminium ladder from the fire brigade, he began walking towards the dumper.

All he could hear was his own laboured breathing and the gentle rustle of the space blankets. He was alone now, totally. The tunnel began to take on a character of its own, seeming to adopt a new shape, shrinking in on both sides, the roof lowering as he walked. The white centre line on the tarmacand the crash barriers on each side emphasised the perspective like the work of a surrealist artist. All lines narrowing, leading to infinity. Infinity ending at the huge slab side of the dumper.

God, he felt lonely.

There was no one else in the world. It was like walking through a bad dream. His heart thudding, sweat running down his temples, along his jawline and starting to drip from his chin. His visor starting to fog despite the internal helmet fan. Bloody things never did work like they were supposed to.

He drew to a halt. That was it. Twenty metres, give or take. He could see the small white plastic sensor now, just below the upper rim of the cargo body. Tilted slightly down. Like a watchful eye. AIDAN’s eye. Ready, alert, all-seeing. Itching to react. Daring him to make a mistake. Willing him to.

No going back now.

Instinctively he drew his hands up under the blanket poncho. Unable to be sure, he prayed neither showed beneath the foil. If they did, AIDAN’s eye would see them. Just a glimpse of warm flesh would be enough for the passive infrared sensor.

Cars and derelicts. The old dreads. Only this time it wasn’t a car, it was something a thousand times worse.

He took a tentative step forward. His heart was going like a hammer drill. Another step, then one more.

Keep going, you fucking coward. There’s a baby in a Merc on the other side. The father with a steering wheel in his chest and the mother with her legs crushed… How would you feel if that was your child trapped in there? And what would Archie himself think if he saw you hesitating now? Wouldn’t be so proud of his father then, would he?

He forced himself on, each foot seemingly weighted with lead. Refusing to obey the commands of his brain, his body reluctant to be dragged, inwardly screaming, towards its inevitable fate. His eyes transfixed on the small plastic lens, waiting for the little red pilot light to blink on. Aha! Caught you!

Shit! Stop thinking, just keep going. Not too fast, don’t create an airflow to lift the protective flap of the blanket. Not too slow or the clock will beat you.

Christ, Casey, I love you. Where the fuck are you now, and what the hell are you doing in Ulster? I should be in bed with you now, not walking under the Thames like a grand master of the Ku Klux Klan in silver paper!

He heard it then. Above the drumbeat thud of his own heart, above his rasping lungs and the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. The high-pitched cry of a baby. High-pitched, then subsiding into the painful gurgle of distress, regaining its strength in order to scream again.

He shuffled on, looked up.

God, the dumper was big. It towered above him, a rusting flank of steel with ribs and rivets. Filling his vision until that was all there was in the world.

Would this be the last thing he ever saw?

He stopped, bending tentatively at the knees, lowering the Pigstick to the tarmac, careful for his hand not to show. It dropped the last inch, toppled over, the metallic clang echoing along the lonely tunnel. His eyes shut, then opened. No time to pray.

Inch by inch he swung his left hand up, shifting the six-foot ladder from the horizontal to the vertical. Gently he allowed the ends to touch the dumper’s side. Daren’t look at his watch, daren’t reveal his wrists.

Up, up, you bastard, don’t tell me you’ve suddenly developed vertigo?

One foot, first rung. Next foot, up, up. Nearly there.

Above his head the Cyclops eye watched. Impassive. Now he could even see the indented lines on the plastic lens, the attaching bracket and the screw heads, the thin twist of flex disappearing over the rim.

Perhaps the bloody dumper was empty? Nothing in it. Just another of AIDAN’s practical jokes. That’s what his instructor had told him once. That was the real essence of the booby trap. Forget your technical theories, when it came down to it a booby trap was just a practical joke by someone with a truly black sense of humour. You had to laugh really…

Last rung. Precarious and vulnerable, having to risk showing his hands now, hopefully under the sensor’s line-of-sight, palms on the rough cold steel for support. His wristwatch showing.

Twelve minutes to go. God, where had the time gone?

He reached beneath the poncho, pulled out the wire-cutters from his trouser pocket then, stretched up. Too short, damn it! The tip of the jaws just an inch below the flex. He bunched the muscles in his calves and pushed his soles against the ladder rung.

It moved, jerked suddenly, the legs sliding on the oil-smeared tarmac. His hand shot out, palm jammed against the steel rib to halt the movement.

Calm, calm, he told himself. A long, slow deep breath. Another stretch. More careful this time, measured, reaching out with gentle pressure. Watching the jaws edge towards the exposed flex. Sweat running into his eyes. Through a painful and salty blur he saw the tip touch the flex.

He opened his palm, allowing the spring-loaded action to separate the jaws, felt them grip the flex. Then he shut his eyes and he closed his fist around the handles. A tiny harsh snap, feeling it through his fingers rather than hearing it.

Again he breathed, squeezed the sweat from his eyes, blinked, and looked.

The cut flex hung free. Sweet Jesus Christ, he’d done it!

‘Tom, how’s it going?’

The sudden sound of the metallic voice coming from his transceiver took him by surprise, almost toppling him from the ladder.

‘Midge? Where are you?’

‘At the tunnel entrance. What’s happening?’

‘I’ve just reached the truck and taken out the first infrared sensor.’

‘ Thank God for that. What do you want me to do?’

‘The Pigstick’s firing cables go back to my Rover two hundred metres back. I need a long extension to clear the tunnel.’

‘Wilco, Tom, we’re on our way.’

Ten minutes to run and no time to lose. Harrison jumped back down to the tarmac, scooped up his ladder and the Pigstick and rounded the small gap between the dumper’s end and the tunnel wall.

Now he saw the Mercedes for the first time. It was hideously crushed, half buried beneath the dumper’s chassis. The roof came down to meet the dash and in the apex of crushed metal he could just see the drained face of the woman. Young, maybe pretty, but splashed with blood. The skin around her closed eyes was grey from the mascara that had run with her tears of pain.

Unconscious, he thought, and thank God for that at least. Oblivious to the pain now.

He moved cautiously around the rear of the car, until he was in view of the second sensor on the dumper’s other side. Peering into the distorted car window as he passed, he saw the baby’s carrycot. It was upturned in the rear seat well. A tiny white hand protruded, pink fingers wriggling from a white woollen sleeve. Alive.

He moved on, repeating the procedure against the second sensor, easier and quicker this time as his confidence increased.

Climbing back down, he stripped off his blanket poncho and apron, and removed the helmet. Cool air, tainted with the distinct smell of oil, rushed at him, drying the sweat from his skin. Roughly he ran his hands through his sodden hair, scratching his scalp in an effort to clear his mind.

First things first. Could he locate the timer and power unit? Was it accessible for a quick knockout with the Pigstick?

Quickly he moved the ladder along to the tractor unit. His mind was already filled with the next prospect: entering the cab. Sod, the door firmly shut. AIDAN would surely have thought of something here. What was it this time? The courtesy light or another car alarm like the one that had caught Jock? A trembler or a tilt as well? Almost certainly.

To climb up the foot and handholds to the cab would rock the springs and that was something he couldn’t risk. So he replaced his helmet and used the ladder again, inching his way up until he could peer in through the driver’s door.

The dash, the seats — Nothing obvious. His eyes drifted to the squab seat at the back, trying to penetrate the shadows. Somewhere, he knew, must be the TPU. But where?

He almost missed it. Naturally he’d been looking at the cab floor, expecting to find the unit beneath the seats or in the footwells. On the point of giving up in exasperation, his eyes lifted. And there it was.

His stomach turned to liquid. The neat little plywood box was swinging gently like a flypaper, suspended by a length of tightly coiled spring from the cab roof. All that kept it from rotating were the wires feeding from the back, disappearing down behind the squab seats.

The TPU resembled a PIRA Mk 16, as the ATOs had dubbed it. Two empty dowel holes to release two mechanical timers hidden inside: one to the main charge in the dumper’s cargo body, the second a time-delay to activate the antihandling devices.

And there was one of them staring him in the face. He blanched. The tiny globule of mercury was sealed in its transparent plastic capsule, its pivot mounting adjusted so that the slightest motion of the cab would tip the mercurial blob to the other end where it would link the two terminal ends and complete the circuit.

No deal! He’d have to try another way.

Climbing back down the ladder, he moved to the gap between the tractor unit and the trailer. He scrambled up quickly, knowing exactly what he was looking for. Amid the connecting cables for brakes and the vehicles’ electrical system, ran a length of black garden hosepipe. It was the link between the TPU in the cab with the perforated firing tube in the rear body which would detonate the inevitable sacks of fertiliser mix.

Fishing in his pocket again, he drew out his favourite craft knife and extended the blade. This was no time for hesitation. Like a surgeon in a life-threatening emergency, this was the time to kill or cure. In went the razor point, carving into the plastic, moving around the tube until he was able to tear off a ring of the stuff and reveal…

Two lengths of smooth white cable. Det cord? Please, God, let it be! If it was Cordtex he could just cut straight through it. Separate the brain from the monstrous body at a single stroke.

But the light was poor and he couldn’t be certain. The trouble was the stuff looked almost identical to coaxial cable. And if he cut through that with a steel blade, he was dead meat. Involuntarily he glanced up at the tunnel roof, just feet above his head, and wondered what would happen if the dumper blew.

Feverishly he went to work, scraping with the blade at the first length of cable. Chips of plastic sleeve flaked away and then careful now — the white fibre inner. A further, really cautious cut… and the compressed white PETN powder of the explosive inner core spilled out.

He grinned smugly. Det cord. Carrying the detonating wave at a rate of six thousand metres a second. With a confident flourish he produced his cutters and snapped it through.

His hand moved to the second cable. Backup, he decided, a failsafe in case the first malfunctioned. Typical AID AN thoroughness. He opened the jaws.

No shortcuts! A voice rang in his ears. His old instructor, long ago retired. His own voice, too, when he’d given lectures.

He dropped the cutters and picked up his craft knife. More steady whittling, flecks of white plastic scattering onto his knees until…

Oh, shit! Light gleamed on the inner wire core. It was coax. And he was a millimetre from death.

Instinctively his sphincter tightened as his bowels turned instantly to liquid jelly. In time, but only just.

The second cable was backup all right, but electrical not explosive det cord. A deliberate ploy to defeat the bomb-disposal officer in just this situation?

No matter. There was nothing for it. Like it or not, he would have to tackle the TPU in the cab.

Five minutes to run.

At that point he heard Midgely’s Rover arrive, parking next to his and linking up the extended firing cable he’d been unreeling behind his vehicle.

Harrison turned back to the cab. The temptation to risk opening the door was colossal, but he forced himself to resist. AID AN was hardly likely to miss a simple trick like that.

He went back up the ladder, feeling the cab suspension start to give. Hardly anything, but it was just enough to set the TPU dancing gently on its spring. Another hurried rummage in his pocket, greasy fingers finding the spring-loaded centrepunch.

He pushed the instrument against the toughened side window, heard the crack and saw the glass frost over instantly. Without % hesitation, he began tearing aside the coagulated crystals from the frame with his bare hands. Then he was in, struggling to lift one leg through the jagged aperture, then the next until he was kneeling on the driver’s seat, facing the back with the steering wheel digging uncomfortably into his backside. He cursed himself now for not using the passenger window, which would have allowed him more space. But time, running out by the second, was now the sole dictator of unfolding events.

Midgely appeared on the ladder now and, without wasting words, handed in the disrupter and its awkward anglepoise stand. ‘Three minutes,’ he warned gruffly.

Harrison nodded. ‘Get back to the firing point, Midge. I want to Pigstick this the moment I’m clear.’

To wish good luck was to invite disaster. ‘Go for it, my son.’

‘Bugger off.’

The florid face disappeared from the window and Harrison concentrated on opening up the concertina joints. But it was difficult in the confined space, the helmet restricting his vision. And while searching for a clear gap behind the seat for the stand legs, the metal slipped through his greasy fingers. The stand banged against the cab side and, as he jerked the end clear, the clamp holding the Pigstick hit the TPU. He could not believe it! It swung gently left and right, a deadly pendulum, just ten inches from his face. He stared at it, his eyes glued to the little bead of glistening mercury. God, he could swear it was deliberately taunting him.

Ignore it, you fool! Get on.

Slowly the TPU lost its momentum, finally coming to a precarious standstill. As he heard the sound of Midge heading back out of the tunnel at top speed, he positioned the stand so that die Pigstick was just inches from its target.

That’ll have to do. No more time to wait.

The disrupter would smash the unit, hopefully just microseconds before the detonator in the explosive could heat up. It was that close.

He twisted around on the seat and edged his backside out through the window, feeling the material of his overalls tear on the jagged edge. One leg extracted beneath him, knee jammed, then pulled painfully free. Then the second. Feeling like a contortionist as he half climbed, half fell down the ladder, landing on his back, but managing to break his ungainly fall with his forearm.

The watch face glared back at him. One minute fifty-five seconds.

He scrambled to his feet, the stinking coils of exhaust from Midge’s Rover rasping in his throat. Starting to run now, he passed the end of the Mercedes. Then stopped. The sound was small, like no more than a whimper.

One minute forty-five.

Was there time? He looked up at the massive dumper. Christ! What would Archie think if he didn’t at least try?

The rear window was shattered, the roof crushed down until there was an impossibly narrow gap between it and the top of the door. Twelve inches, ten? He launched himself at the aperture, scrabbling in until he found the metal closing like a vice around his hipbone, holding him fast. He stretched out his free hand, a mere inch from the baby’s tiny hand. Their flesh touched for an instant, the skin cold. He grunted, pushed a little harder, his hand still slippery with oil and his own blood.

He had the little forearm, felt it wriggle, his grip better now on the woollen sleeve. His fingers tightened around the arm where it joined the shoulder. The baby emptied its lungs, screamed like a demented soul.

Pushing his knees against the buckled outer door, he levered out the rest of his body, feeling the teeth of glass raking along his back, then scraping over the top of his helmet.

He managed to get his second hand to the child, supporting its urine-stained rump, and crushed it protectively to his chest as he found his feet.

Then he was running. Running as he had never run in his life before. Through the gap between the dumper and the tunnel wall. Eternity stretching ahead of him, the endless ribbon of tarmac and the trail of firing cables.

Pounding, pounding, pounding. Blood pumping at his temples, his lungs stretched to bursting with the effort. On, on, on. Would there be enough time to reach his Range-Rover, still fifty metres off?

He tilted his wrist on the hand that cradled the baby’s head. Oh, shit! The watch alarm began its rapid bleeping.

His feet skidded as he changed direction, stumbling, nearly falling, limping to the edge of the tunnel. He looked around. No hiding place.

He laid the infant on the tarmac and stretched himself out over the helpless bundle. Then fumbled for the send button of the transceiver on his lapel. ‘Midge — FIRE!’

The harsh crack of the disrupter reverberated along the tunnel walls.

It was followed immediately by the explosion. The entire tunnel quaked, lit for one split second in an awesome blinding pulse of white light before the ear-splitting sound and the maelstrom of displaced air overtook him. And the lights went out. i

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ! He’d got it wrong!

He heard the debris falling all around him in the darkness. Shards of hot metal lanced into his back as he pressed down on the baby, feeling it struggle against his belly. Waited for the tumultuous impact of the water as the tunnel caved in under the almighty onslaught of the Thames above.

Forgive me, Archie, Pippa. Casey, I love you. I’m sorry, so sorry…

He lifted his head. His deafness was stunning. The tunnel lights flickered on. Emergency generator, he thought.

Twisted round. There was the dumper, unmoved. Only its cab was all but demolished, the passenger door blown to smithereens and the seats ablaze.

He closed his eyes. He’d done it. After all, he had bloody well done it. The baby began to bawl.

Fifteen minutes later, after he and Midge made the final inspection, they took a calculated risk in allowing volunteer fire crew and paramedics in to cut the Mercedes’ occupants free. The driver was dead, but the baby’s mother was given a better than even chance of survival, although it was doubted she would ever walk again.

Midge pulled the melted wire from the passenger seat of the dumper cab. ‘Not much left of the pressure mat. Separate eight ounce charge of Semtex, I reckon.’

Harrison felt sick. How close had he come to kneeling on the passenger seat, rather than the driver’s? If he’d had more time to think and plan, that’s exactly what he would have done.

‘I guess the Pigstick set it off. Smashed the TPU then ricocheted around the cab, hit the seat… who knows?’

Another Range-Rover pulled up and Al Pritchard climbed out. His face was impassive. ‘Had to go out on a high note, didn’t you, Tom?’

Harrison glared. He didn’t need this.

The Senior Expo smiled. ‘Thanks, Tom. I owe you. Now that was more exciting than an episode of Coronation Street.’

Harrison shook the offered hand.

After the experience with the Haymarket car and its hidden exhaust-pipe bomb, the dumper was towed to an open field in Leyton where it was left isolated and guarded overnight. At six in the morning it exploded. A separate extended timer and detonator had been secreted within the main explosive charge itself.

No one was hurt.

But of the four car bombs on the main river bridges of London, two exploded before they could be defused, resulting in the need for extensive engineering repairs and massive disruption of traffic for several months.