Ultimatum

Fifty-six

20.00

Garth Crossman held his seventeen-year-old daughter and stroked her soft blonde hair as they sat together on the chaise longue. Lucy was a beautiful girl in so many different ways, and she’d taken the death of her mother earlier that morning in the first of the day’s attacks extremely hard, as was only to be expected.

On the TV, the news was showing the flames pouring out of the upper reaches of the Shard, and the male voiceover was reporting on the third of the day’s terrorist attacks in a tone that was coming close to panic.

No one yet knew the extent of the casualties, but many of the guests from the opening-night party, which not only included leading politicians, businesspeople and celebrities but even, it was rumoured, at least two minor royals, were carrying injuries as they were led from the building. There were also a number of bodies visible behind the glass on the observation deck, even though the camera was trying to avoid them, focusing instead on the first of the fire crews that were now desperately tackling the blaze. But what was obvious to everyone watching was the sheer scale of the disaster, and the ease with which the terrorists had been able to strike at the heart of London, and at one of its most iconic landmarks.

It was like the Stanhope siege all over again, and Crossman felt an elation so pure and ferocious it made him want to shake. Not only had he got rid of his wife, who’d found out far too many of his secrets for her own good, but the attacks that he’d masterminded and invested in — attacks he hoped would push the UK to the brink of social breakdown — had been carried out with near-perfect precision. The missile had hit the Shard before the ultimatum they’d given the government, but it didn’t matter. Crossman had always known that the government would never agree to the demands they’d made. In fact, he’d banked on the fact that they wouldn’t, and that the Prime Minister would refuse to negotiate. Now that the third attack had taken place, he looked weak and ineffective, a spent force.

Garth Crossman loved his country. He loved the fact that it had pioneered the industrial revolution, colonized half the world with its armies, its culture and its ideals, and had stood proud and stable for generations while the hurricanes of change battered the nations around it. That had been the land of his grandfathers. But like the other members of The Brotherhood, he hated what it had become, and it was this feeling of anger, combined with the cold ruthlessness that had served him so well in his business dealings, that had pushed him on to the path he was following now, a path that was littered with death and destruction.

There was another reason too. Garth Crossman would never forget the day when as a twelve-year-old boy he’d been mugged and beaten by a group of local youths after leaving school one day. There’d been four of them — two black, two white. They hadn’t just robbed him. They’d tormented him, cutting up his blazer and cap with a Stanley knife, putting the knife up against his face, laughing as he wept and begged for mercy. They’d threatened to scar him for life. They’d made him take off his trousers, and thrown them into the river. They’d laughed at his tears.

Bastards.

Crossman lived with that ordeal every day of his life. It simmered beneath the surface, filling him with hatred and anger and a constant desire for revenge. Not just against the four thugs who’d put him through that humiliation, but against every piece of lowlife scum that walked the streets, as well as the weak-kneed scum in authority who stood up for them.

‘Who could be doing something like this, Dad?’ Lucy whispered, her face pressed against his chest for comfort, as the sound of the news presenter’s tones reverberated around the room in surround sound.

‘People with no conscience, sweet one,’ said Crossman in soothing tones, using the pet name for his daughter. ‘I’m afraid there are a lot of bad people in the world. But I’m here to protect you. I’ll always be here.’

He fumbled for the remote control, enjoying the warmth of his daughter against him, and switched off the TV, knowing he could enjoy the coverage later. Right now, it was his duty to make Lucy feel better, and loved, again.

One of three mobile phones on the coffee table beside him rang, the ringtone immediately identifying it as the phone used only for emergencies. He tensed. Only two people in the world knew that number. He checked the screen. It was an inner London landline. Almost certainly a payphone.

‘I’m going to have to take this,’ he said apologetically, lifting her head from his chest and getting to his feet. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, I promise.’

She gave him a small tear-stained smile to show she understood, and Crossman smiled back at her, thinking what a beautiful, charming girl she was.

He took the call in the adjoining room. It was Cain, and when he spoke, his words sent a cold shiver up Crossman’s spine.

‘We may have a problem.’