The early morning air was cooler, sweeter and fresher after another sticky night of thunderous downpours. Despite the improvement in the temperature, there was a near tangible atmosphere of tense expectation in the first wave of London’s commuter traffic. Particularly conspicuous was the manning of the approaches of every tube station on the network by every police officer it was possible to muster from the Metropolitan force and many provincial ones. Whether passenger or staff, none were allowed to enter at any part of the system until all baggage and belongings, of any description, were searched thoroughly. The deadline was being taken very seriously, by the authorities and the members of the public. The evidence of the latter was the considerably reduced numbers who had opted to risk a journey into the centre of London by any means.
Personnel deployed within New Scotland Yard and Police Special Branch enjoyed no exemption from the critical priority of the day. Every uniformed and plainclothes officer who could be spared from the administration of the building’s daily operation and communications was out in the field. The resources of both senior offices of the government’s intelligence network were stretched in the quest for information which would help them to locate any of the Ukrainians, now officially labelled as terrorists.
The Commander, Plaistow Division, was in the station’s operations room concluding his input to an animated discussion by video-link with the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, Deputy Commissioners and all the other Metropolitan Division Commanders. The only subject on the agenda and forefront in everyone’s mind was the search for any action which might avert the successful execution of the threatened bomb attack. It included close review of the most dominant factor for the East London division, concerning the escalation of a bitter confrontation between the two major crime families in the area. Germane to addressing the second issue, the Commander had in the room with him every fit and able senior officer on the Field case at or above the rank of Inspector who could be spared from duties out in the field. DI Frankie Burns, Det Supt Tommy Cowper and his Det Chief Superintendent made up that Plaistow complement, and the information, judgment and strategy they could bring to the table was regarded as the most pivotal contribution to the discussions.
The Det Chief Super was first to speak when the video-link was closed with Scotland Yard. ‘Is there any news on the abandoned barge up by Lambeth Bridge, Superintendent? It seems the officers of the operating company are being deliberately vague about the matter. They claim the barge to have been stolen late last night.’
‘I’ve asked for a further update on the situation, but not heard back from the Westminster Division lads on developments yet, Sir,’ Frankie said. ‘The immediate cause for alarm was the copious amount of blood stains by the wheelhouse, when the vessel was discovered by one of the Uniform lads, apparently. It was too isolated and quite a distance from the garbage hold to be connected to any refuse. But there is no sign of the crew.’
‘It is extremely worrying, Sir,’ Tommy said. ‘There was absolutely no sign of garbage in the hold, but we got some purely speculative reports at this stage that the last cargo in the hold left evidence of a combination of nitrates and sodium amatol. We must ascertain its legitimacy; was it simply waste or does it indicate something more sinister?’
‘How much of the bloody stuff, good God?’ the Commander demanded. ‘And what the hell is the thing doing that far up river – of all things, a stolen freaking garbage vessel?’
‘Residue, Sir, nothing in any threatening or measurable quantity – forensics boys have yet to confirm by analysis. But I still think we should be concentrating a lot more attention on the Field firm at the moment – there is definitely a connection there. DI Burns and I are certain of it. Knishovo might be acting like he’s come undone, lost all his marbles with this bomb threat on the rail system, but I’ll stake my pension on DI Burns’ theory. He knows exactly what he is doing and certainly is not finished as far as exacting revenge on the Field family for the loss of his senior captain’s daughter. And there’s no way he will have forgotten the barbecuing of his compatriots and their sex-slaves at The Crimea.’
‘Is anything being done to establish whether or not any explosive is disposed beneath the buttresses at Lambeth Bridge?’ The Plaistow Commander was in open panic. ‘God, what a nightmare, what an almighty flaming great mafiya dick up the arse it would be for our security services it would be if were to be their real intention to blow the bloody bridge up while we concentrate our attention and resources on the underground system. The House might well be in recess, but imagine the damage such a thing would do to our international reputation for our containment of terrorism. And there’s another option – is it possible we could be looking at a double bluff here?’
‘I think the Westminster guys have got the first possibility covered Sir. I do know they have divers in the river right now,’ Frankie answered. ‘To enlarge on the Superintendent’s point, Commander, my brief spell undercover with the Fields does convince me we should take the bull by the horns and try to get as many Special Tactics or Armed Response lads in the proximity and ready to jump quickly on any trouble over at the Field place out near Romford. If the bomb threats are not a bluff, and regardless of where the explosives might eventually be situated, Knishovo has simply got to make any move he’s going to on the Fields while we are preoccupied with the major diversion and trying to minimise whatever disruption, damage or injury is caused by his insane threat.’
The Chief Superintendent chipped in. ‘Play it however you like, Superintendent, but just make sure that we damn well feel some bloody collars whatever happens out there today. We are not going to keep a lid on these foreign anarchists unless we can show the bastards we don’t roll over so easy, no matter what the danger or threat. Now you all make sure you keep in touch with me and keep me informed at all times.’
After exchanging their dutiful farewells, the Detective Chief Superintendent left the room with the Commander.
Frankie made her way back to her office with Tommy in her wake. As she sashayed across the main office she drew plenty of sly nods and old-fashioned looks from more than one or two of the skeleton staff of officers and civilian auxiliaries. The bleach-blonde hair, absence of spectacles, the entire sassy persona the transformation engendered in the previously reserved and staid DI continued to take most of her colleagues by surprise, and in some, produced an element of shock.
Tommy watched Frankie’s buttocks swaying so attractively in front of him and sighed. And the strangest thing, he had not had one thought about the damn pipe and tobacco since the first glimpse of her bare pussy, the stolen touch of her naked breasts. He patted his pockets, unable to remember exactly where he had last used the tools of an adult lifetime ritual.
What he did know with some regret, was the previous night’s torrid fusion of passions with his young subordinate was the only dalliance in his life, one he was never ever going to forget; somewhat sadly, never be likely or allowed to repeat. He toyed with no illusions about the future. He did not delude himself about his ability to stay the course with and equal the social and sexual demands of such a vital, alluring young woman. Above all he knew he had no right and certainly no urge to abandon his path in life, desert his wife, the mother of his children, when it was so obvious she was in need of his love, help and understanding. Wherever she was, whatever she had done, she would have her own good reasons for her behaviour. But first was the formidable task of bringing to account the Field family and their rivals in barbarism, the Knishovos.
Frankie listened to the heavy footsteps syncopating with her own from behind and smiled. It was almost a memory from another time, another world, but she now knew of a kind and gentle passion which had given all, wanted nothing but to pleasure and satisfy her demands. She knew it was a passion that could never be revisited, rekindled, for fear it would never be equalled. It was a passion that answered every question in her mind as to what the madding crowd should know is the true Holy Grail in the turmoil known as life. She smiled again as she recalled how poor Tommy’s distress and remorse after their night of passion was underlined by his eagerness to cram the soiled bed linen into the washing machine before they left for the station. But she now understood legend’s riddle as to what was the imponderable gift of Cleopatra’s power over Antony, the reason why Menelaus and Paris fought for the love of Helen of Troy. And this gift she knew was hers by right to use, when, with whom and however she wished. The realisation sent a tingle straight to her toes from the precious, warm radiance between her thighs. Before any more conquests, though, she must dedicate all efforts to the imperative and formidable task of bringing to account one of the most obnoxious and undesirable beings, more debit than credit to God’s creation, Freddy Field.
*
Petruso Knishovo paced the wooden boards of the veranda spanning the front of the remote farmhouse. He gazed aimlessly across the sweet-smelling, rain soaked fields.
The shrill calls of the early birds feasting on the profusion of appetising protein that crawled and foraged in the damp grass added a frenetic accompaniment to the increasing drone of Monday morning commuter traffic on the distant motorway.
The winged hunters’ chorus of enthusiasm and excitement did not temper the impatience building up inside the crime tsar, did not lessen his growing apprehension and dread of unforeseen mishap.
Dawn was breaking, the sun was rising on the last and most momentous day of his new life in the UK, and hopefully it would set on a successful conclusion to an otherwise particularly disappointing phase of his life. But the finger of fate seemed to be dragging, reluctant to course its path. Petruso lived and breathed now for the complete annihilation of his arch enemy’s family. After the abysmal disappointment of a much anticipated night of debauchery and merriment, time just didn’t seem to pass quickly enough for him. He sighed as his memory played back a picture of the must-have bitch Carla and the unforgettable flash of her exquisite pussy that she had treated him to.
Sveta, and Vanko’s wife, Katia, had bade their farewells and fled on a chartered flight to the continent, to then continue on a deliberately convoluted route back to the Ukraine by rail and air. But the cat being away had done nothing to enhance the mouse’s appetite for play with whore-house pussy who were anybody’s for the price of a bottle of vodka. Any undertaking or challenge, any pleasure or indulgence, was an anti-climax in the Ukrainian’s life when not washed down with an adequate measure of risk or danger. Now he was filled with impatience, to have done with the empty tail-end of a storm-filled night and the sooner precipitate his day of vengeance.
Now, with the uncertainties of the night being swallowed slowly by the light of day, the prospect of delaying action until his noon deadline before making his move weighed heavy on his mind. Thought of honour in battle was of little worry to his principles and instincts. Victorious strategies were always best devised by a lack of any sense of fair play.
Petruso selected a number on his cell phone. He spoke in his native tongue, but shrouded the message in ambiguous terms. GCHQ might know who was making the call, but would have to ponder its precise meaning. ‘I want our bird groomed, fed and ready to fly in one hour. And tell the rest of the outing to be fully dressed and ready for the trip when I come to pick them up. This success of the whole day-trip is going to be dependant on our getting together precisely as arranged. I will meet them and lead them to the competition. Copy that?’
‘Copy that – will do.’
‘One hour, Petruso – but it is not quite six o’clock yet?’ The voice intruding on his phone conversation was broken and husky from the effects of a lack of sleep and an over abuse of alcohol and cigarettes
Petruso turned to see a dishevelled Vanko peering at him through tired, bloodshot eyes. ‘Hang on,’ he said into the phone. ‘Vanko – for fuck sake take a dive in the pool and wake yourself up, you really look like shit. I am phoning Borysko because I have decided we will move early.’ He spoke back into the phone. ‘Do I make myself clear, old friend? Make sure you call me when the bird can stretch his wings safely and he is about to be let out of the cage, fit to fly, and the kids are ready.’ He shut the phone.
‘But noon – you said we attack at noon?’
‘And so I did, Vanko, but if we make our move before then, it might not be “cricket” as they say over here, and I hope you can see by my expression, I am not bothered – I do not give a shit about cricket. I know if we strike unexpectedly we are so much more assured of success, my old friend. Get your head out from under your armpit and take in some fresh air. Have a dip in the pool and then go and listen to the scanner – the police are running round in circles looking for bombs in rucksacks. They are at sixes and sevens. Our big advantage is that it is not so easy for them to address the problem of dealing with such a threat when all they will have to go on is the assumption the attack is going to be carried out by those of a non-Asian appearance.’
‘But the helicopter is still in the barn, the thing has got no rotor-blades fitted yet.’
‘That is a job that Borysko and his men can do with their eyes shut in less than an hour, Vanko. Please, just go and jump in the pool, get yourself ready for some real fun again. Remember? In a couple of hours you could have your hands on Freddy Field’s bitch. You could be reaming that beautiful tight arse of hers. Imagine biting some colour into her beautiful arse and then ramming the entire length of your ugly great cum-dummy between those lovely big, rosy apple cheeks. And all the while, we make that other ugly, one-eyed bastard and his devil’s spawn look on. When you have ripped her arse apart until she bleeds, you can have the pleasure of sending a bullet up her cunt, just to finish the job off, like you did with the whore at the porn studio. It will not bring Tatyana back, but, by God, the Fields will be sorry they ever fucked with Petruso Knishovo and his family. Pity that none of the murdering bastards are going to live long enough to regret it as much as they should. But such is life – and so is death.’
‘So if Tatyana is still alive, if those bastards have got her hidden somewhere, or are getting up to even worse with her – you really think the hours gained could make all the difference, Petruso?’
‘I know the Fields have ignored our demand for two days, and that is long enough. If they think I have made some kind of empty bluff, well they will very soon find out how wrong they are.’ Petruso was already consumed with his much anticipated plan to abduct, violate and eventual impregnation of the flame-haired Carla. The prospect was adequate compensation for the disappointing fact that the explosion would not be engineered to combine with the envisaged orgy. ‘Now – go and make yourself look human, Vanko.’ He looked back across the fields.
*
Tina Field looked searchingly at her unclothed body, content with what she saw in the full-length mirrors in her dressing-room. Her creamy smooth skin glowed from the rigours of towelling after a long, cold shower. She cradled her breasts. The unblemished orbs, she thought, were alluringly tipped with nipples still tinged with pink and an asset in any woman’s armoury, a tribute to their valiant battle with gravity. They still bristled with feel appeal. There were the beginnings of a roll of extra flesh on her otherwise attractively rounded belly and hips. But she showed little sign of having produced four children from an abdomen which was a sight to be more likely revelled in than reviled by eyes so favoured. The potent, primeval allure of her broad belly and well-cushioned child-bearing hips, outmoded of that particular task at the whim of nature, was enhanced by the curves of a very sexy rear view in the shape of generous but firm and smoothly sculpted buttocks. This sensuous, middle-age form then tapered to invitingly firm, rounded thighs, shapely calves and trim ankles.
She turned three-sixty degrees, smoothed her hands down her body and gave thanks there was no evidence of the dreaded cellulite to be seen. She felt she was so blessed in comparison to her unexpected roommate. At the thought, she glanced through the partially open door at the woman asleep on the bed. Truth and reality took a hard bite into her moments of bliss. She sighed and reached for a caftan.
Suddenly the vain delight in her blessings seemed of little importance. They could not weigh against the agony and strife, the appalling price now being paid for her husband's life of depravity and waywardness. A cruel and unheralded angel of death and decadence had descended with venom, pouring violence and shame on her, on her family and many others, in an earth-shattering forty eight hours which brought her world and her faith crashing down in ruins around her.
Stella Cowper was lost in the deep sleep of the exhausted; naked and uncovered on the bed. Her sparse frame was only just noticeable. She had talked, worried and cried into the small hours. She tormented herself with distress at having learned of the innocence of her husband’s relationship with her hostess. And in contrast, there was the puzzle and heartache of the suspicious incident she had overheard between Tommy and the young policewoman for her to solve and try to forgive. His situation was certainly made understandable for her when she reminded herself how many times in the last few years he had come to their bed, his flesh rigid and aching for relief, only to be spurned by her. Any normal man’s inflamed desire would succumb to seeking satisfaction in the kind of body the young blonde offered.
But she was nonetheless wretched with guilt at the realisation she had armed herself and set out on an insane rampage determined to hunt Tina down with vengeance and cold-blooded murder in mind.
Stella had eventually stifled her anguish and found the sleep of a woman drained physically and mentally by the ravages of a crazed, orgiastic attempt to fulfil a twisted desire for retribution. The over-indulgent celebration of long dormant sexual cravings, woken and driven to fever pitch by the newborn desires of the drug-fuelled Doc Elliot, was replaced by melancholy. And this melancholy was compounded with the pangs of embarrassment and remorse at her profligate infidelity and unfounded hate, even while she slept.
Tina looked down at the frail body on the bed. Her eyes stung and a lump came to her throat as she realised this fragile, confused husk of a woman was the lifelong soul-mate of her long departed sweetheart’s brother and own dearest friend, Tommy. She took Stella by the shoulders and shook gently, taking care not to scare her from the depths of her sleep or aggravate any one of the multitude of bruises covering the main trunk of her ultra-slim body and upper thighs. ‘Come on, my dear, it’s time we got you up and back to your husband.’
Stella groaned, smiled strangely and groaned again, pulled her knees up, opened her legs, put her hand to her genitals and eased the lips wider. ‘Pink Dahlia’s waiting,’ she moaned through clenched lips, still half asleep, still smiling strangely, like a conciliatory child.
Tina looked at Stella’s excited genitals. She was awestruck by the very large clitoris. The proud finger of firm, pink flesh was the focal point among the lush folds of this most intimate femininity. It was by far the most impressive, attractive part of an otherwise ill-bestowed woman. Tina had no doubt that Stella’s vulva was a sensual adornment definitely suited to gratify any healthy young lad’s yen to ogle, an attraction to remove any would-be stud’s uncertainty about oral sex. It was very easy to imagine how a lonely, distraught boy, such as Tommy had been at the loss of his brother, would have developed an infatuation for its captivating charm and been easily ensnared in its moist embrace. An enchantment for any sex hungry eyes, it was no wonder Tommy had been so eager, mourning the loss of his brother, to extract solace in the seductive sanctuary between Stella’s legs.
She tore her eyes from the enticing and delicately moulded flesh, pretending to be unaware of the confused woman’s very obvious and unhealthily mesmerising state of arousal. ‘It’s all over, now, Stella, dear. You’re with Tina now, remember, your husband Tommy’s friend? You’re quite safe now; there will be no more for you to fear from Minas Elliot, or anybody else.’
Stella opened her eyes, slowly at first and then wide. She uttered a startled squeal and then with involuntary modesty she clamped her legs tightly shut on her hand. With the hand still clasped on her genitals, she rolled on her side, tried to hide her face and indignity from Tina. She sobbed while she fumbled in an ill concealed attempt to masturbate. The urge to placate her mind and body’s recent and persistent programming by Minas Elliot to a regime of constant vaginal, oral and anal penetration and the resultant hours of repetitive orgasm was overpowering. Exploited in a state of near mental breakdown, she had become addicted to orgasm.
The awkward quiet which smothered the bizarre scene in the bedroom was shattered by rapping on the door. ‘Mum – Dad says we have got to get away from here, take Doc Elliot’s lady friend with us, right now.’ It was Carla.
Tina ran to the door, let her daughter into the room.
Stella scrambled to turn and pull the duvet over the lower part of her body, but in doing this she unwittingly exposed a momentary, full view of her abdominal bruising and partially aroused genitals to Carla’s incisive gaze.
‘Tell me, just where is your father that is so important he can’t come and tell me himself? Is he too ashamed of his behaviour, sending you here, telling us what to do? And, for goodness sake, doesn’t he know I can’t leave my son’s body lying in the chapel, alone and unloved, to just tear off somewhere? What is all the panic and sudden urgency about – and where, exactly, are we supposed to go?’
Carla’s eyes were locked with Stella’s. She was quick to recognise the involuntary signal of the want that she and her precocious, insatiable Thumper were keen specialists in satisfying. Fuck, how she wished she hadn’t had to leave the sexually avaricious little monster behind. Couldn’t they just have enjoyed giving this skin and bone bitch and her astonishingly shapely pussy something to scream about.
Stella could not look away from the lovely young woman’s intense gaze. She felt envy, a primitive hate for the kid. Not only did she have a figure to die for, it was poured into a white, two-piece suit which served to draw attention to every detail of her breasts and crotch, revealing a large expanse of her exquisitely moulded midriff. Oh, how she wished Tina had not been in the room right then. She could not stop thinking that the message in the girl’s eyes was undoubtedly an erotic invitation.
‘I asked you a question, Carla.’ There was an unusual metal in Tina’s tone; it was tinged with a considerable urgency.
Carla hoped her enthusiastic appraisal of delectable pussy and lustful eye contact with its owner had gone unnoticed by her mother. She flushed slightly under her tan, turned her attention back to her mother. ‘Er – Dad is out with Trigg and some of the others in the grounds. He said we should book in somewhere – anywhere you care to choose out of town and let him know. He just seems to be in one of those moods when it’s best not to argue, Mum. And you know things are a bit tense between you both at the moment.’
Carla was finding it hard to take her mind off her first glimpse of Stella, or more accurately, of how unexpectedly adorable Stella was between her legs and so tempting in her very advanced state of arousal. She could not quite imagine what might have been going on in the room before she arrived. But the evidence was plain enough. Stella was starkers and had evidently been got at and worked-up, and was well ready for a good seeing to. Her mother had spent the night in the same bed and was obviously naked beneath the flimsy caftan, and the garment was not tied.
Suddenly the sex virago thought she had found there was an unknown side of her mother which was, to put it mildly, very astonishing. But then again, so what? Carla thought it was very likely, understandable and even forgivable for her mother to seek some therapy in a spot of lesbian love after her recent humiliation. And she would be forced to agree the spindly woman had a definite magnetism; there was pulchritude unbounded in the divine piece of pussy pouting between her legs. There was no way she would think to give the middle aged string-bean a glance if she passed her by on any street. But this unusual, could-be school mistress was reputedly gifted with the powers for poof conversion. And she possessed the power in an irresistibly inviting and amazingly gorgeous part of her slight, boyish body. And that part of the ageing, unashamed fuckaholic, had just issued an unmistakable promise of total submission. It yearned for the final episode in sexual titillation, fully flowered in readiness for vigorous, unremitting penetration.
Selflessly dedicated to fellow sex-maniacs, of either gender, Carla vowed she would be the next one to exploit that submission, satisfy that yearning and supply that penetration. If she had to, she would be very happy to sit on the horny bitch’s face and tongue-fuck the skinny owner of that exotic piece of pussy into orgasmic oblivion.
Tina brought her daughter back from her fantasy. ‘We’ll meet you at the front in ten minutes, Carla. Be a love, please, and bring my car round ready.’ She threw her daughter her car keys.
*
The Black Shark helicopter stood outside the barn, implacable and malefic, like some wild beast awaiting command. The battle-craft was fully prepared for flight and equipped for combat. Its ultra-sleek fuselage had an ebonite gleam as it basked in the soft rays of the early morning sun. Its image spelled an ominous message of stealth, death and destruction.
There was outward calmness in Borysko Boyko. He wore a facade born of experience acquired during years of pilot training and aerial conflict, an absolute essential for success in modern air combat. It belied the turmoil within him.
The bunker-buster was loaded, after a fashion. Where the starboard, inner missile pod would usually be fitted, now hung Petruso’s coup de fors. Such a smart bomb would normally be housed in an aircraft’s bomb-bay, discharged from a much greater height than the four thousand metre hover-ceiling the Black Shark was designed to operate at, and then guided to its target by homing in on a laser beam.
The helicopter offered Boyko speed, missile detection and evasion, a practical level of cannon-shell resistant armour. Its attack capability included cannons, and rocketry consisting of air to air and anti-tank missiles. But none of the options required for aiming the bunker-buster with the desired precision were available. His ability to affect an undiscovered approach and then accomplish exact timing, and accuracy to pinpoint the explosives’ coordinates, were the determinate factors for a successful outcome to Petruso’s plan.
Boyko made a final check of the weaponry mountings and verified the critical setting for detonation delay on the bomb. If the bomb were to explode before it bottomed in the river bed, the resulting damage would be serious but not the catastrophe Petruso sought. Satisfied all was as well as it would ever be, he gave thumbs up for the men who had helped prepare the aircraft to get clear of the rotors.
They waved and ran to the Humvee.
Borysko climbed into the helicopter, fired the turbines and completed his take-off check of the control, navigation and weapons systems’ instrumentation. With the whine of the engines almost oppressive enough to drown the thought process, the two sets of coaxial rotors quivered and began to arc thorough the air, threshing and flattening the grass beneath and far beyond their footprint. He gave another thumb up to his men in the Humvee, closed the cockpit window and with the engines at full throttle, the sleek marauder wound its way skyward and was quickly lost to the naked eye in the thick pulses of high, fair-weather cloud.
Within minutes of flying, the GPS indicated the helicopter had reached the Thames and was nearing the target area. The Black Shark was at its hover ceiling above the cloud, its airspeed reduced to almost zero knots.
The City of London Airport traffic was very light and at lower take-off or landing altitude; of little hindrance to his flight path. Small patches of the river and city scattered below were visible occasionally. It was an unreliable aid to the accuracy of bomb navigation required, but the thermal imager was able to distinguish the boundaries of the river, clarifying the banks and bridges very plainly.
When the numbers on the GPS made sense, Boyko manoeuvred the aircraft into a satisfactory drop position. If his wind-speed and direction calculations were correct, and the tidal flow of the river as accurate as the timetables predicted, all that remained for him to do was press the button. It was then time for the bomb to do its worst. The weapon should slice through the drums of explosive nitrates, through the relatively soft river bed, and detonate everything on impact with the reinforced-concrete roof sections of the Northern Line underground rail tunnel structure.
At ground level, to the west of the helicopter and as unaware of its threat as its pilot was of their presence, Joint Terrorist Analyst Centre field operatives swarmed. The entire vicinity, including the approaches from both sides and the roadway across Lambeth Bridge, was sealed from the public. Police in numerous launches scoured above water level while divers made exhaustive underwater searches round the parapets and buttresses. Specially drafted civilian and military explosives engineers scanned the underside for evidence of destructive devices, with microscopic intensity.
The proximity to City Airport, the clamour of voices or noise of the marine engines prevented the searchers being alerted to the sound of the helicopter above. But a sudden break in the cloud cover revealed the Black Shark to one of the sharp eyed officers on the bridge.
‘Hello, lads, we’ve got the media up there – have they got clearance or should we inform the Home Office?’
Westminster Division Commander interrupted his radio communication and looked up. He was mystified, and then horrified. ‘He’s too high to be media – and that thing up there is no bloody civilian chopper, anyway.’
Before he could resume radio contact and authorise investigation, another officer cried out. ‘Shit! Someone has jumped out – Jesus Christ, it’s some crazy fucking skydiving stunt!’
The first officer shouted, ‘Jesus, what’s he like, he’s got some bottle, the crazy bastard. He’s coming down like a bomb. Fuckin’ hell, lads, it is a bleedin’ bomb!’
Nobody knew what to say. There was nothing anybody could do. From the Division Commander down to the greenest probationary constable, every man was rooted to the spot. By some invisible signal, every eye turned towards the sky beyond Westminster Bridge and the plummeting object. But no one could move.
Even from what seemed a safe distance, the bomb’s banshee shriek was audible, sinister and very unnerving.
At the last second, by instinct and in concert, everyone managed to cover their ears and brace themselves in anticipation of the imminent blast and fear of the inevitable horror.
Given marks as an Olympic high-dive, the bunker-buster’s entry into the water qualified for a perfect ten. The projectile disappeared with hardly a splash or ripple.
Everybody held their breath, waited for the water to erupt. But there was no explosion. All eyes went back to the heavens, but the helicopter had disappeared into the aether as cleanly as the bomb into the Thames. Attention then went back to the area beyond Westminster Bridge, the stretch where the bomb entered the water.
‘What the blazes …?’ said the first officer to sight the helicopter. ‘It looked like a bomb, it sounded like a bloody bomb, but unless it deafened me or something, it hasn’t gone off like a bomb, thank fuck.’
‘Hasn’t gone off – yet!’ the Commander replied. ‘We can’t ignore the flaming thing, and we’ve got to assume it could be set to detonate on a timer. So I am not prepared to give the order for anyone to go and investigate it until we get the proper authority. This bloody day just gets worse by the flaming minute. River traffic will have to be barred, but he can see to that.’ He pointed to the launch carrying the senior Marine Support Unit officer. ‘But we have to make sure Westminster Bridge and Waterloo Bridge are now closed to the public, and quickly. You’d better see to it, now, man.’ He directed his order to a nearby uniformed superintendent and then turned back to his radio to relay his report of the incident and seek further instructions from his superiors at the Home Office.
Oblivious to the chaos he had left behind him, Boyko was making maximum knots at maximum altitude towards Romford and his unsuspecting victims at the Manor. He was also thoroughly pissed off by the bomb’s infuriating reluctance to be a bomb and puzzled as to why. The Black Shark was a lot more difficult to handle in the turbulence above the cloud cover and it didn’t help to ease his mood of despondence. He had to cope with the result of a payload imbalance now the five hundred pound bunker-buster was gone from its mounting. But he thanked providence for one blessing; so far, all radar signals indicated the skies around him were clear of any aerial retaliatory threat.
Boyko grunted and his expression changed to one of concentration as the GPS confirmed what physical evidence was visible through gaps in the clouds. The spread of topography beneath the Black Shark confirmed he was within striking distance of his target. Boyko put the helicopter into a wide, rapid spiral of descent and switched on the weapon management panel. Each light warned its missile was primed and ready for go. The Ukrainian adjusted his flying helmet and calibrated the eyepiece cross-hairs and flexed his thumbs over the firing controls.
*
DI Frankie Burns felt good in her police coveralls. There was an indiscernible something in the experience of wearing the material. The wrap-around feel of its heavy cotton weave and deep blue hue imbued confidence, enthusiasm, and instilled an overwhelming sense of purpose in her. She guessed it must be similar to how a front-line soldier was inspired when turned out for battle in his combat gear. And as she helped Det Supt Tommy Cowper and Pavli to sort out the small armoury stored in the back of the Humvee she had commandeered the day before, the gravity of the mission they had become embroiled in started to take on an awesome perspective.
‘Jesus Christ, Frankie, it frightens the life out of me to think that these mindless thugs are running around – chasing around London and the rest of the country, with this sort of weaponry on board.’ Tommy gently closed the lid on a box filled with rocket-propelled-grenades and tinkered warily with an anti-tank rocket launcher. ‘It makes the idea of an occasional knife amnesty look just a little bit futile and rather silly, doesn’t it? How the hell do these bastards get their hands on this sort of gear?’
Neither of them was yet aware of the helicopter incident over the Thames.
‘At least we’ve got this stuff, Boss.’
She was surprised how automatically, how easily the more formal address slipped off her tongue, considering they could not have become closer to each other in any manner of asking during the previous twenty four hours.
‘But you’re right, boss; it doesn’t bear thinking what illegal firepower and ordnance they’ve still got – in both firms.’
‘These guns certainly knock my MAS-G1 into a cocked hat, Frankie.’ Tommy flinched inwardly. He had picked up on the return to protocol by the DI and the flame that flickered inside him died. He grabbed one of the half-dozen machine pistols, a Glock 18C. ‘One of those inhuman bloody animals could take out Plaistow Division with this wicked little bastard single handed. My God, just what chance have we got against this kind of thing – against animals of their mentality?’ He put the gun back amongst the assortment of Heckler and Koch VP70s, Uzi SMGs and a Fabrique Nationale Minimi light machine gun.
Frankie nodded, cocked her ear to the message being broadcast and then ran to the front of the Humvee and turned up the volume on the radio scanner.
News of the bomb attack on the Thames had just begun to filter through on the police channels. It was clear no one was able to ascertain what further danger was threatened, by the offending projectile or any further, unforeseen source of harm. And the whole strategy drawn up by JTAC, the Metropolitan Police and other special security agencies to counteract Petruso’s diabolical plan, had fallen into total disarray.
‘We’re wasting time here, Boss,’ Frankie said. ‘Where is Pavli?’
‘He must’ve got bored and gone back inside again. Leave him there, where he’s best off; we’ve got dangerous work to do. You jump in the back and grab some ammo, start filling a few spare magazines for us, Frankie.’
He could not yet bring himself to call her “Inspector”.
He continued, ‘Sadly, we don’t know too much about these kind of guns, but I’m sure we’ll soon get the hang of firing the bloody things – and I’ve got a feeling an aim in the general direction is more than pinpoint accuracy and the main selling point with these spread-fire weapons. When you have to use one, just make sure you point its nose where the end of your nose is looking, pull the trigger and hang on to your bloody hat for dear life.’
A combat specification Humvee is not designed to offer the pinnacle in comfort. At the speed Tommy weaved the battle-wagon through the dense traffic in the East London suburbs, it laid valid claim as one of the leaders among the ever increasing ranks of four-by-four boneshakers.
‘How are we getting on sorting the stuff out in the back there?’ shouted Tommy.
‘Well, I’ve stuffed as many magazine clips as I can find with whatever ammo seems meant to go in them, Boss, and I reckon with the deadly assortment of serious kick-ass gear we’ve got here, ol’ Davy Crockett and his mates sure would’ve been glad of our help at the Alamo.’
‘But have you managed to figure out the firing sequence controls and safety mechanisms on the guns, Frankie? If we have to use them, and we both know that it isn’t an “if”, we don’t want any snags when we are face to face with any of them.’
Frankie turned and kneeled in a more suitable position to converse with Tommy over the rear-seat backrest. She came nose to nose with Pavli, who decided he would be more comfortable if he came out from hiding in the foot well of the rear seating space.
‘Christ Almighty,’ she said. ‘You near scared the shit out me, you crafty little sod, Pavli. You shouldn’t be here. It’s going to be a dangerous enough job as it is, without us having to worry about your safety as well.’
The lad smiled, shook his head in good-natured admonishment, and then more animatedly. He scrambled over the backrest to join Frankie.
He grabbed each of the three types of machine pistols. One at a time he demonstrated the use of the different magazines, operating clips and catches and patted himself on the chest. He nodded vigorously as he did so, his eyes wide and aglow with excitement and enthusiasm. The young Romanian was obviously no stranger to the weapons or in awe of the prospect of a firefight.
‘He’s a bloody small-arms expert, this kid is, boss. I reckon our Pavli could tell us a skin-crawling story or two if only he could talk.’
‘Many of the unfortunate sods from the Eastern Block have cut their teeth on blue steel, Frankie. It’s one of the major problems we have now trying to rehabilitate many of the different immigrant nationalities, get them to forget ethnic rivalries and integrate properly with each other when they get over here. But let’s not knock it right now. If the lad can get us up to speed with a couple of the guns before we get there, before the shit starts to fly, we’ve got a good chance of making some serious collars instead of maybe ending up in the body count. If the DPC took us seriously earlier, Special Tactics should be around to swing the balance in our favour.’
Tommy turned the Humvee off the main Romford Road and into the lane leading to Field Manor. He swung off the road into the first accommodating gap they came to in the grass verge.
‘Let’s just spend five minutes with this bloody hardware.’ The Det Supt jumped out and ran to the back of the Humvee, opened the tailgate and picked up one of the machine pistols. ‘I think they’ll take a bit more notice of this little beauty than they did of my Warrant Card.’ He brandished the Heckler and Koch VP70.
Pavli grabbed Tommy’s wrist and altered a catch on the side of the gun. He mimed firing the weapon in random bursts of three shells. He returned the catch to its original position and mimed a spray of constant, rapid fire. He nodded his head excitedly and put his fingers to his lips and kissed them. He patted Tommy excitedly on the back.
Frankie had already chosen her weapon on the way and was nursing an Uzi SMG, fitted with shoulder extension, the use of which the lad had briefed her on. She had the gun cradled fondly in one arm as if it were part of her.
Pavli nodded approvingly at them both.
In the same moment they all heard the faint, rhythmic thwack of helicopter rotors.
Even at the distance that the aircraft was when it appeared in view, Pavli recognised the Black Shark immediately. He put his hands over his head in protective mime and pointed to the avenue of tree cover further along the lane and jumped into the back of the Humvee.
Frankie and Tommy did not need any further proof to realise the talk part of their task was over. The mythical “piper” was in the vicinity and about to start calling in some dues. They both knew it was now their time to “walk the walk”.