Bombproof (14 page)

The doors have closed. The train moves off. Sami can see Dessie take a seat and drop the holdall at his feet. Looking in the opposite direction, through the windows, he spies the transport cops, talking to passengers.

He takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes. Wishes he were somewhere else.

That’s when it happens. Not right then. Three stops on, just outside Oxford Circus station. One moment Sami is standing near the door and the next he’s upside down, in a dark world, full of smoke and shattered glass.

Something soft breaks his fall. A woman. He can’t see her face in the dark but he hears her crying above the screams. Smoke pours through the air vents, making it hard to breathe. He can’t see flames but it smells like the wiring is burning.

People are crawling on the floor, bumping into each other. Squares of light appear in the darkness. Mobile phones. Sami can see the faces of the people holding them. Fear. Disbelief. At the same time he begins hearing the dull thud of train windows being hit by dozens of fists.

The emergency lights flicker on, yellow and faint. A man staggers past him holding his head. A woman with her clothes blown into shreds has snot and tears leaking down her cheeks. Others are caked in dust and soot - a pregnant woman, her dress glued to her skin; a fat man with a mangled leg, leaking blood into his boot.

The woman Sami fell upon is holding her arm.

‘What’s your name?’ he asks her.

‘Stephanie.’

‘Are you OK, Stephanie?’

‘I think my arm is broken.’ Her tears are black.

‘Here, let me see.’

Sami squeezes her arm with his thumb and forefinger, feeling for a fracture.

‘It’s only sprained,’ he tells her.

‘What about the fire?’

‘I don’t think it’s a fire.’

The man in a tweed jacket and matching tweed hat is staring at his leg as though it belongs to someone else. Blood is pouring across his ankle from a gaping wound.

‘You should sit down,’ Sami tells him. ‘I’ll put a tourniquet on that.’

The man looks at Sami and back at his leg. Still in shock, he follows orders, unsure of what else to do.

The smoke has cleared a little and it’s easier to breathe. Most of the screams are coming from the other carriage - the one in front. That’s where Dessie had been sitting.

Sami steps over people and peers through the shattered window. The roof of the carriage has been peeled open by the force of the blast. One wall is blackened and shredded and some seats have been torn from their mountings.

A man’s face appears. His skin is splattered with blood. Wild-eyed, he pulls desperately at the door, which has been buckled by the blast and won’t open more than a few inches. Sami can’t see Dessie, which is strange because he’s a big man - hard to lose. He was there only a minute ago.

Suddenly, he recognises Dessie’s trousers and his over-sized work-boots. They’re lying on the floor between two bench seats. The top half of Dessie seems to have disappeared. It must have been blown out the window by the force of the blast.

Sami wants to feel sorry for him, but can’t muster any sympathy. Instead he turns away, walks back down the carriage, collecting warm coats, ties for tourniquets, anything to help.

Fifteen minutes is a long time when you’re underground in a blown-up train with frightened and injured people. You keep saying things like, ‘They’ll be here soon’, and then wondering quietly why it’s taking so long. Where are the paramedics? The police? The driver must be still be alive - he should tell us what to do.

Waiting isn’t the worst thing. It’s listening to people pleading for help in the next carriage. He asks if anyone has any water and passes bottles through the shattered window. He wants to cry every time he looks at the carriage.

After a long time word filters through that people are leaving through a rear carriage and walking back along the tunnel to Oxford Circus. People are calm. Patient. There’s no pushing or running.

Sami helps Stephanie and the man in a tweed hat get through the carriages. He has to lift them down the final step. The same two transport policemen are standing on the tracks. One of them has a torch and is telling people to start walking.

Sami asks about the live rail. It’s been turned off. He hopes it stays that way.

Taking Stephanie’s hand and hooking his other arm around the man in tweed, he leads them along the tunnel towards the station. Twisted metal, glass and plastic are scattered along the tracks. Sami half expects to see Dessie’s torso propped against the wall.

Torches wave them forward.

Paramedics are waiting on the platform, giving oxygen, bandaging wounds; lifting people onto stretchers. Sami stands for a while, watching someone treating the man in tweed. Stephanie is talking to an Underground employee.

Without saying goodbye, Sami walks up the stairs, past the ticket barriers, across the concourse, into the daylight. It’s a surreal experience to see how normal the world still looks. He moves past the waiting ambulances and fire engines, which are blocking Oxford Street. People are staring at him wordlessly, their eyes asking the questions: ‘What was it like down there? What did you see?’

More sirens are coming. Sami tightens the straps on the rucksack and turns down Argyll Street, his head lowered, avoiding the stares.

He hears snatches of conversation. People are talking about a bomb, terrorists, a carriage destroyed … Someone says there are more bombs. One went off at the Old Bailey.

Pedestrians are holding mobile phones, raising them in the air, shaking them or pressing buttons, hoping for a signal or expecting them to ring.

Sami passes the London Palladium and heads towards Carnaby Street.

Dessie is dead. What’s he supposed to do now? Call Murphy. He doesn’t have a mobile. He has to find a phone.

Right now he’s in Carnaby Street. He once had a girlfriend who worked in a clothing shop on the corner. She gave him Union Jack underwear for his birthday and said she wanted to lower the flag. What was her name? Stacy.

He turns into Broadwick Street. Remembers his mother bringing him here to get orthotics fitted. Then he jumps to a different memory. Her funeral. The December skies like darkness exhaled from the grave. The mourners in overcoats, black suits, dark stockings, holding black umbrellas: his mother’s friends surrounding Nadia.

Scaffolding covered the crematorium, which looked as though it was being dismantled rather than renovated. Sami wondered why it was so cold inside. Surely they’d heat the place.

The priest said a few words, making out that he knew Sami’s mother, which was unlikely, because to the best of Sami’s recollection, his mother had never set foot in a church.

When the coffin disappeared, Nadia broke down and sobbed. Sami wanted to pick her up. Carry her away. Wipe away the hurt. Instead he held her and said nothing. The silence was so fragile he felt it could shatter.

Sami didn’t cry. Crying was something he stopped doing years ago. He had to be strong for Nadia. It wasn’t his turn to surrender to sorrow.

He’s in Berwick Street and then Peter Street, where the sex shops masquerade as bookstores and the strip clubs masquerade as nightclubs. There are ‘Live Nude Shows’, peep shows, tattoo parlours and basement cinemas screening delights such as
Further Confessions of a Sixth Form Girl
.

Prostitutes have plastered phone boxes with glossy business cards. Wearing scanty lingerie and come-hither smiles, they have as much sex appeal as blow up mattresses.

Maybe Sami should get a girl and hide out for a few hours. She’d want to be paid by the quarter hour. How much would it cost?

He’s puffing now. Lactic acid is building in his legs and the rucksack feels heavier. He’s carrying eight kilos of cocaine and a semi-automatic pistol. That’s worth about twelve years or ten grand a kilo, depending upon whether you’re a glass half-full or glass half-empty kind of person. The explosion on the Underground is something different; a whole new ball game, a different league. Life imprisonment. Throw away the key.

He’s in Leicester Square, opposite the Odeon. A busker is dancing on stilts, wearing a clown outfit. Another is dressed up as a cowboy, painted bronze, posing like a gunslinger ready to draw.

There are four cops standing near a statue. Two of them are talking to tourists, but the others seem to be looking for someone. Sami joins a queue waiting for discount theatre tickets. Head down. Trying to become invisible.

Then he remembers a pub in Lisle Street, the Crooked Surgeon. It’s less than a hundred yards away. There’ll be a phone. He can call Murphy.

Stepping out of the queue, he ducks down Leicester Place and pushes open the pub door. A dozen people are standing at the bar with their faces raised to a television set. Maybe there’s a game on. Sami drops the rucksack at his feet. He’s sweating. Out of breath. Then he glances up at the screen and sees fire engines, ambulances, paramedics and people on stretchers.

Nobody notices Sami. They’re too interested in the bombing.

‘You got a payphone?’ he asks the barman.

‘Take a number,’ he replies, without taking his eyes off the screen.

He points. Three people are waiting to use the payphone, which is wedged under the stairs next to a slot machine. The woman at the back of the queue smiles at Sami. She has sticking plasters on her heels and is pulling one of those trolley bags that airline hostesses use.

‘You want a drink?’ the barman asks him.

Sami orders a beer. Upends the glass, his throat working rhythmically. Lowering the pint glass, he spies himself in the mirror behind the bar. Most of the soot on his face has rubbed off but he still has plasterboard and glass in his hair.

‘Get caught in the bombings?’ asks the barman.

Sami nods.

‘This one’s on me.’ The barman pushes another pint into his hands. Then he motions to the TV. ‘You were lucky. They’re telling everyone to sit tight. Not much else we can do. Trains and buses aren’t running.’

Sami glances at the payphone. It’s almost his turn. The woman ahead of him fumbles for change. ‘You can go first,’ she says. ‘I’ve talked to my husband already.’

Sami nods in thanks. Turns his back. Punches the number Dessie gave him. The call gets diverted. Someone picks up. Doesn’t talk.

‘Is that Mr Murphy?’

‘He’s busy.’

‘Tell him this is Sami Macbeth and there’s been a problem. ’

‘What sort of problem?’

‘Dessie didn’t make it.’

‘He got caught?’

‘He got blown up.’

Silence. Sami waits.

Murphy answers. ‘Is this a secure line?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What happened?’

‘Dessie blew himself up on the Tube.’

‘How?’

‘He must have dropped the bag or kicked it.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘A pub in Soho, the Crooked Surgeon.’ Sami looks over his shoulder. ‘The streets are crawling with cops.’

‘Get out of there.’

‘I can’t. I think they’re looking for me.’

Sami races through the story in an urgent whisper. When he finishes there’s a long pause. Murphy is trying to think.

‘I’m sorry about Dessie,’ says Sami. ‘He was very loyal to you.’

‘Yes he was,’ says Murphy. ‘Loyalty is an admirable quality, but it doesn’t help me now.’

How can he be so blasé and cold, thinks Sami.

‘What about the stuff?’

‘I got it.’

‘The shooter?’

‘Yeah.’

Murphy begins asking questions, talking very slowly and seriously like every answer is for a million quid, only Sami doesn’t have any friends to phone.

‘Get rid of the shooter.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Get rid of the fucking thing. Make sure it’s never found.’

‘How?’

‘Dump it in the river … down a drain. Better still, take it apart and ditch the pieces separately.’

‘It’s a courtroom exhibit.’

‘So what?’

‘You didn’t say anything about Ray Garza being involved.’

‘Forget about Garza. Just get rid of the shooter.’

‘Then what do I do? You got to help me.’

Murphy ponders this for a moment.

‘All right. All right. Keep your head down. I’m sending Sinbad.’

Yeah, right, thinks Sami, the same bastard that abandoned us in the first place. He doesn’t say it out loud.

Murphy hangs up.

I got to sit tight, thinks Sami. Take my pulse. Take a deep breath. Help is on the way.

22

The head of Scotland Yard’s Counter Terrorism Command, Commander Bob Piper, has always been self-conscious about his height. Five foot five simply isn’t tall enough for a man of his achievements and ambition. He deserves another seven inches, maybe more.

Opening his locker, he pauses for a moment to appreciate its neatness and order. His eyes rest on his boots, which have been buffed and polished to a black sheen that catches light on the curves. The toes are steel reinforced, the soles fire-retardant rubber. They are tough boots. Working boots.

Carefully, Piper lifts his overalls from the top shelf and places them on a bench seat near his knees. Next comes his belt and toiletry bag. The boots are left till last. Once they’re laced - pulled tight with a double knot - he rocks over the balls of his feet testing the snugness of the fit.

Two bombs have exploded in the West End - one at the Old Bailey and another on the Central Line near Oxford Circus. The second was almost certainly triggered by a suicide bomber.

Although Bob Piper doesn’t wish for terrorist acts (not like some firemen he knows who get a hard-on when they see a blazing building), he is a man who rises to an occasion; cometh the hour, cometh the man. A full-scale terror alert has been called in London. Code Red.

This is what he’s trained for - in the field, on the firing range, in dress rehearsals and simulations. He spent four months at Quantico, the FBI headquarters in Virginia. Another two months with Mossad in Israel.

Bob Piper winks at himself in the mirror and plants a peaked cap firmly on his head, smoothing the brim in a boyish salute to his reflection. He closes the locker and turns for the door. He’s ready.

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