Dark Forces (44 page)

Singh opened the rear door and Shepherd got out. The door closed almost immediately and the van drove off. A few yards in front of him, Thomas Leigh was at the wheel of a black SUV, with Roy Graves, the senior of the three SFOs who had been at the house in Ealing, in the passenger seat. Graves flashed Shepherd a thumbs-up and waved him over.

Shepherd jogged across to the SUV and climbed into the back next to the third member of the team, Neil Walker, a former squaddie who had done two tours in Afghanistan before joining the Met.

‘Nice of you to dress for the occasion,’ said Graves, as Leigh pulled away from the kerb.

‘I was at the boxing,’ said Shepherd.

‘The Hughes-Kuznetsov fight?’ asked Walker.

‘I think they’re calling it the Kuznetsov-Hughes fight.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Walker. ‘Hughes’ll walk it. And you’ve got tickets?’

‘Ringside,’ said Shepherd.

‘Not your day,’ said Walker. He handed Shepherd a transceiver.

‘So, sitrep,’ said Graves, from the front. ‘The tangoes switched vehicles in the Westfield car park. We assume the gun is on board but no one saw the transfer. The tangoes are now being very cagey so something’s going on. They’re in a blue Transit heading east.’

Shepherd put in the earpiece. ‘Bravo One, fall back and let Bravo Two have eyeball,’ said Aspden.

‘How far away from the bravos are we?’ asked Shepherd.

‘About half a mile,’ said Graves. ‘When it became clear that the driver of the blue Transit was employing counter-surveillance techniques, Wendy had the cars pull back and the two bikes are keeping as far away as they can, one ahead and one behind the target vehicle. Oh, and just so you know, your boss is on the case. He’s using Mike One.’

Shepherd pulled out his phone to call Willoughby-Brown. ‘I’m with the SFOs now,’ he said. ‘From the sound of it, the tangoes are definitely up to something.’

‘Wendy’s the best. They won’t spot her people,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

‘It looks as if they’re on the home run now,’ said Shepherd. ‘You might want to think about possible targets in the area.’

‘I’m on it. I’ve got a map in front of me. I’ve already been on to the Diplomatic Protection Group and I’ve spoken to the PM’s office. Everyone’s on full alert.’

‘And the sniper is probably going to be shooting from a vantage point, almost certainly high up.’

‘Understood.’

‘So what’s our game plan?’

‘We need the sniper. That’s our main concern. There’s no point in pulling in the weapon or the delivery boys. If the sniper gets hold of another weapon, we’re back to square one. The sniper’s the prize.’

‘That is the building ahead of us,’ said Naeem. He pointed at three tower blocks immediately ahead. ‘The middle one.’ He pointed at the glove compartment. ‘There’s a keycard in there. In an envelope.’

Assadi opened the glove compartment and found an envelope with a number on it: 1214. He nodded. ‘Thank you, brother.’

‘I’ll drop you outside.’

Assadi climbed into the back of the van where al-Kawthari was sitting on an upturned crate, the gun case at his feet. ‘We’re here,’ he said.

They turned to the right and stopped. Al-Kawthari opened the door and got out. Assadi passed the case to him, then climbed out and slammed the door. Naeem drove off immediately.

Shepherd put his finger to his earpiece as it crackled. ‘Bravo One, they’re out of the van, which is heading back west. Two men are coming towards a tower block.’

‘Can you get off the bike and follow on foot, Bravo One?’ asked Aspden.

‘I’ll try, but I don’t think I’ll get there in time,’ said the man.

Shepherd tapped Leigh’s shoulder. ‘Let’s go there – we’re not doing any good here.’ The driver stamped on the accelerator.

‘Bravo One, they’re going inside. They had a key card. I’ve lost them. The van is still heading west.’

‘Bravo Two, pick up the van,’ said Aspden. ‘Charlie One, go with him. Charlie Two, you can RV with Bravo One. Mike One will be running things from there.’

‘Mike One, will be there in two minutes.’ Willoughby-Brown sounded tense.

There was a knock and Jafari picked up his gun. He tiptoed to the door and squinted through the viewer. ‘It’s them,’ he said, unlocking the door and pulling it open. Mohammed al-Hussain was sitting at the table. He had closed the window but was staring down at the stadium.

Two Asian men were outside on the landing, one holding the metal case. Jafari ushered them into the flat and locked the door. ‘Welcome, brothers,’ he said.

The man with the case placed it on the table.

Al-Hussain stood up and went over to it. He flicked the double catches and took out the rifle, then carefully screwed the suppressor into the barrel. The two men stood behind him, eyes wide as they stared at the weapon. He attached the telescopic sight, then placed the gun on the table, the barrel lying on the cushion.

He took out the three magazines and loaded each one with five rounds. He placed two magazines at the side of the cushion and slotted the third into the rifle. He waved for Jafari to take away the case, then pulled the black scarf from his pocket and tied it around his head. ‘Brothers, we should pray,’ he said.

The three men joined him. Jafari showed them the direction of Mecca and they began to pray in unison.

‘This is us,’ said Leigh, bringing the SUV to a halt. Bravo One’s bike was parked on the pavement and the man himself was standing by the entrance to the block, still wearing his helmet. Willoughby-Brown’s van was parked on the other side of the road and he was already climbing out.

‘Guys, I need a weapon,’ said Shepherd. He gestured at Willoughby-Brown. ‘My boss there will cover any paperwork that’s needed.’

‘No problem,’ said Graves. He popped the rear door and tapped a six-digit code into the keypad of a metal gun safe. He opened it to reveal two Glocks, a shotgun and three SIG Sauer 516 assault rifles. The SIG516, with its telescoping stock and thirty-round magazine, had replaced the Heckler & Koch G36 as the Met’s assault rifle of choice, but Shepherd figured it would be overkill for what he needed. He took a Glock, ejected the magazine, checked it and slotted it back into place.

Graves relocked the safe as Willoughby-Brown walked over. ‘This isn’t good,’ he said.

‘They got inside before we could do anything,’ said Shepherd.

‘What do you think? The roof?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘Could just as easily be a flat. This has been well planned.’

‘So what do we do? A house to house?’ He cursed under his breath.

‘We need to start thinking targets,’ said Shepherd. He gestured at the building. ‘You know where we are, right? Half a mile that way is the stadium where they’re holding the world heavyweight fight. It’s full of Russian VIPs, and Islamic State hate the Russians as much as they hate us. And let’s not forget the PM will be there.’

Willoughby-Brown ran a hand through his hair. ‘What do we do? Evacuate? What if they’re just holding the gun here?’

Shepherd glanced at his watch. ‘The main bout is starting soon. There’ll be a riot if you try to shut it down.’ He gestured at the building. ‘There should be CCTV inside. If we can get a look at the footage, we should be able to see where they went.’

Willoughby-Brown nodded. ‘Let’s do it.’

Mohammed al-Hussain lay on the table, the barrel of the rifle supported by the cushion. He brought his eye to the scope and settled his shoulder against the stock. He was breathing tidally, his chest barely moving. He centred the crosshairs on the chest of the black boxer in the ring and imagined pulling the trigger, then the bullet slamming into the man’s flesh. He smiled at the reaction it would cause, shot in the heart in front of thousands of spectators, with television cameras beaming the pictures around the world.

He moved the gun a fraction, focusing on one of the trainers who was shouting encouragement at his boxer. He centred the crosshairs on the man’s face and imagined it imploding as the bullet hit it, spraying blood and brain matter over the crowds behind him.

He rolled his shoulders, relaxing the muscles that had tensed in anticipation of what was to come, then settled back into the firing position. He scanned the VIP section, which was starting to fill. He recognised some of the faces. A leading Russian industrialist. A newspaper owner. An actor and his model girlfriend. Several famous boxers. The crosshairs passed over them all.

Al-Hussain moved the scope away from the ringside and scanned the terraces. He settled on a middle-aged man selling programmes. He was in his forties, balding and wearing a purple bow tie. He was holding several copies, like an oversized poker hand, and a bag over his shoulder contained dozens more. Al-Hussain slipped his finger over the trigger, took aim, held his breath, and fired.

Shepherd stared up at the floor indicators above the three lifts. One was on the ground floor, the doors open. The middle one was at the top. The final lift was on the sixth floor, coming down. There was no way of telling for sure which floor the jihadists had stopped at. Any hope of accessing the CCTV footage had been dashed when they had gained entrance to the block. There was no one on duty in the reception area, just a notice that gave a contact number for the managing agent.

‘Top floor?’ said Willoughby-Brown, his uncertainty showing in his voice.

‘Who knows?’ said Shepherd. ‘It’d be a guess.’

The three armed officers were looking at them for guidance.

The lift that was on the way down passed the third floor. Hands were creeping towards concealed weapons. The lift passed two and one … Then the doors opened. An old lady reversed out, pulling a wheeled shopping basket as she muttered to herself. They watched her hobble to the doors, fumble for the exit button, and let herself out.

As the door opened they heard a helicopter overhead. Shepherd turned to Willoughby-Brown. ‘The Met’s chopper,’ he said.

Willoughby-Brown understood immediately. The Metropolitan Police’s Air Support Unit had three Eurocopter EC145 helicopters, each equipped with night vision and infrared cameras. He tapped his Bluetooth earpiece. ‘Wendy, patch me through to whoever’s running Met Control over at Bow.’

‘Will do,’ said Aspden, in his ear.

‘Shall we go up?’ asked Shepherd.

Willoughby-Brown nodded and headed into the empty lift. Shepherd and the three armed officers followed him.

The man was lying on the floor, programmes scattered around him. He was groaning and the woman standing over him thought he’d fainted. ‘Are you all right?’ she said. ‘Can I help you up?’

‘My leg,’ he said. ‘My leg – it’s burning.’

She looked down at it – his trousers were wet with blood. She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. Help me – please.’

The woman wasn’t sure what to do. She caught the eye of a man sitting in the stand behind her. ‘Please help me!’ she shouted. ‘There’s a man hurt here!’

Music began to play, a Russian tune, as the Russian heavyweight made his way to the ring, surrounded by his entourage. The main bout would soon be under way.

The woman screamed again, fighting to make herself heard over the blare of the music. ‘Help me, please!’

Shepherd concentrated on breathing slowly as the floor counter ticked on. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

Willoughby-Brown turned to the wall and began to speak. ‘Thank you, Wendy.’ He paused, took a breath, then continued: ‘Superintendent Enfield, you have a helicopter in the air over the stadium?’

‘We do, yes.’

‘I need you to get it to take a look at the middle of the three tower blocks overlooking the stadium. We believe there’s a sniper in the block and at least three men will be close to the window. I’m hoping the chopper’s infrared capability will find them.’

‘I’ll get it done now,’ said the superintendent.

‘I’ll stay on the line, if I may.’

‘See how Kuznetsov always drops his right, just before he does the uppercut with his left? That’s a tell, that is. As soon as Hughes spots it, it’s game over.’ Richie McBride was sitting next to his son, trying to explain the finer points of the bout. They were up in the stands but even though they were well away from the action the seats had cost close to fifty pounds each.

Richie’s son, Sean, was leaning forward with his head in his hands, watching the fight as if his life depended on it. He’d started boxing a year earlier at his local youth club, following in his father’s footsteps. Richie had almost made pro. Almost, but not quite. He’d taken one too many hits to the jaw and a fracture had healed badly meaning that his fighting days had ended before they’d really started. But Sean knew how to protect his head and, even though he was only fourteen, he was clearly going to be a better fighter than Richie could ever have hoped to be.

‘Hughes is going to win, no question,’ said Richie.

‘He’s tired, though.’

‘No, he’s sweating, but that doesn’t mean he’s tired. You can sweat without being tired. His arms are up, and look at the way he’s ducking and diving. He’s fine.’

A man walking down the aisle to his seat suddenly stopped and slumped to the floor. Richie looked at the man, frowning. He hadn’t stumbled, or tripped. He had just been walking, then fallen to the ground.

‘You all right, mate?’ he shouted over.

The man groaned but didn’t get up.

Sean was still engrossed in the fight as Richie stood and made his way over to the man. He was lying face down and blood was oozing from his shoulder, darkening the blue of his suit. ‘What the fuck?’ muttered Richie. He waved at a steward in a fluorescent jacket. ‘Hey, there’s a guy hurt here! He’s bleeding!’

The steward hurried over.

The lift jerked to a halt at the top of the building and the doors rattled open. The men stepped out. Shepherd had the Glock in his hand, his trigger finger pressed against the side of the gun. The corridor ran from left to right, with emergency stairs at either end. ‘I’ve lost my bearings. Which side faces the stadium?’ asked Willoughby-Brown.

Shepherd gestured at the doors opposite the lifts. ‘They’re facing north. But there’s no guarantee that the stadium is his target.’

‘It’s a reasonable assumption,’ said Willoughby-Brown. His hand went instinctively to touch his earpiece. ‘Yes, Superintendent, I’m here.’