Soft Target (48 page)

a narrow escape, but if there are others the chances are they'll be primed to go off at the same time, a few minutes either way at most.'

Shepherd was hardly able to believe what he was hearing.

He looked at his watch. It was four thirty-five.

'We're checking CCTV cameras and station staff are checking their platforms. Where are you now?'

'Piccadilly Circus,' said Shepherd.

'We think mainline stations are the most likely targets,

followed by intersections. Have a look around. And forget all that PC crap spouted by the civil libertarians. We're not looking for ninety-year-old Catholic nuns. You know the profile.'

'Got you,' said Shepherd.

Two middle-aged women were staring at Shepherd. He walked past them, scanning the faces of the passengers waiting for the next train. He knew the profile. Young, male and Muslim. Middle Eastern or Asian. Late teens a possibility.

Twenties most likely. Thirties and above, possible but unlikely.

Wearing clothing capable of hiding explosives. Blinking or staring. And as the deadline drew closer, probably muttering phrases from the Qur'an.

Malik stood up, even though there were empty seats in the carriage. The raincoat looked fine as long as he was standing but if he sat down the vest would press against the coat and somebody might notice the outline of the blocks of explosive.

The train stopped at Oxford Circus and half a dozen people got off. Two Japanese tourists got on, clutching a street directory and peering at the route map above the doors. The man was wearing a Burberry golfing hat and squinted at Malik.

'Baker Street?' he asked.

Malik tried to ignore the man.

'Baker Street?' repeated the Japanese.

Malik forced himself to smile. 'You need to go north.'

'North?' repeated the man. He looked at his wife. 'North?'

The doors clunked shut and the train lurched towards the tunnel. Several of the seated passengers were looking at Malik, waiting to see what he would say next. Malik swallowed.

He wasn't supposed to be noticed. He was supposed to move unseen through the crowds until he detonated the explosives.

He tapped the Bakerloo Line map. 'This is Oxford Circus.

You're going south. Baker Street is here.You need to go north.'

The man's frown deepened and he spoke to his wife in rapid Japanese. More faces were turning to watch.

'You need to get off at the next station,' added Malik.

'Piccadilly Circus. Then find the platform for northbound trains. Bakerloo Line. North. Okay?'

'North. Thank you.'

A couple of teenagers in combat trousers and camouflage patterned coats were whispering and smirking. Malik fought to keep calm. It didn't matter who saw him. At precisely five o'clock he would press the button that would activate the bomb that would send him to heaven and take with him dozens if not hundreds of infidels. He looked across at the teenagers. Maybe they would get off at Charing Cross. Maybe they would be on the platform at five o'clock. He hoped so.

Malik smiled. It was all going to be just fine.

It was, thought Major Gannon, like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. There were some six thousand CCTV cameras covering the tube system. In any one hour a hundred and fifty thousand people were heading underground,

more at rush-hour - and it was rush-hour now.

There were too many cameras to monitor. With twenty workstations in the control room, even a ten-second look at each camera would take fifty minutes. And there were no cameras on any of the trains criss-crossing the system. The bomber in Brixton had been on his way to King's Cross on the Victoria Line. If others were en route, they would probably be travelling by train too, so they wouldn't be visible until they stepped out on to a platform. The cameras would have to be checked every time a train pulled in. It was an impossible task. Even if they had a face recognition system they could run in conjunction with the CCTV cameras, they didn't know who they were looking for. And there was a good chance that whoever had planned the operation had recruited Invisibles, men or women who held British citizenship in their own right and who were able to move around under the intelligence service's radar.

[

A phone rang and the inspector answered it, then handed the receiver to Gannon. It was Commander Matt Richards,

who was running the GT Ops room at New Scotland Yard,

the main control room in the event of a major terrorist incident.

Richards was in direct communication with COBRA,

the Cabinet Office briefing room, and the prime minister.

'How's it going there, Major?'

'Ronnie Roberts and I are checking the CCTV cameras but there are too many people down there. Can we evacuate?'

'Sorry,

Major, that's not an option. Every scenario we've ever run shows that evacuation causes more problems than it solves. Crowds form outside the stations and if a bomb goes off there we have more casualties than if the explosion takes place below ground.'

'The good of the many outweighs the good of the few?'

'We've run the numbers, Major. Evacuation of the system doesn't save lives. If we have a specific threat, place and time,

we can shut down a section of line or run trains through a station without stopping. But shutting the whole system is just not on.'

'No clues on the Brixton bomber?'

'Just the Underground map. Only King's Cross was circled,

so there's a possibility that he was a lone wolf,' said Richards.

'If it's al-Qaeda, multiple targets are more likely,' said Gannon.

'God be with us,' said Richards, and cut the connection.

The commander was a regular churchgoer and fond of quoting from the Bible. Gannon doubted that God would be of much help over the next half an hour. He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. King's Cross was an obvious target because so many tube lines intersected at the station. But Victoria was the busiest station on the system. Gannon wondered why the man was travelling from 397 Brixton to King's Cross when Victoria was only four stops away. King's Cross was four stops further on. Why risk travelling the extra distance? Because someone else was going to Victoria. Someone who would be using a different tube line.

Gannon jumped to his feet. He pointed at the sergeant. 'I want Victoria station evacuated,' he said.

Shepherd's earpiece crackled. 'Spider, you there?' It was Gannon.

'Receiving,' said Shepherd.

'Victoria station, how quickly can you get there?'

'It'll have to be on foot, there's no direct line.'

'There's going to be a bomber at Victoria. I've got guys heading over from the barracks but you might get there first.'

'On my way,' said Shepherd.

Shepherd saw Nick Wright at the far end of the platform and jogged over to him. 'Nick, I've got to get to Victoria now.'

'You'll have to go through Green Park. Piccadilly Line to Green Park, then Victoria Line south.'

'I don't have time, what about running through the tunnels?'

'Other than that it's pitch black and there's a live rail that'll fry you if you touch it, it sounds like a plan. Over ground is the only way.'

'Cheers,' said Shepherd. He rushed for the escalator and ran up the moving stairs two at a time.

Gannon put his hand on the shoulder of the young WPC and peered at her screen. On the display was a view of the southbound Victoria Line platform at Victoria station and a map of its CCTV cameras.

The platform was deserted except for a uniformed member of staff who was pacing up and down with a radio pressed to his ear.

'How's the evacuation going?' he asked.

The WPC was wearing a lightweight headset. She reached for her computer mouse and clicked on to a CCTV camera in the main ticket hall. The screen showed four staff members holding back a crowd of frustrated passengers.

She clicked to another view, this time of the escalators,

both running upwards. Then a passenger walkway, which was deserted. She flicked from camera to camera. Other than a few stragglers the station was empty. 'So far, so good,' said the WPC. 'As each train comes in the passengers are shunted upstairs.' She looked up at the major. 'I know it's none of my business, but why don't you just close the station and not allow the trains to stop?'

'Because if I'm right, there's a bomber on one of those trains. We need him out in the open.'

'And then what?' asked the WPC.

'We just hope we can take him out before he blows himself to kingdom come.'

The tube train slowed to a halt. Malik wondered what was happening. Several passengers swore. Malik glanced at his wristwatch. It was a quarter to five. The Saudi had said that Malik should be on a platform when the bomb went off.

Malik wondered what he should do if the train remained in the tunnel. Should he press the button at five o'clock, or wait until the train got to the station? He counted the people in the carriage. Twenty-six. Not enough. There would be hundreds on the platform. He would wait until the train reached the station, even if it meant going over the deadline by a few minutes. The Saudi had insisted that Malik pressed the button at exactly five p.m., but he hadn't known that the train would be stuck in a tunnel. Malik was the man on the spot, and he would decide when to activate the bomb. Why kill only twenty-six when he could kill hundreds?

His pulse raced at the thought of the explosion. The Saudi had said it would happen so quickly that there would be no sensation, just the bright light, and then he would be with Allah, one of the revered shahids, and he would receive all the rewards that were the right of those who gave their lives for Islam. Those closest to him would feel no pain. They probably wouldn't be aware of the explosion: their lives would just wink out. There would be no place in heaven for the unbelievers. But that wasn't Malik's problem. They were infidels, no better than animals.

The train lurched and started moving again.

'Thank God,' murmured a middle-aged man, cradling a briefcase.

Malik wondered if the man really believed in God. And if he did, would that God save him from what was about to happen?

The train arrived at Charing Cross. The two Japanese pushed in front of him, eager to get off. The man with the briefcase also pushed ahead. Malik let them go, then stepped slowly off the train. A housewife knocked his shoulder as she got on to the train. She gave him a bright smile and apologised.

Malik watched her as the doors closed and she mouthed, 'Sorry,' again.

The train pulled out of the station. There were only a dozen people waiting for the next, but more were arriving.

At the far end of the platform a CCTV camera seemed to look accusingly at him, but he knew he was just one of millions of passengers passing through the station every day. No one was looking for him. He had nothing to fear from the surveillance, but he didn't want to stand on the platform for too long: someone might wonder why he didn't board a train. He started to walk, following signs for the Northern Line.

Shepherd's jacket flapped behind him as he ran and he kept his arm pressed to his left side so that no one would see the Glock in its holster. His feet pounded on the pavement and he breathed deeply and evenly. Ahead of him the Mall separated Green Park from St James's Park. Shepherd upped the pace.

It was virtually a mile from Piccadilly Circus to Victoria as the crow flew but Shepherd wasn't a bird and he wasn't flying.

He'd run along Piccadilly, which was crowded with shoppers and office-workers heading home, then turned down St James's Street. It was no distance, compared with his normal running schedule, but he was sweating in his pullover, jeans and jacket.

He ran past St James's Palace and turned on to the Mall.

In the distance he could see Buckingham Palace. The Royal Standard was flying, indicating that the Queen was in residence.

A girl was throwing a Frisbee for a barking cocker spaniel. Two teenagers were kissing on a bench. A crocodile of Chinese tourists was walking down the Mall towards the palace, their faces impassive. Two policemen looked over at Shepherd, but dismissed him as just a man late for an appointment.

Shepherd ran on. He was halfway there.

Malik walked on to the Northern Line platform. It was crowded and he smiled inwardly. Perfect. He looked up at the electronic board and saw that a train was due in four minutes, then another five minutes after that. Malik looked at his wristwatch. It was four fifty-one. Passengers were piling on to the platform, their faces falling when they saw how long they had to wait. Malik walked slowly to the middle,

his hands in his pockets. The button was still tucked into the vest so that it could not be pressed accidentally. He wouldn't hold it until the last minute.

He moved back to stand by the wall. There was a chocolate machine to his left. Malik looked at it, his mouth watering.

It would be good to taste chocolate one last time. Maybe 401 even to have a piece in his mouth as he pressed the button.

He had some coins in his pocket and ran them through his fingers. He felt the milled edges of a pound, and took that as a sign that Allah meant him to have the taste of chocolate in his mouth when he went to heaven.

He went to the machine and slotted in the coin. He chose a bar of mint chocolate, then went back to the wall. He unwrapped it and popped a piece into his mouth. There were over a hundred people along the platform.

Malik let the chocolate melt in his mouth. It reminded him of the mint tea his mother had made for him. Would there be chocolate in heaven? Yes. All his needs would be taken care of. Malik hadn't seen his mother and father since he returned to England, but when it was over and the media reported what had happened, they would realise where he had been and what he had done. Whether or not they understood why he had given his life for the jihad, they would know that he had earned them a place in heaven and they would thank him for all eternity.

Malik felt a tug at his coat and he flinched. Then he saw it was a little girl of five or six and smiled. Blonde curly hair,