The Bordeaux Connection Page 11

  *

  The cellist hadn’t moved for almost five seconds. His whole body, including the hand that held the detonation device, had remained unnaturally still, rigid almost as if turned to stone, his eyes glazed over in a fixed stare.

  Kit bit his lip and inwardly swore at the man. Though the entire episode had been of the briefest possible duration, the sight of him holding the black rectangular device had already changed in that time from being troubling and disconcerting to just plain irritating. The worrying thought entered Kit’s mind that the person in front of him – an explosives expert, culture connoisseur and, apparently, an extremely talented musician – had an ulterior motive. If the attack on Box 63 wasn’t merely about taking out the Deputy PM, over two thousand other lives could be in serious danger.

  A torrent of thoughts rushed through his mind, one of which came straight to the front. Mr White had posed the question the day he joined The White Hart. What was the primary motive of terrorism?

  Answer: to spread terror.

  “Enough games,” Kit said, brushing beads of sweat from his forehead. Though the temperature outside was cold, his body temperature was rising rapidly. “I’ve asked you once politely; now I really must insist. Place the object down on the floor, or you leave me no alternative but to shoot you.”

  The cellist smiled. “You call yourself MI5? A true servant of Her Majesty the Queen would not be so reckless in his assumptions. As I tell you already, the button is sensitive. Should my hand be forced to the floor, the button will be pressed anyway. That way, we both lose.”

  Damn you to hell, Kit cursed in his mind. In truth, he was unsure, from what he could see of the design of the device, whether that was true or not. Either way, it was too big a risk to take.

  “Do as I say, and you leave here alive. No dramas. Tell us about Randek and you might even be offered immunity. One false move, and rest assured, I will kill you. Unlike you, I already have that immunity.”

  The cellist stared unflinchingly. “Kill me here and your chances of leaving unobserved are lost, so perhaps instead you might satisfy my curiosity. Shoot me now. Or call the police.”

  Kit bit his lip, his upper teeth pressing deeply into his lower gum. He tried to read the man’s expression: stern, stubborn, otherwise emotionless, his blinking eyes the only movement. He knew that each second increased their chances of being observed. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? he asked himself. Bad, probably, he concluded. He held a specially authorised gun; the sight or sound of which could rapidly create panic or mass hysteria in the large, crowded venue.

  A scream. Close by. Or was it?

  No. Further away.

  Kit’s heart skipped a beat. His initial assumption was that someone had observed them.

  His fears were dispelled. The sound was pre-planned; it came from the stage, singing; loud and piercing.

  For a split second he’d lost concentration; less than a second, no longer. A split second was enough. The cellist seized the moment; despite the man’s bulky size, he moved quickly, his long legs creating a powerful jump.

  Kit crashed down on the concrete. He felt the impact on his lower back, then the base of his skull. Everard had landed on top of him. Their faces touched. He felt sweat, strength, hair, a tickly sensation, accompanied by two forms of stench: something meat based and some form of cologne. He felt two hands pressing down firmly on each of his shoulders and a knee into his left thigh. Looking up from the ground, one sight monopolised his view: a bearded face, aggression piercing from two brown eyes. Pain shot all along his left leg, extending to his lower back.

  Then he felt restriction to his neck.

  *

  The sounds of the opera still resonated loudly through the nearby doorways, the booming voice of the man with the beard replaced by that of the petite woman.

  Despite the loud singing, a second noise came through equally clearly from the bottom of the concourse, followed immediately by shouts of pain.

  Mike saw the whole thing. He sprinted along the concourse, towards the electronic doors that led out on to the smokers’ section, and focused on the scene behind the glass. He paused by the door, stunned.

  Two men were engaged in a wrestling match.

  He couldn’t tell to begin with whether the man on the floor was Kit or not. All he could see was a bearded man dressed in an expensive tuxedo overpowering a similarly dressed man of far slimmer build.

  Whoever the thinner man was, he was clearly losing.

  Had Mike had time to think, his reactions might have been very different. A year in The White Hart, and he was still to see Kit lose. Had he not been inches from defeat, Mike knew Kit would have resented the help.

  Knowing Kit, he probably would anyway.

  *

  The man’s thumbs were stubby, just like the rest of his hands. Kit estimated his total weight to be somewhere between fourteen and fifteen stone, giving him at least a two-stone advantage on himself.

  The pain was greatest on his throat, making breathing difficult. He felt an involuntary gag reflex kick in, his lungs heaving desperately for air. He grabbed the cellist’s hands, focusing all his strength on pulling them from his throat. Even with a firm grip, he failed to move them.

  His next action was instinctive. As his lungs began to burn, his throat on the point of closing, he knew it was time for the ultimate plan B. He’d learned that one before The White Hart, before the military. At school, in films, Dad’s Army.

  He grabbed the man’s scrotum and squeezed.

  The cellist screamed, loud and shrill; even with his throat constricted Kit couldn’t believe a sound that loud could go unheard. Again a split second was enough; the man’s hands loosened, allowing Kit to roll free. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his gun, lying on the floor no more than five metres away. Desperately he scrambled, rolled and pointed.

  The cellist had spun away in the opposite direction, giving him breathing space. As Kit went for the trigger, another sound filled his ears.

  One definitely loud enough to be heard elsewhere.

  13

  The explosion happened in stages.

  The pressing of the button on the remote control activated a chain reaction inside the bottle, causing the liquid to fizz. Once it did, the next stage took less than a second.

  The highly flammable liquid combusted, creating an instant blast.

  The people in the second tier were the first to notice something was wrong. A series of tremors preceded the blast, causing cracks in the floor and walls of the balcony boxes. As the impact faded, debris erupted from the grand tier.

  Covering at least a quarter of the spectators in the orchestra stalls.

  The explosion had been momentarily deafening. Even on the stage, the blast had been impossible to miss. A cloud of dust rose from the epicentre, still rising over ten seconds later. Strangely there was no smoke, nor any other sign of fire beyond the initial spark of illumination. The impact had centred on Box 63, with further damage in Boxes 62 and 64. The worst area to be hit was that directly below Box 63.

  A stunned silence ensued. The music had stopped; people from all parts of the auditorium rose to their feet, their eyes anxiously fixed on the area behind the cloud. As the dust began to settle, the extent of the destruction was revealed for the first time. A gaping hole extended into the boxes either side of Box 63 and much of the tier below. Its former foundations now lay in heaps of rubble around the frightened crowd on the floor, dust covering their clothes and faces. The people who had sat further away had endured a narrow escape. For those located below and in the adjoining boxes it was a different story.

  Even from the amphitheatre it was clear that the death toll would be well into double figures.

  *

  Mike felt the impact before he heard it. Though the explosion had clearly come from the floor above, even below his feet there were shock waves.

  He hit the ground immediately. The dive had been subconscious, just like the roll that foll
owed it. Five years as a Red Beret had taught him everything he needed to know about landing properly when dropped by parachute; eighteen months since his last practice, the knowledge was still there, instinctive.

  As he raised his head, he heard gasps of horror coming from nearby, a stampede of pounding feet replacing the sound of singing.

  The next thing he saw was movement of a different kind. Kit was lying on his back, gun at the ready. He saw him pull the trigger, the lack of noise indicating he had fitted a silencer.

  Mike rolled again, this time in the other direction, shielding his head with his hands. The nearby window had shattered; glass rained down like hail.

  Kit was still on his back, apparently incapable of getting to his feet. It was obvious from his face he had sustained a powerful impact injury. His bullets had missed the cellist by inches, the last skimming the top of the man’s forehead before passing through the broken glass.

  Mike got to his feet, faced with two choices:

  The assailant or his friend.

  Kit fired until he clicked on empty and shouted, “Follow that piece of shit.”

  *

  The destruction of the glass had helped the cellist make his decision. Rather than head for the piazza, taking him south-west through the heart of Covent Garden, he headed back inside the opera house and joined the mass exodus heading for Bow Street.

  *

  Mike didn’t look back. Even if Kit was seriously injured, he knew he’d made the correct call. Camaraderie was hugely important in The White Hart.

  But the defence of the realm was always the greatest priority.

  He chased the cellist through the west concourse, his legs accelerating through the gears. The cellist was moving surprisingly quickly, his destination the lobby.

  A strange choice, Mike thought.

  As the seconds passed, the decision suddenly made sense. Hordes of people emerged from the nearby doorways, crowding the concourse from wall to wall. People moved as if barefooted on acid, hastily heading for the main doors. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a view through one of the doorways of a dissipating cloud of debris hanging in the air, and beyond that the hurriedly deserted stage, curtains open and still set up for the opera. People were leaving in a panic, worried expressions confirming everyone was thinking the same thing.

  It was every man for himself.

  Mike sprinted along the concourse until the densely milling crowds forced him to reduce his pace abruptly. Not for the first time that evening, he failed to stop in time and bumped into a bystander, a casually dressed man holding his girlfriend’s hand.

  The cellist’s head start had made the difference. As Mike approached the lobby he saw him heading for the main doors, moving, incredibly, as though he was leaving as one of the crowd. He even stopped for a moment to help a panicked blonde lady to her feet before continuing into the foyer.

  Mike focused solely on his target. With the crowds at their thickest, the man was hidden apart from the top of his head. The cellist had acted tactically, and headed for an area of suited men. Mike was in danger of losing him. Jumping gave him a better view, enough to see the cellist fast approaching the main doors. The gap between them was over ten metres and soon it would become more.

  As the cellist made his way through the main door, he disappeared from sight, and into the cold Bow Street air.

  *

  Kit was still lying on his back, an agonising pain in the base of his spine but otherwise uninjured.

  The area around the smokers’ section was still deserted. He couldn’t believe so long could pass without attention being drawn to the broken glass. Even inside the concourse, evidence of his stray bullets was clear; one had caught a wall lamp and penetrated the surrounding exterior.

  He grimaced as he sat up. Along the concourse, the pandemonium showed no signs of abating. There were still people leaving the auditorium, the majority heading for the lobby. People moved as if oblivious to what surrounded them; as if some form of invisible beam was guiding them in one direction. Amidst the screams and the shouts, he thought he heard the sound of something else, more direct.

  Someone was speaking instructions through the PA system.

  Nobody seemed to be listening.

  He leaned his weight against his hands and struggled upwards. Once on his feet, he headed towards the broken window and stopped, deciding against returning inside.

  He spoke into his mouthpiece. “Come in, whoever’s there. What the hell’s happening?”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  He recognised Maria’s voice. “Same place. Everard set the bomb off. The whole place is a war zone.”

  Maria cursed under her breath. “What in God’s name happened?”

  “Everard had a remote detonator. It set off a liquid explosive. Pickering must have planned this all along.”

  “You couldn’t stop it?”

  “Obviously not!”

  “News of an explosion is already making the news. The Director is having kittens, and the PM is currently on the phone. I’m heading there now, and I’m going to need something to tell him.”

  Kit took a deep breath, attempting to remain cool. “Everard wasn’t interested in the DPM. That was just a by-product. Even when I tried to tell him the box was empty, he wasn’t interested. The plan was to proceed anyway.”

  “How many casualties?”

  “I don’t know, I haven’t seen the wreckage. Judging by the sound, I think we’ll be lucky to escape with less than double figures.”

  Another curse. “Where the hell’s Everard?”

  “On the run. Mike left with him.”

  “Let’s hope to God he catches him. Where are you?”

  “Near the concourse. I’m injured. I can’t run.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Yes.”

  “You go after Pickering. I’ll send someone else for his wife.”

  *

  The onrush had dwindled by the time Kit finally got inside. Stepping over the remains of the recently annihilated window, he jogged in anguish back along the west concourse and headed left through an open doorway.

  He’d last seen the Foreign Secretary entering the toilets, almost ten minutes earlier. Logic told him the man would have moved on by now, most likely departing unseen amongst the masses. If all went according to protocol, a special order would have been put out to ensure all Members of Office were accounted for.

  As far as Kit was aware, no such order had been made.

  He entered the gents and looked in every direction. The facilities had suffered damage: a broken mirror hung from the wall above the sinks, its remains scattered across the floor. A pipe had exploded, causing water to pool; the lights, however, were still working, reflecting off what remained of the mirrors. Unsurprisingly the urinals were vacant, as were most of the cubicles.

  One appeared to be locked.

  Kit approached the final cubicle and knocked gently on the door. “Mr Pickering. Sir, my name is Masterson. I’ve been sent by the Cabinet Office to escort you back to Whitehall. There’s a car waiting close by.”

  He waited, hearing nothing.

  “Sir, if you can hear me, we have to move fast. The traffic outside is already gridlocked; the PM has demanded your safe return. The crowds have gone. The building is empty.”

  He heard movement from within, the lock sliding to one side.

  *

  The reverberations from the explosion had been frightening, even compared to what he’d prepared for. Being on the west side of the opera house, experiencing the damage first hand had been unavoidable. He’d heard the sound of a mirror falling, followed by running water that quickly flowed beneath the cubicle door, soaking the bottom of his shoes. As the seconds passed, the sound of nearby chaos became overwhelming. People were fleeing in terror, worried observers desperately trying to ensure loved ones got out safely.

  Tentatively Pickering opened the door. The man in front of him was dark haired and sharply dres
sed, but his stature and voice carried clear authority.

  Kit addressed him. “Are you okay? Have you sustained injuries?”

  “No. Just a slightly upset stomach.” He looked around, noticing that the source of the running water was a burst pipe that was slowly flooding the room.

  Kit, meanwhile, took a step back, taking in the man’s features. As before, an elegant tuxedo and spotless white shirt fitted tightly to his medium build, a blue bow tie endorsing his political allegiance. The man’s face was pale, his cheeks flushed; unlike earlier that evening his appearance was ragged.

  The man looked as though he’d seen a ghost.

  “Sir . . .”

  “My wife?”

  Kit pressed his earpiece. “Maria, I need an update on the Foreign Secretary’s wife.”

  “I’m sending someone to take care of her.”

  Kit looked at Pickering. “She’s safe.”

  *

  Outside the main façade on Bow Street, the wife of the Foreign Secretary heard someone call her name. The voice had a clear feminine pitch to it, yet its tone was far more authoritative than she was used to dealing with.

  The woman was blonde, her long hair tied back in a ponytail. Her expression was warm, but no nonsense; a woman under orders from the very top.

  “Mrs Pickering, I’m with the Cabinet Office. I’m under strict orders to take you home.”

  “My husband?”

  “Your husband is being evacuated as we speak. We have a car waiting for you.”

  Mrs Pickering looked at the woman and smiled tentatively. She wiped fresh tears from her eyes and proceeded cautiously through the rapidly increasing crowd.

  *

  In less than three minutes, the capacity-filled venue had been completely vacated. With the auditorium empty, the full strength overhead lights and the recently used props on the stage were a strange combination; one the Foreign Secretary never believed he’d see.

  Against Kit’s wishes, Pickering had entered the stalls through one of the doorways.

  As he looked up at Box 63, the damage was revealed for the first time: a crimson coloured void between Boxes 62 and 64, as if a bottomless hole had materialised and swept aside everything within a ten-metre circumference. The whole tier on that side had become unstable, he feared even a heavy footstep would cause it to cave in.