Only two people knew Crossman’s real identity. One was Cain himself. The other was William Garrett, codenamed Fox.
And he’d be dealt with soon enough.
A marked police patrol car turned into the street fifty yards ahead of Cain, moving slowly, as if its occupants were looking for something.
Cain ducked down behind a parked van and watched as the police car drove past him down the street, coming to a halt in the middle of the road next to the Audi estate he’d been driving only a couple of minutes before. It then moved on about ten yards, but pulled into an empty parking bay, with its engine still running. At the same time, a second police car drove in from the opposite end, slowing up as it drew level with the first one.
Knowing this was no coincidence, Cain jogged in a low crouch, using the parked cars as cover, before ducking into a narrow back alley and breaking into a sprint.
They’d been betrayed.
And it could only have been by one man.
Forty-four
19.07
I’d spoken to Bolt twice in the last half hour, after each call nodding a thanks to the landlord.
The conversations had been brief, and slightly surreal. He’d asked me a lot of questions about the Stinger, and I’d had to answer him while standing at the corner of a bar talking on a pub phone, shouting occasionally to make myself heard above the din of booze-fuelled conversation coming from all around. Hardly secure, but then desperate times call for desperate measures. Thankfully, Bolt had been more interested in minor details than in how we’d come to be in possession of it. What did the box the Stinger was being carried in look like? How big was it? Where in Cain’s car had I planted the GPS unit? That type of thing.
He’d finished the last call by telling me he’d send officers from CTC to collect me from the pub as soon as some were available. But I was getting restless. The bar was busy with a mixture of after-work groups and wrinkled locals, and the two TVs on opposite walls were both on Sky News, which was endlessly regurgitating the same material about the bomb attacks earlier. The confirmed death toll from the earlier bombs was now twenty, including five police officers, and it made me wonder what the hell Cain and Cecil were hoping to achieve. They’d killed a whole load of innocent people, and ripped apart the lives of hundreds of others. Just as they’d done in the Stanhope siege. And all for what? A few hours of constant network coverage.
What struck me looking round was that I could see that only a handful of the pub’s clientele were even watching the TVs. Most were engaged in conversation. People were laughing, exchanging gossip. Getting on with their lives. Already the bombs were old news. But this was just the way it was in the era of the internet and twenty-four-hour news. Attention spans had shortened dramatically. Even the terrorists’ threat of a third attack was no longer appearing to have the desired effect — on these people, at least.
I knew better. They should be afraid. A Stinger missile would take the slaughter to a whole new level, and unless Bolt and his people acted fast, there could be a massacre on the scale of Lockerbie within hours.
I thought about phoning Gina to warn her, but what the hell would I say? That there was a missile in circulation capable of bringing down a plane, and that she should grab Maddie and leave the city as soon as possible? It would be pointless. In the end they were better off where they were. And what if Gina asked me how I knew about it? I could hardly tell her the truth. That while working undercover for the people who’d sacked me and helped put me in prison, I’d helped acquire it for the terrorists, one of whom was an old colleague of mine, while simultaneously committing cold-blooded murder.
As I snaked my way slowly through the pub’s customers towards the exit, I realized I was shaking. I hated myself for my part in all this, but self-preservation was also kicking in. I needed to think, to settle down in my own home, down a beer, and work out the story I was going to tell Bolt’s colleagues. One that was somehow going to avoid mention of a gang of dead Albanians.
I’d been in worse situations before, I told myself as I walked back out on to the street, breathing in the cold air. But at that moment I couldn’t honestly remember when.
Forty-five
19.09
‘Ok, we’re here,’ Bolt said into the radio as he and Tina pulled into Gowland Street, a narrow road flanked on both sides by new-build townhouses, which ran parallel to the lane of lock-up garages from where the stationary GPS unit was sending its signal. They were only a couple of hundred yards south of the river here and very close to the overhead railway lines heading into nearby London Bridge Station. The street was deserted as Bolt drove the Islington pool car he’d signed out earlier, a battered Ford Focus, past the turning to the lock-up garages, before parking further down. ‘We’ve got a visual on the entrance to the lock-ups,’ he continued, as he flicked on the car’s hazard lights and looked in the rearview mirror, suddenly feeling very alone, even with Tina beside him. ‘There doesn’t appear to be much activity at the moment. What do you want us to do? Over.’
He was talking to the control room at New Scotland Yard, where responsibility for the operation to retrieve the Stinger safely had now been handed.
‘Stay where you are,’ said Commander Thomas Ingrams, Bolt’s boss and the head of CTC, who was at the other end. ‘The GPS unit is still in place, and armed response vehicles are on the scene. They’re currently being held back on Druid Street, and the armed surveillance team are en route. We’ve been on to the owner of the lock-ups and he rented out number five six weeks ago to a man identifying himself as Vincent Cain. Over.’
‘That’s our man. Did he get a description? Over.’
‘No. It was all done over the phone. The owner’s coming down to you with the keys to number five. What’s your exact location? Over.’
Bolt gave him the details, before asking if they’d located the other GPS unit.
‘Affirmative,’ answered Ingrams, an edge to his voice. ‘It’s in an Audi A5 parked in Westminster, less than half a mile from the Houses of Parliament. We’re currently throwing a secure cordon round the whole area, but there’s no sign of the occupants, and according to the officers at the scene, no sign of a box in the back of the car either.’
‘That means the device must be in the lock-up here. Over.’
‘That seems the most likely scenario. We need to get it out as soon as possible.’ There was an edge to Commander Ingrams’s voice. ‘As soon as you have the keys, I want you to go in with the armed back-up, do a brief risk assessment to make sure the immediate area’s clear. It’s unlikely the unit’s going to be booby-trapped, but if you see anything suspicious pull back and let us know. Then we’ll have to consider evacuating the buildings nearby and blowing the door. Over.’
‘Understood,’ said Bolt, and signed off.
‘You’re going to be the golden boy if this all works out,’ Tina told him.
He shook his head. ‘No, I’m not. I should have had more control over my informant and kept him on a tighter rein. God knows what happened at that meeting, but I didn’t like the way he sounded.’
‘Is he likely to have done something bad?’
Bolt thought about it for a moment. ‘You know, deep down I believe he’s a good man, but he’s got a pretty chequered record. He’s an ex-squaddie, an ex-cop, and an ex-con. In that order.’
Tina chuckled. ‘He sounds like an interesting guy.’
Bolt turned and smiled at her. ‘You’d probably like him. But I’ve got a feeling he’s in a lot of trouble.’
Realizing there was no point in holding things back from her now that Jones’s work was effectively over, he told her about how they’d used him to get close to Fox in prison, before using him for a second time on the outside to get close to Cecil Boorman. ‘I think because everyone was so keen to get the people behind the Stanhope attacks, no one was too worried about how we went about doing it. But I feel like we’ve left Jones on his own for
