‘Me too,’ said Patel. It was the friendliest exchange they’d had.
At twenty to three, Khan, after checking his watch for the umpteenth time, finally said, ‘It’s time.’ The words acted as a safety valve. Their enforced immobility, which had been acting as a magnifier of all things bad for both of them, had come to an end and they were finally on the move. The tension didn’t return until they were drifting down the hill towards the pumping station in neutral.
Khan brought the vehicle to a halt and turned off the engine. They sat for a few minutes, watching the nearby houses for any signs of life, but windows remained dark and curtains were undisturbed.
‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’ Patel reached behind him and brought the box containing the bacterial cultures into the front of the van rather than go round and open the back doors. Khan took it out his side, then Patel got out carrying the bolt cutters and both men pushed their doors gently to. They didn’t want to risk slamming them and waking the neighbours.
Khan climbed over the railings first, dropping lightly to the grass on the other side, and turning to receive the box which Patel handed to him. Patel dropped the bolt cutters on the other side and climbed over to kneel beside Khan while they looked back at the houses opposite. Still no signs of life. In a spontaneous gesture, Khan held up his hand, inviting a high-five, which Patel performed with a smile.
Then both men were suddenly blinded as half a dozen searchlights were turned on and harsh male voices yelled at them from all directions. ‘Armed police! Get down on the ground! Get down! Hands on your heads! Armed police!’
TWENTY-SEVEN
The headline news next morning was that terrorist attempts to contaminate drinking water at pumping stations supplying large parts of four major British cities had been foiled by police. It was not yet known whether other attempts had been successful or if the captured terrorists had been responsible for the first attack. The population was urged to remain vigilant. All water should be boiled until the all-clear was given.
There was an air of so-far-so-good about the COBRA meeting at ten that morning.
‘I wouldn’t like to go public on it right now,’ said the Home Secretary, ‘but I think we may have got them all. All pumping stations have been examined thoroughly and none report any signs of interference during the night. I think we have to congratulate the police and our security forces on a job very well done.’
‘Was it a breakthrough or a tip-off?’ asked Steven. He thought it was a reasonable question to ask but the slightly embarrassed looks that passed between the heads of MI5 and Special Branch and the Metropolitan Police commander seemed to suggest not.
The MI5 man cleared his throat and said, ‘We did receive a tip-off, but it’s not clear at the moment whether or not it came from one of our undercover people.’
‘I see,’ said Steven.
‘I’m sure you appreciate the dangers involved in placing operatives in dangerous situations. We have to keep information about them as secret as possible.’
Even from each other, thought Steven, seeing what he thought might be a case of the right hand not knowing what the left was doing.
‘No matter,’ said the deputy Prime Minister, intervening. ‘The main thing is we have eight terrorists in custody.’
There were murmurs of agreement round the table.
‘Do we know anything about them?’ asked Steven.
‘First reports suggest they’re home-grown and very young,’ said the Met commander.
‘And presumably Asian?’
‘Yes, but born in the UK.’
‘But they must have been subject to outside influence, and given assistance,’ said Norman Travis. ‘You don’t exactly find cholera cultures in the cupboard under the sink.’
The MI5 head nodded. ‘It’s almost certain we’re looking at disaffected youths being exploited by Islamic terrorists for their own ends.’
‘After being recruited locally,’ added the Met commander bitterly. ‘This damned Afghan war is making it all too easy for these Fagin-like figures.’
‘Be that as it may…’ began the deputy PM, coughing to cover his embarrassment, ‘it’s a truly sad reflection on our society that British-born youths should feel so… un-British.’
The expression on the Met commander’s face suggested that such social considerations were the last thing on his mind. ‘Well, they’ll have the rest of their natural lives to reflect on their Britishness or lack of it from behind bars,’ he growled. ‘Perhaps we should be more concerned with those who’ve died and those who might yet join them.’
‘Indeed,’ said Norman Travis. ‘Our first priority must be to remain focused on stamping out the epidemic we still have on our hands. We can’t afford to let down our guard even if we have — hopefully — deactivated its source.’
‘Hear hear,’ said several round the table.
‘So we continue with the preventative measures we’ve put in place?’ said the deputy PM.
Everyone agreed.
Steven walked back to the Home Office wondering why he didn’t feel a whole lot better than he did. The capture of what looked to be the whole terrorist strike force was a major triumph, and yet he found himself feeling uneasy without knowing why.
‘Wonderful news,’ said Jean Roberts when Steven walked in. ‘Aren’t our police wonderful?’
‘We are indeed blessed,’ replied Steven, tongue in cheek.
‘Oh, come on, Steven, I know you and Sir John have had your differences with the police and intelligence services over the years, but you have to admit they’ve come up trumps this time.’
‘You’re right; they have.’
‘All the health boards you asked about have now reported back. None of them knew anything about any new scheme coming into operation in the autumn.’
‘Thanks, Jean.’
Steven had barely sat down in his office when the phone rang.
‘They’ve caught them! I can hardly believe it,’ said Tally.
‘It’s real enough.’
‘This is just what we need to get on top of things,’ said Tally. ‘It’ll give us time to get everyone vaccinated so even if there’s another attempt we’ll be prepared. Is something wrong? You seem a bit distant.’
Steven struggled with a response. ‘Something is wrong,’ he confessed, ‘but I don’t know what.’
‘I know that feeling,’ said Tally. ‘Sometimes I get it with the kids at the hospital. All the lab results are telling you one thing but you know in your heart that it’s not the whole story: there’s something else going on.’
‘That’s it exactly,’ said Steven. ‘The jigsaw looks complete but you’re left with one piece in your hand.’
‘Go and see Sir John,’ said Tally. ‘You and he have this thing… You can probably work it out between you.’
Steven called John Macmillan’s home but was told by his wife that he was at the hospital having a check-up. ‘Nothing wrong, I hope,’ said Steven.
‘Far from it. He wants to go back to work.’
Steven sympathised with her and made arrangements to call round later. He spent the next few minutes standing at the window looking out at the traffic, trying to decide what to do next. He took out his mobile phone and flicked through the contact list till he got to John Ricksen, then hesitated for a few moments before pressing the dial button.
‘Ricksen.’
‘John, it’s Steven Dunbar. How are things?’
