The Sacred Vault

the drone’s suicide strike—

‘Peter!’ she exclaimed, the sight of the British politician reminding her of one of the members of his entourage. ‘We can call Peter Alderley; he can warn them!’

‘Well, yeah, we could,’ Eddie said, ‘if we had his number. And a phone.’

‘We’ve got a phone. If I can remember how to work it . . .’ She thought back to the smaller infotarium in India, then raised one hand as if holding an invisible handset and brought it to her ear.

Nothing happened. The screens remained unchanged. ‘Damn it!’

Eddie gave her a look of disbelief. ‘This isn’t a good time to play charades!’

‘I saw him do it in Bangalore - like a virtual phone.’ She moved closer to the slender lectern housing the motion sensors and tried again, slowing and exaggerating the move . . .

The screens changed, a keypad overlaid on the images. ‘Yes!’ she cried. ‘What’s the number?’

‘How the hell would I know Alderley’s number?’

‘Not his number - Mac’s number!’ She raised her other hand, forefinger extended; a glowing circle appeared over the keypad as the sensors tracked her fingertip. ‘He’s with Peter, and you know his number, don’t you?’

Eddie quickly recited the digits, Nina tapping at thin air to enter them into the virtual keypad. ‘Just hope he remembered to charge his phone.’

The animated ‘Connecting . . .’ icon appeared, but nothing seemed to be happening. Nina and Eddie exchanged worried looks - then a hollow hiss came from speakers overhead. Another tense moment, and the ringing tone echoed round the dome. Twice, three times . . .

‘If the world ends because we got sent to voicemail, I’m gonna be very unhappy,’ Nina muttered. ‘Come on, Mac, pick up—’

A click, then a familiar Scottish voice, slight puzzlement evident at being called from an unfamiliar number. ‘Hello?’

‘Mac!’ Nina cried. ‘Thank God! It’s us, Nina and Eddie!’

The background noise suggested that he was in a large room, a hum of conversation audible. ‘What’s going on? I thought you were in Greenland?’

‘We are,’ said Eddie, ‘but the shit’s about to hit the fan in Delhi. Khoil’s got a stealth drone full of explosives about to do a kamikaze run on the G20 photocall right now - you’ve got to get them out of there!’

Silence for a second. Then an urgent shout of: ‘Peter!’

‘What is it?’ called Alderley.

‘We have a situation. Over here, now! Kit, you too.’

‘Where are you?’ Eddie asked.

‘At the Rashtrapati Bhavan - we’ve been dealing with the head of the Indian security service.’

‘Useful.’

‘Not really - he doesn’t believe the Khoils could be a threat.’ A new voice: Kit. ‘What’s happening?’

Mac quickly summarised the situation for his companions. ‘Chase,’ said Alderley, ‘is this intel good?’

‘Straight from the arsehole’s mouth,’ Eddie told him, with a quick look down at Khoil. ‘I don’t know how long until it hits ground zero, but it’s less than ninety seconds. You’ve got to evacuate everyone - or at least get them under cover.’

‘Eddie!’ said Nina urgently, indicating the news feed. On the screen, President Cole was emerging from the palace, striding along the red carpet to meet the Indian leaders. Now that all the G20 leaders had arrived, they would gather for their group photo . . . and become the highest-value target on the planet.

‘Shit!’ said Eddie. ‘Mac, get them out of there! Now!’

‘We’re on it,’ said Mac. A muted thump came from the speakers as he disconnected.

‘It’s too late,’ Khoil said from the floor. ‘You can’t stop it.’

All Nina and Eddie could do was watch the news feed as the world leaders began to congregate.

Mac and Alderley hurried across the crowded room, Kit following as quickly as he could on his crutch. The majority of the guests were high-ranking Indian politicians and civil servants, the remainder diplomats and officials from the other countries attending the summit.

There was only one person the trio were interested in, however. They spotted the portly, grey-bearded man near the doors leading to the expansive courtyard where the leaders had assembled. ‘Mr Verma!’ Alderley called, barging past a cluster of Russian delegates to reach him.

Arivali Verma, the head of India’s Intelligence Bureau, looked round in annoyance from his discussion with his Chinese opposite number. ‘Mr . . . Alderley, yes?’ He recognised the taller, older man with him. ‘Colonel McCrimmon? What is it?’

‘There’s about to be a terrorist attack,’ Alderley said urgently. ‘We have to get the delegates into cover.’

‘What?’ Verma looked to one of his subordinates standing nearby. The man’s bemused expression told him that he had heard nothing of the sort through his earpiece. ‘Where did you hear this?’

‘Does it matter?’ Mac snapped. ‘Just evacuate the courtyard!’

‘What kind of attack? I need more information! The entire world is watching - if I call an alert and nothing happens, we will look like fools!’

‘Better that than doing nothing until a plane crashes into them!’ said Kit, catching up.

Verma huffed. ‘If an unauthorised plane came within fifty kilometres, I would be told immediately.’

‘Not if it were a stealth plane,’ said Mac.

‘A stealth plane?’ Verma echoed in disbelief. ‘This is absurd!’

‘We don’t have time for this!’ Kit growled. He tried to push past Verma to the door, but his assistant moved to block him—

Mac suddenly planted both palms squarely on Verma’s chest and shoved him backwards. Arms flailing, he crashed against his subordinate. Both men fell to the floor in an ungainly heap.

Everyone nearby was shocked - then several of the Indian contingent rushed at Mac . . . including the men guarding the courtyard doors. The Scot winked at Kit, the slight flick of his eyes towards the exit giving the younger man a clear instruction. Alderley, hemmed in by the charge, realised what he was doing and swung a punch at one of the men trying to grab Mac before he too was swarmed.

Leaving the doorway clear.

Kit hopped over the outraged, flapping Verma and into the courtyard. Ignoring the resurgent pain in his injured leg, he hurried forward, pulling out his ID and holding it above his head. ‘Interpol!’ he cried. ‘Everyone inside - there’s a terrorist—’

A pair of black-suited US Secret Service agents dived at him, slamming him to the ground. The world leaders looked round in surprise at the commotion, some reacting with alarm at the last word.

The agents grappled with Kit, forcing him on to his chest and pulling his arms up painfully behind his back. He struggled, but couldn’t break free: the only thing that could escape was his voice. ‘They’re going to crash a plane!’ he cried. ‘A suicide flight - 9/11! Get out of here! Get out!’

Those two numbers got everyone’s attention. One agent released Kit’s arm, putting a hand to his earpiece to listen to an incoming transmission over the hubbub - then jumped up and pulled Kit to his feet. The other American agents mobilised as one to surround Cole and clear a path for him to get indoors. To the Secret Service, any hint of a threat to the life of the President was treated as confirmed until proved otherwise; the potential consequences of under-reacting were infinitely worse than the opposite.

The security details of the other leaders took their cue from the Americans. The courtyard had several exits, all of which led inside the palace; the group split up to run for them.

The two agents bustled Kit back towards the door. Over the shouts and screams, he heard another noise - a high-pitched buzz, the rasp of an aircraft propeller.

Getting louder . . .

Nina and Eddie, watching the news feed, saw the camera pan sharply to catch Kit being tackled by a pair of agents. His mouth moved as he shouted, but the screen had no sound.

The picture jolted as the press corps panicked, someone bumping the camera. Its operator valiantly tried to