Neve headed down the stairs. ‘Come on,’ she said to Bethan. ‘We keep a bottle in the office for such occasions.’
Bethan followed.
Chapter 28
The 194 ton aggregate carrier, the Polo Harrow, was moored alongside a floating pontoon adjacent to the Port of London Authority utility offices on the south side of the Thames, 300 metres from the Thames Barrier. It was dark when a minibus drove into the industrial estate and along the poorly lit road to the Authority centre. Following the minibus was a lorry carrying a dozen pallets topped with cement bags. The minibus reached the end of the road turnabout and came to a stop. The lorry parked behind it and engines and lights were turned off. The area was well lit but devoid of life.
A dozen men climbed out of the mini bus and three more from the lorry. They were all British Arabs. Four of those who had arrived on the ship with Saleem set off through the Authority yard and up a zig-zag ramp to a long, covered walkway suspended above the water. They paused at the end to observe the Polo Harrow the other side of the floating pontoon. Lights were on inside the superstructure at the back of the boat.
The leader drew a long knife from a sheath under his jacket. The others did the same and they crossed the pontoon and stealthily climbed on board. They went directly to the back of the superstructure and after a brief pause to ensure all were ready, they opened the door into a small crew room. A young man in grubby overalls was making a cup of tea for himself. Two of the ISIL fighters quickly set upon him with their knives, stabbing his body and slitting his throat while the other pair headed through a door and up a narrow flight of stairs.
They paused at a door to look at each other and synchronise their thoughts. A second later they pushed open the door to find an engineer leaning against the wheel watching the river. The killers made swift work of him and left his body on the floor oozing blood from the slice across his throat.
The one in charge shouted for the others to return to the vehicles while he made his way along the narrow side of the aggregate storage compartments to the front of the boat. He hauled open the bosun’s locker hatch and shone a torch inside. It would do nicely.
Within an hour a timber framework had been constructed inside the bosun’s locker and a large number of the cement bags had been carried on board and dumped by the hatch. The chain of bag carriers made their way between the boat and the lorry well into the night as the bags were emptied into the wooden framework followed by buckets of river water.
Bethan sat in the dimly lit operations room reading her emails on her phone. Two analysts were at computer terminals.
The door opened and Neve walked in with a bottle of Scotch. ‘Harlow’s office,’ she announced. ‘He always has the good stuff.’ She cracked open the top. ‘He won’t miss it. He seems to prefer his Temple office these days anyway.’
She poured two glasses and handed one to Bethan. ‘Welcome to the madhouse,’ she said, taking a sip.
‘Is this a normal day in the life of a secret squirrel?’
‘Most of the time it’s boring as hell. You’ve been lucky.’
Bethan held up her glass. ‘Lucky in something at last. Can’t wait for tomorrow.’
‘I was serious about a therapist.’
Bethan raised her glass to her, took a good sip and sat back to enjoy it.
‘Are you and Devon an item?’ Neve asked.
‘I don’t know. I was hoping we might be. You weren’t expecting me, were you?’
Neve shrugged.
‘Sorry.’
‘I have no interest in Devon.’
Bethan looked at her, unsure about her. ‘Did you know Megan?’
‘Megan?’
‘His fiancée.’
‘He had a fiancée?’
Bethan decided not to get into it. ‘I never met her.’
‘What happened to her?’
Bethan was reluctant but answered anyway. ‘She died.’
‘Oh,’ Neve said, looking genuinely sorry.
They sipped their drinks in silence for half a minute.
‘I was curious to see him again,’ Neve said.
‘You knew each other for just a moment.’
‘A couple of hours, max. We barely exchanged a word.’
‘But something happened.’
‘Yes. Something happened.’
‘What?’
‘Who knows? I likened it to a holiday romance.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to never try and recreate those?’
‘It’s good advice.’
The door opened and Gunnymede walked in. ‘I thought I’d find you here,’ he said, walking over to the Scotch and pouring himself a glass.
‘Who?’ Neve asked. ‘Us or the scotch?’
He smiled at them as he took a drink. ‘Right. Let’s get down to this. How do you kill a couple thousand people in London?’
‘We could be asking Saleem that right now,’ Neve said.
‘But we’re not, are we,’ he replied.
‘Go over your conversation with him,’ Bethan said. ‘The one in Syria.’
‘It was short and sweet. He was going to kill thousands of people in London without explosives or weapons of mass destruction.’
‘You’re absolutely certain of that?’ Neve asked.
‘I can’t remember the exact words. I had a rope around my neck while balancing on a log at the time. But that’s the thing. He spoke to me softly so that no one else could hear and he was expecting me to be dead minutes after. So there was no reason for him to misinform me.’
‘He could’ve been exaggerating,’ Neve suggested. ‘Bragging.’
‘Yes, he was bragging but he was excited about it.’
‘It might’ve been the truth that day,’ Bethan offered. ‘But is it the truth today?’
‘Does anyone mind if I smoke?’ he asked. ‘I think better with a cigarette.’
The girls shrugged. He lit one up and took a
