Deception

clubbing the second officer as he passed, ignoring the woman and hurling another M84 as two shapes appeared out of a door at the end. He and Zubac stepped inside an open doorway until the blast came. It breached a soft door, hurling fragments of glass and pieces of softwood through the air. They stepped out and moved on.

An alarm began wailing followed by a volley of shouting as the Bosnians’ progress was tracked along the lower floor. Footsteps pounded on the floor above, filling the stairwell until a commanding voice ordered them back.

Ganic saw movement up ahead. He fired twice to keep any heads down, then turned to his friend as Zubac slapped him on the shoulder and made a pistol sign with his fist and forefinger. The meaning was clear.

So far they had dealt with unarmed opposition only. But the ones with guns would soon be here, which meant they hadn’t got long to find their target.

Ganic puffed out his lips and loaded a fresh clip of ammunition. His meaning was clear: even if they came with their weapons, they would die.

THIRTY-THREE

‘Keep going!’ Harry shouted, and pushed McCreath towards the turn in the corridor. Somehow the Bosnians had found out where the prisoner was being held and had worked their way down into a secure part of the station. How they’d done it was appalling, but it didn’t matter right now; they were far too close. He pushed on, feeling an itch of vulnerability in the middle of his back, and wished he was armed. No bloody good being carded, he told himself, if he wasn’t actually carrying a gun. Should have learned by now that being in London didn’t guarantee safety. Not that he would have been allowed to bring a weapon down here, anyway, authorized or not.

A shot echoed down the corridor and ricocheted after them, buzzing past Harry’s head and gouging a long, ugly chunk out of the plaster on one side. Ahead of him the two constables had reached a door with wire-reinforced glass, holding it open for Harry and McCreath. In the background, footsteps pounded after them. The pursuers were moving with frightening speed, bulldozing their way through the station and disposing of any resistance with terrifying ease, working on the knowledge that they had no friends here, only enemies.

They weren’t going to make it. Then he and McCreath were through and into another corridor, and the door was being slammed behind them.

‘Keep going!’ ginger hair shouted. ‘I’ll lock this.’

Harry turned. ‘No, don’t! The door won’t stop it-!’ But he was too late. A shot echoed beyond the door, and a large hole appeared in the fabric, just below the glass. Slivers of wood and flecks of paint flew in all directions and the constable was lifted off his feet and hurled to one side, a spray of blood flicking across the wall behind him.

‘Go!’ Harry shouted at McCreath. ‘Keep going!’ He grabbed the other constable who was staring at his colleague with an expression of dumb disbelief and pulled him away. ‘You can’t help him — go!’

They ran, passing several closed doors with no lights showing and no sign of anyone inside, and arrived at a flight of stairs going up. An open door revealed a storage cupboard. Harry glanced inside. No good as a hiding place; it was crammed with fire extinguishers, mostly battered and with a large handwritten sticker warning that they were not to be used.

‘They’re due to go back,’ the constable explained, his voice neutral, breathless. He was on automatic pilot, Harry recognized, retreating in on himself and looking for the familiar and everyday. A safe place to go.

‘Where do the stairs lead?’

‘What?’ He blinked.

‘The stairs.’ Harry slapped his arm, shaking him out of his daze.

‘To the delivery bay and back yard.’ The constable shook his head, his expression clearing. ‘Wait. . it’s open out there. . There’s nowhere to run.’

‘Gates?’

‘Locked and controlled from inside the building. There’s a motion detector for going out, but it’d take too long.’

They heard shouting coming closer. A series of bangs; but not explosions. Doors being kicked open and rooms being checked. It would slow the attackers down but not for long.

‘Better than staying here,’ Harry muttered, and on impulse, grabbed one of the fire extinguishers. He followed the other two men up the stairs, thigh muscles burning with the effort and the adrenalin rush. Their footsteps were loud in the open space, echoing back down and telling their pursuers precisely where they were-

How did they know? In all this building, how could they tell exactly where McCreath was?

They arrived at the top and the constable gestured to a fire door with a security bar. ‘This is it. It locks automatically behind us. We’d have to use the entry-phone system to have the guard open up the staff entrance.’ He stared at the extinguisher. ‘What are you doing with that?’

‘Delaying tactic. Open the door. And you,’ he looked at McCreath, ‘stay close and don’t try running.’

But McCreath was one step ahead of him. He said, ‘Tie the handles together, otherwise it’ll never stay on long enough.’ He shrugged. ‘Used to let them off at school when I was a kid.’

‘Here.’ The constable ripped off his tie and handed it to McCreath, then turned and slammed the security bar down and pushed open the door. Harry pulled the safety pin on the extinguisher and placed the canister close to the top step, with the nozzle hanging over the stairs. McCreath waited for him to squeeze the levers together, then wrapped the tie around them and knotted it firmly. The contents began to gush out, filling the air in the stairwell with a choking spray of white powder that hung like a mist, completely shielding them from the men below.

Then they were sprinting across the open yard to the door where the gunmen had made their entry. It was a close call; as they ducked inside, bullets tore into the door-jamb, ripping off great slivers of wood. Harry turned and saw a CCTV monitor showing two men running diagonally across the open space, one of them pausing to slap a hand against a motion-detector panel to open the automatic gates. Seconds later, they were out into the street and gone.

THIRTY-FOUR

‘How did they get weapons? It’s not as if they could pick them up at the nearest branch of bloody Tesco!’ Ballatyne was raging at the ease with which the attackers had entered the country, equipped themselves and stormed the secure structure of a police station, taking it apart as if it were no more than a training exercise.

Harry said nothing; Ballatyne knew as well as he did that determined men with connections had access to weapons and the people to supply them. They wouldn’t have risked bringing guns and stun grenades in on the boat, but with a source in London or the south-east, one phone call was all it would have taken to have someone waiting to meet them with a full kit as soon as they landed.

Ballatyne turned as a sergeant walked towards them down the corridor. His shirt was bloody and he looked grey with shock. In the background, armed officers from the firearms support unit were controlling the entrances and turning away members of the public and press, while paramedics hurried about their business and senior officers stood around looking grave. None of these, Harry noted, came anywhere near Ballatyne, but they were clearly aware of his presence and constantly throwing nervous looks his way. Ballatyne’s minder stood waiting, not bothering to hide the sidearm he was wearing and somehow aloof from all the activity. ‘What’s the damage?’ Ballatyne asked.

The sergeant stopped. ‘Two of my men dead, five wounded, one PCSO critical. It’s a bloody nightmare.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m ex-army and I’ve never seen anything like it. It was textbook stuff: in, assault, pull back and out again, all inside four minutes. They must have been ex-military. . Special Forces or commandos. We didn’t get so much as a bloody touch.’

The timing had seemed a lot longer to Harry, but he knew the man was right. ‘How’s the guard on the rear