Bridge, which carries all the trains from Charing Cross.'
'If we succeed,' said Nield, who had joined them.
'When we succeed,' growled Sarge.
Vehicle No. 2, driven by Harry, had parked below them. His voice expressed frustration.
'You lazy lot up there. Get down here and help me bring up the weaponry. Now!'
Sarge took control. He lay down on the edge of the plinth and issued the order.
'All of you go down, fetch equipment, hand it to me. It will save time clambering up the plinth. We must keep moving.'
Paula was the first to reach the vehicle. Harry handed her a sub-machine gun, a satchel of ammo. She insisted she could take two guns. Scrambling with her burden up to the base of the plinth, she handed one weapon, then another, then the ammo satchel to Sarge, who grasped them in his hands, laid them behind him on the plinth. She was surprised at his great strength.
When all the weapons were delivered they were covered with heavy canvas to conceal them. All except Sarge were perspiring when they had completed the job. Paula stood on the plinth as she asked the question.
'Where are our jeeps?'
Sarge made a sound which could have been a chuckle. He pointed down to the side of the pavement.
'You've walked past them several times. They're under all those branches piled against the embankment wall. Now, we must start work.'
'What was that we have been doing?' Paula asked.
'Initial preparation.'
A semaphore light began flashing from the other side of the river. Sarge stared intently. Then he produced from a satchel over his shoulder a signalling lamp., flashed back a reply.
'What was that?' Tweed asked.
'Buchanan. Asking if all goes well. I replied all is going well, all will go well…'
The convoy of four-wheel drives reversed, except that Newman raced past them to take the lead, knowing the route. Now they had four more bridges, some way upriver, to locate and furnish firing-points already mapped out by Sarge.
He must have spent most of the night deciding on the best location, thought Paula. Yet he's moving round like a man who has had eight hours' sleep.
Again and again the SAS units appeared from nowhere when they reached a fresh firing-point. More and more weapons were stockpiled for both groups. At one point Newman approached Sarge to ask him a question he had forgotten.
'At the plinth between Waterloo and Westminster bridges I noticed we were overlooked by office buildings. Surely we would be seen by people inside?'
'No.' It was Beaurain who answered. 'Buchanan had every building evacuated. Reason given, danger of major gas explosion. They were gone – if any tried to enter -long before we arrived. Including security and cleaning people.'
Paula found herself acting like an automaton. Carrying a load of weaponry, running back to Marler's vehicle which seemed stuffed with endless weapons. She was surprised at the rate Tweed kept up, showing no signs of fatigue. Then she remembered that these days he took to walking the two miles to and from his flat to Park Crescent. He looked remarkably fit.
They did not proceed with the vehicle convoy to Albert Bridge. As on the journey out, early in the morning only one vehicle made its way there. Newman again drove with Paula by his side. In the rear seats Tweed sat next to Beaurain.
As they approached the area Paula was once more struck by the eerie atmosphere. No traffic. No people. Nothing moving on the river. As though London had been frozen into a strange ice age. She pointed to the apartment buildings and houses close to the river.
'Anyone at home?'
'No one,' Tweed told her. 'Buchanan has evacuated everyone who might be within range of what is going to happen. A few argued but he didn't take any notice. Same explanation. A huge gas explosion feared.'
Newman stopped the car when they were close to the bridge. Paula stared in puzzlement. She was tired and couldn't grasp what might have happened.
'There are cars all along the far side of the bridge. Why?'
'It's wrecks obtained from a car crusher firm. Brought out on huge transporters. So the first bridge al-Qa'eda see will look normal.',
'I'd like to take a few photos. It's a beautiful bridge…'
They waited while she got out, aimed her camera. Lighting was perfect. She took twelve pictures. Then stood gazing at what wouldn't be there in a few hours. She felt sad. Returning to the car she smiled, thanked them. They headed back for Park Crescent, Newman trying to find a way through alley-like streets.
During the complex drive back to Park Crescent Paula sat with a serious expression. She was unusually silent. Before getting back into the car she had glanced at the serene view downriver. Supposing al-Qa'eda succeeded? Destroyed all the target bridges? London would be severed in two. As in the time long ago of Roman occupation. Worse – the Romans had spanned the river efficiently. Behind her Beaurain leaned forward, as though sensing her fears. He squeezed her shoulder.
'Stop worrying, Paula. We shall pull it off.'
45
At Carpford Margesson, wearing a suit, drove the four-wheel-drive he had kept concealed in a shed. The suit was necessary. Dressed in his robes, it would have been dangerous driving.
Skilfully, after leaving the village, he sped down the curving road. There was a wind, which rustled his beard. Above, the sun shone down out of a duck-egg-blue sky. His extraordinary face had a determined expression.
Anxious to reach his destination, he spun round curves at speed. He roared up the sunken tunnel with Black Wood above him on either side. Reaching the triangle he swung down towards the main road leading to London.
Inside a holster strapped under his jacket he carried a pistol, fully loaded. He had no illusions as to the jungle the world had become. At one deserted point he raised his voice, called out.
'Allah be praised.'
His tone of voice had a peculiar inflection.
Peregrine Palfry, faultlessly dressed, walked down Whitehall. He wondered why it was so deserted. No traffic. No people. He had even had to identify himself at a police checkpoint before he could enter Whitehall.
He was mystified and very worried. In one hand he carried the obligatory briefcase, part of the uniform. The other hand grasped a tightly rolled umbrella. Ridiculous considering the clear blue sky, the sun shining down on him.
He checked his watch. It was all a matter of timing. He ran up the steps to the Ministry, jammed his thumb into the bell. He was taken aback when, instead of the usual guard, a uniformed policeman opened the door. Furious, he had to show identification before the policeman would let him enter. This really was too much. He was personal assistant to the Minister. He glared.
'What on earth is going on?'
'Danger of major gas explosion, sir. Could bring down whole buildings.'
Palfry hurried up to the Minister's office. He wouldn't be there. A full meeting of the Cabinet was in session. He had to find out what was really going on.
Drew Franklin, wearing a white polo-necked sweater and white, perfectly creased slacks, left his office at the Daily Nation. Erect as a military officer, he walked into the editor's office without bothering to knock.
The editor looked up, frowning, then saw who it was. He smiled. Drew was one of their major assets, a reason why their daily sales kept climbing. Drew was also prickly and had to be handled with care. He opened his mouth, but Drew spoke first in his upper-crust, barking voice.
