her. 'Get that microphone closer to your mouth.'
Tweed had arrived on the plinth. Like Paula, he threw off his oilskin so his leather clothes were exposed. He attached a headset. He was followed by Newman and Marler, carrying his Armalite rifle. Nield joined them. He had thrown off his oilskin on the pavement and accepted a sub-machine gun from Harry.
'Is this radio system completely safe, secure?' asked Paula.
She had a shock. Not realizing her words had passed into her microphone. A voice she recognized as Sarge's replied, as calm as if this were an exercise.
'Completely secure, Paula. We have a genius who produced it.'
'Thank you…'
'One more warning,' Sarge continued, 'when a transport goes down or is disabled, we may face motorized dinghies – or even small speedboats – heading for the shore. Assume all the men inside them will be suicide bombers – because they will be. Over and out…'
Only then did it occur to Paula that Sarge's words would be heard by several score men waiting on both sides of the river. And anything she said. She decided to do it.
'There's a very strong wind. Not forecast. It may affect the steering of the transports.'
'Good point,' Sarge replied. 'I was just going to make it myself. Assume it will be a circus. Those who can throw a good distance – and accurately – may wish to use grenades on any hostile craft approaching.'
'Here you are,' said Harry, one hand over his mike so what he was saying wouldn't fog up communications. With his other hand he gave Paula a heavy satchel. When she looked inside inside she saw a collection of grenades. She slung the satchel over her shoulder, checked her submachine gun by the light of the moon.
'We overlooked the strength of the moon,' Sarge warned. 'It may be a help or a hindrance. We'll find out, won't we?'
Sarge was clever, Paula thought. He used 'transports' as opposed to 'barges'. It suggested to her he was not one hundred per cent convinced about the security of their communications.
'Pete and I,' said Harry, one hand still blocking his mike, 'are going down to the edge of the Embankment. If any try to come ashore we'll be closer to them…'
Saying which, he leapt off the plinth, a satchel of grenades over his shoulder, sub-machine gun in one hand, followed by Pete. Crossing the Embankment, they crouched behind the wall.
'I think we're ready for anything,' said Beaurain, who spoke only rarely.
'Famous last words,' back came the comment from Sarge.
Beaurain was crouched behind the statue, which loomed above them. For the first time Paula wondered who had merited the honour of the stone figure on horseback. Some general who had commanded in some long-ago war. Now he was hardly noticed. Pass beyond your time and you became a footnote in history. Such was the juggernaut passage of life.
'Exbar is now leaving station,' a strange voice came over her headset.
Exbar? Must be the code-word for the six barges. They were on the move. She felt Tweed, standing close to her, stiffen. He was wondering whether they had the sequence right. Paula checked the illuminated face of her watch. 4.35 p.m. Al-Qa'eda had started their attack early.
'Get ready.' Sarge's voice. 'Up here it should be a while yet. If we are right,' he added ominously.
Paula's nerves had earlier rattled her, a normal experience. Now she was cold. Her eyes were fixed on Westminster Bridge, the first place their barge would appear. If we are right. She extracted a water-bottle from her new shoulder-bag which she always carried, containing the Browning. She sipped cold water, swilled it round her mouth, then swallowed. Might be the last chance for a drink.
Inside the managing director's room at Dick's wharf, Proctor was still tied hand and foot to the heavy chair. Earlier the ropes round his arms had been unfastened so he could exercise them. The same method had been used so he could exercise his legs later.
They had also fed their captive and provided him with water and tea. No humanitarian reasons prompted Ali to arrange these measures. It was important to keep Proctor fresh and alert. Then if Dixon phoned him he would be able to reply in a normal way.
Ali now came into the room and went over to Proctor. He had decided he would command barge No. 5, the barge which would bring down Chelsea Bridge. By then, destroying Albert Bridge would be a walkover. He bent down close to his prisoner, waved away the large ugly-looking guard.
'Mr Proctor, when we have completed what we must do we will leave you here. Then, when we are well away from this area, we will phone your wife and ask her to arrange for the police to come here at once. To release you…'
Proctor simply looked at him. By now he hated all these Arabs, would gladly have killed every single one, given the chance.
Ali beckoned to the huge guard, spoke to him in Arabic, well away from Proctor.
'When you see the last barge about to leave, men casting off the ropes, you will shoot your captive. A bullet in the head to make sure. A rope ladder will hang over the hull of the barge, waiting to haul you aboard before it sails. But for the moment we must keep him calm. ..'
Had Paula been able to witness the appalling cruelty of Ali's tactic and had a knife in her hand, she would not have hesitated to plunge it up to the hilt into Ali's chest.
5.05 p.m. The tide was turning. Paula had taken a pair of very small powerful binoculars from her shoulder- bag. They were adapted for night use, so everything came up green. She had them focused on Westminster Bridge.
Sarge had earlier confirmed that the 'transports' were moving downriver. That so far no bridge had been attacked, that they were spread apart at a greater distance than expected. So it was looking as though they had the sequence right.
'Here it comes,' said Tweed quietly.
'Red alert,' Sarge ordered.
In the lenses of her glasses Paula saw the huge bows of the barge slowly passing under Westminster Bridge. It seemed larger than the barges she had once seen proceeding upriver. A massive beast.
She frowned, adjusted the focus, pressed her eyes closer to the lenses. She was focused on the bows as the vessel was caught by a large wave, whipped up by the strong wind. She frowned.
'Main hatch open,' she reported. 'But there's some kind of machine or weapon in the bows. It appears to be angled at the main struts holding up the bridges. On deck. At the bows. Looks like a small cannon or missile launcher.'
'Thank you,' said Sarge. 'Thank you very much.'
Perched on the wall of his firing-point, camouflaged with branches, was a large weapon which looked like a mortar.
Below the barrel was a projection which emitted a laser beam on the pressing of a lever. It was brand new, an advanced version the rest of the army did not possess, didn't even know existed.
Close to it was a smaller version with an even longer barrel, narrower than the large mortar. It too was equipped with another muzzle beneath the main one, the barrel of which also emitted a laser beam.
Closing down his radio set, Sarge walked over to the second operator, in charge of the smaller weapon. He bent down, talking quietly.
'There's a second weapon aboard the barge. On deck, at the bows. When Charlie fires his bomb you shoot a missile at the second target, equally dangerous.' He handed the operator his night-glasses. 'See if you can spot it. On deck. At the bows.'
'I see it,' the operator replied.
'You have to synchronize the firings.' He looked up at the operator's partner. 'Up to you, Ned – drop in the missile at the same moment.'
'We can manage that,' said the senior operator, who would adjust the aim of his weapon. 'Reckon so, Ed?'
Ed, the man who would drop the main bomb into the mortar, had been leaning over, listening. He just nodded. They would cope.
Paula couldn't take her eyes off the huge barge, now fully in view, riding the waves on its way to Waterloo Bridge. 'It would have been so much easier if the river were smooth,' she said, then remembered she was speaking
