Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

Whitlock poured himself another cup of tea. “I had a visit from Ray Tillman before I called you here. He wasn’t too happy with the security arrangements this morning.”

“Yeah, he had a go at us as well,” Graham said, looking across at Sabrina.

“Personally, I don’t know what else we could have done to protect the senator apart from sealing off Park Lane and the surrounding streets. I advised him even before we left New York not to go running in the mornings. But he wouldn’t have any of it. He was adamant he would go for his morning run.”

“Do you want me to double the security tomorrow morning?” Eastman asked.

“He’s not going running in the morning,” Whitlock retorted sharply.

“Did he tell you that?” Paluzzi said.

“No, I told him after I’d thrown Tillman out.”

Graham smiled. “What did he say?”

“He wasn’t too happy about it at first but when I pointed out that although I couldn’t stop him from running in the morning, I could stop you from going with him, that seemed to do the trick. So at least that’s one area we don’t have to worry about anymore.” Whitlock took a folder from his attaché case and opened it. “I spoke to Commander Palmer earlier to finalize the security arrangements for this afternoon. It’s been decided that the Metropolitan Police will be responsible for security around the Thames. Commander Palmer will be taking charge of the operation himself. I’ll be in charge of security on the river itself.” He turned to Paluzzi. “Fabio, you’re the only one here who can fly a chopper. I want you as an eye in the sky this afternoon. Mike will be with you. You’ll be in an unmarked police helicopter. There will be other police helicopters up there as well but they’ll be covering a much wider area. I want you to stay as close to the boat as possible.”

“I assume that means I’m on the boat with Scoby,” Sabrina said.

“We’ll both be on the boat,” Whitlock told her. “Well, that’s all for now. Sabrina, we’re due at Charing Cross Pier for nine to check over the boat with the River Police and a team from the bomb-disposal unit.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to the Yard,” Eastman said, getting to his feet. “I assume you’ll be at the pier if I do need to get in touch with you?”

“I should be there for the rest of the morning. But if not, I’ll leave a number where I can be contacted,” Whitlock replied.

“Fine. See you later.” Eastman left the room.

“And where will we be?” Paluzzi asked, gesturing to Graham.

“You two have got a briefing with the Air Police at ten. They’re sending a car over for you.” Whitlock picked up his attaché case and moved to the door. “You may as well finish that breakfast since it’s been paid for. Just make sure you close the door behind you when you leave. Come on, Sabrina, we’ve got work to do.”

She shot the others a despairing look then jumped nimbly to her feet and hurried after Whitlock.

Fiona and Mullen took the tube to Great Portland Street Station. From there they walked the short distance to a nearby car park where they found the white Peugeot estate with the registration number which corresponded to the numbers printed on the plastic key ring in her bag. They both slipped on gloves but when Mullen held out his hand for the key ring Fiona shook her head and climbed behind the wheel. Mullen just shrugged and got in beside her.

She had already memorized their route on an A to Z of London before they left the house and she drove to a deserted warehouse off Grosvenor Road, close to the Pimlico Gardens. The lock-up garage was annexed to the building. The doors were padlocked. Fiona handed Mullen the key. He got out of the car, looked around slowly, then crouched down and unlocked the doors. He waited until Fiona had driven the Peugeot into the garage then replaced the padlock and opened the door leading into the warehouse and went inside, closing it again behind him. The warehouse had been abandoned for more than two years. Most of the windows had been smashed and graffiti covered the walls. The floor was littered with empty wooden crates, many still bearing the company logo. He crossed to the door which connected the warehouse to the lock-up garage to join Fiona. The garage was a lot bigger than it looked from the outside. No wonder the company had gone bankrupt if the managing director needed a place this big just for his car, Mullen thought to himself.

Preparations for the operation had been meticulous. A plaid rug had been spread out over the floor of the Peugeot’s boot. Underneath it were two Ingram MAC II machine-pistols; a radio transmitter, not much bigger than a cigarette packet; two wetsuits; two sets of closed-circuit oxygen breathing apparatus; two plastic-handled knives and a pair of autofocus binoculars. Mullen unloaded the gear then Fiona lifted the floor covering. Lying beside the spare wheel was a hermetically sealed case containing an eight-kilogram Russian RPG-7 anti-tank launcher and two OG-7 high-explosive grenades. Like the machine-pistols, they were secured in waterproof wrapping. Mullen lifted out the case and Fiona replaced the covering and closed the boot.

“Put this on,” Fiona said, tossing one of the wetsuits to Mullen.

“Here? Together? We’re not–” Mullen said uncomfortably. “I mean, you and Sean–”

“For God’s sake, Hugh, this is a job, not a seduction.” Briskly she pulled off her T-shirt to reveal a white vest underneath, but Mullen was still staring awkwardly at her. “Go into the warehouse if it’ll make you feel better.”

Mullen blushed and disappeared into the warehouse, closing the door behind him. She pulled on the wetsuit and zipped it up to her chin. She was still adjusting the hood when there was a discreet knock on the door.

“Come in, Hugh,” she called out.

As Fiona had done, Mullen stuffed his clothes into a holdall on the backseat of the car. Fiona picked up the binoculars and crossed to a row of rusted metal stairs which led up onto a catwalk. Once on the catwalk she crouched beside one of the broken windows and slowly scanned the river with the binoculars. Mullen watched her from the foot of the stairs.

“Well?” he asked as she lowered the binoculars.

“Brady was right. You can see Lambeth Bridge from here with these binoculars.”

“And the barge?”

“It’s there. Exactly where Brady said it would be.” Fiona scanned the NCP car park on the opposite side of the river. The blue transit van was in position. The small explosive charge would already have been attached to the undercarriage of the vehicle, close to the petrol tank. She instinctively glanced at the transmitter on her belt. The explosion would be the perfect diversionary tactic. And in the confusion they could slip unnoticed onto the barge and set up the rocket launcher. She descended the stairs and crossed to a pile of empty crates which had been tossed haphazardly in the corner of the room. Mullen helped her move them. They had been concealing a small, wooden trapdoor. She eased it open. A rusted ladder led down to the water. She switched on her torch and shone the beam into the semi-darkness. Two cigar-shaped swimmer delivery vehicles, both four feet in length, were secured to the ladder. She glanced at her watch. The pleasure boat was due to leave Charing Cross Pier shortly.

“Get the scuba gear,” she said to Mullen. “We’ve got to be ready to move the moment the boat reaches Lambeth Bridge.”

He nodded and hurried back to the car. She returned to the window and trained the binoculars back onto the water. All they could do now was wait …

John Moody was a true Cockney, having been born within the sound of the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow church in the Cheapside area of London. Now in his late fifties, he had been piloting pleasure boats on the Thames for the last forty years. He was an instantly recognizable figure with his white peaked cap tugged down firmly over his bald head and a brier pipe clenched firmly between his nicotine-stained teeth. Both items were on show as he stood in the wheelhouse of his boat, the Merry Dancer , which was berthed at Charing Cross Pier.