James Becker - Echo of the Reich

“And Marcus and his merry men would have wanted to delay their vehicle’s arrival until the last minute, just in case anybody spotted anything odd about it?”

“That’s about the size of it. That’ll be why it was programmed to arrive today. Even if it had been scheduled for an earlier arrival time, I’m sure they would have faked a breakdown or something on the journey to delay its arrival. So if I’m right at least we know what we’re looking for.”

The International Broadcast Center, a huge multi-story building three hundred yards long and over one hundred yards wide, was positioned in the Main Media Complex in the northwest corner of the Olympic Park. It had been designed from the outset to be a state-of-the-art media center, able to cope with the transmission requirements of journalists of every nation, beaming reports to a worldwide audience of up to four billion people.

Just like the rest of the Olympic Park, access to the building was strictly controlled, but that wasn’t a problem because they didn’t need to get inside it. The one thing Bronson was certain about was that Marcus wouldn’t have risked trying to get the Bell inside that, or indeed any other, building, because there was simply no point. Leaving it in the truck was the ideal solution, as long as the device had adequate power supplies, and that could presumably be supplied by a plug-in mains feed, maybe supplemented by onboard generators.

“Where is it?” Weeks asked, striding along beside him. “Where do we have to go?”

Bronson pointed down the street.

“We carry on down here and then take that road over there. That should take us in the right direction.”

He glanced at his watch. It was already nearly seven in the evening. The start of the opening ceremony was imminent, and the German terrorist group would be triggering the weapon at any minute. They could clearly hear the sound made by the thousands of spectators in the main stadium, a dominating and undulating buzz, like the noise of a colossal beehive. The stands there would be full of people, including the Prime Minister and most of the country’s senior politicians, the upper echelons of the military, leading businessmen and a host of other dignitaries from Britain and around the world. For almost the first time, Bronson fully appreciated the magnitude of the catastrophe facing the country if the device was triggered.

The death or incapacity of the people in the stadium would not simply be a humanitarian tragedy of epic proportions; it would cripple the country for decades to come. The government would fall, businesses would collapse, and the country could even be bankrupted by the financial cost of repairing the damage and the compensation that would have to be paid. The deaths of so many foreign dignitaries would produce international condemnation. Britain would become a pariah on the world’s stage, reviled by every nation for having permitted such an event to occur. The glory of the Olympics would in an instant be transformed into the greatest catastrophe of modern times.

And it wasn’t just the rich and powerful who would suffer, Bronson knew. Countless thousands of ordinary people, from most of the nations of the world, would also perish. All around them, the streets were choked with people on their way to the stadium or perhaps just attracted by the sense of excitement that pervaded the area. Bronson looked at the sea of faces, at their eager expressions of hope and expectation, and knew that in minutes-if he and Weeks didn’t manage to do something about it-most of them could be dead or dying.

“Down here,” he said, and led the way down another street, pushing through the crowds that clogged the pavement.

Simply getting through the press of people was difficult enough, because they were moving against the flow, away from the stadium, and the two men had to rely on their bulk to shift people out of the way. But within minutes it was clear that they weren’t going to make it in time. They had to do something else.

“Here,” Bronson instructed, and turned off the pavement into a gap between two buildings.

“What?”

Bronson didn’t reply, just opened the bag he was carrying and pulled out two black nylon vests with the word “police” printed on them, front and back. He had also brought along his utility belt, which he buckled around his waist. Both men put on black baseball caps, again bearing the word “police,” on their heads. The final touch was the sunglasses, which rendered their eyes completely invisible.

Weeks checked his MP5, then slung the weapon across his chest and stood waiting as Bronson looked him up and down. His own Walther was in a belt holster.

“It should be a ballistic vest, obviously,” Bronson said, “and you should have a utility belt, but otherwise it looks quite convincing. I think the British public’s got used to the sight of Heckler amp; Koch submachine guns on the streets, which isn’t necessarily a good thing. Now let’s get going.”

Faced with the sight of two grim-faced and heavily armed police officers, who were clearly in a hurry, the crowds parted easily in front of them, and Weeks and Bronson were able to run along the pavements almost unobstructed. A couple of times they were forced to detour down less crowded streets simply because of the mass of people virtually blocking the more direct route.

“That’s it, right ahead,” Bronson panted, as a huge building came into view.

He and Weeks slowed down to a jog as they approached the structure, both men looking for the first sign of the trucks that Angela had seen on her television screen. “Over there,” Weeks said, pointing.

To one side of the building was a large open area where rows of broadcast trucks had been parked, presumably after whatever equipment needed had been removed from them. Bronson and Weeks strode across to the high wire fence that enclosed the parking lot and walked steadily along beside it, looking carefully at the parked vehicles.

Around them, crowds of people ebbed and flowed, and above everything else the noise of the thousands of spectators talking and laughing and arguing provided a constant soundtrack.

“Remember we’re looking for an Israeli TV truck,” Bronson said, peering through the fence.

“There are still a hell of a lot of them here.”

“I didn’t say it was going to be easy.”

There were dozens of trucks parked in rows, many with unfamiliar registration plates and bearing logos for TV stations neither man recognized. Large satellite dishes were mounted on the roofs of the majority of the trucks, but most were folded down because the crews would be using the on-site facilities to relay the events being filmed in the stadium direct to the studios in the country where their TV stations were based.

Bronson and Weeks walked down the side of the fence, looking closely at every single truck as they passed it, alert to anything unusual or suspicious but, as far as they could tell, all the vehicles seemed to be legitimate. Several had their doors open as technicians and other staff bustled purposefully about, getting a few last items of equipment as the media circus prepared for the imminent opening ceremony.

“This is hopeless,” Weeks muttered, as they strode past yet another group of lorries. “There are just too many of them.”

Bronson shook his head.

“I don’t believe that Marcus is planning a suicide trip, for himself or for any of his men, so what we’re looking for, I guess, is a lorry that looks more or less the same as the others, but is probably locked and with nobody working anywhere near it.”

“Okay,” Weeks conceded. “I suppose that does narrow the field slightly.”

Bronson shook his head again. “We’re not going to achieve anything wandering about out here,” he said. “We have to get inside this compound right now, find the truck and work out how to stop the device from being triggered.”