Tom Cain - Carver

Her name was Uschi Kremer. The heiress to a Swiss industrialist’s vast fortune, she was both the source of the group’s funds and the motivating force that had taken them from conventional acts of protest to the brink of violent action. Her gentle but relentless pressure had steered Gryffud away from his traditional, harmless acts of attention-seeking towards something far more extreme. And when the final decision to act had been made, she had even managed to persuade him that it had all been his idea. Her behaviour, though, was casual to the point of in difference. This morning, for example, she had appeared twenty-four hours after everyone else, without apology for her late arrival, secure in the knowledge that they literally could not afford to do without her.

Gryffud forced a smile. ‘Have no fear, Uschi, we won’t waste a penny of your cash.’

‘I don’t care if you do.’ She laughed. ‘It was all made by thieves and bastards anyway!’

‘If you don’t give it one, I fucking will,’ Smethurst muttered beneath his breath.

Gryffud gave a grunt of disapproval. There was no denying Kremer was as hot as the fiery red hair that was now all but hidden by her simple cotton scarf. There wasn’t a scrap of make-up on her face, and she was dressed in a simple khaki T-shirt and jeans. But the way those cheap clothes clung to every one of her body’s long, slender curves was as revealing as the most elegantly cut designer gown. Her freckled skin glowed with a tan acquired on a short break in the Mediterranean. ‘I took the family jet,’ Uschi had teased, knowing how annoyed Gryffud would be. ‘But don’t worry. I bought a few more thousand hectares of jungle to make up for it.’

Every man on the farm was affected by her presence at a primal, pheremonal level. They worked that bit harder, spoke more assertively and laughed more loudly in her presence. The other two women knew, and resented it. The result was an atmosphere of sexual tension that was dangerously volatile: a potentially fatal distraction from their mission.

‘Keep up the good work,’ Gryffud said distractedly, and went off with Smethurst to the tractor shed, fifty metres away across the farmyard, where the four other male group-members were at work.

The shed had been split into three discrete zones. In one a collection of thirty-two high-pressure gas-cylinders had been lined up in two groups. Fourteen of the cylinders were the size of large domestic calor-gas tanks: roughly 120 cm tall with a 36 cm diameter. The other eighteen were small enough to fit inside them. One of the men was working with a plasma torch, cutting off both ends of the larger cylinders so as to transform them into open tubes. The smaller cylinders merely lost their bases.

At the next workstation two group-members were constructing a crude steel framework, split into twelve compartments — four long by three wide — like an oversized wine rack. Each compartment was big enough to take one of the large cylinders, with a little room to spare. The whole structure was about as big as a coffin, but twice as deep.

The fourth member of the group was perched on the roof of a white Toyota Hiace camper van that looked far older than its X-registration plates suggested. He, too, had a plasma torch, and was using it to cut a large rectangular hole in the vehicle’s roof. The concrete floor behind the van was piled with the cupboards, bed, cooking gear and chemical toilet that had been stripped from its now-empty interior. Only the old window curtains remained, discreetly drawn to prevent anyone looking in.

Every single one of the Vehicle Identification Number stickers and tags scattered about the camper van had been located and either removed or rendered illegible. The plates belonged to a completely different car that had been bought at auction two weeks earlier, disposed of, and then reported stolen.

‘This is another old PIRA trick,’ said Smethurst, looking at the scene before him. ‘The way they hit 10 Downing Street is the way we’re going to blow a large hole in Pembrokeshire.’

Back at the hay barn, Uschi Kremer sighed theatrically. ‘I need a cigarette,’ she said.

‘Not here!’ one of the other women cried in alarm. ‘You’ll kill us all.’

Kremer laughed. ‘Thanks, but I’d already worked that out for myself! Don’t worry. I will make sure I am much too far away to set fire to anything here. Would either of you care to join me?’

The other two grimaced. Neither woman smoked, and if there was a choice between watching Uschi Kremer have a cigarette or having a good talk about her behind her back, they both knew which they preferred.

Kremer knew it, too. ‘Please yourselves,’ she said with a sly smirk.

Five minutes later and four hundred metres away, she got out her phone and speed-dialled Derek Choi’s number. ‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to let you know that everything is going well.’

‘Are you confident that these people are capable of executing their plan?’

‘Yes. The planned initiative far exceeds what would be required to create the desired effect. If we only achieve a twenty-five per cent success-rate, that will still have a major effect. If the rate is one hundred per cent… well, then there will be a fireworks display that the whole world will see.’

‘We Chinese invented fireworks, of course,’ said Derek Choi.

‘I promise you never saw fireworks like these,’ Uschi Kremer replied.

Beverly Hills, California: five months earlier

In the luxuriously appointed office of his surgical suite, its walls lined with framed certificates proclaiming his medical proficiency, and large colour photographs illustrating his artistry with a scalpel, Dr Arpad Karvakian was dictating a letter to his personal assistant Sherilyn, who was herself a walking advertisement for his work.

‘ I am sure you will agree that the operation has been a complete success,’ he said. ‘Do not be alarmed… no, forget that, it’ll only alarm him… do not be concerned… yeah, that’s better, concerned that, ah, there is considerable bruising under the eyes and swelling to the forehead, nose and jaw. This is an inevitable result of surgery, and will subside considerably over the next six weeks. Any remaining swelling… no, any small amount of remaining swelling, will disappear entirely within four to six months. The surgery involved some reduction of the bossed area of the skull across the brow, implants to the cheekbones and also reshaping of the jawbone and chin. These procedures, as well as the mid-facelift, may impact upon nerves in the affected areas, causing a degree of numbness. Again, this is completely normal, and the regular range of sensations will gradually return over time. In general, the healing process appears to be going exactly as I would expect, and provided that all the protocols I have suggested are observed there is no reason to be concerned in any way. I hope you agree that the results are everything you desired. Yours… etc. Got that?’

‘ Uh-huh,’ Sherilyn replied. ‘But I still don’t understand. This was the guy with the cancer, right…?’

Karvakian nodded in confirmation.

‘ So what’s he doing having his face fixed, when he’s not going to live long enough to enjoy it?’

‘ I don’t know, sweetheart. Maybe he’s hoping that death won’t recognize him when the time comes.’

Sherilyn giggled. ‘Or maybe he just wants to look cute at the funeral.’

6, Gresham Street, London EC2: the following day

The Wax Chandlers’ Hall has stood on the same site in the City of London since 1501. Originally built as the home of the Worshipful Company of Wax Chandlers — the merchants who sold the fancy beeswax candles used in royal palaces and aristocratic stately homes — it was burned down in the Great Fire of London, bombed out in the Blitz and rebuilt five times in total. The wax chandlers don’t shift so many candles these days, but they do good business renting out their hall for business meetings, product launches, parties and receptions, along with every type of food and drink any client could require, from elevenses to a banquet.