Prologue
THIS IS THE River Thames in London, about an hour before sunset on a midsummer evening, the time of day when the light blooms and the world is awash with charm and possibilities. This is the time of day when grey stone turns the colour of candle flame, when the illusion of a tan lends a beauty to pale faces and when dull hair shines with borrowed glamour. This is the time that film-makers and photographers call the magic hour. Or golden hour.
Just eleven days into July and the Thames at Westminster Bridge is an expanse of molten metal, a fire-bright lava flow, gleaming its way through the jewel-coloured glass towers, the honey-bright facades of the Georgian riverside buildings, and past the Gothic arches and turrets of the Palace of Westminster.
Above the river, clouds are mustering, but their heavy, voluptuous presence merely enhances the beauty of the evening because the light floods into the clouds until they seem about to burst with colour. The cloud-bank hangs in the sky like a heavy canopy of gold.
Westminster is busy. The traffic is heavy in central London this evening and there must be over fifty cars, taxis and buses along the length of the bridge. There are pedestrians too, loitering, enjoying the unique vantage points the bridge offers. More crowds amble along both river banks. On the terraces of the Palace of Westminster, sharp-suited men and women in flowing summer dresses try to keep their drinks, and their underarms, from becoming too warm.
Few people are enjoying the golden evening more than those in the thirty-two capsules of the London Eye. The giant observation wheel has become one of the most iconic landmarks in the world and tonight the ‘flights’ have all sold out.
All told, there must be a thousand people in the vicinity of Westminster Bridge on this beautiful evening; which is a great, great pity, because in approximately thirty minutes’ time, many of them will be dead.
Some five miles downriver from Westminster, holding its position in the water between Rotherhithe and Canary Wharf, is a rigid inflatable boat, a RIB. The master of the vessel, in the uniform of a Marine Policing Unit sergeant, has just been given instructions to head upstream towards Westminster.
He does what he is told. He has no choice.
Marine Unit boats are a common sight on the river. Anyone seeing this one, and its crew of five dark-haired, uniformed men, will think nothing of it. Police presence on the river is expected to be high this evening. The Prime Minister is hosting a reception on the House of Commons terrace, attended by several members of his cabinet, a minor member of the royal family, and a very important guest of honour.
As the RIB draws closer to Westminster, it will be assumed to be part of the security force detailed to guard the PM and his guests. Which is exactly what it was until a few minutes ago, when a gang of armed terrorists hijacked the boat and took the real crew hostage.
It heads now towards Westminster, and at its helm is Mark Joesbury.
In his stolen uniform, Joesbury, of Scotland Yard’s Covert Operations Unit, steers the RIB past Wapping police station, the Marine Unit’s base, without anyone on the pontoon or in the building spotting anything out of the ordinary. Tower Bridge is in sight now. The RIB is almost back in the city.
On the brink of disaster, there is nothing Joesbury can do. There is no one he can warn, because his cover is blown and watchful eyes never leave him. He doesn’t even know what form the attack will take, whether he and the RIB’s crew are to be bystanders, or right in the thick of it. He doesn’t know whether he will live or die.
Worst of all, the gang he has spent three weeks infiltrating has kidnapped the woman he loves. At this very second, at not quite grasping distance from where he stands, a gun is being held to Lacey Flint’s head.
1
Three weeks earlier
PLUNGING FULLY SUBMERGED into an iced-over pond, stepping
THIS IS THE River Thames in London, about an hour before sunset on a midsummer evening, the time of day when the light blooms and the world is awash with charm and possibilities. This is the time of day when grey stone turns the colour of candle flame, when the illusion of a tan lends a beauty to pale faces and when dull hair shines with borrowed glamour. This is the time that film-makers and photographers call the magic hour. Or golden hour.
Just eleven days into July and the Thames at Westminster Bridge is an expanse of molten metal, a fire-bright lava flow, gleaming its way through the jewel-coloured glass towers, the honey-bright facades of the Georgian riverside buildings, and past the Gothic arches and turrets of the Palace of Westminster.
Above the river, clouds are mustering, but their heavy, voluptuous presence merely enhances the beauty of the evening because the light floods into the clouds until they seem about to burst with colour. The cloud-bank hangs in the sky like a heavy canopy of gold.
Westminster is busy. The traffic is heavy in central London this evening and there must be over fifty cars, taxis and buses along the length of the bridge. There are pedestrians too, loitering, enjoying the unique vantage points the bridge offers. More crowds amble along both river banks. On the terraces of the Palace of Westminster, sharp-suited men and women in flowing summer dresses try to keep their drinks, and their underarms, from becoming too warm.
Few people are enjoying the golden evening more than those in the thirty-two capsules of the London Eye. The giant observation wheel has become one of the most iconic landmarks in the world and tonight the ‘flights’ have all sold out.
All told, there must be a thousand people in the vicinity of Westminster Bridge on this beautiful evening; which is a great, great pity, because in approximately thirty minutes’ time, many of them will be dead.
Some five miles downriver from Westminster, holding its position in the water between Rotherhithe and Canary Wharf, is a rigid inflatable boat, a RIB. The master of the vessel, in the uniform of a Marine Policing Unit sergeant, has just been given instructions to head upstream towards Westminster.
He does what he is told. He has no choice.
Marine Unit boats are a common sight on the river. Anyone seeing this one, and its crew of five dark-haired, uniformed men, will think nothing of it. Police presence on the river is expected to be high this evening. The Prime Minister is hosting a reception on the House of Commons terrace, attended by several members of his cabinet, a minor member of the royal family, and a very important guest of honour.
As the RIB draws closer to Westminster, it will be assumed to be part of the security force detailed to guard the PM and his guests. Which is exactly what it was until a few minutes ago, when a gang of armed terrorists hijacked the boat and took the real crew hostage.
It heads now towards Westminster, and at its helm is Mark Joesbury.
In his stolen uniform, Joesbury, of Scotland Yard’s Covert Operations Unit, steers the RIB past Wapping police station, the Marine Unit’s base, without anyone on the pontoon or in the building spotting anything out of the ordinary. Tower Bridge is in sight now. The RIB is almost back in the city.
On the brink of disaster, there is nothing Joesbury can do. There is no one he can warn, because his cover is blown and watchful eyes never leave him. He doesn’t even know what form the attack will take, whether he and the RIB’s crew are to be bystanders, or right in the thick of it. He doesn’t know whether he will live or die.
Worst of all, the gang he has spent three weeks infiltrating has kidnapped the woman he loves. At this very second, at not quite grasping distance from where he stands, a gun is being held to Lacey Flint’s head.
1
Three weeks earlier
PLUNGING FULLY SUBMERGED into an iced-over pond, stepping
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