a distant ringing tone.
Above the sirens wailing in the street outside, above the shouts that echoed around the marble atrium and the continuous squawk of radio transmissions, Tariq Saeed’s sensitive ear picked out the soft warble of his cell, the small device vibrating in his hand as his entourage of aides and security personnel swept into the lobby of the Euro Tower on Millbank. The pulse rippled up his arm and he glanced at the screen as he continued marching towards the bank of elevators ahead.
Then he stopped suddenly.
Around him the scrum of policemen braked sharply, boots squeaking on the polished floor. Saeed paid them no mind. Alive? Impossible. He was too close to the blast, had to be dead. Someone else, then? Doubtful. Consider every eventuality, plan for every improbability, he reminded himself. He muted the ring and turned to a senior police officer alongside him. He waved the device in the man’s face.
‘The cell networks. Should they still be operating?’
The policeman shook his head. ‘The order has already been passed, Minister. Transmitter towers are being shut down as we speak.’
‘Then make it happen faster. The terrorists will take advantage of any chink in our armour.’
‘Immediately, Sir.’
Saeed headed towards the elevator that waited to whisk him up to the Emergency Management Centre on the twenty-second floor. As armed guards crammed into the lift around him, the index finger of his right hand found the power button to his cell phone and held it down.
Call ended.
Bryce was confused, his head pounding. It rang, he was sure of it. Before he could punch the button again he heard a shout, then footsteps crunching through the rubble below. His heart leapt. He raised himself up, calling for help until his chest hurt, the word sounding like ‘helf’ through his broken teeth. He peered over a pile of bricks towards the shattered staircase as a head bobbed into view, then a set of shoulders, the form indistinct, masked by dust and cast in shadow. It was a man, wearing civilian clothes.
‘Where are you?’
Bryce raised his arm, above the lip of the desk, above the rubble. ‘Over here!’
The man scrambled towards him, stepping carefully over mounds of shattered bricks, splintered timbers and broken plaster.
‘Thank God,’ Bryce breathed.
‘Don’t move.’
Bryce obeyed, the man’s manner immediately authoritative. He was in his late thirties, Bryce judged, his dark hair cut short and flecked with grey, the pale line of an old scar curving beneath his right eye. He wore a black polo shirt and khaki trousers, the ones with pockets down the legs. Quickly and carefully he cleared a space next to Bryce, kneeling down and shrugging a small rucksack off his back.
‘Thank you,’ Bryce gasped, ‘thank you.’
‘My name’s Mac,’ the man announced, snapping on a pair of purple latex gloves. An intricate tattoo covered his left forearm and a black digital watch glowed on his wrist. ‘Where are you hurt?’
‘My ribs. I think they’re broken.’ Bryce pointed to his bloody jaw. ‘I’ve lost some teeth. And my leg’s trapped.’
Mac probed his head just above his right ear. Bryce winced. ‘You’ve got a nasty cut on the head, too. Did you lose consciousness at any time?’
Bryce nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘Ok, just relax,’ Mac said. He ripped Bryce’s shirt open at the torso, running his fingers gently over his ribcage. ‘Can’t feel any breaks. Does it hurt when you breathe?’
Bryce nodded. ‘A little.’
‘Bruised probably.’ He rummaged inside his rucksack, retrieving a small green medical kit. He cleaned and dressed the head wound, wrapping a bandage around Bryce’s skull and securing it tightly. He opened a bottle of water, then gently eased Bryce’s head to the side. ‘Take a swill, spit it out.’
Bryce did as he was told, watching the bloody mixture congeal in the dust below his chin. He felt Mac’s fingers holding his jaw, the other hand
Above the sirens wailing in the street outside, above the shouts that echoed around the marble atrium and the continuous squawk of radio transmissions, Tariq Saeed’s sensitive ear picked out the soft warble of his cell, the small device vibrating in his hand as his entourage of aides and security personnel swept into the lobby of the Euro Tower on Millbank. The pulse rippled up his arm and he glanced at the screen as he continued marching towards the bank of elevators ahead.
Then he stopped suddenly.
Around him the scrum of policemen braked sharply, boots squeaking on the polished floor. Saeed paid them no mind. Alive? Impossible. He was too close to the blast, had to be dead. Someone else, then? Doubtful. Consider every eventuality, plan for every improbability, he reminded himself. He muted the ring and turned to a senior police officer alongside him. He waved the device in the man’s face.
‘The cell networks. Should they still be operating?’
The policeman shook his head. ‘The order has already been passed, Minister. Transmitter towers are being shut down as we speak.’
‘Then make it happen faster. The terrorists will take advantage of any chink in our armour.’
‘Immediately, Sir.’
Saeed headed towards the elevator that waited to whisk him up to the Emergency Management Centre on the twenty-second floor. As armed guards crammed into the lift around him, the index finger of his right hand found the power button to his cell phone and held it down.
Call ended.
Bryce was confused, his head pounding. It rang, he was sure of it. Before he could punch the button again he heard a shout, then footsteps crunching through the rubble below. His heart leapt. He raised himself up, calling for help until his chest hurt, the word sounding like ‘helf’ through his broken teeth. He peered over a pile of bricks towards the shattered staircase as a head bobbed into view, then a set of shoulders, the form indistinct, masked by dust and cast in shadow. It was a man, wearing civilian clothes.
‘Where are you?’
Bryce raised his arm, above the lip of the desk, above the rubble. ‘Over here!’
The man scrambled towards him, stepping carefully over mounds of shattered bricks, splintered timbers and broken plaster.
‘Thank God,’ Bryce breathed.
‘Don’t move.’
Bryce obeyed, the man’s manner immediately authoritative. He was in his late thirties, Bryce judged, his dark hair cut short and flecked with grey, the pale line of an old scar curving beneath his right eye. He wore a black polo shirt and khaki trousers, the ones with pockets down the legs. Quickly and carefully he cleared a space next to Bryce, kneeling down and shrugging a small rucksack off his back.
‘Thank you,’ Bryce gasped, ‘thank you.’
‘My name’s Mac,’ the man announced, snapping on a pair of purple latex gloves. An intricate tattoo covered his left forearm and a black digital watch glowed on his wrist. ‘Where are you hurt?’
‘My ribs. I think they’re broken.’ Bryce pointed to his bloody jaw. ‘I’ve lost some teeth. And my leg’s trapped.’
Mac probed his head just above his right ear. Bryce winced. ‘You’ve got a nasty cut on the head, too. Did you lose consciousness at any time?’
Bryce nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘Ok, just relax,’ Mac said. He ripped Bryce’s shirt open at the torso, running his fingers gently over his ribcage. ‘Can’t feel any breaks. Does it hurt when you breathe?’
Bryce nodded. ‘A little.’
‘Bruised probably.’ He rummaged inside his rucksack, retrieving a small green medical kit. He cleaned and dressed the head wound, wrapping a bandage around Bryce’s skull and securing it tightly. He opened a bottle of water, then gently eased Bryce’s head to the side. ‘Take a swill, spit it out.’
Bryce did as he was told, watching the bloody mixture congeal in the dust below his chin. He felt Mac’s fingers holding his jaw, the other hand
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