Invasion (25 page)

A low humming noise from the tunnel caused everyone to stop what they were doing and turn to face the growing sound. The humming increased in volume and the object glided gently into the cavern. As it reached the centre of the platform area it slowed and hovered quietly in the air, bouncing and swaying two
Yards
off the ground. Mousa reached for his radio.

‘Major Karroubi!’

Karroubi’s voice crackled in Mousa’s earpiece. ‘General! I have you on audio and visual.’

Mousa saw the surveillance drone turn and dip its nose towards him. It was grey in colour and just over two metres in length. Shaped like a cigar with two small wings, the drone sported two high-power cameras in its nose and a directional microphone that could pick up normal human conversation at fifteen metres. It was powered by four small multi-directional
electric motors, and the built-in
helium cells along its toughened
plastic body gave it lift. It was very quiet and very fast. Mousa pointed to his right.

‘Continue up the tunnel, Major. Find them!’

The drone’s nose dipped again and its small motors swivelled around and thrust it forward, its low hum echoing off the tunnels walls. Mousa turned to the big Afghan.

‘Follow the bird but do not engage the Infidels, do you understand?’

The Afghan bowed his head. ‘
As you wish
.’

Haseeb and his team set off after the drone at a fast pace. Mousa watched them disappear around a bend in the tunnel and turned quickly on his heel, making his way back up the stairs to the Palace gardens.

Khan ran for his life towards the River Thames. Behind him, the sounds of deadly pursuit echoed across the night air. There were at least a dozen bad guys behind him, maybe more, and they were coming up fast. He veered right, cutting across the dark expanse of an open car park. He heard a shout and glanced over his shoulder. His toe caught a raised kerb and he tumbled across the concrete, rolling painfully over the weapon slung across his back. He lay still, peering beneath a parked car as he caught his breath. Several figures had reached the edge of the car park, spread out and alert, their weapons sweeping the darkness ahead of them. Khan rolled away and crawled towards a grassy slope, dragging himself down the short bank. Back on his feet, he headed east along the riverbank.

A short distance away was Battersea
Harbour. Like its nearby cousin in Chelsea, Battersea Harbour was a luxury hotel and residential complex that boasted a private marina, with low-rise apartment blocks forming an expensive boundary around its wooden jetties. Khan headed straight towards the marina. He forced his way through the landscaped shrubbery and found himself on a wide footpath overlooking the man-made harbour.

Now he had two choices; one, keep moving and double back on himself, losing his pursuers in the labyrinth of apartment blocks, walkways and streets between the river and Nine Elms Lane. But that would mean heading back to where he started, trapped on the south bank of the river. Or two, find an empty apartment or hotel room amongst the many hundreds in the area and hole up inside, where he’d stand a good chance of avoiding detection until his pursuers eventually gave up their search. But for how long could he stay hidden? Without food or water it wouldn’t be long before he’d
have to venture out onto the streets again. But maybe there was a third choice, staring him right in the face.

Keeping low, Khan headed towards a flight of stone steps that led down to the marina. He stepped over a chain from which dangled a small sign that read ‘Private’ and headed down to the wooden jetties. There were numerous boats tied alongside their moorings, ranging from sailing boats to luxury motor cruisers and rigid inflatable craft. Sailing boats were out; too much effort to get moving and far too slow. He dismissed the motor cruisers too; a gleaming white craft would make an excellent target out on the dark waters of the river. No, he needed something
else and, as his eyes swept the small harbour, he spotted the very thing. He moved quickly along the jetty.

The twenty-four foot Targa was tied off between a single-masted yacht and a small skiff. Khan
gave it the once-over. It looked like a work boat, its dull grey
paint flaking and its sides blackened
by the constant rub of jetty tyres, but if she would start she would be perfect. He noticed that the mooring lines had been tied expertly around the cleats. Whoever owned this vessel obviously
possessed a fair degree of seamanship skill, which was a good sign.

She was called
Kingfisher and she wobbled on the water as Khan jumped aboard. He moved forward into the small wheelhouse, which had a two-berth cabin immediately below it. Khan hissed a quick ‘hello’ just in case there was anyone aboard, but thankfully the boat was empty.

He looked around quickly, familiarising himself with the layout as best he could in the darkness. There
was a small chart table to his left with what looked like several river maps clipped to its surface. He pulled himself up onto the pilot’s seat and acquainted himself with the controls, searching the immediate area for an ignition key. Nothing. He went out onto the aft deck, removed the hatch cover of the engine compartment and found what he was looking for. Strapped to the underside of the cover was a small tool-wrap. He unfurled it on the deck and found a medium-sized screwdriver.

Back in the pilothouse, he jammed the blade into the ignition slot and forced the barrel. Khan was relieved to see the ignition lights glow red and watched with mounting satisfaction
as the fuel needle crept up to the full mark and the oil pressure gauge levelled out. Even the battery was fully charged. As Khan had suspected, the Kingfisher was well maintained.

He turned the screwdriver another notch and the small but powerful inboard engine rumbled into life. Outside, Khan replaced the engine cover and untied the mooring ropes. He held his breath. Above him he could hear the shouts of his pursuers echoing around the car park. Soon they would head towards the marina and that would be that.

He jammed his foot against the jetty and pushed off, drifting out into the oily waters of the harbour. He scrambled into the wheelhouse and eased the throttle forward a notch. The propeller bit into the black water and the Kingfisher began to make headway. Ahead of him, he could see the open gates of the harbour entrance and the darkness of the river beyond. He muttered a silent prayer of thanks that the tide was high enough.

The moon had slid behind a bank of cloud and visibility was momentarily restricted. He kept the revs low, passing the harbour gates and drifting out onto the river. Almost immediately the current caught the bow and turned the small boat downstream. Khan increased power and turned her back to starboard, his eyes scanning the riverbank above him. Nothing.

Ahead of him in the darkness were two bridges. The first was Grosvenor Bridge, the crossing used by commuter trains heading in and out of Victoria Station north of the river. Almost immediately after that was Chelsea Bridge, the
span used by motorists. Khan couldn’t detect any movement on either crossing, but from his position on the water it would be difficult to spot anyway. He had to risk it.

The Kingfisher’s engine echoed off the damp walls of the Grosvenor Bridge pier as the boat slid under the wide, iron span above. Khan cut the revs to idle to keep the engine noise down, but the strong current threatened to turn the bow and drag him back towards the marina. He had no choice. Khan pushed the throttle to the stop and the water at the stern turned to white foam as the Kingfisher surged forward. Anyone on the riverbank above would surely hear the boat’s engine, but it was time to put some distance between himself and the danger behind him.

Moments later, Khan was relieved to see Chelsea Bridge pass above him as he headed further out towards the middle of the river, cutting the power back once he had cleared the bridge. Behind him a flare arched into the air and popped high overhead, the river suddenly bathed in a green phosphorous light. The illumination wavered and flickered, casting the dark, looming towers of Park Heights into sharp relief. The flare fizzed and hissed beneath its tiny parachute as it drifted out over the water. Khan instinctively ducked when he heard a long burst of automatic fire, but he soon realised it was directed elsewhere and the darkness returned as the flare extinguished
itself on the river.

To his left, the shadowy expanse of Battersea Park drifted by and Khan breathed a small sigh of relief. He had escaped, buying himself a brief respite from the chaos on dry land.

Behind him, the sky over London glowed red. But here, on a small boat on the
river, Khan felt cocooned from the violence and carnage that raged around him.

And there was something
else, too. He had a plan now, a plan that would take him upriver and out of the city.

The pace had started well enough, but the further north they went, the slower progress became. Tony
Brooks was more than a little frustrated, but so far there’d been no sounds of pursuit. Not yet, anyway, but that didn’t mean they had to move like a couple of pensioners.

Up ahead, Nasser took the lead, making his way up the tunnel at an almost casual pace. The concrete shaft was lit by small overhead lights, recessed into the curved ceiling and spaced every hundred feet or so. The distance between the overhead fixtures, combined with their low wattage, created pools of gloom in which one trooper and then the other would be momentarily lost as they headed up the tunnel.

Deep in the shadows, Brooks stopped once again, turning to face the way they’d come, a small pair of binoculars clamped to his eyes, his ears alert for the sounds of pursuit. Nothing. The empty tunnel stretched away into the distance, back towards Downing Street. He jogged after Nasser, still strolling along as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

‘Come on, Naz, let’s move it.’

Nasser stopped. He pulled out his water bottle and took a few small sips.
‘What’s the rush?’

Brooks frowned. ‘Is that a joke?’

‘We have to leave a trail, you know that.’

‘We’re wasting our time. No-one’s after us. Maybe they know the boss has taken the other tunnel,’ Brooks speculated. ‘We should head back.’

‘No,’ Nasser ordered. ‘We stick to the plan.’

‘Bollocks to that. If the lads are in trouble we go back. Besides, we stand
a better chance of getting to Alternate One if we can hook up with them again.’

Nasser cocked his chin. ‘What’s up, Brooksy? Frightened of missing the
chopper?’

‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’

Suddenly
Nasser’s eyes narrowed.
He held up a hand for silence. ‘Shh!’ He glanced over Brooks’ shoulder. ‘We’ve got company.’

Brooks spun around, dropping to one knee. He brought his weapon up into his shoulder, peering through the optical sight. ‘Can’t see shit,’ he whispered.

The flash lit up the tunnel walls and Brooks fell forward. He tried to put his hands up to protect his face, but he was too slow and his head slapped hard onto the concrete floor. Blood began to pool beneath his chin. As the sound of gunfire echoed along the tunnel, Nasser knelt beside him.

‘Brooksy, can you hear me?’
A thin wisp of smoke curled from the muzzle of his pistol in his hand. He used it to jab Brooks sharply in the back. The soldier grunted, turning his head towards the sound of his colleague’s voice. Confusion twisted Brooks’ face.

‘I’ve been hit,’ he rasped.

Nasser smiled in the gloom. ‘I know. Got you right under your body armour. Loads of internal damage, I reckon. Does it hurt?’

Brooks tried to speak again but failed, the pain of betrayal clouding his eyes, blood speckling his lips. ‘Why?’ he finally managed.

Nasser smiled and shook his head. Why? Such a stupid question. He noticed that Brooks’ eyes were beginning to take on the dullness of imminent death. There wasn’t enough time to explain why. It was Allah’s will, simple as that.
Besides, the Infidels never understood
that a Muslim’s duty was to his religion first. Everything
else was secondary, unimportant.
It was difficult for Nasser to understand the naivety of the Infidels, but there it was. They were blind to the threat that existed amongst them and, despite all the security screenings and background checks, none of which failed to uncover his
own
true allegiances, he’d still made it this far, into the belly of the beast.

Nasser listened to his former comrade’s laboured breathing. It wouldn’t be long now. He would wait until he’d passed over, then re-join his brothers and continue the hunt for Beecham. He hoped the Brigadier and Gibson would be captured alive. He hoped to see the shock on their faces when they realised it was Nasser who had betrayed them, who had worked the duty roster to ensure he was on standby this day.

He smiled. Things were working out extremely well. He’d managed to attach the first of his two transmitters to the equipment panel in the generator room, the other one to Beecham’s clothing. His Brothers had found the underground complex quickly, probably due to his first transmitter. With
the grace of God the other one would ensure the capture of the Prime Minister. And it would all be Nasser’s doing.

He fished inside his webbing and pulled out a green headscarf, wrapping it tightly around his forehead. After all he’d been through, he wouldn’t want to be mistaken for an enemy soldier now. He felt a rush of excitement. Soon he would be able to return to his childhood home in the Emirates, to the land he’d fallen in love with as a boy and left in tears as a young man. He remembered the view from his father’s veranda well – the sheltered cove, the white sands, the warm waters of the Gulf that lapped against the nearby shore. It was here that he would settle, carve out a new life for himself, reforge his family ties. After almost twenty years away, forced to suffer the immoral existence of an Infidel, it was the very least he was owed.

It was time to go, but first he would relieve Brooks of his weapon and ammunition. He had to move quickly now; time was of the essence. He had information, the coordinates of Alternate One somewhere beneath the Mendip Hills, information the Arabian high command urgently needed.

He stared into the dull, lifeless eyes of his former comrade. Despite his faults, he hadn’t been a bad man. He closed his own eyes and muttered a quick prayer; then, with considerable effort, he grabbed Brooks’ webbing straps and stood upright, flipping the dead soldier over onto his back. He heard two sounds, almost simultaneously.

The first came from Brooks himself, a groan that escaped his throat as his body thumped back down onto the concrete. Nasser looked down to see his colleague’s blood-covered
face grinning up at him. The bastard wasn’t dead! The second sound was a metallic zing, and something flew past his leg, caught in his peripheral vision. Instinctively, Nasser knew what it was.

He spun around, desperately searching the gloom behind him, the fear and panic rising in him instantly. Then he saw it, almost at his feet. It rocked from side to side as it settled on the tunnel floor, its fat, green body decorated with stencilled white lettering.

For nine years, SAS trooper Sami Nasser had lived a secret life, a Special Forces soldier in the British Army, but
one
whose true allegiance lay with his Arabian Brothers. At the moment of his death, his years of living in the West, and in particular in the company of elite soldiers, had conditioned
the
verbal response to his impending doom.

‘Oh fuck,’ he whispered.

The grenade, along with several others, detonated, shredding both soldiers to pieces.