‘You’re bloody mad,’ Mark shouted after him.
‘Maybe,’ said Mickey. ‘But he could have killed you then, with his bare hands. I saw it in his eyes. But he didn’t. He’s one of the good guys, Mark, and if there are bastards about to shoot down a plane, I’m up for stopping them.’
‘Mickey, you don’t have to,’ said Shepherd.
‘Get in the bloody car before I change my mind,’ said Mickey. He climbed into the Land Rover and slammed the door. Mark shook his head, bewildered, as he watched Shepherd walk to the vehicle and climb into the front passenger seat where he cradled the shotgun on his lap.
Mickey switched on the engine. ‘Where to?’ he asked Shepherd.
‘Just head for the airport,’ said Shepherd. ‘And put your foot down.’
Bradshaw looked through the binoculars at the third plane on the approach to the runway. His heart raced as he saw the bulbous nose and four massive engines of a Boeing 747 with the red, white and blue British Airways livery on the tail. ‘Potential target sighted,’ he said into his mobile. ‘Just over five minutes away. Get ready.’
‘Affirmative,’ said Chaudhry, at the other end of the line.
‘It’s a jumbo jet,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Just what we need.’ He put down the phone and picked up the video camera that had been lying on the front passenger seat. He switched it on and focused on the removals van, then pressed pause and put the camera back on the seat. The video of the downing of the British Airways jet would become one of the most-watched terrorist incidents of all time, he would make sure of that.
The Land Rover hurtled down the outside lane of the M4. The vehicle was built for crossing rough terrain, not for speeding along at ninety miles an hour, and Mickey had to keep a tight grip on the steering-wheel. A white Saab was blocking his way and Mickey pounded on the horn until it moved over.
Shepherd called the Major. ‘I’m on my way,’ he said.
‘The helicopter’s not here yet,’ said the Major. ‘Soon as it leaves, I’ll tell you.’
‘Where do I go?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Near as the GCHQ guy can tell, it’s Boston Manor, near to Boston Manor Park. You’ll have to take junction two off the M4. They’re somewhere near the junction between Boston Manor Road and the Great Western Road.’
Shepherd scrolled through the GPS unit on the dashboard with his left hand.
‘And, Spider, he’s tapped into the phone. One of the guys is calling in the planes as he sees them. He’s got a British Airways 747 in his sights.’
‘I’ll call you back, boss,’ said Shepherd, ending the call. He patted Mickey’s shoulder. ‘We’ve got to go faster,’ he said.
Bradshaw lost sight of the commuter plane as it descended below the terminal buildings. The jumbo jet was now second in line for landing. ‘Target is four minutes from you,’ he said into the phone. He heard Chaudhry repeat the time, his voice slightly muffled by the chewing-gum in his mouth. Bradshaw felt light-headed and fought to keep his breathing steady. His adrenal glands were in overdrive and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. Four more minutes. Two hundred and forty seconds. No time at all. But for the people in the plane coming in to land, it was all the time they had left to live.
Shepherd’s mobile rang. ‘The helicopter’s just left with a counter-terrorist troop on board,’ the Major said. ‘At full speed they’re ten minutes away. Spider, they might be too late. Where are you?’
‘Coming up to junction two now,’ said Shepherd. ‘I don’t know how long it’s going to take to drive through Brentford.’
‘The spotter just called four minutes, Spider. That’s all the time you have.’
‘Roger that,’ said Shepherd, and cut the connection.
Kundi kept the launch tube pointing at the sky. The Stinger was heavy but he barely felt the weight on his shoulder. He swallowed and blinked. In the sky overhead he saw a bird of prey, a kestrel, hovering. The bird flapped its wings, looking downward, waiting to kill. Kundi felt he was like the kestrel, poised to attack. But unlike the bird he wasn’t killing by instinct or for food. He was killing for Allah, and there was no nobler cause.
He heard the phone buzz in Chaudhry’s ear.
‘Target sighted, two minutes,’ said Chaudhry. He turned to Kundi. ‘Are you okay, brother?’
Kundi didn’t reply. His whole being was focused on the patch of clear blue sky directly above his head.
‘They’re going to shoot down a 747 in less than four minutes,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can we get there by then?’
‘Not if we leave the motorway,’ said Mickey. ‘We’ll slow to a crawl once we’re driving through Brentford.’
Shepherd leaned forward to get a closer look at the GPS. ‘We’re coming up to junction two now,’ said Mickey. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘Stay on the motorway,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can we go any faster?’
‘My foot’s on the floor, mate,’ said Mickey.
The jumbo jet was so close now that Bradshaw felt as if he could reach out and touch it. Its flaps were down and its nose had gone up as it prepared for its final approach. He put the mobile phone to his mouth. ‘Ninety seconds,’ he said.
The motorway curved to the right. Shepherd looked to the left, but he didn’t know what he was looking for. Were they on a hill? Were they in a field? Or had they sought cover in a wood or a building? He opened the window and stuck his head out. The wind made his eyes water as he twisted his head to squint up at the sky. Behind them there was a 747 in the livery of British Airways, the red, white and blue wavy lines across its tail. It was to the left of the motorway, on its final approach.
‘Is that it?’ asked Mickey, shouting to make himself heard over the noise of the slipstream. ‘Is that the plane?’
‘I think so,’ said Shepherd.
Time had slowed to a crawl. Kundi couldn’t remember the last time he had taken a breath. The kestrel had gone. The sky overhead was clear except for a few wispy clouds high overhead. It was as if all his senses had gone into overdrive. He could smell Chaudhry’s sandalwood aftershave. He could hear the engines of the approaching plane and he could feel the vibrations through the floor of the van. He felt as if he was one with the Stinger missile on his shoulder, as if it had somehow become an extension of himself. He heard Bradshaw on the phone. ‘Sixty seconds.’
‘Sixty seconds,’ repeated Chaudhry. He twisted around and shouted to Talwar and al-Sayed, ‘Lower the tailgate!’
Kundi stared fixedly at the sky’ Outside he heard Talwar and al-Sayed fumble with the bolts.
‘Mickey, pull over,’ shouted Shepherd. ‘Get onto the hard shoulder.’
Mickey flipped the turn indicator and swerved across the three lanes of the motorway.
Shepherd pulled his head back and looked at the GPS unit. They were directly opposite the park. ‘Stop here – they’re around here somewhere,’ he said.
Mickey pulled up and switched on his hazard indicators. Shepherd threw open the door and rushed over to the grass verge. In the distance he could see a furniture van parked in a lay-by. He shaded his eyes against the sun with a hand and scanned the area, still not sure what he was looking for. Mickey was at his shoulder. ‘This had better not be a wild-goose chase, mate,’ he said.
Shepherd looked at the fast-approaching airliner. He tried to work out its route in relation to the ground. He pointed at the furniture van. ‘That’s got to be it,’ he said.
Kundi heard the tailgate rattle down behind him. ‘Thirty seconds,’ said Chaudhry. He moved to the side, and Kundi flicked his thumb across the safety switch. ‘Safety off,’ he said.
‘Twenty seconds,’ said Chaudhry.
Time had virtually stopped. Kundi could hear the roar of the approaching jet and the vibrations rattled the sides of the van.
‘Ten seconds,’ said Chaudhry.
Kundi began to count on autopilot, barely aware that Chaudhry was counting with him. ‘Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one . . .’
‘Acquisition tone on,’ said Kundi. ‘Listening for the steady tone. Steady tone achieved.’ He pressed the uncaging switch with his left hand. The beeping was replaced by a steady tone, the signal that the IR targeting system had locked onto the plane. ‘Confirm steady tone,’ he said, as his finger tightened on the trigger. ‘
Allahu akbar
.’
Mickey’s jaw dropped as the two Asians pulled down the tailgate to reveal what was inside the furniture van. ‘Would you look at that?’ he shouted. ‘What the hell is it?’
‘A Stinger missile,’ said Shepherd, calmly. They were just over two hundred yards from the removals van but could clearly see the Asian man holding the missile launcher and pointing it up at the roof.
Shepherd dashed to the back of the Land Rover, pulled open the rear door and grabbed the last remaining RPG launcher from under the tarpaulin. Mickey was talking again, asking questions, but Shepherd ignored him. His heart was pounding – he had only seconds to act. He seized the warhead, slotted it into the launcher, then turned and dropped onto one knee in a smooth motion. He focused on the van, levelled the launcher, took a breath and pulled the trigger. The warhead streaked away and the sustainer motor kicked in, leaving a white trail behind. It seemed to cut through the air in slow motion and Shepherd felt his world collapse to the point at which his whole being was concentrated on the warhead and its target.
The 747’s engines were screaming and Mickey was shouting something. Then the warhead slammed into the back of the removals van and it erupted in a ball of flame.
The video camera in Bradshaw’s hand continued to record but he was no longer looking through the viewfinder. He stared at the 747 as it continued on its approach to the runway. He had no idea what had happened. He had been concentrating on the roof of the van, not wanting to miss the moment when the missile streaked towards the plane, but the vehicle had exploded. It was as if the jumbo jet had caused it to blow up, but Bradshaw knew that was impossible. A cloud of black smoke curled up from the wreckage and was whipped away by the turbulence in the wake of the descending jet. Bradshaw sat in the car, trying to collect his thoughts. His hands were shaking. He forced himself to breathe. He had no idea what had happened but he knew he had to get away from the area. He put the video camera on the passenger seat, turned on the engine and drove off.
Shepherd stood up and dropped the launch unit. The base of the removals van was still burning, though the rest of the vehicle was in a thousand pieces, scattered across the road. There were body parts among the wreckage: a head had rolled against the pavement, an arm was lying in the gutter, the hand clenched into a fist.
‘What the hell just happened?’ asked Mickey.
‘We saved four hundred lives, give or take,’ said Shepherd, ‘and now you’ve got to get out of here. There’s an SAS helicopter on the way.’
‘Who are you?’
‘You don’t want to know,’ said Shepherd. ‘You have to go.’
‘Are you a cop?’
‘No.’ That much was true. He worked for SOCA and that meant he was a civil servant, not a police officer.
‘Then who the hell are you? James Bond?’
Shepherd laughed. ‘No, I’m not James Bond.’
‘But you’re not Ricky Knight. And you’re not John Westlake.’
‘It doesn’t matter who I am or who I work for. Mickey, you have to go.’
‘What’s your real name? You can tell me that much.’
‘Dan,’ said Shepherd.
‘Well, fuck you, Dan. Are we screwed?’
‘Define screwed.’
‘Are CO19 cops gonna be coming around the corner in the next few minutes?’
‘If they are, it’s not down to me. But the SAS are on their way.’
‘The money? The money’s dodgy?’
‘It’s fine, so far as I know. They were letting you run to see where you took it.’
‘They know about Pinky?’
‘Not yet.’
‘No tracking, no bugs?’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘They’re tracking my phone. That’s all.’
‘They?’
‘You have to go, Mickey.’
‘How long have we got?’
‘I don’t know,’ Shepherd said. ‘But after what just happened I think all flights into and out of the UK are going to be grounded for a while. They’re expecting you to go to Holyhead for the ferry so if I were you I’d get to St Pancras and onto the first Eurostar to Paris.’
‘And if we get back to Thailand?’
‘Nothing’s changed,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’re as safe there now as you were before.’
Mickey nodded. ‘You’re a bastard,’ he said, but there was no venom in his voice.
‘I know,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s what I do.’
Mickey stuck out his hand. Shepherd shook it. Mickey’s grip was firm and dry and he looked Shepherd in the eye. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
Shepherd didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t even sure what Mickey was thanking him for.
‘What do you want doing with your share?’ Mickey asked.
For a moment Shepherd thought he was serious, but then Mickey released his hand, made a gun with it, pointed it at Shepherd’s face and mimicked the popping sound of a silenced automatic. ‘Got you,’ he said. He winked and got back into the Land Rover.
As it sped off, Shepherd gazed at the still-burning debris, which was all that remained of the van. ‘That went well, all things considered,’ he muttered to himself.
In the distance he heard the whoop-whoop of a helicopter’s rotor. He stood where he was, his hands outstretched to the side to show that he wasn’t a threat, and waited for the SAS to arrive.
‘You did what?’ There was disbelief on Charlotte Button’s face. They were sitting in the office where it had all begun less than two weeks earlier. Shepherd had brought a cup of Starbucks tea with him but it sat untouched on her desk.
Shepherd knew the question was rhetorical, so he didn’t reply.
‘Where are they?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You just let them drive away?’
‘What do you want me to say, Charlie? That I was outmanned? That I was outgunned? That I closed my eyes and counted to ten and when I opened them they’d gone?’
‘What I want, Spider, is the truth.’
‘Mickey Moore helped me take out a terrorist cell. That’s the truth.’
‘His gang stole twelve million pounds,’ said Button, flatly.
‘Exactly. Money. They stole money. Pieces of paper. We saved four hundred lives, Charlie. Four hundred souls.’