The Lucifer Network (43 page)

Suddenly a large man in body armour stepped out of the kitchen, pointing a pistol at his head.

‘Don't move, Rob. Not so much as a fucking eyebrow.'

THE HANGAR SMELLED
of kerosene. At the far end two Hercules transports stood like lowering beasts, their engines stripped to their innards. The eight men from No.2 Special Boat Section stood just inside the huge folding doors which were open the width of a truck. Identically dressed in black rollnecks, with trousers tucked into thick socks, some were crouching, all were concentrating as they checked the kit laid out neatly on the floor. There was a lot of it. The four largest waterproof canisters contained the inflatable boats and their outboard engines. Four smaller bags were for weapons and four for special clothing.

Sam stepped out of the Land Rover that had brought him from the front gate and walked into the hangar. Bennett's girl had met him at Heathrow with clothes to change into from his suit – dark trousers, a blue sweatshirt, pullover and trainers. The marines turned to look at him, their faces solemn and expressionless. None wore rank insignia, making it impossible for Sam to tell which was the lieutenant in charge. He was about to ask when a short, ginger-haired man in his mid-twenties stepped forward.

‘Mr Packer? I'm Willie Phipps.'

‘Hello. Glad to meet you. Sam's the name.'

He felt the pale blue eyes size him up, knowing full well how reluctant the SBS would have been to include an untested stranger in their mission.

‘You made good time,' Phipps remarked. ‘We've just finished checking the gear. In fact, once we've got you sorted, we'll be ready to roll – that's if the RAF can get their act together. When was your last jump?'

‘Eight or nine years ago. Before I left the Navy.'

‘And never into the sea.'

‘'Fraid not.'

The lieutenant sucked his teeth. ‘In that case we'd better do some talking.' He took Sam to one side to introduce him to his kit. ‘Immersion dry suit.' He held up a drab green one-piece with thick waterproof zips and soft rubber seals at neck and wrists. ‘We don't put them on until fifteen minutes before the drop, otherwise it gets like a sauna inside. You'd better try it for size.'

Sam forced his feet down the legs and tugged at the zips until the neck seal fitted snugly across his throat.

‘Could have been made for you,' Phipps commented briskly. He picked up a short plastic tube attached to a strap. ‘Cyalume,' he explained. ‘Fix this to your wrist. If we lose you in the oggin, snap the tube and it'll glow like a beacon.' Sam was familiar with the chemical lights from his service days. The lieutenant handed him a lifejacket, then, when he had it in place, helped him on with the parachute harness and adjusted the straps. ‘We'll be on a static line, so the chute'll open automatically. Never fails. If it does, you've got your reserve,' he added drily, clipping it across Sam's middle. ‘We'll be jumping low, so be ready to yank the ring damned fast if the main chute doesn't deploy. Soon as you're sure it's open, ditch the reserve, otherwise the weight of it'll sink you when you hit the water. Use your torch to see when you're about
to get wet feet and release the main harness immediately. Same problem as the reserve. Get rid of it fast or it'll drag you down with the canopy on top of you. You'll sink several metres anyway because of your own body weight, but the lifejacket's self-inflating and will pull you back up.' He handed Sam a nose clip. ‘Happy so far?'

Sam had never been less so, but he nodded.

‘The met men say it'll be as dark as a cow's insides tonight,' Phipps continued. ‘No moon and one hundred per cent cloud, so no stars either. If you don't see anyone else near you in the water, stay put. We'll find you. Shout from time to time. The submarine will be watching on thermal. They should have a Gemini ready to pick us up and tow the gear alongside. Glad you joined?'

‘Scared to death.'

‘So am I. You'd have been lying if you'd said anything else. One final piece of kit.' He handed Sam a small metal canister with a line attached. ‘Underwater beacon. Clip it to the ring on your lifejacket. If you really think you're lost and the world's forgotten about you, turn the switch to the green, unwind the line and let it dangle beneath you. The sub will get a bearing on it.'

They turned at the sound of a diesel engine and watched a grey, covered lorry reverse into the hangar.

‘Okay, boys,' the lieutenant said, rubbing his hands, ‘we're on our way.'

Stepney

17.30 hrs

Rob Petrie stared at the grubby red carpet in the boxy
living room. He'd been back a couple of hours, but the police hadn't told him how they'd found out about him. Not told him anything. He knew it was to do with Sandra. She'd been acting oddly with him for a couple of days. Withdrawn. Uncommunicative. Suspicious and hostile. As if she'd got wind of what he was involved in. He'd guessed she'd read his computer files somehow. He hadn't seen her since he arrived home, but could hear her voice in the kitchen. The police had mugs of tea which she'd made after letting the bastards in.

Four of them were in the small living room. Three men – one in uniform – and a woman who'd only arrived twenty minutes ago and who had a quiet authority the others lacked. The armed policemen weren't visible any more. He guessed it was their voices he could hear talking with Sandra. The computer was on in the corner, a young officer with steel glasses operating the keyboard as if it was a natural extension of his fingers. One by one they'd dug out every e-mail he'd ever sent or received in the past few months. All the items he'd thought were deleted. All the secrets he thought he'd buried for ever.

They'd also taken his keys so they could remove the Escort from the garage and pull it apart. By now they would have found the third bundle of explosives and detonators the Lucifer Network had provided. And they'd taken all his clothes away for forensic tests, ignoring his request for a blanket or a towel. He sat on the sofa naked, his hands cuffed behind his back.

A few minutes ago someone had brought in a video tape to show him – the Golders Green massacre as filmed by the London Fire Brigade. Vile scenes, so horrific they would never be shown on TV. It was true about the little girl who'd been cut in half by glass. Seeing the bloodied bits had made Rob throw up again, retching onto his
knees until they brought a bucket. But he still told them nothing.

A detective chief inspector from Southall CID had been firing questions about the bombs – where he'd got the explosives from, who his contacts were, how many people were involved with him? But Rob had told them nothing.

They'd browbeaten and insulted him, calling him arsehole and scrote. Shown him the e-mails telling the whole story of his relationship with ‘Peter'. The different names used. The string of addresses to prevent tracing. The encryption keys. It was all there. Where to go to pick up the bomb kits. His message describing the targets he'd selected. The reports of mission accomplished and the congratulations. Everything they needed to put him away for life. But he still wouldn't talk. However much he regretted Golders Green, he consoled himself with the knowledge that mistakes were made in the most professional of conflicts. A battle had been lost, but the war would go on. He himself had fallen, but others in the Network wouldn't. Not while ‘Peter' still functioned as leader of the white revolution that was now firmly under way in Europe.

‘Tell us about him, Rob. It might go in your favour,' the DCI from Southall urged, struggling to curb his exasperation.

Petrie kept his eyes averted and his expression blank. Then the woman officer who'd been hovering by the computer screen moved directly in front of him. He didn't look up, but felt his privates shrink under her contemptuous glare.

‘You've never met Peter, have you, Rob?'

It was the first time he'd heard her speak. He closed his eyes as if bored.

‘You don't even know what country he's from, do
you?' To Stephanie Watson the e-mails had made it as clear as day.

It was true. Petrie knew precious little about the man, except that he had the power to inspire.

‘Did you two ever discuss using germs to kill people?'

Her question surprised him. He'd seen the story in the morning papers about the two Brussels officials hit by a brain virus, but hadn't made the connection. The fact that she'd asked him suggested they thought the Lucifer Network was behind that too. It excited him to think the people he'd been involved with had such resources and he was tempted to say ‘yes'. To rub her nose in the fact that she was up against an enemy of substance.

‘You didn't know what you were getting into, did you, Rob?' There was a softer edge to her voice, now. Not quite pity, but close to it. ‘Liked what you read on the Internet and just went along with it. Yes?'

There was an element of truth in what she'd said. He'd never envisioned being responsible for what had happened at Golders Green.

‘All a bit of a game to you.'

Game? He bristled at the word, but it made him think. Yes, he'd got a buzz from taking part. From being involved.

‘Then it went wrong.'

It had today. Horribly.

‘You never meant to kill those kids, we know that.'

No. But Jews, yes. He
had
meant to kill them. Wanted them dead. Wanted his London cleaned of the ZOG.

‘So . . . Tell us about it. Get it off your chest.'

Stephanie looked down at the lumpen, deflated figure in front of her. She found his nakedness and his spew-smeared thighs revolting. The broad shoulders were fleshy rather than muscular and had dark hairs sprouting from them. He'd been a turn-on once, according to
the woman in the kitchen who'd loved him. Cocky, confident and well paid. Now the sullen cropped head with its putty nose looked as if it had come straight off the hooligan end of a football ground. A thug. A creature from the arse-end of humanity. He lifted his face to look her coldly in the eye and she knew there was no soft spot in this man. She turned away and nodded to the detective from Southall.
All
yours,
she indicated.

‘You know, Rob, your girlfriend says you've lost it,' the man goaded, his mouth twisting with frustration. ‘Says that limp apology for a sex organ that you're hiding between your thighs – you can't get it up any more. Not with her, anyway.' He paused to let the insult take effect. ‘Going with fellers now, are you?'

Petrie flinched. The extent of Sandra's betrayal of him was something he would never have imagined possible. Only days ago she'd told him she loved him and would support him through thick and thin.

‘Hitler was a fairy, you know,' the detective sneered. ‘That what you're trying to be? Fucking Adolf Hitler?'

Petrie smiled. If only . . .

The detective snorted in disgust.

‘Know what happens in prison to toerags like you? They'll give you a cell with a nigger. He'll have a knob as big as a baseball bat and fists the size of frozen chickens. You'll be all shit and blood before you've had your first slop out. Your own mother won't recognise you. Not that a bastard like you's ever had a mother.'

Rob felt a ripple of fear. He'd never thought about what prison would be like.

Suddenly the CID man turned to the uniformed officer guarding the door.

‘Get a track suit on him for fuck's sake and take him out of here. The smell's getting to me.'

Stephanie had stepped back to her position behind the
wizard at the computer. She folded her arms as Petrie was led from the room.

‘Waste of fucking breath,' the Southall man fumed, after Petrie was gone.

‘Yes, but everything we need's on that hard drive,' Stephanie told him.

‘Open and shut,' the DCI agreed.

‘However, I would like a blackout on the arrest,' she told him firmly.

The Southall man got to his feet, hands on hips. He had an Asian community to pacify. ‘Why's that?'

‘Because if we tell the whole world we've nailed the bomber, we'll never hear from Peter again. Leave it twenty-four hours and there's a chance of another e-mail.'

‘Why bother? We've more than enough for a conviction,' the detective insisted, sourly. This was
his
investigation. To him Special Branch were snooty elitists.

‘Sure.
Petrie
will go down,' Stephanie agreed, ‘but what about the bloke who's pulling the strings? He's the one we've got to nail.'

‘What makes you think he'll send another message?'

‘Because Petrie's owed one. You've read the e-mail he sent last night?'

‘Moaning about how his girlfriend's become suspicious of him?'

‘That's the one.'

The detective scratched his chin. ‘Odd show of weakness, don't you think? Why would he tell Peter about it?'

Stephanie pushed a hand through her straight brown hair, then retrieved the relevant message from the sheaf of printouts next to the PC. She re-read it, trying to think of a sensible answer. There was something almost plaintive about it.
Don't
know
what's
come
over
her . . .
Always been loyal before . . . As if she's got wind of it . . . Can't think how . . . Never given any hint . . . Almost as if seeking guidance from his mentor.

‘I suppose Peter was the only bloke in the world he could talk to about it,' she concluded. ‘His only friend. And even a loner needs one sometimes.'

New Scotland Yard

19.55 hrs

Two hours later, Stephanie Watson sat in the Fraud Squad's Computer Crime Unit at Scotland Yard, watching while the hard disk from Rob Petrie's PC was examined file by file. As she'd expected, there'd been a certain amount of pornography scattered across it, the random pickings of a man who'd let his curiosity have its way on the World Wide Web. Petrie had a catholic taste, she'd noted. There'd been a selection of well-hung erect males amongst the heterosexual and girl-on-girl images.