Ground zero, p.1
Ground Zero, page 1
SAM 7
Richard Cox
Silvertail Books ♦ London
Author’s Acknowledgements
Although this story is fictional, I owe a great debt of gratitude to many officers who assisted me with details on the way in which their organizations plan for emergencies. In particular I wish to thank Commander L. F. J. Walker of the Metropolitan Police; Chief Superintendent T. W. A. Lucas of the British Transport Police; Mr G. M. Kelly and other officers of the Accident Investigation Branch, Department of Trade; Mr L. Singleton of British Rail; Mr C. Kenyon; Station Officer M. Keevash of the London Fire Brigade; Mr M. Barsby of the Westminster Hospital; Captain O. S. Evans of British Airways, and Mrs D. I. Moss of the WRVS. I am also most grateful to John Anstey, editor of the Daily Telegraph Magazine, for whom I organized a study on the after-effects of an air crash.
Finally, this book could never have been completed without the efforts of Vanessa Baber and Juliet Searle who typed its many versions and revisions.
1
1977
The restaurant was like a thousand others in Paris. A faded red awning stretched out across its front bearing a brewer’s slogan ‘Meuse Pils. Bière d’Alsace’. A scattering of chairs and tables stood on the pavement beneath the awning, permanently dusty from the heavy traffic grinding its way through this industrial suburb of Paris called Argenteuil.
Two hundred yards down the street from the restaurant, out of sight from it, two dark-haired young men sat in a Citroën saloon car, surly and unsmiling. The driver was an attractive young woman with almond skin and dark eyes, wearing slacks and white cotton shirt. A passer-by might have put her down as one of those emancipated Arab girls who had broken away from the veil and the discipline of grandmothers to study at the Sorbonne, though it was surprising to see her in the company of such obvious toughs. A passer-by who looked closer would have noticed a small transistor radio in her hand, a short thick chromiumed aerial sticking up from it. But passers-by in Argenteuil usually have the sense not to look too closely at the girlfriends of Arab roughnecks from the bidonville.
The least salubrious part of Argenteuil was the Arab bidonville, a shanty town where some three thousand Algerian factory worker immigrants lived. The name derived from old petrol cans – bidons – hammered flat. These, together with sheets of cardboard and any fragments of rubbish that could keep the weather out, served as construction material for the hovels. If the bidonville had been a refugee camp in the Middle East it would have attracted world-wide condemnation. Because it was in France, and the local factories needed the workers, it remained a slum casbah that few save the Algerians themselves could safely penetrate.
While the two men and the girl sat in the car, a form of commentary was coming over the air, though not continuously. Whoever was transmitting did so in short bursts. And in Hebrew. The radio crackled a little from static.
‘Nothing changes inside.’
The girl peered through the windscreen along the street and gave a brief acknowledgement, holding the walkie-talkie up close to her cheek. The two men surreptitiously checked their guns. Both carried .22 calibre Beretta automatic pistols, the short barrel of each lengthened by the thick sleeve of a silencer. The Beretta is accurate, reliable and has as much punch as you need at close quarters. It is a standard weapon for Israeli commandos.
‘Let’s go,’ said the girl, letting in the clutch.
The Citroën glided forward almost silently. She braked gently a full five yards short of La Pergola. The two men swung their doors open as the car stopped and slid out, paused to join up on the pavement, then strolled casually under the awning and into the restaurant. Swarthy, unshaven, wearing the blue denim beloved of French workmen for decades, they appeared typical immigrant labourers in their mid-twenties. Nodding to the group at the table, they muttered the traditional Arab greeting.
‘Salaam Alaykum.’
As the Algerians glanced up, incuriously replying, both newcomers fired simultaneously. Two of the five went down, collapsing in their chairs. A third drew his gun, but was impeded by the table and shot through the head before he could aim. Another dived sideways. The fifth twisted out of the bench seat and broke past the gunmen to the door. The girl, leaning casually out of the car window as though waiting for a friend, shot him in the stomach. He clutched at his belly, staggered, tried to aim at her, fired and missed. As the bullet slammed into the car’s bodywork, she shot him again and he fell among the chairs on the pavement, screaming. Inside the barman stood trembling with his hands raised. Disregarding him, the gunmen swiftly gathered up the papers and snatched a briefcase lying on the bench seat, interrupted briefly by the Arab under the table. He only had a knife and they shot him too before making for the car. As the girl drove off, she clicked the stop on her large masculine wristwatch.
‘Seventy-three seconds. Not bad.’
She accelerated down the avenue, then turned left into a boulevard that led through to a trunk road before speaking again.
‘Did you find much?’
‘A lot of papers,’ answered one, ‘and the briefcase.’
‘At least three must be dead,’ said the other.
‘Mine wasn’t,’ remarked the girl coolly. ‘But I think we have scored. Give them the codeword.’
One of the men reached for the little radio, flicked the transmit switch.
‘Naharia.’
‘Ma’alot,’ came the answer.
One of the few self-indulgences of Naomi, the girl who led this killer team, was using the names of Israeli villages that had suffered Fedayeen raids as codewords for the success of her own. Naharia, a small seaside resort, had been the target of a raid by Al Fatah. Ma’alot was where schoolchildren were murdered in 1974. One of them was her niece.
Abruptly the fuzz of static ceased as the spotter in the rented room opposite La Pergola switched off. With his fresh complexion and his Belgian passport it was unlikely that anyone would suspect him when he checked out and left Argenteuil. He and the others in the spotter team had spent nearly a month tracking the group, learning their habits. Far away from the Middle East, operating from the superb cover of the bidonville, the Arabs had forgotten the dangers of having a routine, of eating or sleeping to a pattern. That regularity had cost them their lives only two days after Naomi and her companion commandos had arrived in Paris, The date of their raid on the café was 1 May.
In both Paris and London May Day had heralded summer with unusual exactitude. This year London was basking in unexpected warmth. In St James’s Park the tulips marched proudly along the flowerbeds, their colours rivalling the scarlet tunics of the Guardsmen outside Buckingham Palace. At midday on 2 May two mounted policemen rode slowly along Birdcage Walk towards the Palace, the deep brown leather of their saddles and harness glowing softly, their horses’ hooves clopping on the tarmac. Both men wore regulation uniforms and peaked hats with the black and white chequered band of the Metropolitan Police round them, but the older of the two had also distinctive silver braided georgettes on his tunic lapels and a band of silver on the visor of his hat. The older man was Robert Thompson and he was the commander in charge of this district of London, known as ‘A’ Division. More colloquially it was his ‘patch’, his being one of London’s twenty-five police areas.
‘A’ Division was the London of the tourist brochures, Thompson reflected, the absolute guts of it. From his vantage point on the horse, jogging gently beneath him, he could see the St James’s Park lake shimmering through the trees, their leaves fresh green flakes of sunlight. Half a mile away Big Ben was sonorously striking one. People were sitting in their shirtsleeves on the grass, making the most of the warmth. Out of sight beyond them he knew that workmen were erecting flagpoles along the Mall for a State visit. Next Monday a Latin American president would drive to the palace in an open carriage, escorted by troopers of the Household Cavalry, their burnished steel breastplates and plumed helmets glistening, while thousands of spectators lined the route. This was the heartland of the traditional Britain that drew the tourists. And, by God, it was succeeding too. As the horses reached the end of Birdcage Walk Thompson could see lines of tour coaches parked up Constitution Hill and groups of visitors eddying round the Palace railings.
For the policemen of ‘A’ Division summer spelt work: royal processions and the Queen’s birthday parade, the Trooping of the Colour, political rallies in Trafalgar Square and Hyde Park, all kinds of demonstrations. It spelt traffic jams and diversions and countless hours of extra duty because the Division, like the whole force, was seriously under strength. This was why Thompson was taking an unobtrusive look at the preparations for next week’s State occasions. He liked riding, and he liked seeing things for himself. There were more than thirty horses stabled in the Division, including one called Banner, given to the police by the Queen. His own mount was a grey, sixteen and a half hands high and intelligent enough to react well when confronted by a crowd.
The two mounted policemen came round in front of the Palace as the Changing of the Guard in the forecourt was being completed. In a minute the outgoing troops, resplendent in their bearskins, would march out of the great wrought-iron gates. As Thompson crossed the road a throng of tourists was pressing hard up against the constables who were trying to keep the road clear for the soldiers. As he watched Thompson realized that the constables near him had a problem. A jostling party of youngsters, forty or fifty of them, were disregarding the constables and surging out across the carriageway. Letting visitors get their money’s worth was one thing, letting them g
‘Get back!’ he ordered loudly, ‘back on the pavement.’
The leader, a lanky man in torn jeans, yelled out what sounded like an insult, and ran straight out past him. For a second the horse reared, then Thompson nudged it into a sideways movement, so that its flank came parallel to the crowd. Pawing the tarmac and tossing its head, the horse edged firmly towards the people. A girl shrieked. Suddenly they all drew back, frightened, leaving their leader stranded.
‘Come back, you,’ shouted Thompson, ‘and stay off the road.’
Reluctantly they all obeyed, alarmed by the physical size of the horses.
‘We’ll stay here until the Guards have marched off,’ said Thompson to his companion.
He steadied his horse, surveying the packed throng outside the Palace. There was always potential conflict in a crowd: conflict between what spectators wanted and what the requirements of order made possible. From a horse you could see way over everyone’s heads, while the animal itself was a powerful ally. A mounted policeman was as effective as ten men in dealing with a crowd.
An hour and a half later Commander Thompson was concluding his regular Thursday afternoon conference with his staff on the coming week’s activity at his office in Cannon Row Police Station, tucked away down a narrow lane off Whitehall, close to Westminster Bridge. Up to 50,000 protesters were expected on Sunday from all over the country, demonstrating against changes in the abortion laws. They would swell the normal incursions of tourists and trippers. Then there was the three-day State visit starting on Monday. The following Saturday there would be yet another demonstration. The inspector from Thompson’s Ceremonials Office, Colin Sturgess, explained what he knew about it.
‘This Association of Palestine Supporters has been advertising the march pretty widely, sir. There are about six thousand Arabs in London.’
‘What’s their programme?’
‘It’s standard enough. Assemble Trafalgar Square 3.00 p.m. Speeches . . .’
Thompson interrupted.
‘Is it Israel’s removal from the UN that they’re on about?’
Sturgess nodded.
‘Apparently there’s a UN debate starting the day before, on the 10th. Demos are being staged in every European capital.’
‘Well, they’ve been given permission for this one,’ said Thompson bluntly. ‘So long as they comply with the terms of the permit Trafalgar Square’s all theirs.’
‘We’ve had a private warning that they’re going to march to the House of Commons.’
‘It’s a Saturday. Parliament won’t be sitting. They’d do better to march on Downing Street. Whose bright idea is that anyway?’ Thompson held up his hand. ‘No, let me guess.’
Although Parliament would not be in session and so the presentation of a petition there would not require permission, there was always a chance that it might provoke a newsworthy confrontation with the police and a near-certainty that it would get whoever received the deputation on to television.
‘I know,’ said Thompson. ‘Empson. That bloody man from Strathclyde North.’ Some of the 633 Members of Parliament would do almost anything for publicity.
‘Got it in one, sir. As before, he’s promised he will personally present their petition to the Prime Minister. Doesn’t want the PM stealing the limelight from him, I suppose.’
‘Well,’ said Thompson, ‘if he decides to divert them into Downing Street instead, we’ll let the normal number of representatives through the barrier. Democracy must be seen to be working. Never forget that, Colin.’
The peculiar characteristics of ‘A’ Division required its commander to be much more than simply a policeman. He needed to be diplomat, courtier and politician as well. The Division not only included St James’s Park and the whole of the far larger Hyde Park, it ran from Trafalgar Square, in the east, down to the Houses of Parliament and the river, then went west to include Victoria Station, the commuters’ gateway to south-east England, and the whole of the residential districts of Pimlico and Belgravia, the latter studded with foreign embassies. Protecting these buildings and dealing with other diplomatic requests was part of Thompson’s business. So was the protection of the royal palaces, notably Buckingham Palace and the smaller redbrick Tudor Palace of St James, and he retained a small detachment of police at each. The security of the Royal Family was a permanent headache, and the attempted kidnapping of Princess Anne in the Mall had shocked Thompson more than most people. Nonetheless the royal palace that gave him the most trouble was the Palace of Westminster, more familiar to the world as the Houses of Parliament.
The original royal palace at Westminster was built by Edward III in 1340. Later King Richard II had ordained that ‘Parliament shall be holden or kepid wheresoever it pleaseth the King.’ It had become established at Westminster, but the Sovereign still summoned it to meet with an official opening at the start of each session and a sessional order prohibited processions within one mile when members were sitting. Short of an international crisis, they would be away next Saturday in their constituencies as they were every weekend. Except, apparently, for Mr Jock Empson.
Thompson decided that the MP could hardly be much of a nuisance and pondered what else might happen.
‘Presumably the freedom-loving Jews will be counter-demonstrating?’
‘We’ve had a preliminary phone call from one of the Jewish organizations,’ said Sturgess.
‘They don’t usually get violent.’ Thompson studied a map, though he knew the area so well that he scarcely needed to. ‘Work out where they can assemble – Speakers’ Corner, maybe – and make out the control plan for both groups. Keep them well apart, Colin, I don’t want any trouble.’
There were two other men at the meeting, both chief superintendents, which was the administrative rank immediately below Thompson’s. One was his deputy, whose interest in the coming week was polite but academic as he was going on leave. The other, David Chance, was head of ‘A’ Division’s CID. A well-built man with thick dark hair, he looked like a rugger player, which for many years he had been.
‘We’ve had a Special Branch assessment on this demo,’ said Chance. ‘They don’t rate it much of a risk. They’ve given us a rundown on the local representatives of the Association of Palestine supporters and of Palestine Liberation Organization leaders known to be in Britain, men like Salah Khalaf down at Chobham in Surrey. Standard stuff really. However, they have tacked on an Interpol report. Our friends across the Channel believe a new wave of Palestinian guerrilla attacks may be starting in Europe.’
Thompson listened attentively. He had spent four years in the CID himself and learnt the hard way that it was a mistake to discount Special Branch information, irrelevant though it might seem.
‘What’s the evidence?’
‘A gang of Arab guerrillas were ambushed and badly shot up in a Paris café two days ago, on Tuesday. No one knows who by. The barman was unhurt and says a lot of documents were taken from them.’
‘Any reason for thinking this could spread to London?’
‘No,’ said Chance. ‘Nothing concrete. I just know that the French have an acute sense of smell, and maybe they smell more than they can actually say.’
‘We’ll bear it in mind then,’ said Thompson. He turned back to Sturgess. ‘Now, Colin, buzz off and work out those crowd controls.’ For a moment he lapsed into the formal police jargon that he only used when he wanted to underline a point. ‘I want the necessary action to guarantee there’s no trouble. The necessary action, no more, no less.’
The conference was ended. The three others rose, leaving Thompson sitting behind his wide leather-topped desk with its photographs of his family. This talk about Arabs jerked him into thinking back to what he had been doing at Sturgess’s age. Ironically he’d nearly joined the Palestine police, the British force that existed before Israel was born. ‘£20 a month and all found’, the advertisements had offered back in 1948, when he was twenty and just finishing his National Service in the Royal Marines. It was good money, more than a second lieutenant took home. And he was a private. Then someone suggested that if he wanted adventure he should train as a commando. So he signed on for a further three years and gained his coveted green beret. At the ripe age of twenty-three he became a policeman. He spent seven years on the beat in the East End of London, where robbery with violence, stabbings and gang warfare were commonplaces of his working life. There was none of the accelerated promotion which had taken Colin Sturgess from constable to sergeant in two years. Thompson was thirty by the time he got the three silver stripes on his sleeve and was transferred to the totally different environment of Epping, full of open grass and trees on the fringe of the Metropolitan Police’s 820-square-mile area. That was when he married Carol.
