Baptism Read online

  10:17 AM

  MI5 Headquarters, Thames House

  Howard Berriman shifted in his chair but the movement only intensified the shooting pain down his left leg. So he opened the bottom drawer, reached inside and with practiced efficiency popped two more Nurofen from their foil dispenser and tossed them into his mouth, chasing them down his gullet with a mouthful of water from the glass on his desk.

  “Headache?” inquired Yates, his assistant.

  Berriman had noticed he was making a habit of this, breaking off from whatever it was they were talking about to inquire about medical trivia.

  “Bad back, actually. It’ll be fine.”

  “Trapped nerve?”

  “Sciatica.”

  “You should see an osteopath,” said Yates. “A friend of mine could barely walk with back pain and he went to see this chap in Harley Street and he’s as right as rain now. I’ll find out his details for you, if you like.”

  He wished he had a pound for every time someone had recommended an osteopath to him. He had seen plenty of osteopaths and plenty of osteopaths had seen him. Didn’t do any good.

  “That would be great. Thanks. Now what time am I due at Westminster?”

  “One o’clock.”

  “Okay, well I’ll catch up with that report from the Met and give you a shout when I’m ready.”

  “Right you are,” said Yates, turning to go.

  Despite his sometimes irritating little foibles, one thing for which Yates could not be faulted was his intuitive understanding of the tone in his boss’s voice that meant that he wanted to be alone. It was a good quality for an assistant to possess. Commendable. Berriman watched him leave the room. Yates was tall, slim, and athletic, and moved with a physical grace that never ceased to make Berriman feel inadequate in comparison, waddling about, overweight, and hunched on account of his back. What the hell. It said nothing in the rules about the director general of MI5 having to be a fabulous physical specimen. Good job too.

  What he had omitted to tell Yates was that it was highly unlikely he would be going over to Westminster at one o’clock. Not after the news that Mark Hooper had given him earlier, news that had sent his anxiety levels off the scale.

  Why didn’t Hooper ring back and update him? He had his direct line, a secure line, and he had asked him to call him back in half an hour. That was forty minutes ago. There he was, a fifty-five-year-old man behaving like a teenager waiting for a girlfriend to call.

  Come on, ring.

  Twenty-eight years in the security service, working his way up through the ranks, respected by colleagues and politicians alike and it had come to this.

  Ring, you bastard.

  The only voices of dissent that had greeted Howard Berriman’s appointment to the top job had come from left-wing elements in the media. Nothing he couldn’t handle. That bloke at the Guardian had insinuated that he was a government stooge. But what the smart-ass didn’t realize was that he was locked in an ongoing battle to ensure that government funding for the service was sufficient to enable it to protect the nation. It was a time of war, and if people appreciated what lengths the service had to go to to keep them safe, they would not spout off quite so much with their liberal, touchy-feely bollocks. But he could take it. Someone in his position was never going to be universally liked. It was an impossibility.

  He couldn’t wait any longer. Picking up the telephone, he pressed the speed dial button for Hooper’s mobile.

  Hooper answered, said, “Hi, bear with me a second.” Berriman could hear voices in the background that faded as Hooper clearly moved somewhere more private. “Sorry about that,” he said in a low voice.

  “You said you’d call back in half an hour,” said Berriman, unable to hide his frustration.

  “I know, I’m sorry. It was difficult.”

  “So is it him?”

  “Possibly.”

  “What do you mean ‘possibly’? You must know by now whether it’s him or not.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Have there been any demands?”

  “Nothing, we’ve had nothing at all through from the train.”

  “So it might still be something else?”

  “It might be but, let’s face it, it’s unlikely.”

  “Why?”

  “We lost radio contact with the two CO19 officers who went into the tunnel.”

  Berriman felt a sharp stab of sciatica in his left buttock. Only the weekend before he had congratulated himself on the fact that he had been in the job for all of four months and not once had he lost his “legendary” temper, as that bastard in the Guardian had described it. But that was about to change.

  “For Christ’s sake, Mark. Are you telling me that he’s killing people down there?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “How did this happen? How did we get to this point? What was it you said the other day? ‘It’s as tight as a drum.’ Well, it doesn’t feel that way now, does it?”

  “Everything will be fine.”

  Berriman could tell from Hooper’s tone that he didn’t believe what he was saying. He sounded increasingly like a creepy schoolboy whose cunning plan to ingratiate himself with the headmaster had been found wanting.

  “Listen, Howard, we don’t know anything at the moment. We don’t even know if he’s on the train.”

  Howard? He was pretty sure that Hooper had never called him by his first name before and he wasn’t sure that he liked it. It hinted at a certain level of disrespect.

  Hooper continued, “I’m sure that all Denning wants is his moment in the spotlight and once he’s had that then he’ll come quietly. He’ll spout off with all his delusional shit, then we’ll lock him up and no one gets hurt.”

  “No one gets hurt?” Berriman gasped the words in a shouted whisper imagining his sciatic nerve as a vicious, blood-red snake writhing and snapping within his vertebrae. “I’d say it was a bit late for that by the sound of things.”

  “But there’s no way we can let Mallory and the others know what we know, right?”

  Berriman’s confidence in Hooper who, up until about two hours ago, he had thought of as a possible future director general, was beginning to take a severe pounding and he allowed his temper to get the better of him.

  “No, of course we fucking can’t. This is between you and me. And it’ll stay that way. The last thing we need is someone like Mallory screwing everything up.”

  “Look, I’m going to have to go,” said Hooper in a strained voice. “We might have something coming through from the train.”

  “Listen, Mark, make sure you keep me up to speed with everything, okay?”

  Berriman didn’t bother saying good-bye, just hung up and reached into the desk drawer for another Nurofen.

  10:19 AM

  Northern Line Train 037, rear cab

  Belle loved the way he spoke. It was so measured and thoughtful. Of all the times he had told her the story, this was the best telling of all. As of course it had to be. Today of all days. The way he had to whisper too. It sounded intimate. For no one else’s ears but hers. He looked so good. So tall and handsome. They would be together for ever. He might not know it yet but she did.

  She watched his mouth moving, his soft almost feminine lips and his straight teeth, so white and clean against his skin. She imagined her lips on his, their flesh moving together.

  Simeon told her of his time in London. She knew this part of the story by heart, and she wasn’t listening to it so much as admiring its delivery. He lived on the streets after his ex-wife had refused to allow him to see his son. Then he had an epiphany and remembered the name of a place he had once heard about that helped people like him.

  “And the rest you know,” he told her and she was back there—was it only four months ago?—meeting him for the first time at Madoc Farm and him looking at her with that selfsame expression he wore now. At that moment she knew there was something between them, some sort of psychic bond.

 
The walkie-talkie crackled into life and there was her brother’s voice from the front cab of the train: “Belle, can you hear me?”

  She put down one of the Glocks, picked up the radio and pressed the “talk” button.

  “Yeah, Tom. We’re just talking, me and Sim.”

  “Quietly, I hope.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Everything all right?”

  “Good as gold.”

  “No one else tried to reach the train?”

  “Nope, not since those two earlier.”

  “It won’t be long now.”

  “Absolution, right?”

  “That’s right, all our sins will be gone forever.”

  “So even if we do bad things today, well, that’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “Whatever we have to do today is what has to be done. Remember that. And our reward will be in heaven.”

  “I love you, Tommy.”

  “I love you too. Now let’s keep it nice and quiet, and nice and calm. We’re nearly there.”

  “Okay, Tommy.”

  Belle put down the walkie-talkie and the other pistol on the top of her bag. Smiling at Simeon, she stood up and moved toward him.

  Surely she could allow herself a moment’s sin? Tommy would never know.

  He had hoped this moment would come. As she put her hand on the back of his neck and pulled him toward her, her head slightly to one side, he should have said to her, “Belle, we mustn’t.” Better still, he should have taken out his gun and shot her there and then. But two men had died for this. He could have shot her at any time since they had boarded the train. Instead, he had chosen to wait. He hadn’t reckoned on her complete moral ambivalence about killing the two men. She seemed to thrive on the violence and, as hard as he tried, he couldn’t help but find that attractive. It was so hot down there. As hot as Helmand in the summer. He craved a release from it but, if he was being completely honest with himself, he also craved her. So what if the authorities found out? He would say that it was all part of his covert mission, he could tell them that she had pulled a gun on him or something. It might even enhance his heroism in their eyes.

  “Belle, what are you doing? Think of Tommy. Think of the Lord.”

  “You heard Tommy on the radio.” She pulled his head closer and he let her. “He said that whatever we have to do today is what has to be done, and that our rewards will be in heaven.”

  Their lips brushed together. “You know this is not what he meant,” said Simeon. “If we sin so badly now, we may never make it to heaven.”

  Her grip wavered, loosened; immediately Simeon felt regret. His mouth was saying one thing but his body was screaming another. He needn’t have worried; whatever thought process had made her doubt the wisdom of her actions, lust had overpowered it, and she pressed her lips against his. He would kill her straight afterward. Maybe he’d snap her neck as he came—or when she did. She’d die happy and he could get on with the task of being a hero. In a few minutes it would all be over. The dark world that he had entered when he walked into Madoc Farm would become a distant memory. But first he needed to do this.

  She had imagined this moment so many times. She used to watch him during evening prayers. He was so good-looking. She knew that his praying was a fake but it didn’t bother her. Cruor Christi attracted all sorts. She had imagined what it would be like to undress him, run her hands over his muscular body, take him inside her.

  When Tommy told her that Simeon was part of End Time, she knew that this was the fulfillment of her destiny, a marriage of sorts. Simeon was different from the rest. He saw something in her—he told her he did—and she loved him with all her heart. And now they would be together in eternity.

  10:23 AM

  Network Control center, St. James’s

  “This is George Wakeham, driver of train number zero three seven out of Morden to Mill Hill East via Charing Cross.”

  The voice from the speaker commanded instant silence in the control room. Ed Mallory spun around in his swivel chair.

  “Can someone let me have the handset?” asked Ed, his voice maintaining its even tone. Calvert pressed it into his hand and, depressing the “talk” button, Ed held it up to his mouth.

  “This is Ed Mallory in the Network Control center in St. James’s.”

  A short pause before the response came back: “What’s your position?”

  “Please repeat the question. My position in terms of?”

  “Your job, what’s your job?”

  There was no point attempting to lie. Ed knew that he needed to initiate a mood of honesty and openness. An untruth at this stage might prove awkward down the line. He wanted the subject to trust him right from the start.

  “I’m a detective inspector at Scotland Yard. I’m also a crisis negotiator.”

  Ed could just make out a whisper in the background, proving what he suspected, that Wakeham was being told what to say.

  “Are you in charge?”

  “Am I in charge of what?”

  A pause as further instructions were relayed to George Wakeham. “Are you in charge of dealing with this situation?”

  Ed knew there was no point painting himself as merely a single cog in a much larger machine. It was clear that whoever was speaking through George Wakeham wanted to feel that they were communicating with someone at the top.

  “At this present moment in time, yes. But can you please clarify exactly what your understanding of this situation is?”

  There was a longer pause than before.

  “What’s your position within the hierarchy of the negotiating team?”

  It was not the sort of question one would expect from a train driver who was experiencing technical difficulties with his train.

  “There is no negotiating team, George. Should there be?”

  A pause, then: “Yes.”

  Ed felt the muscles in his abdomen tighten. He knew the answer to the question before he asked it but asked it anyway: “Can I ask, are you being told what to say by someone else?”

  “The two men you sent down here to retake the train are dead.”

  Ed’s stomach muscles were wound tighter still. Calvert muttered, “Oh Jesus,” under his breath.

  Ed knew that pushing his line of questioning might be dangerous but he decided to try one more question as to the authorship of the words he was hearing.

  “Okay, George, would it be possible to speak to the person who’s telling you what to say?” A long pause this time. “George?”

  “Be aware that any further attempt to make physical contact with the train will result in dire consequences for the passengers. The carriages have been rigged with high explosives which will be detonated if anyone is seen in the tunnel or any physical contact is made with the train.”

  “George, please ask the person you’re with to speak to me directly.”

  As the seconds ticked away, Ed knew he was not going to get a response.

  “George?” he said but he was talking to himself.

  10:28 AM

  Northern Line Train 037

  The temperature in central London was ninety-two degrees Fahrenheit, making it the hottest day of the year so far. This information would feature in many morning news bulletins but only as a secondary item after the lead story that the entire London Underground network was closed due to a security alert and a section of the West End had been evacuated.

  News crews and mobile broadcast units were scrambled to points in front of the police lines on the outer perimeter of the evacuation area. No statement had been issued by police, which aroused much speculation in the media, fueled by the presence of biochemical units at the evacuation sites, that London was under threat from a “dirty bomb.” Other news sources reported that the Underground network closure and evacuation in the West End were due to a tube train being hijacked.

  With so few hard facts to report, news crews were forced to interview members of the public who had witnessed the massive police deployment. A no
-fly zone was put in place over central London, the only aircraft allowed over the West End being police helicopters hovering low over Charing Cross Road and providing a mechanical thrum to the soundtracks of the outside broadcasts from the scene.

  On the MI5 website the security threat level had been raised to critical, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the media, although no accompanying explanation was given. Everything pointed to the government and security services being caught unawares by a threat about which they had no foreknowledge. They were being forced to react as swiftly as possible to events as they unfolded on the ground.

  On the train, the temperature was a little over a hundred and four degrees. Eleven passengers had succumbed to heat exhaustion and dehydration and were receiving treatment from other passengers with medical training. The apparent mood among many passengers was one of anger—many spoke of London Underground’s lack of regard for the health and safety of its customers—but all were afraid. For over an hour and a half they had been stationary in the tunnel. Whatever was going on, it was serious.

  In the sixth carriage consumer affairs columnist Hugh Taylor was convinced he could hear voices from the rear cab of the train. But for the time being he decided to stay quiet about it. He had managed to keep a lid on his panic now for over twenty minutes. An attempt to meditate for the first time since he had gone backpacking around Asia over thirty years before had seemed to do some good. The voices he heard could be his paranoia playing tricks on him, and even if he could hear voices they probably belonged to the engineers that the driver had said were in the tunnel.