An unmarked blue saloon screamed up outside the cathedral offices with lights flashing behind its front grille. As it skidded to a halt, Smitherman-Banks appeared at the door. A uniformed officer shot out behind him, and opened the rear passenger door so the ACC could slide into the back seat. Then the car swung around in a tight arc and sped off. The white bomb disposal truck followed a few moments later, and within five minutes, all activity within the cathedral grounds had vanished. The police and army had moved out and abandoned the scene.
Trent shifted his weight from one arm to the other. It made no sense that everyone had pulled out so quickly. Unless the cathedral devices were a hoax and a diversion. Maybe the real story was kicking off elsewhere. He hobbled out of the shadows and wondered where he could find a taxi as the sound of sirens wailing disappeared in the distance.
*
Blake scrubbed his hands in a chrome basin while scanning the toilet cubicles in the mirror. All the doors were closed, but only one was occupied, a small square of red indicating the lock had been engaged. He ignored two men who walked in, and headed for the urinals, keeping his eyes fixed on the door behind him, and wondering how long he could keep up the pretence of washing.
Eventually, the bolt on the cubicle door shot back, and Mike Clark emerged wearing a high visibility vest over a set of navy blue overalls, a docker's uniform identical to the one Blake had on. He had an identity card embossed with an authentic looking logo and a passport photo hanging around his neck. He stopped to check his appearance in the mirror and caught Blake watching. Nothing for it but to bluff it out. Blake nodded a friendly greeting as he hoped one docker might acknowledge another, and returned his attentions to his hands. Blake shook them dry and approached a wall-mounted hand-drier as Clark turned for the exit. Blake noted he had lost the sports bag, but was carrying a mobile phone in one hand. The device he presumed Clark would use to trigger the bomb.
Blake counted to five and followed Clark out. He looked left and right along the passageway, which was flooded with meandering passengers walking in twos and threes, and spotted the back of Clark's head a short distance away. He marched quickly like a man with a purpose, and dived back down the staircase to the car deck below. Rather than returning to the Mondeo, he walked in the opposite direction, towards the open stern where a low sun was flooding the deck with hazy light.
He kept tight to the central bulkhead, dodging around the door mirrors of vehicles, with the mobile phone clutched tightly in his left hand. Blake watched from the bottom of the stairs and, realising where Clark was heading, dived through a door into the deck on the opposite side of the bulwark. He sprinted as fast as his steel-capped boots would allow, and pulled up where the metal divide ended no more than ten yards from where a handful of crew were busy parking the last few cars and vans.
As Blake waited, hidden from the adjacent deck, he sensed a gentle vibration that had been almost imperceptibly reverberating through the ship intensify. It built into a deep, low throb that rattled and clanked through every rivet as the ferry's four massive diesel engines were called into duty. Blake tensed and waited. He started to count to ten, but only made it to six before Clark's weaselly figure breezed past.
Chapter 52
'Hey, buddy,' said Blake, springing out behind Mike Clark.
Surprised by the unexpected voice, Clark did exactly what Blake had anticipated, and as he turned his head, Blake caught him with a fearsome punch that connected with his jaw and stung Blake's knuckles.
Clark was sent wheeling off balance. He pirouetted on one foot and collapsed, sprawled across the bonnet of a car. The sudden jolt set off a series of ear-splitting blasts from the vehicle's horn, which echoed around the cavernous hull and alerted the crewmen, who froze on the spot to watch. Blake grabbed the back of Clark's collar, hauled him upright, and delivered a second blow, jabbing his dazed victim square in the face and shattering his nose. It exploded in a mess of cartilage and blood. Clark's legs buckled, and he slumped to the floor, propped up against the wheel arch of a car.
Blake stood over him, drawing deep breaths. Clark wiped a sleeve across his face, smearing blood and snot across his cheek. His fingers twitched around the phone still in his hand, and he shot Blake a sickly grin.
'It's over. Give me the phone,' said Blake. He was all too aware that if Clark hit the trigger, they'd both die in the close-quarters blast. But that was the least of his worries. The ship was fully loaded, and many innocent lives would also be lost if Blake didn't stop him.
Clark met Blake's gaze, his face expressionless.
'I said give me the phone,' Blake repeated.
'You want it, try taking it,' said Clark, as he lifted the hand holding the phone.
Blake was poised, and at the first flicker of movement aimed a steel toe-cap at Clark's wrist. His aim was good. The phone spilled from Clark's grasp and clattered away under the wheels of a white Transit van. Clark screamed in agony, his wrist shattered.
But, at the same instant, Blake felt the sharp blade of a knife pierce the muscle of his thigh. With his attention focussed on Clark's left hand, he'd not noticed him palm a weapon in his other. At first, there was no pain, only the fearful knowledge that he'd been stabbed. He staggered backwards as the strength in his leg drained, catching the back of his head against a metal stanchion. Colour drained from his vision, and he could only see in monochrome shades of grey, as if he was looking down the cloudy lens of telescope.
Blake concentrated on holding onto consciousness, aware that Clark had rolled onto his stomach and was scrambling on the floor, hunting frantically for his phone. But he went in the wrong direction, and popped up again empty handed. Blake tried to stand, but his leg was in a bad way, refusing to take his weight.
Clark moved away, heading towards the bright daylight coming through the open stern. Then he was running, heading full long towards the white gates that had been closed behind the last cars on the deck. Two crew hands backed away as he approached, their eyes wide in terror as the sight of the bloodied man pitching towards them.
Blake shook his head to clear his vision. The famous white cliffs of Dover were shifting slowly to their left as the ferry's giant propellers bit hard in the shallow water, and eased the ship away from its berth. He shuffled on his backside towards the nearest car, grabbed its overhanging wing mirror, and hauled himself up. Clark was building up speed, tucked up in a full out sprint. Blake's hand searched inside his overalls and grasped his Browning in the holster under his arm. He pulled it out in a smooth motion, steadying himself against the bonnet of the car and aimed for the top of Clark's back at a point between his shoulders. With his arms locked, he squeezed the trigger and fired two rapid shots as the ship lurched sideways, knocking him off balance. The crewmen dived for cover as two deafening cracks echoed around the car deck.
Clark stumbled as the ship righted itself, losing his momentum, but the bullets had sailed harmlessly over his shoulder and ricocheted off the ironwork. He glanced back at Blake and set off again, head down and arms pumping. Blake tried to take another shot, but the flow of blood from his leg had left him weak. He levelled his weapon, but didn't have the strength to keep his arm steady. He let the Browning drop as Clark vaulted the gates and tottered on the rear lip of the deck, alternatively glancing down at the churning water below, and the concrete berth they were leaving behind.
Blake realised with horror that Clark intended to jump, but the gap was already several yards. There was no way he could make it. Suddenly, Clark launched himself with his arms and legs flailing, and disappeared out of Blake's view.
By the time Blake had managed to drag his injured body to the stern, the ferry was already picking up speed and negotiating its way out of the harbour towards the Channel. His first expectation was that by some miracle, Clark had made the jump, but there was only a crowd of dazed dockers standing on the berth looking down bewildered into the water. Blake followed their gaze towards the seething mass from the ferry's thru
sters, which made it look like the sea was boiling. Where the foam should have been white, it was churning up a gruesome pink, the remains of Clark's pulverised body.
'Are you in contact with the bridge?' Blake demanded of one of the crewmen who was standing ashen-faced to his right.
The man nodded, his pupils dark and wide.
'Then raise the alarm. I'm with the security services. Tell the captain he has to turn the ship around and get it evacuated as soon as possible. There's an explosive device in one of these cars. Do you understand?'
The crewman nodded again, looking far from reassured. He lifted a radio and started gabbling into it. Satisfied he was doing as he he'd been asked, Blake collapsed on the floor to inspect his leg. His trouser leg was stained dark crimson, and a black handle of a knife was protruding alien-like from his thigh.
He slipped his arms out of the overalls and stripped off his shirt, which he tore into long strips. He laid them on the deck then he grabbed the handle of the knife firmly with both hands. After taking a moment to compose himself, he drew out the blade in one quick motion.
His scream reverberated around the deck, a blood-curdling yell that filled the air as sticky blood began to ooze from the wound. Blake bound it tightly as best he could with the fabric strips, hoping he'd put enough pressure on his thigh to stem the flow.
Using both hands, he pulled himself to his feet and retraced his steps to where he'd fought with Clark, then, with a degree of discomfort, fumbled under the white van for Clark's phone. He'd made a mental note of where it landed and found it easily enough. It was an old style Nokia, only a few years old, but already out-dated in looks. The screen was locked by a four-digit passcode. Blake didn't even bother trying. He flipped the device over in his palm, slid open a rear compartment, and removed the slim lithium battery pack inside.
He placed the battery in one pocket, the phone in another, and breathed a sigh of relief as the wail of approaching sirens floated on the autumnal breeze. So much for subtlety, he thought to himself.
Chapter 53
Proctor was sitting behind the wheel of the Mercedes van watching his side mirrors, with two fake passports lying on the passenger seat. He had parked behind a Polish-registered lorry while he waited for the ferry he'd arrived on to depart. He checked the clock on the dashboard again. The departure was already fifteen minutes delayed, and he was getting anxious. Mike Clark should have joined him by now if everything had gone to plan. He contemplated slipping outside to see what was happening, but talked himself out of it. Their plans were quite specific. He was to wait in the vehicle until Clark joined him. There was no need to draw unnecessary attention to himself.
He tried to persuade himself that the delay had been caused by a mechanical fault, or late running passengers. He chewed on a fingernail and pondered how long he should give it before driving off. He had resolved to wait fifteen more minutes when the passenger door clicked open.
'Where the hell have you... ' His sentence was cut short when he realised it wasn't Clark.
'Hello, Ben,' said Blake. 'Relax, you know who I am, and that I'm not here to do you any harm.' He tapped Proctor on the shoulder.
'What are you doing?' Proctor's brow creased.
'Sleep now, Ben.'
Proctor's eyes fluttered closed and his head yawed left and right before his chin dropped onto his chest. Blake watched a short, fat lorry driver jump from his cab and start washing out a flask, but he paid no attention to the van.
'I want you to remember that you work for me, and that you will do everything I tell you. You won't recognise my face, but you will know when you see me that I pose no threat. Now listen carefully. Mike's not going to be able to meet you. So instead, you and I are going to drive out of the port together. You'll follow my directions precisely, and if anyone asks, tell them we're business partners returning from a trip to France. Is that clear?'
'Yes.'
'Now you're going to wake up. Count back from ten, and feel yourself waking slowly.' Blake touched Proctor on the shoulder again.
Proctor's eyes opened, and he struggled to focus as if unexpectedly woken from a deep slumber. He had a look of puzzlement across his face, like a man unsure of where he was or why he was there. Blake gave him a few minutes to become fully conscious then instructed him to start the van.
'Let's get you home. Follow the signs to the exit, and drive nice and slowly.'
As the van moved off, Blake fished in his pocket for his radio.
'Harry, it's Blake. Has the ferry been evacuated?'
'Blake? Are you okay?'
'I'm fine, Harry. The ferry?'
'They're doing it now. Most people are off, and armed teams are securing the ship. What happened to Clark?'
Blake glanced at Proctor, whose eyes were fixed on the road ahead.' You won't find much left of him. He tried to make a jump for shore, but fell into the sea and was dragged down by the propellers.'
'Right' said Patterson, after a pause. 'So where are you now?'
'I'm with Proctor. We need safe passage out of the port. I don't want to be stopped.'
'Don't worry, I'll see to it.'
'What about the switch car?'
'It's in place, as we discussed.'
'Thanks. I'll call later.'
'Good luck.'
Blake dropped the radio into the foot well and settled back into the seat, a searing pain throbbing through his thigh. The van swung through a narrow covered exit and they passed a large Customs inspections hall lit by a yellowish glow from overhead sodium lights. Blake scanned the buildings with their blacked-out windows, half-expecting an over-enthusiastic officer to order them to stop. But no one appeared. They sailed straight through without seeing a soul.
'Take a left at the roundabout,' Blake said, as they rolled out of the port and into the outskirts of Dover.
The road climbed and curved towards the White Cliffs. 'Watch your speed. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves.'
But Blake need not have worried. Proctor drove steadily within the speed limit as Blake fed him a series of instructions that took them into a respectable-looking residential area on the outskirts of the town consisting mainly of detached 1930s bungalows with tidy gardens and rows of Victorian terraces. They turned into a narrow alley, and pulled up outside a wooden shed with double doors secured with a padlock that had been left unlocked. Blake jumped out as the van came to a halt, and found an anonymous black saloon inside with the keys in the ignition.
'Get in - you can drive,' Blake said. 'Back to the motorway and this time, don't hang about.'
The car roared out of the shed, rattled along the alleyway and two minutes later, they were back on the main road heading towards London.
They drove without speaking, their silence punctuated only by the sound of tyres rumbling over the road and the wind rushing around the window seals. Proctor kept the saloon at a steady eighty miles-per-hour, putting Dover quickly behind them, and closing in on Canterbury.
As they approached the outskirts of the city, Blake pointed to a layby on their left. 'Pull in there,' he ordered.
Proctor did as he was told, slowing down alongside a green waste bin that had been filled to overflowing. He pulled on the handbrake, but left the engine running. To their right, over fields in the distance, the historic spire of the cathedral spiked the sky.
'Switch the engine off,' said Blake.
Proctor glanced at Blake with concern.
'Don't worry. Nothing to panic about. But I need to bring you up to speed on a few things.'
Proctor switched off the engine and waited. Blake tapped his shoulder, and Proctor fell into an instant hypnotic slumber.
'From this evening, Ben Proctor will be dead and you will resume your old identity. Your work for me is over. You will remember nothing about the last two years. When you wake, you will do so as Nick Richards. You will remember nothing about Ben Proctor. That name will no longer mean anything to you, and you will have no rec
ollection of being involved with the British Freedom Alliance. Do you understand?'
'Yes.'
Blake took his time with the debrief, drilling deep into Nick Richard's subconscious, ensuring that the memories of the BFA and his involvement with the Phineas Priests were erased. Blake had created a monster, and now it was time to kill him off. The doctor slaying his Frankenstein. Plans were already underway to stage a road traffic accident. The getaway car would be found burned out, wrapped around a tree, and the body inside unrecognisable. Ultimately, it would be concluded that Ben Proctor had died fleeing from the scene of a failed terrorist atrocity that he had planned under orders from Ken Longhurst and the BFA.
Nobody outside of MI5 would know the truth that Proctor was killed gently and painlessly in a nondescript layby in Kent.
'Nick, how you are feeling?'
'Fine.'
'Good. Now there's someone who I promised I'd take you to meet. It's time to wake up.'
Blake counted slowly. The man next to him gradually regained full consciousness. Nick Richards opened his eyes, blinked a few times, and looked around, dazed.
'Take your time, Nick, this is going to take a little bit of getting used to.'
Chapter 54
Lucy Chapman was on her fourth cup of coffee and feeling restless. She had the distinct feeling that she'd been stood up. It had been more than two hours since Trent had left, and there had been no communication from Blake. She was beginning to wonder if she was about to have her hopes dashed again.
A motorbike thundered along the motorway below, its engine screaming as it picked its way through lines of traffic. She watched it ride away until it was no more than a dot on the horizon and became aware of a presence at the table. When she looked up Blake was taking a seat opposite.