Synopsis of ‘No Margin for Error’

Cover of "No Margin for Error"

This book was published in 2012 and received good reviews in the Sunday Times and Sunday Independent plus from many on line readers. It is still available from Amazon and other vendors. Here is a review and the prologue:

The debut novel No Margin for Error by Liam Flood is a fast paced thriller which offers the reader an insight into a new world order in which the current social and economic paradigm is replaced with a new ideology in which fortunes and favour are restructured.

This cleverly woven story traces the lives of the two main characters Mike Lyons and John Kelly; both men are Irish and have been influenced in different ways by the Troubles in the North of Ireland and the economic depression of the 1980’s. The two characters are bound to each other through circumstance and a defining event when they are young men. They are at the top of their professions, one, an assassin previously involved in the IRA, and the other, an anti terrorist specialist. The two have followed very different paths, their personalities are very similar and the characters appear to the reader as a mirror image.

Liam Flood has created a clear sense of time and place for the reader. The plot unfolds when a powerful organisation recruits the assassin Kelly, its aim is to strike fear in to the Western world through a strategic campaign to remove key political figures and world leaders, and the reader is drawn in to an international chase. The use of well known locations around the world allow the reader to trace the cross continental story from London, to the USA, Dubai, France and beyond. Flood effectively uses narrative combined with a detailed dialogue which puts the reader at the centre of the action. He builds the tension throughout the book, and the drama intensifies following the first assassination, Lyons once again finds himself on the trail of the elusive character of Kelly, “In the Gulf, the Bahraini had just finished his dawn prayers. He switched his TV to Al Jazeera…The news was all about the previous nights murder…he allowed himself a small smile of congratulation and gave a deep sigh of satisfaction -its started he thought”.

The reader is propelled through the chapters as the global action unfolds, as further assassinations occur around the world, the anti terrorist task force seem powerless to stop them, however, Lyons suspects the same assassin,

“Although he was three and a half thousand miles away from D.C something made him almost certain he was looking for the same killer. Too many similarities, two gunshots to the head, silenced weapon, no trace of his killer, hotel computer systems expertly hacked”.

Flood has skillfully interwoven the themes of migration, cultural identity, politics and companionship in to this novel. The two main characters are both individualistic by necessity; however they make significant connections with other characters in the novel, both Lyons and Kelly find companionship with the female characters of Wendy and Katya respectively who provide a foil to their personalities. This is an electrifying novel in which the action comes alive in the reader’s imagination.

Victoria Barnes BA Hons. HDip

Prologue

London — 1985

He had to calm down; focus; concentrate. Concentrate on the target. He had almost been caught twice in the last half hour. Imagine — him, John Kelly, the IRA’s top operative in the UK, almost getting caught by an ordinary bobby in the street.

He couldn’t explain it. He had been the guy who had done all the big jobs — the Para’s barracks; the booby-trap bomb in the Police Commissioner’s car — done in broad daylight posing as a mechanic; the attack on the Home Office Government Minister — in his own home, for Christ’s sake. All jobs had been meticulously well-planned, nothing left to chance. So much so that Kelly had been in and gone long before the police could react. No trace of evidence was left; oh, the police and military knew who was responsible, all right, but it could never be pinned down — never traced to Kelly. He was good, they all acknowledged that, and each job he undertook seemed to make him better and even more aloof.

But today — what the hell was it? Was he getting old? No, he was only 32. Was it a portent of what was to come? A warning? Was it the target? No, it had been meticulously researched as always, though not by Kelly; but the kids who did the work were good. He knew that. All were in their teens or early twenties, most highly intelligent, dedicated to the cause. Recruited on the back of the hunger strikes in ’81 when Prime Minister Thatcher’s stubborn refusal to grant political status to IRA prisoners led to probably the best PR campaign the organisation could have hoped for — the sympathies evoked by the sight of men being prepared to die for a principle leading to the best recruitment drive the IRA ever had. Young men were prepared to join up in droves — they could even afford to be selective in who they took. An organisation that conducted a terrorist campaign needed quality, not quantity.

Was it because the target was indiscriminate? Ten pounds of Semtex to be left in one of London’s busiest department stores. No, he had done indiscriminate before — that raid on the pub in Belfast in ’75 — the early days. Oh, they had known it was a Prod pub, and there was every likelihood that there might be UVF members or sympathizers inside, but it was indiscriminate nonetheless. The body count had been twelve with at least twice that number injured. There was no evidence that any of the dead or injured had been there for any reason other than to enjoy a quiet drink. Nonetheless, this did not bother Kelly or the boys in the organisation — a legitimate target was a legitimate target and that was that.

Somehow, this was different though. For a start, it was London. Oh, Brits were Brits and all that, but Kelly was far too intelligent to believe that sort of Provo bullshit. He had killed before, many times, but perhaps the thought of blowing innocent lunchtime shoppers to bits for a cause most of them wouldn’t even be aware of, never mind have any involvement in, was a step too far? Still, he had gotten the order and that was that. He followed orders.

The larger problem, or at least part of it, was that John Kelly was a believer. He hadn’t joined the organisation out of the bitterness of a bad experience at the hands of the Brits or the Unionists or the empathy with friends or neighbours who had. He had actually had a sheltered enough upbringing — his parents were upper middle class; his mother a primary school teacher from Coalisland, his father a clerk with the town Council in Omagh. He had had an excellent education and enjoyed all the benefits of the British National Health Service and other parts of the Welfare State bequeathed by successive Labour Governments since the war.

While not directly affected himself, he had always been aware of the divide, the “us and them.” He knew that his family was privileged and that most of his fellows had been discriminated against in one way or another. Education and employment were available to all, in theory, but every society had its networks, its connections, its series of nods and winks; it was who you knew rather than what you knew. Societies that were composed mainly of one major ethnic group worked fine this way, but when there were two polarized groups with one having a stranglehold on power, it was a recipe for disaster. He had seen, from an early age, the powder keg that was building in Northern Ireland. He watched things deteriorate from the civil rights marches of the late sixties into the brutal savagery that followed and felt, in all conscience, that he had to take a stand. Deep down, he was, or at least he told himself, committed to peace and justice but the only way he ever saw his people gaining that justice was to fight for it. Unfortunately that involved some very unpleasant tasks and he was at the cutting edge of that.

He had joined the IRA in 1975 and was initially shocked by the lack of professionalism and inability to organise. They were a raggle-taggle bunch in those days, but they had learned, and now posed a greater threat to the security of Britain than at any time in their long history. The driving force and direction was provided by the new pseudo-politicals, thinly disguised as a political party; Sinn Fein. The military wing was now a finely tuned killing machine, organised in tightly knit cells that were almost impossible to penetrate. Even if one was caught or compromised, it caused the minimum disruption to the rest of the organisation. There was no need for a stepped hierarchy; they weren’t in the business of taking over the country — just in the business of creating terror, havoc and chaos. The cells were spread throughout both parts of Ireland and, more significantly from an operational viewpoint, the mainland of the UK. At the forefront of the military campaign — in fact, one could say, its cutting edge — was John Kelly.

Kelly’s cell was based in London, though not in the traditional Irish enclaves of Kilburn or Notting Hill. He lived in an apartment in Ealing and, to his neighbours, was just another successful young professional reaping the rewards of the boom that was taking place in the city. The English were a placid and generally un-inquisitive race, so no one questioned the young man who left for the city each morning and normally didn’t return until long after nightfall.

If someone had bothered to follow him, they would merely have had their suspicions confirmed. He did work in the city. He seemingly worked hard and had continuous consultations and meetings with all manner of business associates. Had someone scrutinized these associates in detail, they would have discovered that there was frequent contact between John and three particular associates — two men and one woman — but never at the same time. These meetings invariably took place in the myriad of pubs, coffee shops and restaurants available in Central London, or were held in some or other public place. However, to the untrained eye and even to most trained eyes, nothing untoward or suspicious ever transpired.

But John Kelly and his “associates” were constantly planning. Only he knew what the instructions were and who his controller was. There was no need for the others to know. In the unlikely event of his capture or death, the controller would know where to contact one of the others. In this way, even if a cell member were identified, captured and tortured by the British, they could provide very little information. While John Kelly and his group were constantly assessing possible targets, they were only aware of one — the next one — at any one time.

They had been aware of this one for two weeks now. Kelly himself as the bag man, who would actually place the bomb, had only visited the place on one occasion and that fleetingly. He was very much aware that each frame of videotape from each security camera would be studied in minute detail afterwards and he had no wish to appear as the special guest in any of those videos. He had only visited the store after one of the others had checked it out and gauged the position of the video cameras. Thereafter, they were avoided. Very detailed plans had been drawn up of the layout. The precise path from the underground had been mapped. The distances had been stepped. He would be in and out of the store and half way across London before the bomb would detonate.

Then why was he so bloody nervous? One thing he was certain of: it was he who had noticed the policeman on the way in to Earls Court tube station; not the other way round. But he had broken the golden rule: never make eye contact — never draw attention to yourself. Yet he had looked into the eyes of that young bobby. He kept asking himself why? Was he losing his nerve? Did that young fresh face represent something? Did he see something there — some hope, something that he had once had but had now lost forever?

Yes, maybe that was it — but no, wait; this was John Kelly. He didn’t notice things unless they needed to be noticed. Was there a trap? Was it a set-up? Couldn’t be — not now. No one knew; just the controller and the cell members, and they had never let him down before. Was there a bigger agenda here that he was not privy to? He had heard murmurings about ceasefires and fellows getting soft, but there were always stories; it was part of the game — wasn’t it?

He was thinking so frantically that he walked straight into the second policeman, this time a transport cop, and almost knocked him down. Jesus, this was the beginning of a disaster — it was like all his good fortune had deserted him and his bad luck was all arriving on the same day. Whether or not the first cop at Earls Court remembered him, he was certain the second guy would. He had even dropped the bloody briefcase.

The transport cop had picked it up and handed it back seemingly un-suspiciously — “Careful there sir, don’t want to scatter our lunch all around the platform, do we?” For a split second Kelly hesitated and then training took over and he laughed heartily at the remark. The transport cop had accepted the incident as seemingly innocuous but he would remember it when the remains of the briefcase were analyzed and he would remember what John Kelly looked like. For a man whom British Police only vaguely knew existed and had no photograph of, this was worrying.

He thought of aborting, but this one was crucial; he had been told from HQ. Make sure you carry this one through. Why, he couldn’t figure. After all, it was indiscriminate. A jumble of thoughts swam in his head and competed for his attention. Had the boys warned the British that unless concessions were given, something like this would happen? Were they on the lookout for it? Had there been a leak? Was he being sacrificed on the basis of a ceasefire deal? No; surely not their top operative? He was the top operative — wasn’t he?

The IRA had targeted the same store two years before. Although a warning had been given, due to the bungling of the police, six people had died. This time there wouldn’t be a warning. Perhaps that was why Kelly had been chosen to do the job. They trusted him. They knew he was a hard bastard; a dedicated one. The best and the worst kind, depending on your point of view. How many would die? Or would there be a warning after all — damn it, had it already been phoned in? His head was spinning and he had difficulty concentrating.

Calm down, calm down for Christ’s sake — this isn’t the correct demeanour for a cool assassin. What does it matter if I’m ten minutes late? I am in control here! The bomb was timed to detonate at half past one, right in the middle of lunch hour, when the department store would be at its busiest; but he could always readjust the timer. It was now 12.50 and he had less than a five-minute walk. Hell, he had to take time out — he could have a coffee and calm his nerves and still be in and out of there by one o’clock. The bomb was fine; Semtex was stable. Don’t worry.

He chose a 7–11 store rather than a café. Self service coffee; more impersonal. The key point was that no one should remember him as anything other than a normal young business executive like the thousands of others going about their daily tasks.

Coffee — milk — no sugar — hands shaking — count to ten — hands calm — drink coffee — scald mouth — damn it — more milk. Has anyone else noticed — noticed what? There’s no one in here apart from you and a bored-looking Pakistani behind the counter; will you get your act together!

And then it was gone and he was John Kelly again. Cool, professional, together. The panic had subsided. He finished his coffee, nonchalantly discarded the paper cup in the bin provided, stretched, picked up the briefcase, and left the shop. He strolled casually down the street, eyes straight ahead, relaxed but focused. It was a beautiful day in London. He now noticed the bright sunshine for the first time. Just like any other young executive out for lunch; four hundred metres to the corner, left, two hundred and fifty to the pedestrian traffic light, wait for the green, and then in through the side door of the department store; the one which didn’t have a video camera! A quick few steps up the stairs. Not the escalator. Apparently, a detonation on the first floor was most effective — it would cause maximum damage on that floor and might even bring down the floors above, causing the whole building to implode. Browse casually through menswear and place the briefcase between the racks of coats at the far end. Place it between the very large sizes; rarely disturbed. People hardly ever looked at coats in summer anyway, and given the day outside, chances were practically nil that the briefcase would be discovered in the short time it would rest there.

Everything went as planned. In fact, there hadn’t even been a shop assistant in that section of the menswear department. He walked casually back downstairs, very briefly browsed in the jewellery department and exited the same door he had come in through, less than five minutes earlier. He glanced to his left and there it was, C349XJK, the pre-arranged black taxi. He donned the dark glasses and sat in. He spoke just one word — go. Then he sat back and relaxed for the leisurely drive to Heathrow. No way was he hanging round for the aftermath of this one.

— — — — -

Police Constable Alan Williams had been close to the end of his shift when he had made eye contact with Kelly at Earls Court Station. It had been a normal morning, without incident, and he was looking forward to getting out of his uniform in this heat and a well-earned afternoon on the golf course. It was strange; almost as if Kelly’s eyes had sought him out rather than the other way round. For just an instant, he had detected that vaguely guilty, panicked look, and then it was gone.

It was probably nothing, and he really should be getting back to the police station, but he nonetheless decided to follow at a discreet distance. Difficult enough when you are in full uniform on a hot summer’s day. Still, he had witnessed Kelly’s collision with the transport officer and his suspicions were redoubled. The man seemed to be unsettled. But what should he do? He couldn’t follow him on a tube train — he would stand out like the proverbial sore thumb. His only option was to report to base.

He watched the train doors close as Kelly headed east on the Picadilly line. He thought of reporting it to base and clicked his radio but then hesitated. What was he going to say — he had seen a man acting suspiciously with a briefcase? He’d be the laughing stock of the station for months!

“And what did this man do then, PC Williams?”

“He got on a train, sir.”

“And where was this train headed to, Constable?”

He could hear the guffaws of laughter and the derision already. And yet, doubts persisted. He decided he’d contact his best mate in the Metropolitan Police, who happened to be working the same shift. Damn it, one call wouldn’t hurt. He was a conscientious policeman and he was going to do his job.

He clicked the radio. “Control, this is PC Williams. Can you connect me with PC Mortimer?”

“Stand by one moment please, Constable Williams. You are connected, go ahead please.”

“Dave, this is Alan. I’m up at Earls Court, what’s your location?”

“Hi Alan. I’m at Knightsbridge, just finishing up. What’s happening?”

“Probably nothing, but a guy just got on the Picadilly line here heading in your direction and, well, I dunno, there was something suspicious about him. I mean, he was dressed as a businessman, he carried a briefcase, but he just didn’t look like a business man to me; know what I mean?”

“I copy that Alan, what you want me to do, jump on the first train that comes through and arrest him?” Dave Mortimer had trained with Alan Williams and they were best mates but he was familiar with Alan’s often-unfounded suspicions, which had sometimes resulted in wild goose chases. The ribbing back at the station had been cruel, but Alan had persisted and was determined to follow up on every minor detail, no matter how seemingly insignificant. While Dave ribbed him as much as the others, he knew deep down that Alan was a good policeman and that he would go far, probably very soon to Detective division.

“OK, OK, only joking mate. Tell me what he looks like and I’ll keep a look out.”

“Cheers Dave, we’ll probably never see him again, but for what it’s worth, he’s wearing a dark grey suit, he’s white, about five eight-five nine, slim build but wiry. He appears to be strong and fit, looks like he works out a lot; short brown hair, fair complexion, brown eyes, I think. Carrying a black briefcase, standard size, gold combination locks.”

“Wonderful, Alan, you just described half the businessmen in west London; but don’t worry, if he comes by here, you’ll be the first to… hold on. Wait, Jesus, I think I’ve spotted him. Leave it with me; I’ll get back to you.”

P.C. Mortimer discreetly observed Kelly as he took the furthest exit from the department store and then strolled down Knightsbridge like a man without a care in the world. He watched as he had coffee in the 7/11 and then walked the few hundred metres to Harrods Department Store. Still nothing to worry about, really; a businessman stopping for a brief lunch, then deciding to drop into Harrods for a spot of shopping. Once inside, the guy could easily disappear or could exit through half a dozen different doors. Dave’s shift had already ended and he would now be late for his tee-off time with Alan. If they missed their slot, bye, bye golf game. Ah, bugger, he’d give it another few minutes.

But wait, there he was, exiting through the same door; or was it him? Yes, yes, it was; and sweet Holy Mother, he was missing the briefcase. He watched as Kelly jumped into a waiting taxi; but wait, there was something not right about this. The taxi rank was at the front of the store. Taxis only dropped off at the side entrance. Shit, the taxi was already 100 metres away. He quickly memorized the registration plate and dashed into the store. He grabbed the first clerk he found.

“Hey, that guy, the man in the grey suit who just left. He had a briefcase when he came in. Where did he go? What department was he in?”

The clerk and her colleagues gave him a bemused but disinterested look. “Sorry officer, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He suddenly realised he was sweating profusely. It was 13.01.

— — — -

Sir Charles Wrixon, Metropolitan Police Commissioner, had just finished a briefing with his anti-terrorist chief, Detective Chief Superintendent Roger Devon. They had met, at Sir Charles’ insistence, at Devon’s office at Scotland Yard, as Wrixon wanted to meet some of the troops and not be the faceless man his predecessor had been reputed to be.

It had been an excellent meeting and he was looking forward to lunch. Both men enjoyed an excellent relationship and he had invited the Chief to join him. They were winning the battle with the terrorists as Whitehall had finally realised the threats that existed and had given both them and MI5 the necessary funding.

As both men strolled casually towards the exit, an out-of-breath and apparently stressed policewoman dashed towards them. “Sir, we have a report of a suspected terrorist incident in progress at Harrods.”

“Thank you, Constable. Sir Charles, if you can excuse me?”

“Certainly, my dear chap. Keep me fully informed, won’t you?”

Devon walked briskly back to the central control room to be briefed. As they walked, the WPC, Sally Young, explained. “It’s quite straightforward sir. We have a report from a PC Mortimer, who is in the store now, and thinks a man has planted a bomb there. Another Constable, PC Williams, confirms that he had seen the man acting suspiciously earlier this afternoon.”

“Well done, PC Young. Can you get me Mortimer on the phone?”

They arrived in the control room, which was already a hive of activity. Devon changed his mind and immediately sought out DCI Roger White, who was sitting with his feet up on the desk, smoking a cigarette, apparently relaxed about it all.

“Full sit-rep please, White,” said Devon.

“I was just waiting for your go-ahead, sir. Emergency Response and Army bomb disposal units on stand-by, ready to go. Hospitals are alerted, ambulances on stand-by, but hopefully it won’t come to that. I have a very nervous PC Mortimer with the General Manager of Harrods trying to clear the store quickly and without panic. I didn’t wait for your okay on that one, sir; felt we had to act. For the record, we used the ‘suspected gas leak’ ploy. We’ve alerted all units to be on the lookout for our man’s black taxi. We do have the number plate, but as you’ll appreciate, sir, there are rather a lot of them in the city.”

“Yes indeed, excellent, Chief Inspector. Now, if you can tear yourself away from that chair, I want you to come with me. I have a feeling about this one.”

White was slightly more cautious. “Sir, you do realise that this may just be a copper’s hunch and lead us on a wild goose chase?”

“Yes, of course I do, but we can’t afford to take the chance. Now come along. There’s a good fellow.” It was 13.10.

The Chief Super’s chauffeur-driven Granada swept to the curb and Devon and White jumped in.

“Harrods please, Jenkins, and we’ll have full lights and siren, good man. Oh, and hand me the radio please.”

The car tore down Broadway to Victoria St and must have been doing close to 70 mph going round by the Palace. At this rate, they would be in Harrods in a few minutes.

The car’s police radio crackled to life. “Sir, Clegg here in control. Confirmation that the Army bomb disposal unit have arrived at Harrods and the premises appear to have been cleared of all members of the public, over.”

“Message received, Constable. Should be there in about four minutes, over.”

It was 13.13.

The radio crackled to life again.

“Sir, London black taxi, reg no C349XJK has just been spotted in Acton. Car contains white male driver and white male passenger fitting the descriptions supplied by PCs Williams and Mortimer. Unit tried to intercept, sir, and the cab took off at high speed. Two units giving chase sir, over.”

“Thank you Constable, excellent news.”

Bloody marvellous! Devon felt this was going to be a good day. Now, if this was for real, it would more than likely be Kelly, and he wanted that bastard badly. He made an instant decision; he grabbed the radio and pressed down the send button.

“Constable Clegg, this is DCS Devon, come in please, over.”

“Clegg here, sir, over.”

“Change of plan, Constable. Advise all units that we are diverting to Acton, repeat, diverting to Acton. Please patch me in to officers in pursuit of black taxi, over.”

“Certainly sir, doing so now. Just informing you sir, that is an open frequency, over.”

“Acknowledged Constable, and do keep us updated on the Harrods situation if you would. Over and out for now.”

It was 13.15.

PC Dave Mortimer was frantic. Alan Williams had arrived a few minutes before, and along with the bomb squad and reinforcements from the Met, had been systematically searching behind displays, in corners, dustbins, toilets; anywhere the suspect could have left his briefcase. A brief moment of terror shuddered through Dave as he realised that he might have overreacted and sparked an enormous false alarm! What if the guy had met someone and just given him the briefcase? What if he had been returning it? They hadn’t had time to check and the staff were gone. What if he had gotten it wrong and it had been another guy he saw leaving the store? What if Alan had got it totally wrong too? He could see both their careers going up in smoke.

But no, no, wait, don’t panic. He had definitely seen the man enter a taxi that was not at an official rank. But the taxi could have been waiting for him — no, he had arrived by Tube.

Then the news came through that the taxi was being pursued by two police cars in Ealing or Acton or somewhere, and he breathed a sigh of relief. It was short lived though as the search resumed.

Dave realised they were not thinking straight. He wished some of the big guns had gotten here; they’d know what to do. It was now almost twenty minutes since the suspect had left the shop, and surely if he had primed a bomb explosion, twenty minutes was more than adequate to get well away. Dave hoped the guy had been conservative. He needed to think.

He bumped into Alan again, this time in the front lobby. “I think we’d better take our leave of here, mate, we’re surely out of time.”

“For sure, but let’s give it one last throw. Where would you place a bomb if you wanted to do maximum damage but not have the device discovered?”

“Any one of a thousand places, and we’ve looked in them all.”

“No, think, mate, think. He can’t put it in the toilets or the restaurants; it’s too likely to be discovered. He has to be sure. He has to put it somewhere no one is likely to go, but where is that? This bloody shop is enormous.”

It was 13.21.

Ralph Thwaites, the frightened General Manager was standing outside well back from the store where a perimeter cordon had been established. Alan suddenly got a brainwave and ran the hundred yards to him.

“Ralph, I need you to think very, very carefully. On a day like today, in high summer, which department would be least busy?”

“Why, that’s relatively easy, sir. The menswear, of course.”

“OK, OK, good, now, menswear covers about an acre in there. Is there any section of it that might be quieter than the rest?”

“Why that’s even easier, sir. Men’s overcoats, of course. We are the only store that keeps them in stock year-round, to facilitate our overseas visitors from different climes.”

But Alan was gone, back up the street, through the lobby, shouting at Dave and the bomb disposal team to follow him, taking the stairs four at a time. Turn left, into the menswear section — overcoats, where were the bloody overcoats — at the far end.

Alan dashed at breakneck speed but in his frantic rush, tripped over a protruding cash register cable. He went headfirst into a Burberry display, coming to rest gazing up at Giorgio Armani’s latest creations. As he scrambled to regain his footing, he saw it; the soft leather resting on the ground between the overcoats.

“Sweet Mother of Jesus, guys, come down here.”

It was 13.23.

If the police were frantic, Kelly was now as cool as a cucumber. Mind you, he knew a lot that they didn’t. First of all, the black taxi was no ordinary cab, but a heavily modified vehicle capable of speeds of 140mph and with all sorts of other adjustments from all-round disc brakes to reinforced suspension, wider tyres and supercharged engine. His driver had been practicing in London’s streets for months and was a highly skilled operative. Yes, the boys were a slick, organised unit now for sure.

He had two other advantages. It was often said that London was not a city at all but a whole series of villages, with the denizens of each knowing their own “manor” intimately, but practically nothing about the rest of the city. This was true of many police drivers also who might not have the knowledge of the vast maze of back streets, lanes and alleyways which were a feature of each borough of the city. In fact, because of traffic difficulties, most taxi drivers rarely used main routes, and it was this tactic that Kelly’s driver was using now.

Finally, he was aware that the Metropolitan Police was a largely unarmed force, apart from Special Branch, and he felt sure that none of those guys were likely to be in pursuit. Even if they were, they were highly averse to gunfire, particularly in London’s streets. Kelly was unarmed himself, as was his driver. A technicality, but safer in a culture where guns were the exception and possession of one carried serious sanctions.

The one thing that bothered him was how he had been detected at all, but he assumed it must have been due to his misfortune at the underground station and his own subsequent reaction. Still, that was past. The concentration now was to sit it out and outrun these guys. If he could manage to get near another underground station undetected, he might be prepared to make a run for it, but he was close enough to the safe house to stick with it for now. He was confident in his driver and there was nothing else he could do, so he might as well just sit back and relax.

PC Mike Lyons had just come on duty when he had gotten the BOLO message about the black cab. He couldn’t believe his luck moments later when he spotted it stopped at traffic lights at the junction of Bath Road and Bath Avenue. He was accompanied by WPC Gill Merson and immediately advised her to hold on as he swung the police car in a U-turn, simultaneously switching on his overhead blue lights.

His misfortune was that the BOLO message had not said what the suspects were wanted for so he never anticipated the wide sweep that the black cab made as it reversed and U-turned back in the direction of Acton town. A London cab could turn on a sixpence so he lost vital seconds before he could pursue it.

Gill got on the radio. “Control, this is Lyons & Merson, suspect cab no C349XJK spotted on Bath Road, heading towards Acton; attempted to intercept and approach but no response from driver of cab; currently undertaking pursuit; request support of all units in the area, over.”

“This is control. We copy that, Constable, please leave your channel open; all units, please converge on area around North Circular Road.”

The cab driver may have been good and his car modified, but so was Mike, although in an inferior vehicle. He had learned to drive on the narrow back roads of County Wicklow when he was fourteen years old, so London’s streets presented no great challenge.

The cab headed through Acton and onto the North Circular Road. Mike gained a little and then saw the other police car coming from the opposite direction. Now we have him, he thought, only for the cab to veer off into the group of back streets around South Ealing. He had to brake hard to even make the turn and he lost the cab momentarily. The other police vehicle had to U-turn to pursue and he thought he had lost him.

Gill got on the radio again. “Control, this is Merson, still in pursuit of black cab — its performance suggests it may be modified. Again request support of all units but advise to approach with caution. We think suspect may be trying to lose us in the back streets. He keeps going in a circuitous pattern and may be trying to get on to the M4.”

The response startled her somewhat. “You’re doing fine, Constable Merson. This is DCS Roger Devon of Special Branch. Continue pursuit and try to box in our suspect, but don’t approach unless you have to. We have reason to believe that the man in this cab is a wanted terrorist. I have authorized closure of the East and West bound ramps of the M4 so don’t worry; he isn’t going to get to the motorway today. We’re going to get this bastard.”

Easy for you to say, thought Mike Lyons; where in hell has this guy got to? Then he spotted him, just as he again emerged from the maze and turned on to Uxbridge Road. Mike clipped the curb, momentarily losing control and barely missing a pedestrian as he swung hard on the Rover’s steering wheel to arc back on to Uxbridge Road. Gill could feel the imprint of the seat belt cutting into her shoulder as she was continuously shunted back and forth.

“Control, this is Merson again, suspect now heading back towards the city on Uxbridge Road. Suspect traveling at very high speed, continuing pursuit.”

The bomb squad wasted no time, initially satisfying themselves that there were no booby trap wires, then surrounding the briefcase with anti blast screens. They quickly determined that it was just a standard briefcase and highly unlikely to explode if moved. After all, the suspect had been carrying it around central London, so he was hardly going to take that chance.

Clive King, the senior disposal man, with over 20 years experience in the squad, had dismantled bombs in Cyprus, Northern Ireland and even once, a little-known one in Gibraltar. He hadn’t told the police this, but he knew the suspect had left the store at 13.00 and he reckoned that still left him five to six minutes. Too risky to attempt to defuse, but he would try to get it out of the store. To do this he would employ the remote control device to roll into the lift, descend to the ground floor and exit. Alan, Dave and the team stood off and left him to it. He keyed the remote to begin the process.

The last thing Alan felt, before he blacked out, was an enormous whoosh of super-heated air. He vaguely detected a set of lift doors flying in his direction but thankfully he had already been knocked over and they flew above his head.

He came to, some moments later, to a scene of total bedlam. He crawled out from under a huge pile of ripped and torn clothing to discover there was no menswear department any more. Neither were there stairs or lifts or escalators. There was a huge hole in the ceiling and the upper floor seemed to be hanging precariously. Every window was gone; every display, counter, rail; everything had been flattened. There was dust everywhere and it was difficult to breathe. He was bleeding profusely from numerous cuts. None seemed to be life-threatening although he wasn’t sure, as he couldn’t think straight.

While it was probably only a matter of seconds, it seemed like hours to him before the ambulance men arrived. He was very quickly lifted on to a stretcher and brought down the back stairs to the street.

“You’ll be OK, mate, just some cuts and bruises and severe shock,” said the paramedic as he quickly attached an I.V. line. It was only then that Alan realised what had happened.

He grasped the paramedic’s arm in a vice-like grip. “Dave, where’s Dave? And the bomb guys, did they make it?”

“Easy there matey, I dunno. Gotta get you off to hospital, though”

“No.” Alan gripped his arm again and tried to rise. “Can’t go till I check on me mate.”

“OK, OK, give me a second.”

He rushed away and came back moments later with a guy Alan recognised from his training as some big wheel in Special Branch.

“PC Williams, I believe?” Alan nodded. “DS Collins, Special Branch. You’re a very brave man, Constable.”

Alan knew then, but he had to ask. “And Dave and the other guys?”

Collins gently shook his head. “I’m really sorry mate, they didn’t make it.”

Alan thought, what have I done here? Why did I start all this? Then he lay back on the stretcher and wept.

By now Devon and White had reached the chase area and were attempting to co-ordinate the operation. Both felt sure it was just a matter of time. More and more resources were poured into the area and streets were closed off, barriers were erected, and the net was tightened.

“Clegg here again, sir. DS Collins has reported explosive device located at Harrods but unfortunately detonated before it could be defused. First reports suggest casualties.”

Devon was furious; why the hell didn’t they leave the bloody thing be when they found it? Buildings could be replaced, coppers couldn’t.

It made him even more determined to get this bugger once and for all. He had outwitted them more than once but not this time, me boyo, oh no; we have you.

“PC Merson, DCS Devon again. Please confirm suspect car is still in sight, over.”

“Just about, sir, but he seems to know the area even better than our units. We believed we had him trapped in dead-ends on two occasions but he found alternative escape routes, over.”

“Keep suspect in sight at all costs, Constable, don’t give him the chance to run for it. Keep me continuously posted on the movements of the suspect. I want to apprehend him as quickly as possible.”

“Copy that, sir.”

It was getting tighter. The driver had been up and down these roads now for well over half an hour and still couldn’t shake off that guy in the Rover. They were now in Hammersmith. Central London wasn’t an option — afternoon traffic was a nightmare. Heading west again, they were likely to encounter roadblocks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he just saw the blue flash as yet another patrol car cut across their path, but his driver was good. Just a quick flick of the steering wheel to the left to avoid the collision, slam on the brakes, then a flick to the right that just caught the tail end of the police car and flipped it over nicely. Another one down! But there would be more, and matey in the Rover had gotten closer.

They screeched down Holland Road, cut straight across the traffic and then doubled back on to Addison. Matey couldn’t turn fast enough and they gained considerably on him; but wait, shit, there was another police car blocking Addison Road. The driver turned left, heading for Holland Park, allowing Mike and Gill to gain on him slightly again.

It was then that Kelly spotted the black Granada emerging from the side street. He immediately ordered the driver, “Head for the park.”

The British were so civilized about their parks, he thought. Unlike most European capitals, they allowed you to drive through most of them, albeit subject to speed limits and speed bumps; but that wouldn’t be a problem.

The cab tore through the park, once again pursued by Mike’s Rover. “OK,” said Kelly, “on to the grass and try to avoid the folks, if you can. Good man.”

Football players, joggers, sun worshippers and afternoon strollers dived for cover as the driver expertly carved a path through them. They hit a patch of clear ground and they were finally losing matey in the Rover so the driver was mildly surprised when Kelly gave his next order.

“OK, now, wheel right round and ram him.”

Even if he had slight misgivings, the driver obeyed instantly as his job was to drive, not to question.

Mike was nearly exhausted. He had been chasing this guy for almost an hour at speeds of over 100 mph and he was knackered. His car was good but he had to constantly compensate for the other car’s superior performance. When the cab had entered the park, Mike thought the guy had lost it. Now it seemed like he was doubling back again.

Gill was constantly sending reports; “Now pursuing suspect through Holland Park. Suspect has crossed football pitch. Having to slow to take evasive action to avoid injury to civilians; continuing pursuit.”

“Copy that, PC Merson, we are very close to you.” This from DCS Devon. Mike had never played chicken, but it looked like his opponent wanted him to try now. He had turned and headed straight for the Rover, and Mike hadn’t been prepared to give way. He assumed the cab would swerve at the last minute, leaving him with a difficult manoeuvre on grass to get back in pursuit, but he didn’t.

“Sir, suspect has turned round and seems to be attempting to ram us.”

The crash, when it came, was devastating. Both cars came to a juddering halt and the occupants of both were momentarily stunned. But all had expected the impact and all had been wearing seatbelts. Both cars seemed to be badly damaged.

Kelly was first to emerge but Mike, struggling to clear his head, was after him in a flash. He had perhaps a twenty-yard start but Mike was young, very fit, and confident of gaining on his quarry. He strained every muscle and sinew and gained a yard, two yards, five yards.

Kelly was also very fit and began to gain again. Mike’s advantage was waning as they ran up a small hill. Then, as Kelly just crested the brow of the hill, the black Granada emerged from behind the trees.

Kelly was going too fast, was too committed and couldn’t avoid the collision. He went headfirst over the hood and landed dazed at the other side. He struggled to get up again but two of the occupants of the Granada had quickly emerged and subdued him, slapping a pair of handcuffs on instantly. Mike stopped, exhausted. Gill arrived, panting, both lost for breath.

“Constables Lyons and Merson, I presume,” said the tall man in the black suit. “Excellent work indeed. DCS Devon and DCI White. I’ll arrange for one of the other cars to pick you up. Well done Constables, we won’t forget this; got to get this man into custody immediately.”

“Of course, fully understand, sir. Thank you.”

Kelly was handcuffed and placed in the back between Devon and White, and the Granada headed off at high speed.

“Well done, Mike,” Gill said, “great driving. I believe this guy was the main man.”

“Well done yourself, Gill Merson, and sorry about the bumps and bruises. Oh, what about the cab driver?”

“Out of it, I’m afraid. Doubt he’s going anywhere for a while, but just to be safe, I handcuffed him to the steering wheel.”

“Excellent, great result! I’m surprised that the brass didn’t take him too, but he’s probably small fry. Not to worry anyway, we’ve got a truckload of offences to charge him with.”

They walked back down the hill together, a deep sense of satisfaction overcoming their fatigue. As the adrenalin rush of the chase faded, it struck Mike that there was something not quite right with the whole scene. Why had the driver decided to ram them? Whatever, no point in musing over it now; it had been a good afternoon’s work.

He and Gill were a good team. Although he had only been on the force for a little over a year, the Met had recognised his driving skills when he had volunteered for a defensive driving course, and he had been the star performer on view. His days as a foot patrol officer were numbered after that and he was now doing the two things he had always wanted to do — drive and be a police officer. The fact that he was getting paid to do what he loved was an added bonus.

His only regret, albeit a slight one, was that he had had to leave his native land to realise his ambition. There had been nobody hiring anyone during the depressed Ireland of the early 1980’s, so Mike had tried his hand in London. After six months working in bars, he had seen the ad for the Met and thought, why not? It’s what I want to do so why not here?

Despite the fact that there were elements in his country that were, literally, at war with the British, he himself had never encountered any bias or prejudice. He was now an accepted member of the force and his future looked bright. After his heroics today, who knew where it would lead?

As he and Gill arrived back at the scene of the wrecked taxicab and police car, the mild concern at the back of his mind heightened when a black Ford Granada skidded to a stop beside the wreckage. Two middle-aged men in grey suits emerged.

“Good afternoon, officers. Detective Chief Superintendent Devon and this is Detective Chief Inspector White. Well done this afternoon. Now, where have you hidden our suspects?”

Concern gave way to panic with Mike. “But, we’ve already given… who are you… I’m terribly sorry, sir, but could we see some identification?”

“But of course; but what the devil are you playing at, Constable Lyons, isn’t it?” said Devon as he and DCI White produced their badges and Scotland Yard I.D. passes.

“Yes, sir, it is, but…” Mike seemed to visibly sag in front of the two senior men as the awful realization dawned. Panic now gave way to dismay as the impact sank in.

“Oh Jesus sir, I think we’ve made a dreadful mistake.”

“What the devil is it, man, what have you done?”

“Well sir, there were two…”

That was it; now it was clear. He knew what had been wrong with the scene, what had been bugging him. The two men in the other Granada had been far too young to have reached the ranks of DCS or even DCI.

He struggled for composure. “Sir, we apprehended the terrorist suspect but two other men arrived. They said they were you, sir, and the Chief Inspector and, I’m sorry to say sir, they took the terrorist suspect with them.”

“Compose yourself, man. Where did they go? Which direction? What type of car did they have?”

“I’m not sure, sir; they had a black Granada, sir, same as yours.”

“Did you get its number, Constable?”

“No sir, sorry sir, I didn’t think it was…”

DCI White ran to the Ford and grabbed the radio. “All units, this is DCI White; suspect involved in chase in Holland Park has escaped. He is believed to be traveling in a black Ford Granada, no details of registration plate at this time.”

The radio crackled vaguely but there was no immediate response. Realistically, this was hopeless. Mike was slumped over in despair. White re-emerged from the car.

“Sir, profuse apologies, my mistake entirely sir, but we still have the drive…”

Mike glanced at the wrecked taxi-cab. For a moment he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but no; the driver was gone too.

“You blundering idiot Constable. Do you realise how many fucking black Granadas there are in London?”