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  “Call him, Harry, tell him I’m on my way up. Anything fresh?”

  “Not this end, sir.” Kenwood picked up an internal phone.

  “Hedge has been told the result of the dive on the aircraft, I suppose?”

  “Yes, sir.” Kenwood spoke briefly into the phone to Hedge’s secretary, then glanced at Shard. “He’ll see you now sir.”

  “Too right he will.” Shard left the section and went up to the greater luxury that surrounded Hedge. Hedge today had a pampered look, a cat who had been at the cream: things for him at least seemed to be going well, but Shard was there to spoil the bright day.

  “Ah, Shard —”

  “Yes, Hedge.”

  “You —”

  “Hold it a moment, Hedge.” Shard, uninvited, sat down facing the big desk. “You called off a police surveillance and thereby caused two killings —”

  “Oh, stuff-and-nonsense, don’t —”

  “No, Hedge. Fact. Hard bloody fact! The press is going to love it, they’ll make a meal of you.”

  Hedge’s face flabbed whitely. “You wouldn’t dare. It would be a flagrant breach of security — you, of all people!”

  “Admission?” Shard grinned, a cold grimace.

  “Certainly not! What I did was in the best interest of the case — the best interest of the nation, I’d go so far as to say. Don’t you realise the gravity of the situation?”

  “Hedge, don’t try to side-track me.” Shard leaned forward, holding the eye of Hedge. “You acted in a highhanded manner and you acted out of turn. I’m a policeman, you’re not, when I ask for surveillance, I have a reason —”

  “And I had a reason for calling it off.”

  “A phoney one.”

  “Not,” Hedge snapped back at him, “in my view. You were not here. I was! I acted as I saw fit.” He drummed his fingers on his desk. “The Cabinet wants this thing played down, both from the point of view of the public at large and also so as not to warn these people off. To a great extent our hands our tied — yours and mine, the whole department.” He added, “Naturally, I’m extremely sorry about what happened, but I refuse to accept any blame. What happened would very likely have happened even with the police watch still in being. You know that as well as I do. The police are far from infallible.”

  There was some truth in that, as Shard had to accept; as a fair man, he said as much, though he was still bitter. Hedge seemed mollified, gracious in what he clearly took to be victory. He said, “Yes, well, there we are, then. Regrettable but unavoidable. You’re lucky you’re not in my position, Shard. I stand between you and our masters. It’s not easy.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve had reports from Yorkshire, sketchy ones. Perhaps you’d care to fill in the gaps?”

  Shard passed full details: Hedge pounced on Aurora Lindeman, sensing the possibilities of a leak to the press or something equally lethal. “Did you impress on her —”

  “Yes, of course I did,” Shard interrupted irritably. “I read the Official Secrets Act in triplicate. You can free your mind of worry on that score if nothing else.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Hedge seemed about to offer further comment when his red telephone burred. He reached out and took the call. “Who is it? This is Hedge.” His face took on a disagreeable look and over the top of the mouthpiece he hissed at Shard: “Hesseltine. Yes, yes, go on.” The last words were said into the phone. Hedge listened; his eyes widened and his voice, showing alarm, rose to a high pitch. “Good God. Where, precisely? I see. Yes, of course, at once. He’s here now if you want to talk to him — oh.” Hedge took the handset from his ear and glared at it. “Evidently he doesn’t. Do you know, I can’t stand that man. No manners — not a gentleman.”

  “Just tell me what he said, Hedge.”

  Hedge sounded blank and distant, as though he had failed to register properly. His voice was full of something like wonderment. He said. “There’s been an explosion.”

  “Explosion?”

  “A chemical works …”

  “For Christ’s sake. Where?”

  “Scotland, outside Dundee. It’s Flixborough all over again by the sound of it. Casualties, fire … my God!”

  “Where do we come in, Hedge? Why ring us?”

  Hedge answered, ashen-faced, “Because the radar screen picked up an Inter-Continental Ballistic Missile coming in … and seconds later the chemical works went up.”

  Nine

  SHARD TOOK HIS detective sergeant up with him; the fire was visible as they came in to Dundee airport: a thick pall of smoke, spiralling into the sky, flecked with red flame that darted like a nest of writhing snakes, with fire spreading out all around its base and explosions still coming one after another, some small, some big. The very air smelled fiery and when the aircraft touched down and the fire itself became lost to immediate view, the glow was still redly, alarmingly visible in the sky. Lower-level smoke spreading around below the spiralling column blew over the town; in spite of the time-lapse the sirens were still blaring as Shard was driven to police headquarters — fire engines, police, ambulances. To these was added a host of military vehicles from the nearer Scottish Divisional depots, plus naval transport from Rosyth: anything that moved was being pressed into service to bring in personnel and evacuate the casualties to clearing stations hastily set up or to the main hospitals. A large sector of Dundee’s outskirts had been devastated by the blast, Shard was told. A whole suburban area had had to be cleared of men, women and children; the buildings were in many cases roofless, in many cases with walls demolished, and everywhere there was shattered glass and debris. The fires were spreading out of control. The city was in a state verging on panic. It was not, Shard was told by the Assistant Chief Constable in charge at headquarters, simply an explosion: much more was involved. There was a heavy escape of gas, a very highly toxic gas known as trichlorophenol.

  “What are its effects?” Shard asked.

  “Lethal. It’s absorbed through the skin as well as by inhalation and ingestion, apparently. It’s a strong irritant … the Americans used it in Vietnam, as a defoliant. So far, the reports suggest that only animals have succumbed: dogs, cats, other domestic pets. But the hospitals indicate a number of casualties with vomiting and apparent sunburn, and that could be symptomatic.”

  “Antidote?”

  “None known — no way of neutralising it. It could mean wholesale slaughter, Shard. If less than just five per cent reaches the water supply, it could kill us all.”

  “And will it, sir?”

  The ACC shrugged. “I can’t say. But we’re taking no risks. I’ve got mobiles out broadcasting warnings not to turn on any taps. As soon as the fires are under control, all supplies in the area will be cut off at once. We have to think out the situation from then on, take one bridge at a time.” He rubbed at his eyes, blinked at Shard. “None of that is your worry. Where do you impinge on this, if I may ask?”

  “To establish some fact about the incoming ICBM, sir. Also to see what gets attracted to the area in the way of our domestic villains.”

  “All right, I’ll not probe you on that — I’ve plenty else to do. As to the ICBM, I suggest you contact the military. There’s some brass on the fringes — being very helpful to my lads, as a matter of fact.”

  “I’ll get along right away, then.”

  “Right you are — ask for a car, say I said so. And protective clothing — you’ll need that.”

  *

  The police car headed straight through the town for the by-pass and its apparently limitless roundabouts, heading out towards Carnoustie. Shard and Harry Kenwood and the driver all wore full protective clothing, heavy and rubberised, with gasmasks: it was, Shard thought, bloody uncomfortable, sweat-making and restrictive. Conversation was impossible, but Shard used his eyes. The centre of Dundee was undamaged but the people in the streets had a shocked, disbelieving look, a haunted look. As the car approached the fringe of the disaster area, the damage was revealed, increasing gradually to app
alling proportions. The area was strongly cordoned off by police and troops, the latter armed — just in case. It was like Belfast magnified a hundredfold. The roar of flames battered at the eardrums: it could be, must be, days before the fires could be brought under full control. Vehicles and men were everywhere, hoses dragged through spilt water, masked firemen appeared like wraiths through the heavy smoke with its content of the lethal gas. Explosions were still going on somewhere behind the smoke, and bright flashes of white light struck sharply through the overall lack of visibility. The police car slowed and stopped at what seemed to be a command outpost on the perimeter, established in the ruins of the front garden of what had been a house. From other houses bodies were still being brought out to waiting ambulances, to be hurried away to fill the town’s mortuaries.

  Leaving the police car, Shard approached a group of army officers, distinguishable by their rank badges painted onto their steel helmets. A brigadier came towards him, barring his way. Shard pulled aside the rubber of his gasmask and shouted above the general racket of disaster, hoping he could be heard. He managed to get across the fact that he was from the Foreign Office; the brigadier nodded, put a hand on his shoulder and propelled him towards a military vehicle a little way back down the road from Dundee, a vehicle painted dull army green and built like a pantechnicon. The brigadier opened a door at the rear and swung himself up onto a step. Shard followed; inside was another door which the solider didn’t open until the outer one had been shut. Once through the inner door, which acted as an air-lock, Shard stepped into a degree of comfort and peace and quiet: the vehicle was sound-proofed and air-conditioned, the brigadier said as he removed his gasmask. Thankfully, Shard removed his own.

  “Foreign Office, you said?”

  “Yes, sir. Detective Chief Superintendent Shard, Foreign Office security.”

  “The ICBM?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Go ahead. Sit down.” The brigadier dropped into a swivel chair clamped to the floor behind a small desk, and Shard took another opposite: the vehicle was equipped as a mobile command post not unlike Montgomery’s caravan in the Second World War; there were maps on the walls, and diagrams, and charts showing sets of figures meaningless to Shard. “I’ll do what I can to help, but I doubt if I know any more than you. I’ll identify myself, by the way: Brigadier Waterson, attached Scottish Command at Edinburgh.” He reached inside his protective clothing and brought out an identity card; Shard did likewise. “I’ll anticipate some of your questions: it was a big job in terms of explosive power, though it didn’t need to be for its purpose —”

  “If this was its purpose, sir.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “It could have been off course. If it came from where I believe it came from, I don’t think the target would have been a chemical works.”

  “Then what?”

  Shard said briefly, “The oil rigs. Or the pipeline itself and the pumping installations. Can you tell me the direction of inward flight, brigadier?”

  “More or less, yes, as indicated by the radar interceptors. It came up from southerly, from the direction of France — right across from Lyon to Paris, over the Channel and up north over London, Leeds and Edinburgh.”

  “A nice straight line … all the way from Libya?”

  The soldier gave him a direct look. “We’ve had alerts, of course. You’ve Murzuq in mind, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could be, could be. Nothing certain.”

  “But not impossible?”

  The brigadier pursed his lips. “I’m not a ballistics expert, Mr Shard. But I wouldn’t say it was impossible, no. It fits, too — doesn’t it? You spoke of the oil rigs. Are you saying this is the start?”

  “I don’t believe so — not quite yet. There are wheels within wheels, sir. I believe this may be a warning, an indication of what they can do if we don’t play along with what they want. If so, it means they really can deliver as threatened.”

  “Perhaps.” The brigadier was still doubtful. “D’you think they’d want to destroy a part of our oil production capacity in advance, though?”

  “A small part —”

  “But significant. No, I still think the chemical works was the point of aim. I repeat, I’m not an expert in these things, but I do know the new ICBMs have an extraordinary accuracy. Take the newest: America’s cruise missile, built by Boeing in Seattle and General Dynamics in San Diego. If these people have the cruise … well, it’s accurate to within feet — feet, literally. It always, repeat always, hits target. If the point of aim had been an oil rig, then it would have hit an oil rig, I assure you.”

  “Range?”

  “Two thousand miles plus.”

  “Murzuq’s outside that, isn’t it?”

  Waterson got to his feet and went across to one of the wall maps. “It is, actually. But the launch sites are very highly mobile — the cruise is so bloody small, it takes the form of a pilotless plane nineteen feet long by only twenty-one inches wide, and if needs be it can be carried in B52 aircraft, sort of mother ships, or it can be launched from submarines by way of the torpedo tubes.” He went back to the swivel chair, frowning. “Look here, Mr Shard. I said we’ve been alerted. I’m in possession of the facts, or anyway some of them, so you can talk freely — or I hope you’ll feel able to. What I’m getting at is this: I know about the involvement of VAN — Voice of the Arab Nations. Never mind the various feuds between the Arab oil producers, that lot has a good deal of support even inside Egypt, and Egypt’s navy has an availability of submarines. That could be where this thing came from — a sub on patrol in the central Med. Or it may not be a cruise missile, certainly it didn’t have a nuclear warhead — the cruise isn’t the only one with a high degree of accuracy, it just happens to be the most deadly accurate of them all. So if it’s not a cruise, it could still have come from the main build-up base at Murzuq.” He paused. “I ask again: do we assume this is the start, that it’s VAN moving into action?”

  “The preliminary move as I suggested, sir, the warning. Yes, I’m making that positive assumption and I propose to act on it at once.”

  “How?”

  Shard said, “Readiness nationwide, as regards the armed forces and the ordinary police districts. My own job remains the same — to stop the main threat developing.”

  The brigadier’s lips framed a soundless whistle. “Some job! Again I ask — how?”

  “Frankly,” Shard answered with a grin, “I’ve no idea.”

  *

  Back through the smoke to police headquarters, passing the still busy ambulances and fire appliances moving dangerously fast to and from the disaster area. There were accidents: drivers and pedestrians alike were on edge. Ahead of Shard’s car a military personnel-carrier swerved to avoid an old woman and ploughed into a bollard on a central reservation, its rear end skidding round to veer across the opposite carriageway and be struck by a heavy van. Bodies went in all directions; Shard’s police driver spoke, glancing sideways. “Stop, sir?”

  “Sorry, no. I’ll report. You carry on.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Shard took up the radio and passed a brief report to police headquarters. They would probably be too busy, too overstretched in terms of available manpower to cope, but the routine gesture was observed. On arrival at headquarters Shard asked for a security line and called Whitehall. He got Hedge and passed full details. There was flap in Hedge’s response but only for a moment. “The Head of Department’s back I’m thankful to say. I’ll report at once. Have you any suggestions — you’re the man on the spot?”

  “Yes,” Shard said. “Full defensive alert. Brigadier Waterson’s on the staff of C-in-C Scottish Command. He’s contacting his HQ and advising that all Army commands stand by. That message will also reach the Navy and RAF, but it’ll be a Defence Ministry decision — as we know. Back it, Hedge. There’s no time for mucking about now.”

  “Quite, quite, I do agree. But you’re not
, surely, suggesting the use of RAF Strike Command against Libya?”

  “Not my province, Hedge. But it’s becoming dicey. Were dealing with missiles that can be launched from almost anywhere, each of them equal to fifteen Hiroshimas if nuclear warheads are fitted. It’s gone beyond the aircraft Jamie told me about.” He added, “These cruise missiles are virtually unshootdownable. They even have built-in capacities to alter course in response to radar beams and make feint approaches —”

  “I take the point, Shard.” Hedge sounded white. “What about you?”

  “I’m staying up here with my DS. You can contact us through police HQ —”

  “But what are you going to do? The Head —”

  “I’m going to find Uthman,” Shard said savagely, and banged the telephone back on its rest. He sat for a moment with his head in his hands: Hedge’s voice always acted as an irritant. There was an inherent querulousness in it, plus a suggestion that if anything should go wrong it would be Shard’s fault. And the finding of Uthman had not suddenly become any easier: there were no leads, none at all. No real leads; the wall was still of blankest brick and of insurmountable height. Shard lifted his head from his hands and stared at another wall, that of the police chief’s room. It too, was a blank wall, or almost: just a couple of pictures, one of them a highland scene, a lock with mountains looming through a sun-tinted early-morning mist, the other an artist’s impression of a vast pumping station, an installation to get the North Sea oil moving south, set in an otherwise peaceful and beautiful glen. Mountains and oil: a pipeline driving down into Wiltshire in the South of England, passing below the Pennines. Leeds had once been Uthman’s habitat; the fake cop car had been found in Harrogate; that plane and Mackintosh’s body, and Jamie’s had come down on the North Yorkshire coast, had been believed — true, without confirmation — to have taken off from somewhere in North Yorkshire. All coincidence?