Chapter Thirty Two

The chancellor was a man of routine. He'd enjoyed his walks even as a boy. It gave him time to think, to relax, to unwind, to find himself again. The quiet man at peace inside the successful, powerful man.

These days it also gave him a chance to see who was interested in him. He'd spotted a couple of his own staff who, despite orders, had trailed him. They'd be fired immediately. He could only guess at their agendas.

He'd walked the lanes of his early adulthood. The bars that the lawyers and barristers frequented after battles in the Old Bailey. Fun times.

He stopped in one and bought a diet coke. He didn't drink any more. Kept himself mentally in shape at all times. Then he walked further through the lanes, in the reflection of a shop window he recognised a face behind him on the opposite side of the street.

A man from the bar.

They were getting sloppy whoever they were. MI5? The Met? A private investigator perhaps?

He crossed the road and headed to St Paul's across the pedestrianised area in front. Keeping an eye on his pursuer.

He breathed morning air deep into his lungs. A good day lay ahead.

Another announcement to scare the weak minds of finance, spoiled by entitlement. He still made others play his games. Serious games these days. If anyone was left standing when he’d finished, they’d do his bidding too. If not, he'd welcome the challenge.

A tourist with his map raised, no idea where he was going, walked straight into him.

'I'm sorry, sir,' the man said. The man wore thick glasses, had puffy cheeks and was wrapped up warm against the British summer.

An American. One of our powerful cousins from across the pond, the chancellor thought, and smiled.

'That's quite alright,' the chancellor said.

'Ah, I’m kinda lost here,' The American said.

His tongue rasped out over his lips when he spoke. A trait the chancellor had noticed only in traumatised military types and car crash victims. He'd met them all in his time.

‘I’m looking for the cathedral,’ the American said.

The chancellor smiled again and pointed. 'Right behind you,' he said.

'Oh, yeah?' The man looked back. 'Oh yeah,' he put his arm around the chancellor's shoulders. ‘Thank you, my friend.'

The man's hand dug into his neck, and they moved forward.

'Don't get any clever ideas,' the American said.

The chancellor heard another more local accent try to re-assert itself. He felt something in his gut and looked down past the man's smile beneath the tourist map. The fake American jabbed him with the gun again.

'Let's go and see the sights shall we Chancellor?'

He pushed him towards the steps of the Cathedral. Another man joined them on the chancellor's left carrying a large bag. Up ahead six more men and two women, more tourists by the way they were dressed. They carried the same overly large bags in through the main entrance of the cathedral.

*

The man who'd followed the chancellor from the pub saw the bags and the tourists at the same time. Jones had tasked him with keeping his distance. But he couldn't do that now.

He followed as close as he dared and fiddled with the phone in his pocket.

On the steps of the cathedral entrance he saw a tall man lift his head and look in his direction.

Their eyes met for a moment.

The chancellor and the two tourists, if you could call them that, reached the top of the steps. The tall man took hold of the chancellor, said something to the tourist with the map, then pulled the politician inside.

The tourist turned and walked back down the steps. The agent already had his phone to his ear. It rang.

'Hey buddy,' the tourist said slapping a hand on his shoulder and the pistol in his gut. 'Hang up,' he said.

They both heard the voice at the other end, 'Parker, what have you got for me?'

The tourist thinned his lips.

*

When Savage arrived at Mansion House, the police cordon was already in place. The long straight road to St Paul's blocked off. He met Jones's eyes, pulled up next to him. The MI5 man was on the phone.

They both heard the shot at the same time, through the phone. Then the delayed echo from along the street.

'Officer down,' Jones shouted into his walkie-talkie. 'All mobiles report in.'

'Mobile one, officer down, shot by what appears to be a tourist.'

'Mobile two, moving in. Tourist is entering St Paul's Cathedral. Somebody’s closing down the main entrance.'

'Hang on, Parker,' Jones said into his phone. 'Are you alright?' The response took too long. 'Emergency medical, on the double,' he said to another officer. 'A letter? Understood, stay on the line. We're on our way.'

All heads turned at the sound of machine gun fire. Savage didn't wait to explain to the police pursuit car pulling up behind him or to Jones. With the roads blocked he skittered off down Victoria Street until he hit the main pedestrian walkway from the millennium bridge across the Thames and the path leading up to St Paul's.

The bike bounced up the steps and through the crowds of people in pavement cafés all staring in the direction of the Cathedral. Savage entered the now deserted St Paul's courtyard at speed. The man lay on the ground, bleeding heavily from the stomach.

More gunfire sounded inside the cathedral. Savage jumped off the bike and let it slide off across the cobbles. He crouched down, took the man's hand and pressed it hard onto his own stomach.

'Hold that there,' he ordered. 'You need to stem the flow. You'll be fine.'

An envelope stuck out of the man's shirt. 'This is the letter right?'

The man nodded. Savage tore it open and read it quickly.

From his left Jones, the police and CO19 were already moving in. On his right, police cars screeched to a halt and an ambulance's sirens wailed. Savage stood up and waved them in. They stayed where they were.

Savage saw an older man arguing and bellowing orders, preventing them from getting any closer. They were establishing a cordon. Good for them, but not so good for the man with the bullets in his stomach.

He bent down and said, 'Put your arm around my neck.' The man did as he was told. Savage put his shoulder under his arms, picked him up and ran across the courtyard.

The older man bellowed something at Savage. He ignored him and headed for the ambulance where the two men took the limp man from Savage's arms.

'Answer me when I talk to you man.'

'Where's Jones?' Savage said.

'The name’s Cavendish and I'm in charge here.'

Savage looked around. From the Mansion House side he saw Jones running, the armed response guys moving in behind him to take up flanking positions on the front of the cathedral. He could see another team of dark swat-like uniforms moving in around the other side of the courtyard. Presumably the same around the back.

Jones panted to a halt.

'This is for you,' Savage said and handed him the letter.

'You opened it?'

'Of course not.'

Jones opened and read it. 'It's a ransom note,' he turned it over. 'They're going to hold the chancellor and anyone they find inside. How many people are inside?' he shouted over his shoulder. 'And they’re going to kill one hostage per hour.'

He turned the letter over again. Then again.

'There are no demands. It doesn’t even say who they are.'

'Let me see,' Cavendish snatched it from him.

'Report,’ Jones shouted again, ‘How many hostages?'

'Estimates vary, sir.'

'Ballpark?'

'From fifty to over a hundred, sir. We're working on getting feeds into the building and accessing their security cameras.'

'Well then they must be about to make demands, they’re not going through all this for nothing,' Cavendish said.

'I agree, sir.'

'I don't,’ Savage said. ‘It's a ruse. It's an assassination. The real target is the chancellor.'

'How would you know?' Cavendish said.

'You read the hit list on Sutherland’s computer right? It's all on there.'

'He's got a point, sir.'

'Yes, he does. But even if that's true, there are still people in there. We can't just go barging in all guns blazing.'

'That's just what he's relying on,’ Savage said. ‘You being reasonable.'

'We've got precedents, sir. The embassy siege.'

'Yes, but the PR, what if it all goes wrong?'

'What if it all goes right?' Savage said.

'Who the hell are you anyway?'

'Sir,' Jones interrupted and nodded towards two approaching officers. 'Met and CO19 command, sir.'

Cavendish twirled and prepared for debate. He showed them the letter and they huddled down.

'Thanks for keeping my name out Jonesy.'

'No problem Savage. We couldn't have cracked this without you.'

'It's not over yet,' Savage motioned toward the cathedral.

'It is for you.'

Savage laughed. 'We really don't know each other do we?'

A shout went up, 'Movement!'

Jones ran forward with the other salarymen to see what was happening.

Two men, one with a loudspeaker, the other with two hostages. Both with carbines over their shoulders and pistols on their hips stepped out of the side door onto the cathedral’s main steps.

They pushed one of the hostages forward. South American by the looks of him. And scared.

The gun shot rang out.

Blood and brains exploded through the hostage’s face. The shooter let him fall down the steps and re-holstered his pistol.

The CO19 crews levelled their weapons. Angry shouts and police threats filled the square. The three commanders squawked on the radios to calm the rank and file down.

The megaphone voice cut through the noise and silenced everyone.

'Do we have your attention?' The speaker didn't wait for a response. He pushed the next hostage, a terrified woman who had already soiled herself, to the top of the steps.

'Now that we do,' the raspy mechanical voice said, 'we will be making our demands soon. Then everyone will know who we truly are. If our demands are not then met within one hour. We will kill this hostage. An hour later, another. An hour later, another. Do you understand?'

The courtyard bustled with activity. News cameras already in place. A helicopter overhead. Journalists poured into the cordon. Great TV should never be missed. A megaphone was handed to one of the commanders, who passed it to Jones.

'We understand,’ Jones said. ‘One of our men. A negotiator will supply a secure phone so that we can conduct our conversations in private.'

'We prefer the loud hailer. Let's keep this public. So all the world can see how the British government handles itself.'

Jones's cheeks burned, then he saw Savage step forward and push through the cordon. He held a phone in the air.

'It's that man again,' Cavendish said. 'Jones, who—'

'This is our negotiator,' Jones said through the microphone. 'He is holding a phone in his hand as you can see. Please let us use it as a line of emergency communication, if nothing else. You give a little, we give a little.'

'You are not in a position to—' the speaker was cut off by the man next to him. 'Very well, let him come forward. Negotiator, show us that you are unarmed. Any sudden moves and you will be shot without hesitation.'

Savage nodded. Placed the phone on the floor, stripped off his jacket, shirt, and pulled out the ends of his under shirt to show his waistband.

'Turn around,' the speaker said. 'Now come forward, bring me the phone.'

Savage did as he was told. The long walk across the short square reminded him of the quiet Middle Eastern street that led to Jessica Price’s head.

The cathedral steps towered above him, the woman still stood on the top step with a gun to her temple, shaking and crying silently.

The dead hostage lay face down on the steps, blood trickled in a thick stream and pooled at Savage’s feet.

'Come on,' the speaker said. Savage lowered his eyes and walked carefully up the stairs.

When he reached the top he raised his head and saw the grinning face of the speaker. With the megaphone on he said, 'The Veterans Army thanks you for the phone and for another hostage.'

There was a collective groan from the crowd, the other man laughed.

The speaker dropped the megaphone by his side and pointed his rifle casually with one hand in Savage’s direction.

'Phone,' he held out an empty hand. 'Welcome to the hostage club. It's a lifetime membership.'

Savage held his hand up, the man's eyes went to the phone.

'The secure line,’ Savage said, ‘is speed dial: you’re an asshole.'

He threw the phone at the man’s face.

Savage slapped the rifle muzzle away from his body with his left hand, moved in one step, grabbed the weapon with one hand over butt, one over barrel. He twisted up and stepped in with his shoulder to break the man's hold. He stamped the man's knee and then drove the butt into the man's head with a crack.

The other man still had his rifle trained on the hostage, eyes now on Savage.

Savage didn't hesitate. He kicked the hostage down the stairs and swung the rifle stock into the man's nose. It exploded. He repeated the strike into the throat.

He turned and ran as CO19 opened up, and dived through the entrance door. The 9mm bullets from the MP5s impaled the man to the wooden doors.

Savage checked the mag. Loaded, thirty full. He looked back at the pistols in the dead mens’ holsters and thought better of chancing it on the front step.

Through the ornamental lattice work at the front entrance he could see the hostages in the distance and saw a man push someone who could have been the chancellor through a doorway.

St Paul's wasn't like your local church, the entrance alone was an expanse of maybe one hundred yards. The hostages congregated in the ornate quire area at the far end of the church. They looked like worshippers, sat where the clergy and choir normally sat in two lines either side of the pulpit. The hostage-takers stayed out of sight.

In front of that was the area beneath the dome and the whispering gallery, then the nave and its two floor-wide columns of seats. Another two hundred yards. Three hundred all in.

Perfect killing ground.

Religion really used to mean something in the old days. He kicked off shoes and socks, ducked down and headed along the outside wall. He paused at the recess that was the Chapel of Saint George, took a sight line, but he was still too far away, then moved forward again rifle in the ready position.

He pulled in behind one of the nave’s great stone pillars, looked around, no one in sight. He moved up, then ducked to the left behind the next pillar at the sound of gunfire. The noise deafened in a space designed for good acoustics.

He crawled on all fours between the chairs lined up on either side of the nave for the next congregation.

A woman’s voice boomed out. 'That was a warning. Take another step towards us and we will kill another hostage.'

Savage peered through the backs of the mass of chairs, trying to locate the voice. He saw an arm around the neck of a hostage from behind, pistol in the other, ready for the kill shot.

He looked back at the pillar. If anyone was moving up on him he was dead.

'Do you hear me?’ the woman said. ‘You have three seconds.'

He caught sight of her lips moving behind the hostage's head. A long way away.

'Three,' she said. He muttered a small blasphemous prayer.

'Two.' More lips.

'And finally,’ she started with emphasis, her face cleared the hostage’s head. ‘On—‘

Savage stood, aimed, fired twice. Saw the spurt of blood.

He ducked, then sprinted for the other side of the nave across the exposed central walkway between the chairs.

More guns opened up.

Pages of bibles and hymn books spat up all around him, wood splinters flew up from the chairs. On the other side of the pillars ahead a man with a carbine ran toward him.

Savage raised on the run. Single shot.

Then dived through the opening and fired again from the ground, three shots, cut the man across the middle. Two more in the head.

Controlled fire is a great concept. But in the heat, you'll take the sure shot.

Savage just made it to his knees when he saw another man appear from behind the column on the opposite side of the cathedral where he’d come from. Someone stalking him.

He laid down more rounds across the centre. No hit. Exposed on both sides now.

How many rounds left? Eighteen? Fifteen? Shit. How many shooters? He had no idea. If in doubt – keep moving, keep fighting. He crouched down again and made his way along the left walkway, grabbed a tourist map from an information stand as he ran.

*

'What’s going on in there Jones? This is one of your men is it?'

There was another burst of gunfire from inside.

'What's he doing? Killing the bloody hostages himself?'

'He's doing what you won't, sir.'

'What the hell are you talking about man? There's protocol to follow.'

'With all due respect sir, fuck protocol and fuck you. A civilian has just gone in there to do what you can't...' he was breathing hard but he had the attention of the two other commanders behind him. 'Are you with me?'

They smiled as one. 'Jones, you're way out of your league here,' the Met commander said, 'Stand down.'

If stand down meant turn and storm off that's exactly what he did. He ran into Echo.

'Sorry, I'm late sir,' she said at the look on his face and tried to keep up to pace beside him.

'Come with me Smith.'

He grabbed a young uniformed officer in an easy-to-hit luminous green hi-vis jacket.

'Where's the armed response vehicle for this area?'

'Over there, sir.'

'What are we doing, sir?' Echo said trying to keep up.

'You,' he said to the driver. 'Have you been assigned yet?' He flashed his MI5 credentials.

'No, sir.'

'Good, then you're with me. But first, my colleague and I need weapons.'