interdict.’
‘That’s fucking crazy.’ Fargo and Alice winced as Kerr’s voice exploded from the speaker a microsecond too soon. ‘Ma’am, subject is not, repeat, not carrying and if he’s going somewhere interesting and they take him down we lose the lot. Are you getting this, over?’
Weatherall looked at Perkins again, but he was too busy scratching. In the past three minutes the marks on his hand had become red raw. ‘We can’t take the risk,’ she said finally, and began reading from the checklist at the front of the file. ‘I am invoking Andromeda. Challenger One, I am passing you executive control at . . . oh-eight-forty-seven.’
‘No. No way. Cancel that.’ Kerr’s voice bounced back again. ‘Look, he’s practically at the station. Remember Jean Charles. You can’t risk the Trojans on the train again. But we can follow him wherever he goes, Tube or mainline, no problem. If you pull us off now you risk losing everything.’
‘That’s enough. I’ve made my decision.’
‘All Red units, I’m calling Birdcage.’
‘Birdcage’ was code for surveillance officers to close around the target while maintaining cover. It was a risky move, normally invoked in the closing seconds before arrest on the street, occasionally at gunpoint, in full view of the public. But this time it was different. The officers on the ground knew Kerr wanted them to provide a human shield against the Trojans, to sabotage the firearms operation. It was a direct breach of Weatherall’s order, Kerr at his most subversive. ‘Report sightings of Trojans immediately,’ he added, before Weatherall could recover.
Langton’s operatives immediately increased the pace around Jibril, their one-word acknowledgements echoing through the airwaves as they prepared to disappear into the railway system with their target. Then they saw Jibril make a detour left to walk beneath Vauxhall’s vast iron railway bridge, a dark, echoing stretch of more than a hundred metres bordered by brick walls, the perfect place for a final exercise in dry cleaning. By the time the two blacked-out Range Rovers of CO19, Tactical Firearms Branch, whirred into the giant roundabout at Vauxhall, seven surveillance officers had assembled at the other end of the bridge, twenty metres from the station entrance, forming an invisible, protective bubble around Jibril.
‘This is Mel. Trojan units approaching now.’
‘Received,’ said Kerr. ‘Challenger One from Kerr, urgent message. We have the target contained. Repeat. We have control of this and will maintain commentary. You need to hold back, over.’
Weatherall was trying to say something to Kerr, but the head of the firearms teams beat her to it. ‘Alpha from Challenger One, negative to that. We are on scene and have visual. We’re taking this from here. Withdraw your units now, over.’
Jibril continued walking rapidly to the Tube, oblivious to the activity all around him.
‘This is Mel, ten metres to the station.’
‘Challenger One from Alpha,’ said Kerr, ‘he’s nearly at the entrance and I’m telling you to hold your fucking cowboys back. It’s rush hour, for Christ’s sake, a thousand witnesses. He’s not, repeat, not carrying, and we can take him onto the train. We have to see where he leads us, so back off.’
As he spoke, Birdcage tightened to a radius of three metres, with a couple of the Reds already loitering ahead in the station entrance.
‘Trojan units from Challenger One. Attack attack attack!’
It was over in less than a minute. Both Range Rovers approached silently, taking a string of fifteen pedestrians by surprise as they drove the wrong way under the iron bridge and mounted the kerb right in front of them. At the same time Kerr’s operatives tightened the circle around Jibril until they were practically advancing at arm’s length.
In jeans, sweats and baseball caps, holsters strapped to the leg, with their Glock model 17 semi-automatic weapons already
‘That’s fucking crazy.’ Fargo and Alice winced as Kerr’s voice exploded from the speaker a microsecond too soon. ‘Ma’am, subject is not, repeat, not carrying and if he’s going somewhere interesting and they take him down we lose the lot. Are you getting this, over?’
Weatherall looked at Perkins again, but he was too busy scratching. In the past three minutes the marks on his hand had become red raw. ‘We can’t take the risk,’ she said finally, and began reading from the checklist at the front of the file. ‘I am invoking Andromeda. Challenger One, I am passing you executive control at . . . oh-eight-forty-seven.’
‘No. No way. Cancel that.’ Kerr’s voice bounced back again. ‘Look, he’s practically at the station. Remember Jean Charles. You can’t risk the Trojans on the train again. But we can follow him wherever he goes, Tube or mainline, no problem. If you pull us off now you risk losing everything.’
‘That’s enough. I’ve made my decision.’
‘All Red units, I’m calling Birdcage.’
‘Birdcage’ was code for surveillance officers to close around the target while maintaining cover. It was a risky move, normally invoked in the closing seconds before arrest on the street, occasionally at gunpoint, in full view of the public. But this time it was different. The officers on the ground knew Kerr wanted them to provide a human shield against the Trojans, to sabotage the firearms operation. It was a direct breach of Weatherall’s order, Kerr at his most subversive. ‘Report sightings of Trojans immediately,’ he added, before Weatherall could recover.
Langton’s operatives immediately increased the pace around Jibril, their one-word acknowledgements echoing through the airwaves as they prepared to disappear into the railway system with their target. Then they saw Jibril make a detour left to walk beneath Vauxhall’s vast iron railway bridge, a dark, echoing stretch of more than a hundred metres bordered by brick walls, the perfect place for a final exercise in dry cleaning. By the time the two blacked-out Range Rovers of CO19, Tactical Firearms Branch, whirred into the giant roundabout at Vauxhall, seven surveillance officers had assembled at the other end of the bridge, twenty metres from the station entrance, forming an invisible, protective bubble around Jibril.
‘This is Mel. Trojan units approaching now.’
‘Received,’ said Kerr. ‘Challenger One from Kerr, urgent message. We have the target contained. Repeat. We have control of this and will maintain commentary. You need to hold back, over.’
Weatherall was trying to say something to Kerr, but the head of the firearms teams beat her to it. ‘Alpha from Challenger One, negative to that. We are on scene and have visual. We’re taking this from here. Withdraw your units now, over.’
Jibril continued walking rapidly to the Tube, oblivious to the activity all around him.
‘This is Mel, ten metres to the station.’
‘Challenger One from Alpha,’ said Kerr, ‘he’s nearly at the entrance and I’m telling you to hold your fucking cowboys back. It’s rush hour, for Christ’s sake, a thousand witnesses. He’s not, repeat, not carrying, and we can take him onto the train. We have to see where he leads us, so back off.’
As he spoke, Birdcage tightened to a radius of three metres, with a couple of the Reds already loitering ahead in the station entrance.
‘Trojan units from Challenger One. Attack attack attack!’
It was over in less than a minute. Both Range Rovers approached silently, taking a string of fifteen pedestrians by surprise as they drove the wrong way under the iron bridge and mounted the kerb right in front of them. At the same time Kerr’s operatives tightened the circle around Jibril until they were practically advancing at arm’s length.
In jeans, sweats and baseball caps, holsters strapped to the leg, with their Glock model 17 semi-automatic weapons already
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