security. It would take one hell of a distraction to get past that lot and there’d be no way out. And these special-ops bodyguards know what they’re doing. One hint of trouble and they’ll have the big guy out of there before the makeshift jetty goes down.’
‘If the PLO London branch are all expecting to go down fighting, why did I drive a RIB at thirty knots up the Thames to Chelsea heliport last night? Some of them, at least, are expected to get away, probably by helicopter. And let’s just say for the sake of argument they do have a hell of a distraction. They’ve got three people on the inside and a crew of between four and six coming up the river. Nine armed gunmen can do a lot of damage.’
‘OK, we can increase surveillance on the bridge over the coming days and we can warn MI6 we think there’ll be an attempt on the President. On the day itself, we can up presence on the river and have police on standby at the heliport. As soon as that GPS trace tells us you’re sailing up the central channel, we’ll know we’re on. It also means we’ve got a few days to play with. The President doesn’t arrive until Sunday 13 July. Well done, Mark.’
Joesbury grunts.
‘But do we know for sure that you’ll be driving the boat? If I were Rich-Man, now that you’ve shown them what to do, I’d get one of my own guys.’
‘Two reasons why I think they’ll use me. One, I scared the shit out of them last night, and they know it’s not easy to drive a high-speed boat up the Thames. Two, I don’t think they’re planning to use their own RIB. They think holding a position in the river won’t be a problem, which suggests they’ll be using something that passes for an official boat. Something normal river crafts won’t mess with.’
‘One of the Marine Unit RIBs?’
‘Seems most likely, but how they’re going to get hold of one is anybody’s guess. What worries me is this. What makes them think I’m going to go along with their plans to ram-raid the mother of all parliaments? How, exactly, do they plan to make me do that?’
8
JOESBURY IS IN the shower when they come for him. He feels the boat rock, hears low-pitched voices and he knows this is it. And with that certainty comes the twisting fear that something is wrong. It is too soon. The President is not due for another forty-eight hours.
He wraps a towel around his waist and squeezes out through the narrow bathroom door.
Rich isn’t here. He knows for sure, now, even if he didn’t before, because Rich will never get involved in the wet work. Assaf the brains, Haddad the young muscle and Malouf the engineer are in the cabin and he can see two more – Safar and Kouri – up top in the cockpit. All seem overdressed in large cotton sweatshirts and the thought that he could have been wrong about suicide bombers, that they could all be strapped up with explosives, sends another wave of fear through him.
‘Get dressed, please.’ Assaf doesn’t bother to greet him. ‘Quickly.’
In the cabin where he sleeps, Joesbury’s clothes have been removed and in their place is the uniform of a Marine Unit sergeant and a large black sweatshirt, similar to those the men in the cabin are wearing.
Not Semtex under their clothes then, something arguably far worse: the ability to get very close to the Palace of Westminster.
He scans the cabin, looking for his jacket, for the GPS tracer that is still in his pocket. There is no sign of his own clothes or of his phone. He opens cupboards, peers along shelves, but there is nothing in this cabin that can help him. Bed linen, coat hangers in the empty wardrobe, a small torch and a stack of life jackets in one cupboard.
He dresses slowly, needing time to think, but when he knows it can’t be avoided any longer, he rejoins the men.
‘Where’s my jacket? It’s got my wallet inside.’
‘Your wallet’s over there.’ Assaf nods at the chart table.
‘I need my phone,’ Joesbury tries again.
‘Ghufran,
‘If the PLO London branch are all expecting to go down fighting, why did I drive a RIB at thirty knots up the Thames to Chelsea heliport last night? Some of them, at least, are expected to get away, probably by helicopter. And let’s just say for the sake of argument they do have a hell of a distraction. They’ve got three people on the inside and a crew of between four and six coming up the river. Nine armed gunmen can do a lot of damage.’
‘OK, we can increase surveillance on the bridge over the coming days and we can warn MI6 we think there’ll be an attempt on the President. On the day itself, we can up presence on the river and have police on standby at the heliport. As soon as that GPS trace tells us you’re sailing up the central channel, we’ll know we’re on. It also means we’ve got a few days to play with. The President doesn’t arrive until Sunday 13 July. Well done, Mark.’
Joesbury grunts.
‘But do we know for sure that you’ll be driving the boat? If I were Rich-Man, now that you’ve shown them what to do, I’d get one of my own guys.’
‘Two reasons why I think they’ll use me. One, I scared the shit out of them last night, and they know it’s not easy to drive a high-speed boat up the Thames. Two, I don’t think they’re planning to use their own RIB. They think holding a position in the river won’t be a problem, which suggests they’ll be using something that passes for an official boat. Something normal river crafts won’t mess with.’
‘One of the Marine Unit RIBs?’
‘Seems most likely, but how they’re going to get hold of one is anybody’s guess. What worries me is this. What makes them think I’m going to go along with their plans to ram-raid the mother of all parliaments? How, exactly, do they plan to make me do that?’
8
JOESBURY IS IN the shower when they come for him. He feels the boat rock, hears low-pitched voices and he knows this is it. And with that certainty comes the twisting fear that something is wrong. It is too soon. The President is not due for another forty-eight hours.
He wraps a towel around his waist and squeezes out through the narrow bathroom door.
Rich isn’t here. He knows for sure, now, even if he didn’t before, because Rich will never get involved in the wet work. Assaf the brains, Haddad the young muscle and Malouf the engineer are in the cabin and he can see two more – Safar and Kouri – up top in the cockpit. All seem overdressed in large cotton sweatshirts and the thought that he could have been wrong about suicide bombers, that they could all be strapped up with explosives, sends another wave of fear through him.
‘Get dressed, please.’ Assaf doesn’t bother to greet him. ‘Quickly.’
In the cabin where he sleeps, Joesbury’s clothes have been removed and in their place is the uniform of a Marine Unit sergeant and a large black sweatshirt, similar to those the men in the cabin are wearing.
Not Semtex under their clothes then, something arguably far worse: the ability to get very close to the Palace of Westminster.
He scans the cabin, looking for his jacket, for the GPS tracer that is still in his pocket. There is no sign of his own clothes or of his phone. He opens cupboards, peers along shelves, but there is nothing in this cabin that can help him. Bed linen, coat hangers in the empty wardrobe, a small torch and a stack of life jackets in one cupboard.
He dresses slowly, needing time to think, but when he knows it can’t be avoided any longer, he rejoins the men.
‘Where’s my jacket? It’s got my wallet inside.’
‘Your wallet’s over there.’ Assaf nods at the chart table.
‘I need my phone,’ Joesbury tries again.
‘Ghufran,
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