Chapters (124)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Acclaim for Frank Gardner’s Luke Carlton thrillers
- Also by Frank Gardner
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9
- 10
- 11
- 12
- 13
- 14
- 15
- 16
- 17
- 18
- 19
- 20
- 21
- 22
- 23
- 24
- 25
- 26
- 27
- 28
- 29
- 30
- 31
- 32
- 33
- 34
- 35
- 36
- 37
- 38
- 39
- 40
- 41
- 42
- 43
- 44
- 45
- 46
- 47
- 48
- 49
- 50
- 51
- 52
- 53
- 54
- 55
- 56
- 57
- 58
- 59
- 60
- 61
- 62
- 63
- 64
- 65
- 66
- 67
- 68
- 69
- 70
- 71
- 72
- 73
- 74
- 75
- 76
- 77
- 78
- 79
- 80
- 81
- 82
- 83
- 84
- 85
- 86
- 87
- 88
- 89
- 90
- 91
- 92
- 93
- 94
- 95
- 96
- 97
- 98
- 99
- 100
- 101
- 102
- 103
- 104
- 105
- 106
- 107
- 108
- 109
- 110
- 111
- 112
- 113
- 114
- 115
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgements
- THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING
From downstairs came the sound of laughter and the occasional cheer, but in that locked room the atmosphere was far from jovial. Doubts were being voiced, even at this late stage in the planning, as to the targeting. There was a simplicity, they all agreed, as to the choice of location. Railway stations were good: they meant a lot of people crowded into a confined space. And railway stations had one major selling point: they didn’t have airport-style security checks. You could walk in off the street, buy a ticket, get on to a train and nobody would stop you. But then the dissenters round the table, and there were two, had their objections. Was the cure for the disease too painful for the patient? Were they going to end up hurting the wrong people? Should they not be hitting somewhere more focused, somewhere less open to the general public?
They spoke in low voices and took notes. At irregular intervals one would get up from the table and walk ever so quietly to the locked door, silently slide back the bolt and yank it open, just in case anyone should care to be listening on the other side. They weren’t.
The planning committee had another problem. Not an insurmountable one, but a problem nonetheless. The closer they got to the time of delivery, the greater the risk of disruption by the police or MI5. What they needed, they all agreed, was an expert, a specialist in counter-surveillance. Someone with military or security experience who believed in the cause. Someone they could count on to identify the threats on the final journey to the target and help to circumvent them. So much had gone into this, so much time, money and effort invested, so much was at stake, that they could not afford a last-minute slip-up. The future of society, they all agreed, depended on it.
And they had thought they had the perfect man, until a few days ago. Sean Jennings had served with the Royal Signals: he had the right skills, and he was committed to the cause. At least they’d thought he was. Until he had announced he was pulling out and going off to live the quiet life in Somerset with his new girlfriend. She was devastated when it happened: a dreadful accident caused by the brakes failing on his car, such a sad end to the life they’d planned to live together.
Now time was running short, but they would keep looking for the right person. Everyone in that room knew there could be no second chances when the day came.
They left before closing, departing at different times, going off in different cars by different routes. No one had brought a phone or any electronic device.