Agent of the State by Roger Pearce Page B

miniature screen. He sat cross-legged, swivelling the cable to cover the room below. ‘OK, Al, we have a bomb factory, four up, two in their mid-twenties, English-speaking, Yorkshire accents. Number three is older, saying nothing yet. And the cameraman Shakir is setting up his equipment. You should be getting audio and video feed.’
    ‘Loud and clear.’
    ‘Workbench in the centre of the living room. Three devices minimum in plastic containers, fridge in the corner, possibly more stashed in there. Three rucksacks, half a dozen batteries, piles of white powder in a heavy plastic bag.’
    ‘How much?’
    ‘Masses. Al, these boys are clean-shaven.’ This was significant, because suicide bombers shaved their faces and body hair immediately before blowing themselves up. Deprived of a proper burial, this was to ensure cleanliness when they entered Heaven.
    ‘What’s the stuff at the end of the bench?’
    ‘Bottle of clear liquid – sulphuric acid, possibly.’ Justin strained his eyes. ‘Can’t make out the label. Six, correction, seven plastic beakers, looks like a couple of eye-droppers beside them. There’s a hacksaw and copper tubing for the detonators but can’t see any wires to go with the batteries, not from here. Shakir, with his tripod et cetera, covering the wall to the left of the door. Three chairs. Sheets of A3 covered with felt tip. Al, this guy’s even written the script for them. Bomb factory plus film set.’
     
    In their makeshift observation post, Kerr, Melanie and Fargo crowded round the monitor. Kerr grabbed the mike. ‘Justin, I want you out of there, do you hear me? I mean now.’
    ‘John?’ said Melanie, quietly, tapping Kerr’s arm. ‘We’ve got company.’
    Kerr turned to find the firearms team leader behind him and smiled with relief. ‘Hey, Jim,’ he said, grasping his hand, ‘am I glad to see you.’ Kerr and Jim Gallagher had worked many ops together over the years. Gallagher had arrived in complete silence, shrouded in black fatigues and ready for action, with CS canister, stun grenades, gas mask, quick cuffs, baton, and Glock 17 in the holster strapped to his thigh. Had he been in the jeans and sweatshirt he wore around the house, few would have guessed his job. A Highlander in his early thirties, Gallagher was tall, blond, superfit and mildly spoken, and his youthful face belied the dangers confronting him every working day.
    Kerr knew he was also ice cool. In 2005, the week after 7/7, Gallagher had co-ordinated three of the five firearms teams deployed to arrest jihadis planning a second wave of attacks in London. Because further attacks were believed to be imminent, his operations had been executed with very little notice to plan or recce, but had been faultless. Captured on TV and replayed constantly, the pictures showed the Trojans at their professional best.
    Melanie cleared a space for Gallagher to study the screen.
    ‘So, John, what crock of shit are you handing me this time?’
    ‘See for yourself,’ said Melanie, activating the mike. ‘Justin, we’re briefing Challenger One, so pan around again.’
    The picture moved jerkily as Kerr pointed at the screen. ‘Three targets in flat 608, plus one to record their suicide video. You can see the explosive mix here, at least three completed devices to pack into rucksacks.’
    Gallagher peered through the bus window, counting up the floors. ‘So, no chance to evacuate the building ?’
    ‘Not with safety,’ said Kerr, holding the headphones to Gallagher’s ear. ‘They’re really worked up, almost ready to hit the street. We don’t have much time.’
    Gallagher listened intently. ‘I can’t risk explosions in the block.’ He spoke calmly into his throat mike. ‘Challenger Two, withdraw all units and await my instructions.’ Instinctively, he was checking his gear. ‘We’ll have to regroup, and you should too, John. The uniforms have the cordons set up and you’re about sixty metres too close. If this lot