The Secret Servant by Daniel Silva Page B

shaken.
    “There’s a group of embassy personnel that does a run in Hyde Park every morning.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “I’m usually one of them.”
    “Who else goes?”
    “The chief press officer, the FBI liaison, the Regional Security Officer…”
    “Jesus Christ,” Carter snapped.
    “It gets worse.”
    “How much worse?”
    “Elizabeth Halton.”
    “The ambassador’s daughter?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “What time do they leave?”
    “Seven-fifteen sharp.”
    Carter looked at his watch. It was 7:36 in London.
    “Get them back inside the embassy, Kevin. Run over to Hyde Park and do it yourself if you have to.”
    The next sound Carter heard was the sound of the deputy COS in London slamming down the phone. Carter hung up, waited ten seconds, and called Gabriel back.
    “I think I may have a group of diplomats running in Hyde Park at the moment,” he said. “How quickly can you get down there?”
    Carter heard another click.

     

    They had entered the park through Brook Gate, headed south along Broad Walk to Hyde Park Corner, then westward along Rotten Row, past the Rose Garden and the Dell. Elizabeth Halton moved to the front of the pack when they reached the Albert Memorial; then, with a DS agent at her side, she steadily increased the pace as they headed north up Lancaster Walk to Bayswater Road. Jack Hammond, the embassy spokesman, slipped past Elizabeth and pushed the pace hard to Victoria Gate, then down the West Carriage Drive to the shore of the Serpentine. As they approached the boathouses, a mobile phone began to ring. It belonged to Chris Petty, the RSO.

     

    They looked like ordinary rolling suitcases. They were not. The sides and wheels had been reinforced to accommodate the weight of the explosives, and the buttons on the collapsible handles had been wired to the detonators. The bags were now in the possession of four men who, at that moment, were approaching four separate targets: the Underground stations at Piccadilly Circus, Leicester Square, Charing Cross, and Marble Arch. The men knew nothing of each other but had much in common. All four were Egyptian. All four were takfiri Muslims who embraced death as much as the infidels loved life. And all four were wearing Seiko digital watches that would sound an alarm at precisely 7:40 A.M .

     

    It took two minutes for Gabriel to dress and get the Beretta and another minute to make his way downstairs to the street. The traffic signal along the Bayswater Road was blinking red when he arrived. He ignored it and sprinted through the oncoming traffic into the park. Just then he heard the rumble of an explosion deep underground and felt the earth shift suddenly beneath his feet. He stopped for a moment, uncertain of what he had just heard and felt, then turned and raced toward the center of the park.

     

    Chris Petty slowed to a stop and pulled the phone out of the clip attached to the waist of his sweatpants.
    “You guys go ahead,” he called out. “Take the usual route. I’ll catch up if I can.”
    The rest of the group turned away from the shore of the Serpentine and headed into the stand of trees north of the lake. Petty looked at the caller ID screen. It was his office inside the embassy. He opened the phone and brought it quickly to his ear.
    “Petty.”
    Static …
    “This is Chris Petty. Can you hear me?”
    Silence …
    “Shit.”
    He killed the connection and set off after the others. Twenty seconds later the phone rang again. This time, when he raised it to his ear, the connection was perfect.

     

    The man in the Addison & Hodge uniform collecting rubbish along the pathway looked up as the group of runners turned onto the footpath leading from the Old Police House to the Reformers’ Tree. The second false Addison & Hodge van was parked on the opposite side of the path, and another uniformed man was scratching at the earth with a rake. They had been preparing for this moment for over a year. Thirty seconds , the