Deep Sleepers (A Tom Blake thriller - Book 1)

  'Well, of course they'd tell us that. Look, they probably want us out of the way. I have to get there. This could be a huge story. Do you understand?'

  'Not really, but do what you want. I'm staying here. If there's a chance I can see Nick again I'm not going to blow it on your hunch. I'm sorry.'

  'Suit yourself. I'll see you later.'

  Trent hobbled back towards the entrance, struggling with his crutches, and leaving Lucy cradling her cup. She watched him hop down the stairs and disappear out the door. Then she turned her attention back to the traffic and let out a deep sigh.

  *

  It seemed as though everyone in the control room was on the phone barking instructions.

  'What's happening?' said Patterson, as Smitherman-Banks ended one call and before he could answer another.

  'We're in the wrong place. This was a diversion. Several devices have been found in Canterbury Cathedral. That was the real target. The bomb squad's on the way, but I'm diverting the response teams there immediately. I'm sorry.'

  'What about the blue Mondeo?'

  'Still no sign. Looks like it was all part of an elaborate hoax, I'm afraid. Don't beat yourself up about it. Nothing you could have done.' Smitherman-Banks' phone rang again. 'I'm sorry, I need to take this.'

  Patterson stared across the harbour as another ferry edged out of the port, a plume of black smoke rising from its stumpy funnels. Around him, members of the police Gold Command team were hurriedly packing up their belongings. Patterson spoke into his radio handset. 'Blake, are you there? It's Patterson.'

  'Harry, what news?'

  'It's not good, I'm afraid. There's been an attack on Canterbury Cathedral. Multiple devices have been found. They think the ferry plot was a diversion. Proctor and Clark must have been onto us.' There was silence at the other end of the line. 'Blake?'

  'It's not a diversion. I'm absolutely sure of it. Canterbury is the hoax,' said Blake. 'You have to stop them leaving.'

  'I don't think I can. They're hell bent on getting out.'

  'Do your best, Harry, it's all I ask.'

  Blake watched helplessly as the sniper teams packed up their kit and stood down. From all directions, scores of men dressed in blue overalls and fluorescent jackets were jogging towards the terminal building. On the far side of the port, lines of lorries were parked up, either waiting for later ferries or preparing for their onward journeys. If Proctor had managed to slip into Dover, Blake was sure that was where he would be parked, hidden among the trucks, waiting for Mike Clark. It had to be worth a check. He stamped on the accelerator and the forklift truck shot forward.

  He trundled along the first line of lorries, suspiciously viewing the drivers who were either checking over their loads, smoking or chatting. There was the odd commercial van, but nothing that remotely resembled the Mercedes Proctor and Clark had had modified. At the end of the line of trucks, he swung the forklift through a wide arc and weaved back between a second row.

  Eventually, Blake ended up at the far side of the port and drew to a halt. He watched through a chain link fence as the last of the marked police cars sped out of the port with their sirens wailing and knew he'd missed his chance to stop them.

  'Harry? Is that everyone gone?' he asked, over the radio.

  'I'm afraid so, Blake. Sorry. Any sign of Proctor?'

  'I don't think he's made it back yet. When's the next ferry?'

  'I can see one about ten minutes out. According to the controllers she's due in at 11:55.'

  'Which berth?'

  'Three.'

  'I'll go check it out.'

  'Just a minute.' The radio crackled and hissed.

  'What is it, Harry?' There was no reply, just white static noise.

  After a brief pause, Patterson's voice said, 'It's the Mondeo. The control tower's been notified that it's checked into departures and they have a positive on Mike Clark.'

  Chapter 51

  The intricate operation to bring a 40,000-ton ferry into port started all over again. The ship's movement was so slow and controlled that it was almost impossible to tell when it had actually berthed. Dockers and crew worked frenetically to secure her so the turnaround could begin. Metallic clangs and rattles signalled that unloading was underway, and a parade of heavy goods vehicles proceeded down a short ramp with their exhausts belching thick diesel smoke.

  The numbers of cars queueing in the boarding lanes was constantly being swelled by a trickle of vehicles from a service road. Blake kept a close eye out for Clark's car, but his view was suddenly obscured by a procession of lorries pouring out of the newly arrived ferry and cut in front of him. He counted at least fifty lorries disembarking before the first of the cars was allowed off. While most of the trucks were foreign-registered, almost all the cars had British number plates. Among them were campervans and commercial trucks, but no dark-coloured removals van.

  'Blake, do you have a visual on Proctor yet?' said Patterson.

  'Negative.'

  But as Blake tossed the radio onto the dashboard he saw a flash of maroon at the top of the ramp. A Mercedes van rolled down the ramp and hit the apron trailing behind a mud-splattered, silver Land Rover. As it passed, Blake took a good look through its passenger window, and saw Proctor behind the wheel. He recognised his distinctive frame, his dark, short-cropped hair, and the vivid tattoo exposed on his shoulder.

  'Harry, it's Blake. Correction. I now have a visual on Proctor. Repeat, Proctor has arrived.'

  *

  A small crowd of journalists had already gathered when Trent arrived at the cathedral. They were standing at the edge of a police cordon on the wrong side of an ancient stone gateway, waiting in anticipation for any nuggets of information. Inside the cathedral grounds, visible through the archway, was a white Army bomb disposal truck and a number of uniformed police officers bustling around.

  Trent pushed his way through hordes of curious onlookers with his press pass clenched between his teeth, and took his place at the back of the reporters. He sidled up to a young, blonde reporter who looked barely old enough to have left school. She was clutching a notepad in one hand and a ballpoint pen poised in the other. 'Have the police said anything?' he asked, without introduction.

  'They're due to give a statement in the next ten minutes,' she said, with a nervous smile.

  'Anyone manage to get into the grounds before the cordon went up?'

  'No, I don't think so.'

  Trent was disappointed. In his early days as a cub reporter, he'd have never let a police cordon stand in the way of him landing a scoop.

  He watched with mild interest as a television reporter straightened his tie and muttered lines to himself as he prepared a piece-to-camera. Alongside him, an enthusiastic radio reporter was carrying out rapid-fire interviews with any eyewitnesses who could be persuaded to talk, the bright red sponge on the end of her microphone rammed under their noses.

  'Are they going to give us any access inside?'

  'I don't think so, no,' said the reporter, stepping away from Trent.

  From the other side of the cordon, a middle-aged woman in a yellow fluorescent jacket three sizes too big approached the journalists and informed them that the officer-in-charge, Assistant Chief Constable Clive Smitherman-Banks, would shortly give them an update on the situation.

  A few minutes later, the officer appeared from the cathedral precincts, trailed by a woman in a smart trouser suit, a uniformed inspector, a fire officer, and a soldier in Army fatigues.

  Smitherman-Banks introduced himself briefly, as microphones were thrust at him and cameramen jostled for the best position. He cleared his throat. 'I have a short statement. A few minutes before eleven this morning, multiple explosive devices were found inside the cathedral by staff. The building was immediately evacuated, and an Army bomb disposal team was dispatched. At the moment, that team is working to make the devices safe. As you can imagine, it is a slow process, but we are doing everything we can. Major Collins?'
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  The soldier stepped forward, and spoke with a grim expression. 'To elaborate slightly, we are currently dealing with up to five devices, which we are treating as credible. We're using a remotely controlled robot, but I'm afraid at this stage there's not much more I can say. We hope to be able to give you more information later.'

  'Has anyone claimed responsibility?' Trent called out.

  'Not at the moment,' said Smitherman-Banks.

  'Well, any idea who might be behind it then?'

  'Not yet.'

  'Can you confirm that you're investigating a possible link with the British Freedom Alliance?' Trent continued to probe. He noticed Major Collins cast a nervous glance at the police commander, but Smitherman-Banks' face gave nothing away.

  'It wouldn't be right to speculate about any suspects at this stage. I'm sure you understand,' he said.

  'Do you know when the devices were planted?' asked one of the television reporters.

  'It's too early to say.'

  'Is it right that one of the devices was emitting smoke?' asked Trent.

  Smitherman-Banks deferred to the Army officer. 'We can confirm that smoke has been detected in the building, but it's unclear whether that has come from one of the devices,' said Major Collins.

  'Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you very much for your time. We hope to give you an update in a couple of hours.' Smitherman-Banks turned on his heel, and strode towards the cathedral gate, followed in procession by the other officials.

  'Hardly a full and frank explanation of what the hell's going on,' said Trent, catching up with the young reporter.

  'I suppose there's nothing for it but to hang around and wait for the update,' she said, slipping her notepad into the pocket of her coat.

  'I suppose so,' said Trent. But he had no intention of hanging around.

  *

  Blake observed from the bottom of the ramp as a long line of cars was waved on board towards teams of crewmen in hard hats and high visibility jackets who were directing the drivers into parking spaces, spreading the load evenly throughout the lower decks of the ferry. He was nervously watching for Clark in the blue Ford, hoping the port controllers had made a mistake and that he was due on a later ship.

  'Harry, any joy yet getting those response teams back?'

  'I'm working on it,' said Patterson, over the radio. 'I need more time.'

  'We don't have time, Harry. If Clark boards this ferry, we don't have a plan to stop him.'

  'I'm well aware of that, Blake. Do you have eyes on him yet?'

  'They started loading the ship a few minutes ago, but I can't see him. I guess he's in one of the queues, but it's really busy down here.'

  'You'll have to find a way of stopping him on your own. We can't let him drive on board with the explosives if we don't have armed back-up,' said Patterson.

  'Negative. We have to let him on board.'

  'Blake, listen to me. Don't let Clark get that ferry. That's an order.'

  'If I try to stop him, or he thinks he's been rumbled, there's every chance he'll detonate the bomb. I can't take that chance, Harry. There are too many people around. I need him out of the car and incapacitated. I think he’s planning to abandon the vehicle on the car deck and slip off the vessel before it departs. That gives me a small window of opportunity to stop him.'

  'And if you fail?'

  'Then it's not worth thinking about.'

  The first line of cars cleared and an adjacent queue was waved forward. Blake scanned the vehicles and spotted an old blue Ford ten cars back. 'I think I can see him.'

  'Blake, confirm; do you have eyes on Clark?'

  As the cars crept slowly forwards, Blake stared through the windscreen of the Ford, squinting against the light reflected off the angled glass. As it drew closer, he recognised the familiar figure of Mike Clark behind the wheel. He looked relaxed, driving with one hand on the wheel, his right arm out of view, and his eyes never wavering from the car ahead. The Mondeo hit the metal ramp with a clatter, and was swallowed up into the body of the ship.

  'Clark's on board,' said Blake. 'Do you copy?'

  'Roger that, Blake.'

  'I would suggest we need those response teams. Now.'

  *

  A pair of wooden gates that hung between two crumbling stone pillars was all that stood between Trent and the cathedral precincts. It was one of few unguarded entrances into the grounds and hadn't taken him long to find. A mere ten minutes hobble from where the press pack had been penned safely out of the way. The only problem was that they were at least six feet high and topped with a protective ridge of iron teeth.

  Trent waited for a gaggle of teenagers to pass, laughing and giggling in their school uniforms, blissfully unaware of the drama in the cathedral. He feigned interest in the window of an adjacent shop, and when they were gone seized his chance. He tossed his crutches over the top, and hauled himself up onto a wheelie bin, which wobbled under his weight. With a final check that nobody was watching, he grabbed the top of the gate and dragged his body over. He winced as the metal teeth dug into his ribs, but the discomfort was nothing compared to the agony that shot up his leg as he landed on his broken foot. Fighting the urge to scream, he bit hard on his lower lip.

  Eventually, the pain subsided and he was able to sit up, drawing in deep, restorative breaths. He retrieved his crutches and stood awkwardly, assessing his surroundings. He was on a gravel drive at the rear of the cathedral. It swept past the ancient flint and ashlar Archbishop's Palace with its exquisite mullioned and transomed windows, which in any other setting would have been a grand and handsome building. But in the shadow of the Caen stone cathedral, Trent thought it looked rather plain.

  Keeping close to a long wall opposite the palace, he shuffled towards the cathedral's South West entrance where he had expected to see large numbers of police officers. But the area was deserted. Beyond the entrance, the white bomb disposal truck was parked up. Several men in Army fatigues and navy blue berets were standing at its rear end talking anxiously and examining a small screen. He imagined they were watching a video feed from a robot deployed inside the building.

  He was about to move forward for a better view when a flicker of movement caught his eye, and an over-inflated figure in a green-padded suit waddled out from inside the cathedral. He inched slowly towards the white truck, pulling off an oversized helmet. Three soldiers ran across to help. They chattered in excited voices, and although Trent couldn't make out their words, he had the definite sense that something significant had occurred.

  *

  'Sir, there's an urgent call for you.' A young constable held out a mobile phone to Smitherman-Banks.

  'Who is it?'

  'Colonel Patterson, from MI5. He's still in Dover.'

  Smitherman-Banks snatched the phone. 'Yes?'

  'You're in the wrong place. Proctor arrived on a ferry just after you left. Clark checked in shortly afterwards. You must have passed him as you all left. We need response teams down here urgently. Blake's on his own.'

  'Hang on a minute, Patterson. I told you, it's a diversion. We've got multiple devices here at the cathedral. The bomb disposal teams are inside at the moment. I don't think we need to worry about Proctor and Clark anymore.'

  'With respect, sir, the cathedral is the diversion. An attack is imminent here at the port.'

  The ACC was momentarily distracted as the door to the command centre he'd set up in one of the diocesan buildings flew open. Major Collins strode in with an anxious look on his face. 'Look, what am I supposed to do? I've got five bombs here and God knows, there may be more.'

  'Excuse me, sir, I need to a word.' Major Collins caught the ACC's eye and raised a finger to emphasise his need to interrupt.

  'Hang on a minute, Patterson. What is it, Major?'

  'The devices are hoaxes. They're not even terribly sophisticated. A bit of modelling clay, a few wires and a digital clock face. To the untrained eye they look the business, but they're most definitely not
viable.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'One hundred per cent.'

  'Oh Christ! Patterson, are you still there?'

  'Still here, sir.'

  'I'm scrambling the armed response teams. They'll be with you in twenty minutes. Keep me posted.'

  *

  In his heavy, steel toe-capped boots, Blake reached the car deck with his thighs burning. He jogged between the tightly packed lines of vehicles, bumping past passengers wrestling with children and luggage, and with a cacophony of noise ringing in his ears. The hubbub of shouted commands, the hum of engines, and the echo of car doors slamming. But Blake ignored it all, focussing on finding Clark. He spotted the blue Ford parked in a left-hand lane, near the bow of the ship.

  An ideal location for a bomb because of its proximity to the bow doors. The explosion would rip a hole in the hull like punching through a wet paper bag, with catastrophic consequences. Sea-water would flood onto the deck and capsize the ship within minutes as the rising waters caused the ferry to become unstable.

  Clark was already out of the car, reaching into the back seat. He pulled out a blue bag, which he threw over his shoulder, and locked the car remotely with an electronic key. Blake ducked behind a campervan as Clark turned and joined a column of passengers trudging towards the stairs to the upper decks. Blake followed discreetly, filing up the narrow stairs behind an elderly couple and a family with two teenage boys.

  When they emerged onto the passenger decks, Clark angled right towards the stern, and walked purposefully towards the men's toilets halfway along a central passageway. Blake slipped into a noisy video games arcade opposite and spoke quietly into his radio.

  'Harry, are you there? I'm on board with a visual on Clark.'

  'Blake, I'm here. Where's the car?'

  'Parked on the main deck near the bow doors. I've followed Clark onto the passenger deck. He's got a bag with him.'

  'I've alerted the terrorism unit, and they're turning around the response teams. They should be here any minute.'

  'Well, tell them to come quietly. Any sign of flashing blue lights and the game's over.'

  *

  Trent, propped up on his crutches, could only watch and speculate as police officers appeared from nowhere running in all directions. The commotion was followed by the ear-piercing noise of sirens and a pulse of flashing blue lights. Something had definitely happened, and it looked as if the police teams were pulling out. Maybe they'd located another bomb. Trent tried to check his Twitter feed, but the signal in the cathedral precincts was too weak. He shoved the phone back in his pocket.