More orange, but not clothing. This was a flashing light on a white van across the park. Nobody in the cab – but he glimpsed someone in a yellow vest near the vehicle’s rear.
Was it Brice? There was only one way to know for sure. Eddie ran across Parliament Square towards him.
‘Okay, that’s it,’ said Nina with relief as the video started on Huygens’ laptop. She had been worried that the flash drive’s submersion would have damaged it. ‘This was filmed by a drone in DR Congo. I’m with my husband, Eddie Chase, talking to an MI6 agent – supposedly an ex-agent, but you can hear his own explanation of that – called John Brice.’
The marines leaned closer to watch as the trio came into view, but Huygens was more interested in another figure – an unmoving one. ‘That’s Philippe Mukobo! He is alive!’
‘Well, was alive,’ she corrected. ‘Long story. But if you turn up the volume you’ll be able to hear what Brice is saying.’ He did so. ‘Skip forward. Keep going . . . okay, here.’
On the screen, Brice shook his head at Mukobo’s corpse. ‘And after everything I did to rescue him from the Yanks,’ he said, voice echoing and tinny, but still clearly audible.
‘How did you rescue him?’ demanded Eddie. ‘He was on a bloody plane!’
‘A pilot with some large debts, and a mid-air interception and transfer. GB63 – the Removal Men – pulled Mukobo out through the 747’s cockpit escape hatch and winched him up.’
‘But . . . then the plane crashed,’ Nina heard her past self say. ‘What went wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ was Brice’s unemotional reply. ‘The plan went exactly as intended.’
Huygens paused playback, startled. ‘The NTSB report on the wreckage we recovered from Flight 180 suggested that the cockpit escape hatch had been opened – and found bullet damage to some of the seats in the upper cabin,’ he told her. ‘But that part was never made public.’
‘Brice got him out,’ said Nina. ‘And if you keep watching, he explains why, and on whose behalf. But there isn’t time for that now. The room there, it’s underneath a lost city in the jungle.’ She sensed disbelief from some of her audience. ‘What? You know why I’m famous, right? But that box,’ she pointed at the lead casket upon the altar, ‘contains something called the Shamir – also known as the Horn of Joshua, which brought down the walls of Jericho in the Bible. It’s an ancient weapon, an extremely powerful one. And Brice has it. We think he’s about to use it to destroy the Houses of Parliament.’
The official boggled. ‘Why? You just said he’s a British agent! Why would he attack his own government?’
‘Regime change. Or rather, prevention of change,’ she explained. ‘The current government’s likely to lose the election to a party Brice doesn’t agree with. He thinks he’s protecting MI6, protecting his entire country, by taking out all its politicians – and stopping the election.’
‘But if he takes out the politicians, then who’s going to run the country? A military takeover?’
‘Prime Minister’s Questions is just starting. But funnily enough, the PM won’t actually be there for it.’
He stared at her – then took out his phone and dialled a number. ‘It’s Tony Huygens. I need to speak to the ambassador – it’s an emergency.’ As he waited to be put through, he spoke to Nina again. ‘And I need you to tell me everything you know about this.’
Eddie hurried across Parliament Square. The subsonic hum of the Shamir grew louder as he approached the parked van, people on the green starting to look around in confusion.
The man in the hi-vis vest had moved out of sight. Eddie came around the Transit’s front and advanced cautiously down its side. His target came back into view. He was facing away from the Yorkshireman, towards Parliament. His dark hair was shorter and neater than Brice’s had been in the Congo . . . but it was almost identical to how Eddie remembered it from their first meeting in Tenerife.
It was Brice, he was certain. A glance into the pickup bed confirmed it as he saw the Shamir protruding from its lead box. The attack was taking place, right now.
Closing the box on the strange stone would stop it. But Brice would be armed; he had to deal with him first.
He crept closer, feeling the van trembling as he brushed against it. The ancient weapon was absorbing energy, building up its power – and would release it at any moment. Brice still had his back to him. Eddie emerged from behind the Transit, just ten feet behind the other man. He clenched his fists, ready to strike . . .
Something in the pickup bed rattled as the vibrations intensified. Brice turned to check that the Shamir had not been dislodged—
He saw Eddie – then with lightning speed snatched out a handgun from beneath his hi-vis vest.
Eddie dived behind the statue of Churchill as Brice fired. The bullet smacked against its stone plinth. Screams rose as tourists fled from the gunshot.
The Yorkshireman scrambled around the plinth, but there was no other cover. And Brice was coming for him—
A traffic cone sat beside the plinth’s base. Eddie hurled it at the MI6 man as he rounded the statue. It struck his outstretched gun hand, a second shot going wide.
Eddie threw himself at Brice before he could recover. Both men fell. The gun went off again, the bullet searing skywards as they grappled—
The Shamir’s deep hum reached a crescendo – and a thunderous boom of splintering masonry echoed across Parliament Square as stonework halfway up the clock tower blew apart.
Inside the Commons chamber, the assembled MPs had already heard the low-frequency thrum, the murmurings passing between members on both sides going from curious to concerned as it rose. ‘Whatever that noise is,’ said Lombard, grateful for the chance to dodge a scathing question on the government’s recent record, ‘it’s preferable to the droning normally heard from the Opposition benches.’ The quip, however poor, brought roars of sycophantic laughter from his own side.
‘Order, order,’ called the Speaker from the elaborate wooden dais at the head of the chamber. The mocking tumult faded, but the underlying noise was still there, stronger than before. The muttered discussions along the benches were now tinged with worry.
One of the Speaker’s assistants behind the dais felt his phone vibrate. The number was known only to a few, and those who did had instructions not to call it while Parliament was in session – except in the most exceptional circumstances. He slipped out of sight of the chamber and answered in a whisper. ‘Yes?’
‘Please hold for the American ambassador,’ said a woman. The assistant raised a quizzical eyebrow. Why on earth would the US ambassador be calling?
At that moment, a loud bang came from outside – alarmingly close by.
Eddie looked up in shock as a dust cloud rolled down the Elizabeth Tower, hunks of broken granite dropping from it like giant hailstones. Cracks spread across the clock’s western face – then the whole glasswork disc exploded, a razor-edged rain showering over the grounds of Parliament.
More stonework shattered under the Shamir’s sonic assault, the invisible beam chewing into the tower’s south-western corner. The outer cladding broke away to expose the iron beams and girders within – which in turn blew apart, metal as vulnerable as mineral to the ancient weapon’s effect.
Even as the architect of the destruction, Brice was just as shocked by the sight of a national icon crumbling before his eyes. But he overcame it first, slamming an elbow against Eddie’s head.
The Yorkshireman still had one hand clamped around Brice’s wrist, forcing the gun away from him. He struck back, driving a fist hard into the other man’s sternum. The SIS officer grunted in pain. Eddie shifted his grip, managing to dig his fingers in between those of Brice’s gun hand.
Brice twisted, trying to get upright. Eddie kicked, catching his ankle and sending him stumbling back to the pavement. But the taller man was now on top of him – and to
ok full advantage, using his elbow again to deliver one, two, three brutal jabs to Eddie’s chest and stomach. The Yorkshireman gasped, but refused to relinquish his hold—
The tip of his forefinger found ridged metal: the magazine release.
He pushed it. The magazine popped out, bouncing off Eddie’s forearm and clattering to the ground.
One threat reduced – but not removed. There was still a round in the gun’s chamber.
Brice shoved his free arm across his opponent’s throat, pushing down hard. Eddie gasped, unable to breathe. He swung his fist at the other man’s face, but only landed a glancing strike. The SIS officer’s grip tightened around the gun, forcing Eddie’s straining fingers away.
The Yorkshireman tried to pitch his opponent off him, but didn’t have enough leverage. He felt his strength fading, lungs burning as Brice regained his hold on the pistol—
‘Drop the gun! Drop it!’
An armed policeman at the roadside raised an MP5 at the pair—
Brice snapped his weapon around and fired. The bullet hit the cop in the chest. His body armour took most of the impact, but he still stumbled backwards – and was hit by a car. The policeman was thrown along the road, his gun clattering away.
But Brice’s own gun was now empty. He looked down for the magazine—
Its corner slammed against his eye socket.
His weight had shifted when he raised the gun, momentarily easing the pressure on Eddie’s throat – and the bald man found a final surge of energy, snatching up the fallen mag and driving it into his adversary’s face. Brice fell, blood spurting from a deep cut beneath his eye. The Yorkshireman rolled free, tossing the magazine under the Transit’s tail.
Another thunderous crash of falling stone came from the clock tower.
Eddie glanced at Brice – then scrambled to the van’s tailgate. The Shamir poked out from the end of the lead box. The lid lay beside it. He clambered into the pickup bed and picked up the heavy slab. If he sealed the Shamir back in its case, cutting it off from its power source, he could still stop Brice’s plan—
The Transit jolted as the MI6 agent jumped up after him. Eddie spun, whipping the lid around – and pounding it into his lunging opponent like a club.
Brice reeled back, face twisted in pain. Eddie swung it again to knock him off the van—
This time Brice was prepared. He twisted, catching the lid and trying to use Eddie’s own momentum to throw him from the pickup.
The Yorkshireman realised the danger just in time to fling himself bodily at the other man—
They both fell, the lid between them. It hit the pavement edge-on – and smashed into three jagged pieces.
Eddie stared at them in horror. There was now no way to shield the Shamir!
The Speaker listened to the urgent message from his assistant, then raised his voice over the growing hubbub of the Commons chamber. Dust and grit began to cascade from the vaulted ceiling as the building shook. ‘If I can have everyone’s attention, please!’ he called, trying to maintain decorum even in an emergency. ‘We need to evacuate immediately. If everyone can make their way to the nearest exit, calmly but quickly—’
Pandemonium erupted.
Everyone leapt from their seats in a desperate attempt to flee the chamber. Those on the front rows had the clearest route to the doors with nothing in front of them except carpet, but everyone farther back was penned in by the rows of benches. Men and women were knocked down and trampled as their frightened colleagues piled up behind them.
The first MPs reached the doors and threw them open to flee into the lobbies beyond. But the nineteenth-century chamber had only a handful of exits – and almost six hundred people inside. More were crushed against the walls and door frames by those behind as they tried to squeeze through the openings, choking the escape routes still further—
A terrible noise sounded over the panicked screams, bells ringing all at once in a crazy cacophony.
Another explosion of glass came from the clock tower as a second face shattered. Eddie was shocked by the sight of the structure’s upper half visibly rocking, tipping towards the Commons chamber before rolling back with a clamour of bells. More dust and debris erupted below as the Shamir’s devastating beam continued to devour the stonework.
The Shamir! He couldn’t seal it in its box – but he could still point it away from Parliament—
He pushed himself up – only to be slammed flat as Brice hit him across the back with one of the broken chunks of lead.
Groaning, Eddie rolled on to his side to see the rogue agent grab the empty gun and scramble to the van. He clawed beneath it for the magazine.
Eddie forced himself to move. The pain in his back was excruciating, but he clenched his jaw and stood upright.
Brice’s hand closed around the mag. He pulled it out, slapping his prize into place and chambering a new round as he turned to find Eddie—
He was already there.
Eddie’s fist ploughed into the spy’s face. ‘Fuck you, double-oh shithead!’ the Yorkshireman roared. He body-slammed Brice against the pickup’s tailgate. ‘You’re no patriot, you’re a fucking psychopath!’
Both men again grappled for the gun. Eddie was still breathless and in pain – but his fury was enough to prevent Brice from overpowering him.
But only just. The SIS officer strained to raise his right arm above his head, using his greater height and reach to inch the weapon from Eddie’s grasp. ‘I’m doing what has to be done to protect my country,’ he rasped. ‘I’ll let history judge me – but you’ll be long forgotten!’
He stretched up as far as he could – and jerked the pistol from his opponent’s grip. Eddie clawed for the gun, but it was now out of reach—
He saw something behind Brice – his last chance to save both the day and his own life.
‘Know what you’ve forgotten?’ he said, abruptly switching his hold to Brice’s arm to keep it raised straight upwards. ‘The Shamir!’
He forced Brice’s gun hand in front of the ancient weapon.
The pistol blew apart in a shower of razor-edged splinters. Eddie cried out as shrapnel stabbed into his arm and the top of his head – but Brice’s wounds were vastly worse. The MI6 agent screamed as his right hand was shredded, splattering both men with blood.
Eddie let go and pulled back – then kicked Brice in the stomach. He crashed against the tailgate. The impact dislodged the Shamir, its horn sliding across the end of the casket. The assault on the clock tower ceased, the invisible beam instead carving into the grey Edwardian headquarters of Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs on the square’s north side. Its top floors exploded, the roof collapsing and crushing everything beneath under tons of debris.
Realising lives were still at stake, the Yorkshireman abandoned his attempt to finish off the spy and scrabbled back into the pickup bed. He shoved the Shamir into its box.
But his hope that would end the threat was instantly dashed. Without the lead container’s lid, the stone was still being charged by whatever energy it fed upon – and the casket shuddered, the dense metal flaking and cracking as it took the full force of the Shamir’s beam.
A glance at Big Ben as the bells continued their mad chorus. The clock tower’s top was listing again, a chunk hacked out from below it as if struck by a lumberjack’s axe—
The end of the casket succumbed to the Shamir’s power and splintered apart. Stone pillars on the far side of the road crumbled, a van passing through the beam ripping open as if slashed by an invisible scythe.
Eddie looked back in desperation at the strange stone. He had to move it – but to where?
The river—
Westminster Bridge was just a few hundred yards away, beyond Parliament. Nina had told him that flood waters once cut off the Mother of the Shamir from its source of power – maybe the Thames would do the same
for its offspring . . .
He pulled the Shamir upright, aiming the thrumming stone horn towards the sky, then jumped from the pickup. Brice had gone, but he couldn’t spare even a second to look for him, instead piling into the cab. The keys were still in the ignition. He started the engine and jammed the Transit into reverse, looking through the rear window as he set off.
Complete chaos had erupted. People fled in all directions, some drivers trying to weave through the crowd as others abandoned their vehicles and ran. He saw a couple of armed police helping the cop shot by Brice, but the appalling spectacle of the teetering clock tower dominated the attention of all their comrades. Nobody tried to stop him – but nor did they attempt to help him either.
He was on his own.
Eddie sounded the horn, gesturing frantically for people to get out of his way. The Transit somehow reached the road without mowing anyone down, but now he had to go against the traffic to reach the bridge—
A car ploughed into the van’s rear. Eddie was thrown across the seats as it spun. He dragged himself upright, looking back at the pickup bed – and saw that the Shamir had been knocked over by the collision. The tax office took another devastating blast as he wrestled the Transit into first gear and swung back towards the river.
London’s traditional order had broken down into a free-for-all, cars veering across every lane. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he gasped, swerving between them. Another glancing strike as he turned hard to avoid a head-on crash – then he was through, the way to Westminster Bridge opening out ahead of him.
The reason for the suddenly clear road was obvious: nobody dared drive past the clock tower. The street near its base was strewn with fallen debris. Traffic coming from the far bank had stopped, the crossing choked at its halfway point as drivers tried to turn back.
An ominous boom from above. The Shamir was no longer pointing at Brice’s target, but it had done its work. The tower tilted again, tortured girders screaming – and the clock’s northern face disintegrated, glass and iron cascading towards the street . . .