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“You’re planning to turn into the invisible man no doubt?” said Lamont. “Even John Wayne didn’t manage that.”
“No, sir. But if Paul were to become a conductor on our own number 118 bus, he would be invisible along with everyone else on board!”
The Hawk and Lamont looked at each other.
“The sleepless nights were worth it, DS Warwick,” said the commander. “I think the commissioner’s going to be impressed by my latest idea.”
They all started banging on the table.
“Right,” said the Hawk, bringing them back to order. “We’ve got our bus conductor, now we need a driver.”
“It has to be Danny Ives,” said William without hesitation.
“Along with sixteen handpicked specialist arms officers from PT17,” said Lamont, “who’ll occupy the lower deck, ready to move at a moment’s notice.”
“However,” said Paul, “the first of them shouldn’t be in uniform or armed to the teeth but in tracksuits and trainers, as they’ll need to take out the four lookouts in under ten seconds, while three other officers tackle Donoghue and commandeer the lift.”
“By which time a dozen heavily armed passengers will be on their way up the stairs, which is when I’ll call upon the counter-terrorist specialists to play their part.”
“We’ll also need a dozen WPCs,” said William, “dressed in civilian clothes.”
“Enlighten me,” said the Hawk.
“Rashidi’s lookouts might become suspicious if they see a passing bus entirely packed with fit young men with crew cuts, not on their way home from work but on their way to work. So, I want there to be a scattering of women dressed like housewives, commuters, shoppers—looking like anything but police officers.”
“Nice touch, William,” said the commander. “But we’ll also have to remove all the seats from the upper deck and set up a command center from where I can oversee the entire operation. Which leaves me with the problem of how to get my hands on a double-decker bus.”
“I’m so glad we’ve found something for you to do, sir,” said Paul, immediately regretting his words.
“As we have for you, DC Adaja. Because once this operation is over, you’ll be well qualified to apply for a job as a bus conductor. But before then, try not to forget who’ll be conducting the orchestra.”
* * *
Once the meeting had broken up and his team had returned to their offices, Hawksby sat back and thought carefully about how he could increase the operation’s chances of success. After a few moments, he pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk, took out an unopened Marlboro packet and a felt-tipped pen. He tore off the cellophane wrapping, flicked the pack open, and emptied the cigarettes onto his desk.
He removed the foil and thought carefully about the simple message he needed to convey. After a few moments he wrote, 11 p.m., 12th, then put the foil back into place. He closed the top and slipped the pack into an inside pocket, then made his way out of his office and took the lift to the basement. He left by the back entrance of the building, turned right, and headed for Westminster Cathedral. This time he went in by the front door, not as a pri
est but a parishioner.
He walked slowly down the left-hand aisle, admiring Eric Gill’s Jesus Is Nailed to the Cross. When he reached his target, he looked around before unlocking the offertory box and placing the cigarette packet in one corner. He then closed the lid and locked it, finally dropping fifty pence through the little slot to assuage his guilt.
He decided to walk home. Quite some distance, but he needed the exercise, and time to think about his speech.
* * *
“Superintendent Lamont has been in touch,” said Booth Watson, taking a seat opposite his client in the prison’s private consultation room. He opened his briefcase, extracted some papers and placed them on the glass table between them. “He’s applied for a production order under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, and he wants to interview you as soon as possible.”
“So, am I to be transferred to an open prison?” asked Faulkner. “Or is my sentence going to be halved for good behavior?”
“Neither. Lamont wants to question you about two other crimes they think you might have been involved in.”
“Like what?” said Faulkner.
“Arson, for starters. They have reason to believe you were responsible for burning down your own home.”
“While I was locked up in here?”
“Along with the theft of seventy-two paintings from the house before it was burned down, valued at approximately thirty million pounds,” said Lamont, ignoring the outburst.
