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“Lord,” Fleming said, “if only we knew exactly where the bomb was.”
“If we did,” Cabrillo said, “this would be a hell of a lot easier.”
40
OVERHOLT WAS BRIEFING his commander in chief.
“So that’s where we are, Mr. President,” Overholt said early on New Year’s Eve morning.
“And you offered the British any help we might have?” the president asked.
“Absolutely,” Overholt said. “Fleming, who heads MI5, said there’s nothing we can do at this point other than have a couple of our nuclear experts from Mindenhall Air Base on standby.”
“And you did that, of course,” the president said.
“The U.S. Air Force helicoptered them down an hour ago,” Overholt said. “They are in London now and should be linking up with the Corporation and MI5.”
“What else can we do?”
“I have contacted the Pentagon,” Overholt said. “They are preparing relief and medical supplies if it goes badly.”
“I’ve ordered all nonessential personnel evacuated from the embassy in London,” the president said. “There were only a few because of the holiday.”
“I don’t know what else we can do,” Overholt said, “but pray for a positive outcome.”
ACROSS THE POND, Fleming was briefing the prime minister.
“That’s the latest,” he finished. “We need to evacuate you and your family as soon as possible.”
“I’m not one to run from a fight,” the prime minister said. “Evacuate my family, but I’m staying. If it goes bad, I can’t let my countrymen die when I knew of the threat.”
The debate raged for the next few minutes as Fleming pleaded for the prime minister to allow himself to be taken to safety. The prime minister held firm to his decision.
“Sir,” Fleming finished, “you becoming a martyr cannot help in any way.”
“True,” the prime minister said slowly, “but stay I will.”
“At least allow us to take you to the bunkers under the Ministry of Defence,” Fleming pleaded. “They are casehardened and have fresh air generators.”
The prime minister rose. The meeting had ended.
“I’ll be at the concert,” the prime minister said. “Arrange the security.”
“Yes, sir,” Fleming said, rising and heading for the door.
OUTSIDE THE APARTMENT on the side street bordering the Strand, four parabolic microphones were hidden on nearby buildings and directed at the windows of Lababiti’s residence. The dishes picked up vibrations on the glass of the windows and magnified the sounds until everything inside the apartment could be heard as clearly as a high-definition recording.
A dozen MI5 agents were posing as London cab drivers and patrolled the streets nearby, while others walked the street staring into shop windows and eating in restaurants. At the hotel directly across the street from the apartment, agents sat in the lobby reading newspapers, waiting for something to happen.
TRUITT STOOD UP from his seat near the driver as the bus came to a stop in front of the Savoy. He had called Cabrillo from his cell phone, and Meadows and Seng were waiting in front of the lobby doors. Truitt filed off the bus, followed by the rest of the team, and walked toward the lobby doors.
“We’re supposed to meet in Cabrillo’s suite,” Meadows said, opening the door.
As the team filed past, Seng handed each a room key. A few minutes later they were all crowded into Cabrillo’s suite. Once they all found seats, he spoke.
“MI5 has decided that there will be no attempt to intercept the device until there is movement,” he said. “We will be working a support role in the off chance the weapon somehow makes it close to the area of the concert.”
“What’s the status of the principal right now?” Murphy asked.
