Here Be Dragons: A Short Story (8 page)

And on the House of Commons terrace, the Prime Minister’s guest of honour will see her daughters plummet over four hundred feet to their death.

If he moves, Kouri will shoot him.

Joesbury looks frantically towards the terrace, as though he might warn the First Lady, and remembers the three terrorists waiting in there. Why are they there? Why are he, and Lacey and Fred, and this gang of murdering bastards on the river at all? The explosion could be activated from anywhere. Finally, the full truth hits him.

The blowing-up of the London Eye is not the worst thing that will happen this evening. It’s just the distraction.

THE SILKEN GOLD
ribbon of the Thames still winds its way past riverside apartments, government buildings, ancient guildhalls and peering churches, neither knowing nor caring that disaster is about to strike. And Joesbury stands frozen at the helm of the RIB, without a clue how he will stop it.

There are men on the Commons terrace now, waiting for all hell to break loose. There are men on this boat who will leap ashore, arm their comrades and – what?

The First Lady. It can only be about her. She won’t have the same armed protection as her husband, she will be an easier target. Having just seen her two children plummet towards certain death, confronted by uniformed police offering to take her on the river, to get her close to her daughters, she will go with them. Of course she will.

When people you love are in danger, when those who mean more to you than life are facing death, you cease to care about your own safety. You will do anything.

The First Lady will board the RIB and be taken not downstream to offer a thread of comfort to her trapped, terrified, drowning daughters, but upriver to where a helicopter is waiting.

‘What are you going to do to the First Lady?’

He doesn’t expect to be answered, so is surprised when Assaf speaks.

‘She will be flown to a secure location and executed at midnight. The execution will be streamed live on the internet. The world will watch as we complete the destruction of the most powerful man on the planet.’

Joesbury has never fainted, but he wonders if he might be about to. He is suddenly unbearably hot. The world is pitching, tossing, he is going to be sick. He looks at the one thing that might hold his head together right now. Lacey’s face. He expects to see the horror in his eyes reflected in hers. He hopes for some sympathy, some understanding. There is nothing he can do. He is powerless to prevent this. He will look into Lacey’s eyes as the world ends.

There is no sympathy there. She is furious. He’s never seen her so mad.

And she’s trying to tell him something. She’s looking down at her life jacket, at Fred’s, at his. Her left hand, out of sight of everyone but him, is making jerking, twisting movements. Tipping movements.

She wants him to tip the RIB.

She and Fred are wearing life jackets. So is he. The terrorists are not.

Joesbury has no idea how much time he has, but the capsule containing the girls is two places from the very top. A large pleasure steamer is heading their way, faster than it really should, creating a large wash. It is the chance he needs.

‘Shit. We’ve got to move. Hold on, guys.’ He fires up the engines, pushes the throttle and the RIB leaps forward.

‘What the fuck?’ The men have grabbed hold of the boat to steady themselves, but Haddad’s gun is up against Lacey’s head.

‘Oil drum in the water.’ Joesbury has to shout to make himself heard. ‘I need to circle round. Calm down, everyone. No one panic.’

They are panicking. They are trying to keep their sightlines on the Eye, on the terrace, trying to hold on to the fast-moving, circling craft. They are attracting attention now: people on the terrace are watching, another Met boat is heading towards them, the radio crackles.

Out of the corner of his eye, Joesbury sees Assaf slip the wrist strap of the mobile phone over his hand. Too late to back out now.

Joesbury straightens his course, presses the throttle right down and heads for the wash of the pleasure boat. A split second before he hits it, he spins the wheel and the RIB strikes the wash sideways. It tips. For a second it teeters. Then it goes over.

Joesbury hits the water and sinks as the kill cord around his wrist cuts the engines. He is fully submerged, with no idea which way is up, but as he peers into the black water for bubbles to follow his jacket inflates and sends him up.

Fred and Lacey’s jackets will be doing the same, but they do not have full use of their legs. Their life jackets will keep them afloat but they could still drown quickly.

And Assaf still has the mobile phone that will trigger the explosion.

He breaks the surface and sees the sky.

‘Lacey!’

The London Eye is still upright. Still turning.

‘Mark!’

He hears her voice before he sees her, but she must be close. Then he hears her scream and finds her. Ten metres away, a little further upstream, slightly closer to the north bank. She isn’t alone in the water.

Assaf is clinging to her, using her life jacket to stay afloat himself. She is striking out at his head, his face, the hand that is clutching at her, hitting him repeatedly with her fists in a way that will exhaust her in minutes. Assaf doesn’t strike back, he can’t, his right hand is holding the turquoise-clad phone out of the water. He is trying to reach the keys.

In a fast front crawl, Joesbury strikes out towards the north bank, knowing the tide will bring the two of them upon him in seconds. It is possible Assaf hasn’t seen him.

Five metres.

Assaf risks taking his left hand from Lacey’s jacket to punch in the code, but he must have his legs wrapped around her because they stay pinned together. Her face goes under.

Three metres.

Assaf’s finger makes contact with the phone’s screen.

Two metres.

Joesbury kicks at the water, surges upwards and lands on Assaf’s shoulders. He pulls him backwards, holding on with one hand, striking hard at the man’s face with the other. They go down beneath the surface and black water claims them.

Assaf is punching and kicking to break free. The life jacket isn’t big enough to keep two large men afloat and they are sinking deeper into the dark gloom. Knowing he is almost out of air, Joesbury holds Assaf’s right arm tightly. He finds the strap of the phone, wraps his fingers around it and pulls hard. It comes free. He kicks out once, hard, with both feet and he is alone in the water.

Still clutching the phone, his lungs convulsing, he breaks the surface for the second time.

The London Eye is still turning, and two of the most important children in the world are heading slowly back down to earth.

A wave lifts him and he sees Lacey, looking completely at home in the river. She’s managed to free her legs and is swimming a slow elegant crawl to where Fred, a few yards downstream, is flapping frantically to keep his head above water.

Tucking the phone safely inside his pocket, Joesbury swims towards them. Just before he reaches them he spots a lifeboat heading their way. He waves, sees an answering signal, and grabs hold of Fred’s jacket.

‘Lovely night for a dip,’ he says, before turning to Lacey.

The last words he hears before they are plucked from the river are his uncle’s.

‘Well, I hope you’re not planning to kiss me too, you daft git.’

THE RECEPTION ROOM
at Number Ten Downing Street, the London home of the British Prime Minister, is painted in soft shades of yellow and rich warm cream. Portraits of illustrious personages hang on the walls, but the eyes of the guests tonight are drawn to the four people on the receiving line. The tall, dark-haired PM and his elegant wife, a slender, darkskinned man who is generally acknowledged to be the most powerful man in the world, and the woman at his side, who might look poised but whose hands have not stopped shaking for days, and who wakes several times a night stifling a scream.

Mark Joesbury, in the suit he hasn’t worn since he was best man at his brother’s wedding five years ago, waits patiently in line for his turn. He shakes the Prime Minister’s hand, then that of his wife.

‘Mr President, this is Detective Inspector Mark Joesbury of Scotland Yard and Constable Lacey Flint of the Marine Policing Unit.’ The usher stands just to one side, introducing all the guests as they are greeted by the President. ‘The two officers were chosen at random this evening to represent the service that is charged with your protection during your official visits.’

The President holds out his hand and says, ‘Good to see you, Mr Joesbury. Constable Flint, glad you could come. You guys always do such a good job of looking after us. I can’t remember the last time we had anything to worry about.’ Joesbury is sure he catches the glimpse of a wink.

Within an hour of being pulled out of the river, Joesbury learned that no one, outside of a very small circle, would ever know what had so very nearly happened that night. Beenie and Rich had disappeared completely, as had Safar; Assaf, Haddad, Kouri and Malouf had all drowned in the river. There would be no trial, no need for the affair ever to become public knowledge.

‘UK plc doesn’t need that sort of bad PR,’ Philips had told him even before he’d had a chance to change into dry clothes. ‘And God knows the White House doesn’t want the world to know how easy it is to get to the President. You’ll have to wait a bit longer for your OBE, mate, but we might be able to keep your job open.’

‘Still with the covert operations squad?’ The President has lowered his voice so that only Joesbury can hear what he’s saying.

Joesbury lets his shoulders rise and fall. ‘We’re still talking about it, Sir. Might be time for me to take a desk job.’

The President pats him on the shoulder. ‘Those guys give you any trouble, you let me know. There’s always a job for you in Washington.’ His eyes slide to the left. ‘Great place to raise a family.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind, Mr President.’

The line is moving on and Joesbury finds himself looking directly into the eyes of a beautiful woman in an aquamarine silk dress. The First Lady offers her hand and steps out of the line, closer to him. She stretches up, kisses him on one cheek, then the other, and smiles gently as she releases his hand.

‘You’re welcome,’ he says.

The usher is looking edgy. The President is still talking to Lacey and behind her the line is backing up. Joesbury can’t exactly blame the guy. In a borrowed chiffon dress and high heels, Lacey looks like a princess. Finally, when Joesbury is beginning to think that, Leader of the Free World or not, he’s going to have to step in, Lacey is released. She shakes the First Lady’s hand and the formalities are over.

The garden behind Number Ten is large by London standards and surrounded by high brick walls. Tonight it is filled with the scent of English flowers and excited voices. Joesbury and Lacey pause at the top of the steps.

Joesbury keeps his eyes fixed on the table of champagne flutes on the edge of the lawn and tells himself the rapid beating of his heart will not go on for long. Just enough time for her to utter one short, simple word.

‘Flint,’ he says. ‘Will you marry me?’

Sharon Bolton (previously S. J. Bolton)
is the critically acclaimed author of some of the most bone-chilling crime books ever written. She has been shortlisted for the CWA Gold Dagger for Crime Novel of the Year and the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year. In 2014 she won the CWA Dagger in the Library for her whole body of work.

Sharon lives near Oxford with her husband and young son.

Visit
www.sharonbolton.com
for more information, or join Sharon on Facebook at
www.facebook.com/SJBoltonCrime
or on Twitter
@authorsjbolton
.

Sharon’s novels featuring Lacey Flint are:

She can’t stop shivering. But this isn’t cold. This is terror.

A savage murder on London’s streets, 120 years to the day since Jack the Ripper claimed his first victim. A crime with all the hallmarks of a copycat killer.

Detective Constable Lacey Flint has never worked a murder case, until now. When another mutilated victim is found she agrees to be the bait to lure out the monster.

But this killer is one step ahead, and already fixated on Lacey . . .

‘Really special’
LEE CHILD

A series of suicides. Each one a female university student. Each one more horrifying than the last.

The police know it cannot be coincidence. But they can’t prove it.

They need someone to go undercover. A young policewoman, as vulnerable as the others. As unprepared for the nightmare that will greet her.

Watch your back, Lacey Flint . . .

‘Mesmerising’
The Times

Twelve-year-old Barney Roberts is obsessed with a series of murders.

He knows the victims are all boys, just like him.
He knows the bodies were found on river banks.
And he’s sure the killer will strike again soon.

But there’s something else, a secret he’d rather not know, a secret he is too scared to share . . .

And who would believe a twelve-year-old boy anyway?

‘Nail-biting!’
TESS GERRITSEN