“Ha!” The FBI representative closed the last folder. It was six o’clock local time. Dan Murray leaned back in his chair. Behind him, the brick Georgian buildings across the street paled in the dusk. Men were discreetly patrolling the roofs there, as with all the buildings on Grosvenor Square. The American Embassy was not so much heavily guarded as minorly fortified, so many terrorist threat warnings had come and gone over the past six years. Uniformed police officers stood in front of the building, where North Audley Street was closed off to traffic. The sidewalk was decorated with concrete “flowerpots” that a tank could surmount only with difficulty, and the rest of the building had a sloped concrete glacis to fend off car bombs. Inside, behind bullet-resistant glass, a Marine corporal stood guard beside a wall safe containing a .357 Magnum Smith & Wesson revolver. A hell of a thing, Murray thought. A hell of a thing. The wonderful world of the international terrorist. Murray hated working in a building that seemed part of the Maginot Line, hated wondering if there might be some Iranian, or Palestinian, or Libyan, or whatever madman of a terrorist, with an RPG-7 rocket launcher in a building across the street from his office. It wasn’t fear for his life. Murray had put his life at risk more than once. He hated the injustice, the insult to his profession, that there were people who would kill their fellow men as a part of some form of political expression. But they’re not madmen at all, are they? The behavioral specialists say that they’re not. They’re romantics — believers, people willing to commit themselves to an ideal, and to commit any crime to further it. Romantics!
“Jimmy, remember the good old days when we hunted bank bandits who were just in the business for a fast buck?”
“I’ve never done any of those. I was mainly concerned with ordinary thievery until they sent me to handling murders. But terrorism does make one nostalgic for the day of the common thug. I can even remember when they were fairly civilized.” Owens refilled his glass with port. A growing problem for the Metropolitan Police was that the criminal use of firearms was no longer so rare as it had once been, this new tool made more popular by the evening news reports on terrorism within the U.K. And while the streets and parks of London were far safer than their American counterparts, they were not as safe as they’d only recently been. The times were changing in London, too, and Owens didn’t like it at all.
The phone rang. Murray’s secretary had just left for the night, and the agent lifted it.
“Murray. Hi, Bob. Yeah, he’s right here. Bob Highland for you, Jimmy.” He handed the phone over.
“Commander Owens here.” The officer sipped at his port, then set the glass down abruptly and waved for a pen and pad. “Where exactly? And you’ve already — good, excellent. I’m coming straightaway.”
“What gives?” Murray asked quickly.
“We’ve just had a tip on a certain Dwyer. Bomb factory in a flat on Tooley Street.”
“Isn’t that right across from the river from the Tower?”
“Too bloody right. I’m off.” Owens rose and grabbed for his coat.
“You mind if I tag along?”
“Dan, you must remember –”
“To keep out of the way.” Murray was already on his feet. One hand unconsciously checked his left hip, where his service revolver would be, had the agent not been in a foreign country. Owens had never carried a gun. Murray wondered how you could be a cop and not be armed with something. Together they left Murray’s office and trotted up the corridor, turning left for the elevators. Two minutes later they were in the Embassy’s basement parking garage. The two officers from Owens’ chase car were already in their vehicle, and the Commander’s driver followed them out.
Owens was on the radio the instant the car hit the street, with Murray in the back seat.
“You have people rolling?” Murray asked.
“Yes. Bob will have a team there in a few minutes. Dwyer, by God! The description fits perfectly.” As much as he tried to hide it, Owens was as excited as a kid on Christmas morning.
“Who tipped you?”
“Anonymous. A male voice, claimed to have seen wiring, and something that was wrapped up in small blocks, when he looked in the window.”
“I love it! Peeping Tom cues the cops — probably afraid his wife’ll find out what he’s been up to. Well, you take what you get.” Murray grinned. He’d had cases break on slimmer stuff than this.
The evening traffic was curb-to-curb, and the police siren could not change that. It took fully twenty frustrating minutes to travel the five miles to Tooley Street, with Owens listening to the radio, his fist beating softly on the front door’s armrest while his men arrived at the suspect house. Finally the car darted across the Tower Bridge and turned right. The driver parked it on the sidewalk alongside two other police cars.
It was a three-story building of drab, dirty brick, in a working class neighborhood. Next door was a small pub with its daily menu scrawled on a blackboard. Several patrons were standing at the door, pints in their fists as they watched the police, and more stood across the street. Owens ran to the door. A plainclothes detective was waiting for him.
“All secure, sir. We have the suspect in custody. Top floor, in the rear.”
The Commander trotted up the stairs with Murray on his heels. Another detective met him on the top-floor landing. Owens proceeded the last thirty feet with a cruel, satisfied smile on his face.
“It’s all over, sir,” Highland said. “Here’s the suspect.”
Maureen Dwyer was stark naked, spread-eagled on the floor. Around her was a puddle of water, and a trail of wet footprints coming from the adjacent bathroom.
“She was taking a bath,” Highland explained. “And she’d left her pistol on the kitchen table. No trouble at all.”
“Do you have a female detective on the way?”
“Yes, sir. I’m surprised she’s not here already.”
“Traffic is bloody awful,” Owens noted.
“Any evidence of a companion?”
“No, sir. None at all,” Highland answered. “Only this.”
The bottom drawer of the only bureau in the shabby apartment was lying on the floor. It contained several blocks of what looked like plastic explosive, some blasting caps, and what were probably electronic timers. Already a detective was doing a written inventory while another was busily photographing the entire room with a Nikon camera and strobe. A third was breaking open an evidence kit. Everything in the room would be tagged, dropped in a clear plastic bag, and stored for use in yet another terrorist trial in the Old Bailey. There were smiles of satisfaction everywhere — except for Maureen Dwyer’s face, which was pressed to the floor. Two detectives stood over the girl, their service revolvers holstered as they watched the naked, wet figure without a trace of sympathy.
Murray stood in the doorway to keep out of everyone’s way while his eyes took in the way Owens’ detectives handled the scene. There wasn’t much to criticize. The suspect was neutralized, the area secured, and now evidence was being collected; everything was going by the book. He noted that the suspect was kept stationary. A woman officer would perform a cavity search to ensure that she wasn’t “holding” something that might be dangerous. This was a little hard on Miss Dwyer’s modesty, but Murray didn’t think a judge would object. Maureen Dwyer was a known bomber, with at least three years’ work behind her. Nine months before, she’d been seen leaving the site of a nasty one in Belfast that minutes later had killed four people and maimed another three. No, there wouldn’t be all that much sympathy for Miss Dwyer. After another several minutes, a detective took the sheet off the bed and draped it over her, covering her from her knees to her shoulders. Through it all, the suspect didn’t move. She was breathing rapidly, but made no sound.
“This is interesting,” one man said. He pulled a suitcase from under the bed. After checking it for booby traps, he opened it and extracted a theatrical makeup case complete with four wigs.
“Goodness, I could use one of those myself.” The female detective squeezed past Murray and approached Owens. “I came as fast as I could. Commander.”
“Carry on.” Owens smiled. He was too happy to let something this minor annoy him.
“Spread ’em, dearie. You know the drill.” The detective put on a rubber glove for her search. Murray didn’t watch. This was one thing he’d always been squeamish about. A few seconds later, the glove came off with a snapping sound. A detective handed Dwyer some clothes to put on. Murray watched the suspect dress herself as unselfconsciously as if she’d been alone — no, he thought, alone she’d show more emotion. As soon as her clothes were on, a police officer snapped steel handcuffs on her wrists. The same man informed Dwyer of her rights, not very differently from the way American cops did it. She did not acknowledge the words. Maureen Dwyer looked about at the police, no expression at all on her face, not even anger, and was taken out without having said a single word.