Zero Point

4

In a matter of minutes dozens of police cars, ambulances, and fire engines had congregated around the explosion zone. Police helicopters circled overhead as St. Johns Wood was cordoned off by groups of armed officers wielding MP5 submachine guns. Twenty minutes on, and an even larger circumference―a huge swathe of northwest London―was locked down by police barricades. Intertwining sinews of static traffic rippled out from around the area, amidst a mass of terrified, frenzied people running, shouting, crying, standing agape.

Chief Superintendent Heather Jones watched the chaos unfold on a wall-mounted monitor from her office in Scotland Yard, as she screamed down the phone, "All available units to round up the cabinet for transport to PINDAR. Once they're safe, all standby armed units to deploy immediately as per emergency protocol Clean Sweep to every Potential Target Area."

She slammed down the phone, grabbed her body armour from the rack against the wall, and ran out of the room. Whether or not the Prime Minister had survived the attack, there could be further assaults. Standard procedures meant the number one priority for Specialist Operations was the protection of all ministers.

As Heather slipped on her body armour, her mobile rang. She slapped the phone against her ear and snapped, "Commander Jones."

"Heather it's Paul." Paul Stuart was Deputy Assistant Commissioner of the Anti-Terrorism Branch.

"I'm on it, Paul", she said, running down the corridor. "What I want to know right now is how the hell did this happen?"

"I don't know, Heather, obviously we're trying to figure that out."

"It doesn't make any sense. Who else knew about the Prime Minister's route today?"

There was a pause on the other end. "Well, frankly, I was about to ask you the same thing."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you're Specialist Protection. If anyone's going to have an idea how this happened, it's you."

"You know as well as I do that we run a tight ship here. The only way this got out is through someone Prime Minister Carson knew. It could be anyone ―his advisers, hell, it could have been the people he was en route to meet."

"Perhaps. And who were they exactly? Who was he meeting?"

She cleared her throat. "The Iranian Ambassador."

"The Iranians? Bloody hell. Well you make sure you've got your house in order, because someone's going to take the fall for this―if the shit's gonna stick, it better not be on our bloody arses."

"Okay, Paul. I'll see you in a few minutes."