Agent of the State by Roger Pearce Read Free Book Online Page B

Jack, any signs subject is carrying, over?’
    ‘The way he sprinted across the road I’d say no way,’ said Melanie.
    ‘This is Jack and I agree . . . stand by. All units, subject is off, off, off, and on foot. South Lambeth Road, still heading north, junction with . . . looks like Wyvil, repeat Wyvil, Road on the left, possibly going for Vauxhall Tube or Overground, Red Four remaining on the bus.’
    There was the growl of a motorcycle. ‘I’m covering from Vauxhall station and standing by,’ said Langton.
    Kerr spoke into his mobile. ‘Did you get all that, ma’am?’
    ‘Yes, and I’m not reassured, not at all. I want to know every movement.’
    Kerr’s phone went dead, then Weatherall’s voice crackled into Channel Five. ‘Any officer, this is Gold. How far is this man from Vauxhall station?’
    ‘This is Jack. At the rate he’s walking I estimate four minutes plus.’
    Kerr shook his head and spun the Alfa into Wandsworth Road.
     
    In the ops room, Weatherall sat still, seemingly frozen with indecision. Then she turned to Fargo. ‘I’m going to need my Andromeda file.’
    ‘But he’s not armed, ma’am,’ said Fargo, leaning forward and opening the drawer in her console, ‘and not carrying anything.’
    ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ said Weatherall, flicking through the pages. Andromeda was the police strategy for taking out a suicide bomber, a policy that, as an assistant commissioner had once quipped to an incredulous journalist, ‘does what it says on the tin’. It changed the rules of engagement and was routinely described as a licence to kill. Police preferred ‘interdicting’ to ‘taking out’, and insisted on ‘incapacitate’ in place of ‘kill’. But in 2005 at Stockwell, less than a mile from the present operation, the tragedy of Jean Charles de Menezes had shown there could be only one outcome from such a strategy.
    In horror, Fargo realised that Weatherall was seriously considering shooting their only lead. He felt the eyes of Alice and the two other comms operators on him, and knew they were all sharing his fear: the real risk of that catastrophe being repeated. Yet, to his side, Weatherall seemed blithely unaware of the implications. As she ran her finger down the menu of options, she might have been choosing a takeaway.
    ‘What do you think, Brian?’
    Perkins leant forward, elbows on the console, shirt stretched against his gut, and stared down at his desktop. Beside him, the boy of a chief inspector had rolled his chair back against the wall. Fargo could already hear the sound of shit being shovelled.
    For the first time silence enveloped them all. It was the moment of truth. ‘Brian?’
    Perkins was scratching the back of his hand. ‘I think we should stop him.’
    ‘Challenger One,’ said Weatherall, into the mike.
    ‘Go ahead.’
    ‘I want you to . . .’ she began, then hesitated. ‘I want you to . . . Don’t let him get to the Underground.’
    ‘Gold from Challenger One, repeat, please. Are you directing Trojans to interdict, over?’
    ‘I said he must not get onto the Tube.’
    ‘Gold, what are your orders?’
    ‘It’s perfectly clear,’ she said, ‘so do whatever is necessary.’
    ‘Roger that, we are mobile and have visual.’
    ‘Gold, no way.’ Kerr’s voice crackled back immediately. ‘We need to let him run. It may not be the Tube. He may be taking the Overground. We have him contained and he’s our only lead.’
    ‘All received, John. Stand by,’ said Fargo, on Weatherall’s behalf, picking up on his friend’s urgency. Fargo knew about John Kerr’s involvement in the shooting of Jean Charles de Menezes at Stockwell, and was convinced the tragedy still troubled him. He also recalled Weatherall had studied the summary of the inquest into that terrible morning in 2005, which recorded Kerr’s detailed evidence. He felt deeply for his friend as he waited for Weatherall’s response. Could she be so lacking in wisdom as to override the