near the gates when they
saw the flash and heard theexplosion. They rushed through the crowd of people, most of whom were too stunned or bewildered to do anything.
Bradshaw stopped over the first victim they came to, a man about thirty in a morning coat and striped pants, who was lying
on his side lifeless and smeared with blood. Bradshaw pointed to the head of a steel nail protruding from the side of his
head, behind his left eye.
The blast had been about nine feet high against the gate pier, well above head level, and consequently much of its power and
many of the nails had been dissipated harmlessly into the air. But those who were hit were struck on the head and upper parts
of the body. Seven were dead. Two more looked bad. The rest of the casualties were not seriously injured, apart from one man
with extensive burns.
“Considering the crowd here, things are not so bad,” Bradshaw said in a low voice. “If it had been the same mode of operation
as at Oxford, we’d have had thirty or forty killed. All the same, those bastards get to chalk this up as a success, I’m afraid.”
The Dutchman looked after the departing ambulances. “We came closer to meeting them today than I thought we would.”
CHAPTER
6
Dartley was sitting in a pub with an untouched glass of Coca-Cola in front of him when a special newscast came over the television.
The barman turned the sound up, and conversation died as everyone watched and listened to a description of this new terrorist
attack.
“Should hang these buggers, that’s what I say,” the barman announced in his broad Yorkshire accent. “The rope’s too good for
scum like that.”
Capital punishment had long been discontinued in Britain. Immediately after camera coverage of the carnage scene, the newsman
said that the government denied that these atrocities had anything to do with the upcoming announcement of Britain’s intention
to sign the Ostend Concordance. He added, almost as an afterthought, sources in Dublin earlier today said that the Irish government
had agreed to sign and would shortly announce their intention to do so.
Dartley left the pub, took the Underground toSouth Kensington, and walked down to the Fulham Road. He looked for a pub of which he had forgotten the name and exact location.
He would know it when he saw it. And he did. Finch’s. In the back bar he ordered another Coca-Cola, which he also left untouched.
He asked the barman if Frankie Grady had been in lately.
“That man doesn’t come in here anymore,” the Irishman responded in tones that hinted there were good reasons why he didn’t.
Another Irish voice by Dartley’s side said truculently, “Frankie Grady’s a pain in the arse.”
Dartley looked at him, a grim-looking individual with sunken eyes and lantern jaws about to raise an imperial pint of Guinness
stout to his mouth. The man took a huge draft of the thick brew and Dartley motioned to the barman to draw him another.
“Frankie has done some dumb things,” Dartley said.
“You a Yank?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so.”
That seemed as much as the man was willing to say for the time being, so Dartley let him be. When the fresh pint was served
up, Dartley paid for it.
The man picked up the glass, shot Dartley a look, and said,
“Slan teat.”
“Slainte”
Dartley said, which along with
“Erin go breagh”
comprised his total knowledge of Gaelic.
“An bfhuil an Gaeilge agat?”
“I’m afraid I don’t speak: Irish,” Dartley said.
“There’s many a decent Irishman who doesn’t either,” the man said in a friendlier way than he had spoken before. Then abruptly
his manner changed. “I was just thinking that Frankie Grady is a stupid son of a bitch.”
“You probably know him better than I do,” Dartley said.
“No, I don’t. Last I saw of him was about three months ago up in Walthamstow, in a place called the Stag and Hounds. He was
working behind the bar there, though he
saw the flash and heard theexplosion. They rushed through the crowd of people, most of whom were too stunned or bewildered to do anything.
Bradshaw stopped over the first victim they came to, a man about thirty in a morning coat and striped pants, who was lying
on his side lifeless and smeared with blood. Bradshaw pointed to the head of a steel nail protruding from the side of his
head, behind his left eye.
The blast had been about nine feet high against the gate pier, well above head level, and consequently much of its power and
many of the nails had been dissipated harmlessly into the air. But those who were hit were struck on the head and upper parts
of the body. Seven were dead. Two more looked bad. The rest of the casualties were not seriously injured, apart from one man
with extensive burns.
“Considering the crowd here, things are not so bad,” Bradshaw said in a low voice. “If it had been the same mode of operation
as at Oxford, we’d have had thirty or forty killed. All the same, those bastards get to chalk this up as a success, I’m afraid.”
The Dutchman looked after the departing ambulances. “We came closer to meeting them today than I thought we would.”
CHAPTER
6
Dartley was sitting in a pub with an untouched glass of Coca-Cola in front of him when a special newscast came over the television.
The barman turned the sound up, and conversation died as everyone watched and listened to a description of this new terrorist
attack.
“Should hang these buggers, that’s what I say,” the barman announced in his broad Yorkshire accent. “The rope’s too good for
scum like that.”
Capital punishment had long been discontinued in Britain. Immediately after camera coverage of the carnage scene, the newsman
said that the government denied that these atrocities had anything to do with the upcoming announcement of Britain’s intention
to sign the Ostend Concordance. He added, almost as an afterthought, sources in Dublin earlier today said that the Irish government
had agreed to sign and would shortly announce their intention to do so.
Dartley left the pub, took the Underground toSouth Kensington, and walked down to the Fulham Road. He looked for a pub of which he had forgotten the name and exact location.
He would know it when he saw it. And he did. Finch’s. In the back bar he ordered another Coca-Cola, which he also left untouched.
He asked the barman if Frankie Grady had been in lately.
“That man doesn’t come in here anymore,” the Irishman responded in tones that hinted there were good reasons why he didn’t.
Another Irish voice by Dartley’s side said truculently, “Frankie Grady’s a pain in the arse.”
Dartley looked at him, a grim-looking individual with sunken eyes and lantern jaws about to raise an imperial pint of Guinness
stout to his mouth. The man took a huge draft of the thick brew and Dartley motioned to the barman to draw him another.
“Frankie has done some dumb things,” Dartley said.
“You a Yank?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so.”
That seemed as much as the man was willing to say for the time being, so Dartley let him be. When the fresh pint was served
up, Dartley paid for it.
The man picked up the glass, shot Dartley a look, and said,
“Slan teat.”
“Slainte”
Dartley said, which along with
“Erin go breagh”
comprised his total knowledge of Gaelic.
“An bfhuil an Gaeilge agat?”
“I’m afraid I don’t speak: Irish,” Dartley said.
“There’s many a decent Irishman who doesn’t either,” the man said in a friendlier way than he had spoken before. Then abruptly
his manner changed. “I was just thinking that Frankie Grady is a stupid son of a bitch.”
“You probably know him better than I do,” Dartley said.
“No, I don’t. Last I saw of him was about three months ago up in Walthamstow, in a place called the Stag and Hounds. He was
working behind the bar there, though he
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