Read Online The Cloud Collector by Brian Freemantle - Free Book Online Page B

opened as the first of the following vans approached down the via Claudia. From the rear three men emerged, formed a chain, and transferred equipment sacks into the monument. As the first van followed the car into the park’s shadows, the second van arrived to continue the explosives transfer, followed by the third to the vacant unloading area.
    It was completed by 3:30 a.m.
    The vehicle drivers spaced their return from the parking area, the last two lingering at the door through which the others had already entered, checking all the outside approach roads. The telephone alert that the entire group was inside was duplicated over the radio. Initially only four Special Forces teams moved. One squad completely blocked the door through which the terrorists had entered with a large, multi-spiked control barrier ironically similar to some of the outwardly spiked fighting machines manipulated by gladiators two thousand years earlier. The other groups blocked every other possible exit with identical barriers.
    At another silent command, the remaining anti-terrorist specialists and police moved into place, totally surrounding the huge amphitheatre from the outside.
    The interception was perfectly coordinated. At a radio signal, the arena floodlights and those carried in earlier burst on simultaneously with those outside. Simultaneously, too, the decibel-shattering scream of psychological-warfare sirens erupted. The Special Forces and police were earplugged against the disorienting noise. The deafening cacophony drowned the brief exchange of gunfire, in which only one of the intended bombers was slightly wounded. Twelve out of the total of twenty attackers surrendered without a fight.
    The attempt to destroy Rome’s most famous antiquity created an international furor, heightened within hours—to America’s discomfort—by confirmation of the wounded man’s identity.
    *   *   *
    Sally Hanning got back to Thames House by nine, having showered and changed and showing no trace of only having had three hours sleep. Neither did the meticulous David Monkton, who’d slept at the MI5 headquarters. To Sally’s well-concealed bewilderment she was ushered into the anteroom in which, four hours earlier, they’d watched pornographic films. The previous night’s television table was now laid for breakfast, two chairs set in readiness.
    Looking at Sally’s overnight bag, Monkton announced, ‘I’ve decided against your going to Sellafield.’
    â€˜It’s my case,’ immediately protested Sally.
    â€˜Which is acknowledged in the official commendation I’m attaching to your file today.’ Monkton buttered his toast. ‘The operation becomes physical interception now: SAS Special Forces and police snatch squads.’
    Sally sat where Monkton indicated and poured coffee but ignored the food. ‘What happens if there’s no attack?’
    â€˜The cordon stays in place. Cleaned-up facial photographs of the groups will be issued to Special Branch and anti-terrorist units at every port and airport exit in the country. There’s no government decision this early about publicly issuing the pictures, which is what the German anti-terrorist agency wants.…’ Monkton looked at his watch. ‘There’s a German squad getting here in two hours. They’ve been trying to get Horst Becker, aka Hasib Hussain, for the past year: he was the leader and the only one to escape from a terrorist bombing in Hamburg that killed ten people last October.’
    â€˜What about territorial rivalry?’ presciently asked Sally, pouring herself more coffee.
    Monkton shook his head. ‘The arrest will be ours. It’s inevitable, I suppose, that Berlin will seek extradition, but Becker’s not an adoptive German national as far as I know. It’s a matter for the attorney-general and home secretary. We’ll certainly have a precedence