handed the cotton wool and lotion to Sarah.
‘What makes you say that?’ she asked.
‘It was too controlled.’
She held his gaze steadily. ‘Go on.’
‘If it was a gas explosion, the whole front of the house would have blown outwards. From how you described the scene, if it was caused by gas, the upstairs would have collapsed – there would have been more debris, more damage. What you saw points to a controlled explosion, although I’d put money on our bomb-maker turning the gas on to give the impression that’s the cause.’
He sat down opposite Sarah and watched as she dabbed at the scratches on her legs, wincing as the antiseptic touched the raw skin.
Sarah glanced at him. ‘When you went away, Peter would read the newspapers every day to make sure your name never appeared. He was worried sick about you when you signed up and then joined the bomb disposal team.’ She sighed, put the cap back on the antiseptic and stood up carefully. Gathering up the cotton wool, she wandered over to the kitchen waste bin.
‘Do you think the police actually believe it’s a gas explosion?’ she asked, as she sat back down.
Dan stood up and began to make the coffee. ‘I’m sure that’s what they’re going to tell everyone it was, even if they think otherwise. After all, they don’t want the residents of Oxford starting to panic thinking there’s a madman going around planting bombs.’
He reached up into a cupboard and brought out a bottle. ‘Right,’ he said, and turned to Sarah, waving the bottle at her, ‘I know it’s early but I think this is justified in the circumstances.’
Sarah smiled. ‘You won’t hear any complaints from me.’
Dan splashed a generous measure of the brandy into each coffee and wandered back to the table.
‘Here you go. Now, if you start feeling cold or begin to shake, you tell me straight away. You seem like you’re doing okay to me but I’ve seen delayed shock before – it’s not pretty.’
Sarah took a sip of her coffee and then choked as the brandy hit the back of her throat. ‘I don’t think there’s any chance of that – my god, how much did you put in this?’ she spluttered.
Dan grinned. ‘Just enough.’
Chapter 8
London, England
The Minister paced his room, nervous. The phone call was late. The Minister always insisted on promptness. He straightened his tie, looked at his worn fingernails. The sooner the next two months were over, the better. His doctor had already warned him about his high blood pressure and his wife had commented on how much shorter his temper was these days. Dark shadows were forming under his eyes and he was noticeably thinner.
The phone rang and the Minister jumped involuntarily. Part of him still believed they’d be found out before the project was finished. He picked up the phone.
‘Yes?’ He sounded more confident than he felt. His press officer’s careful training kept his voice steady, even if he did notice a slight shaking in his hand as he pressed the receiver closer to his ear.
‘It’s all going according to schedule.’
The caller didn’t identify himself – there was no need.
‘Where is it at the moment?’
A chuckle at the other end of the line. ‘Never mind. The less you know, the more protected I feel.’
The Minister was relieved. He didn’t really want to know. The project scared the shit out of him. ‘W-what do you need me to do?’
A pause, then –
‘Nervous, Minister?’
Fuck you , thought the Minister. ‘No, just concerned. I want to make sure this will all go to plan,’ he lied.
The caller chuckled. ‘I’m sure you are. Don’t be concerned – it’s coming together nicely. Not only will this thing blow the European Union emissions trading legislation clean out of the water, it’ll probably take the Australian and the United States’ emissions trading schemes with it too. How’s it going with the alternative energy lobby?’
The Minister sighed. ‘They’re a stubborn bunch
‘What makes you say that?’ she asked.
‘It was too controlled.’
She held his gaze steadily. ‘Go on.’
‘If it was a gas explosion, the whole front of the house would have blown outwards. From how you described the scene, if it was caused by gas, the upstairs would have collapsed – there would have been more debris, more damage. What you saw points to a controlled explosion, although I’d put money on our bomb-maker turning the gas on to give the impression that’s the cause.’
He sat down opposite Sarah and watched as she dabbed at the scratches on her legs, wincing as the antiseptic touched the raw skin.
Sarah glanced at him. ‘When you went away, Peter would read the newspapers every day to make sure your name never appeared. He was worried sick about you when you signed up and then joined the bomb disposal team.’ She sighed, put the cap back on the antiseptic and stood up carefully. Gathering up the cotton wool, she wandered over to the kitchen waste bin.
‘Do you think the police actually believe it’s a gas explosion?’ she asked, as she sat back down.
Dan stood up and began to make the coffee. ‘I’m sure that’s what they’re going to tell everyone it was, even if they think otherwise. After all, they don’t want the residents of Oxford starting to panic thinking there’s a madman going around planting bombs.’
He reached up into a cupboard and brought out a bottle. ‘Right,’ he said, and turned to Sarah, waving the bottle at her, ‘I know it’s early but I think this is justified in the circumstances.’
Sarah smiled. ‘You won’t hear any complaints from me.’
Dan splashed a generous measure of the brandy into each coffee and wandered back to the table.
‘Here you go. Now, if you start feeling cold or begin to shake, you tell me straight away. You seem like you’re doing okay to me but I’ve seen delayed shock before – it’s not pretty.’
Sarah took a sip of her coffee and then choked as the brandy hit the back of her throat. ‘I don’t think there’s any chance of that – my god, how much did you put in this?’ she spluttered.
Dan grinned. ‘Just enough.’
Chapter 8
London, England
The Minister paced his room, nervous. The phone call was late. The Minister always insisted on promptness. He straightened his tie, looked at his worn fingernails. The sooner the next two months were over, the better. His doctor had already warned him about his high blood pressure and his wife had commented on how much shorter his temper was these days. Dark shadows were forming under his eyes and he was noticeably thinner.
The phone rang and the Minister jumped involuntarily. Part of him still believed they’d be found out before the project was finished. He picked up the phone.
‘Yes?’ He sounded more confident than he felt. His press officer’s careful training kept his voice steady, even if he did notice a slight shaking in his hand as he pressed the receiver closer to his ear.
‘It’s all going according to schedule.’
The caller didn’t identify himself – there was no need.
‘Where is it at the moment?’
A chuckle at the other end of the line. ‘Never mind. The less you know, the more protected I feel.’
The Minister was relieved. He didn’t really want to know. The project scared the shit out of him. ‘W-what do you need me to do?’
A pause, then –
‘Nervous, Minister?’
Fuck you , thought the Minister. ‘No, just concerned. I want to make sure this will all go to plan,’ he lied.
The caller chuckled. ‘I’m sure you are. Don’t be concerned – it’s coming together nicely. Not only will this thing blow the European Union emissions trading legislation clean out of the water, it’ll probably take the Australian and the United States’ emissions trading schemes with it too. How’s it going with the alternative energy lobby?’
The Minister sighed. ‘They’re a stubborn bunch
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