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 of bastards.’
The caller laughed. ‘Watch them change their minds when your coal-fired power stations close down under European Union climate change legislation and you haven’t got enough gas to last the United Kingdom over winter. Ask them where their wind farms are then.’
The Minister grunted. ‘We’ll be back in the middle ages before you know it. Do you know we have enough coal in this country to last three hundred years but the European Union won’t let us burn it, so it just sits there while we buy gas from the Russians?’
Another laugh, twelve thousand miles away. ‘That’s why I’m going to sell my coal to your government when you’re all freezing your nuts off and come begging.’
The Minister chuckled. ‘Yes, well thanks to your kind donations, I’ll be sure to winter in the Caribbean when that time comes.’
He looked at his watch. Time to end the call. ‘Keep me posted on developments. I don’t want any surprises.’
‘Neither do I, Minister, so you make sure you keep your eyes and ears open.’
The Minister put down the phone as a knock at his office door pre-empted his personal attaché entering the room. ‘Thirty minutes until your meeting with the Prime Minister, sir. I’ve ordered the car – traffic’s horrendous this morning.’
The Minister nodded, took his thick winter coat from the attaché and threw it around his shoulders.
Stepping out of the ugly building into a rain-ravaged morning, he walked quickly to a waiting car where the driver was holding the back door open ready for him. He climbed inside and spent the journey daydreaming about a holiday home in the Caribbean.
Brisbane, Australia
Uli Petrov tapped on the privacy glass between him and his driver with a fat forefinger.
The glass lowered slowly. ‘Sir?’
‘Stop here, by the traffic lights,’ Uli instructed and leaned back in his seat.
‘Yes sir.’ The glass raised once more.