Death Under Downing Street
by
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All caution now gone, speed was the essence and the six sprinted up the stairs. At the shot the four guards in the entrance hall drew their guns and ran down the corridor towards the main stairway. It took only a few seconds but by then the six were already half way up to the dining area on the first floor. The four guards got to the staircase lobby in a bunch and were hit simultaneously by six shotgun blasts from the staircase above them. Two of them died at once from lead slugs through the brain, two fell back shrieking in agony clutching their bloody faces as the slugs ripped through them. Cline was a yard behind the others, he aimed round the doorway and fired. At the upward angle the 9 mm bullet went under the flak jacket and severed Eric’s spine just above the pelvis and he collapsed on the stair with a groan. Yvette yelled his name in despair. The blast of slugs in reply missed Cline’s quickly withdrawn head, ripped into the woodwork and splinters cut his face. Leaving Eric, the five reached the first floor landing alongside the State Dining Rooms and kicked open the first door they came to. The waiting armed guard inside was good and got off two shots. The first killed Anton at once, straight through the forehead, the second took Jean through the throat and he fell gurgling; the double blast of slugs from René and Marco pulped the guard’s face and he flew backwards. They were in an ante-room leading into the Small Dining Room, full of waiters and five terrified musicians. "Out!", yelled René and they needed no second bidding. They scrambled terrified over the dead bodies, out of the door and down the stairs, nearly getting shot by Cline and the guards now there with guns pointing upwards.
In the State Dining Room the talk had stopped at once. Gunfire in the building meant only one thing, a terrorist attack of some kind. The service chiefs reacted first; General Mackay leapt to his feet, got to the doors leading into the small dining room and locked them, shouting to Admiral Barnes to lock the single door nearest his end. It was nearly the last thing Mackay ever did. Two door-breaking chisel-pointed steel rods came through the hinge side of the door at 1,500 feet per second and one nearly tore his leg off at the hip, smashing the femur to splinters. He groaned in agony and fell back, gouting blood. The women in the room shrieked in fright as René, Marco and Yvette burst in. Their aspect was terrifying; spattered with blood and brains, matted red with dirt, streaked with sweat, wild eyed and swinging shotguns René yelled, "Marco, cover these doors, Safi, cover them!" No pretense with names was needed now. Marco pulled the doors into the Small Dining Room shut, turned and stood to one side of them so a shot through the doors wouldn’t hit him. René ordered, "Sit down! All of you, and don’t move, we’ll shoot the first one who moves!"
*****
"... is our only eye-witness; we’ve got to get him out of jug here and back to Paris pronto. The police commandant here in Bayeux is a hard-case; he’s got our man on charges of killing a French copper; you know what that means; there’s no way he’ll let our man go unless ordered to by the French Minister of the Interior. Do you get it now? The Ambassador has got to phone the French Minister at once and get him to phone Bayeaux. Get cracking!" "My God! Yes, I’ll do it at once; he won’t like it but I’ll do it", came the response, "Hold the line and I’ll see if he’ll come to the phone." There was a three minute delay before the Ambassador came on, slightly breathless and not in a good mood. "What is all this poppycock about the President? You can’t be serious, man?" "Entirely, Sir, if you don’t mind being patient for a few minutes I’ll play you the RAF Sergeant’s recording", and he put the small tape machine to the phone’s mouthpiece. It took only two minutes before the Ambassador broke in, grim voiced, "I’ve heard enough, what do you want?" "I can’t drive the man to Paris; it’s too slow and I’m way over the drink limit for fast driving; I had to lunch the police commandant here to get this far. We need a French helicopter here as soon as possible to pick up me and the Sergeant, and an order for his release signed either by the Minister of the Interior or a senior judge." "Consider it done", came back the crisp reply, "Just sit tight and I’ll lay it on."
About an hour later an Aerospatiale Super Frelon helicopter from the French naval base at St. Malo arrived overhead and landed on the police sports field. At the same time there skidded to a halt a police Citroen from Caen carrying the Judge Advocate General for the entire province. In his briefcase were the release papers for the Sergeant. At last the Bayeux Police Commandant admitted to being impressed. He knew real pull when he saw it. "My friend", he said to the Group Captain, "You would make a good Frenchman; you know how to win, and you know good food and wine." They shook hands, level-eyed, and the Group Captain said, "Look after my Jaguar for me; and you, my friend, might make an Englishman if you could learn to drive on the correct side of the road."
The three-engined Super Frelon was the fastest helicopter the French had. One had been timed at 212 mph, and this one cruised easily at 175 on it’s way to Paris, covering the 135 miles from Bayeux in under an hour, to make a pin-point landing in the compound behind the French Ministry of Defense. Waiting there, the British Ambassador had purposely put on his stylish and ornate uniform to pull rank with the French officials. He thanked the crew of three for their valuable service to Britain, shook hands with the men and awarded each a decoration on behalf of a grateful British nation and government.
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About the Book
In this gripping sequel to How to Steal the Crown Jewels, Rod Jackson finds himself hired to kill the American President. There are only two conditions: he’s got a year to do it, and it must be outside the USA. Anyone can kill a President, that’s not too tough, if you don’t mind dying. But getting away with it? Now that takes some doing. With masterly planning and brilliant execution, the plot unfolds at high speed. Location range through Monaco to New York, Beirut and France. The insights into leadership in the USA and Britain ring all too true.
About the Author
Having been at University College, Oxford, with Bill Clinton, the author worries now about a call from the Secret Service. This book could be taken the wrong way. He wishes to assure all Presidents he bears them no ill will. Long may they thrive. The trouble is, this book could mean otherwise. Multi-skilled, the author has been airman, soldier, historian, weapons expert and world traveler. All these talents combine in his work, giving it the ring of real authority. Add a touch of cynicism and humor and the mix is irresistible. You might forgive the author for agreeing. You really ought to judge for yourself.