Free A Covert War by Michael Parker

returning home.
    He took the lift down into the underground car park of the House of Commons and walked across to his designated parking space. The garage was well lit and it wasn’t unusual to bump into a colleague there and take time out for a chat. He saw someone climb into a car and pull out of a parking bay. Although he barely knew the woman driving the car, he acknowledged her as she drove by.
    His own car’s flashers flickered into life as he triggered the security locks. He opened the car door and tossed his briefcase on to the passenger seat. He climbed in, sat for a moment letting the silence seep into his thoughts, then pushed a button on the dashboard.
    A light came on informing him the engine was running. He slipped the gear lever into drive and released the handbrake. The car moved away smoothly and he could barely hear the sound of the tyres on the resin floor of the garage.
    He turned towards the ramp out of the garage, lifting a hand in acknowledgement to the security guard and accelerated up the ramp. Beneath the front wing of the Lexus a mercury tilt trigger switch responded to the action as the car’s front end lifted on the ramp and completed a circuit to a compact bomb. The detonator fired causing the bomb to explode.
    The car ballooned outwards as the explosion was confined within the walls of the ramp and burst into flames. Immediately the security guard ran to a panic button, one of many fitted around the garage and struck it hard with his hand.
    And all hell was let loose.

    ***
    Marcus was just leaving Vauxhall Bridge Tube station when he heard the wail of police sirens screaming through the streets somewhere. He took no notice of it because it was such a familiar sound in central London. He even dismissed the thought again as two fire engines clamoured past. But when the ambulances appeared, he began to think that there might have been another terrorist attack on the city.
    He knew that when these atrocities happened, the security forces literally tied London down and closed the entire area around where the attack had occurred. He hoped he wouldn’t be inconvenienced because he had decided that morning to secure an interview with the mysterious Sir Giles Cavendish.
    It wasn’t long before Marcus realised that his efforts to get to the headquarters of MI6 were going to be severely hampered. The police had closed off several of the road bridges across the river and brought the centre of London to a grinding halt, although being on the south side of the river he couldn’t foresee a problem. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled Maggot’s number for no other reason than he wanted to check if there was any chaos further up the river where his friend had the gymnasium. His phone was dead, so he figured the security people must have put a block on the networks.
    He put his phone in his pocket and began walking along the Albert Embankment towards the headquarters of MI6, but when he was within about two hundred yards of it, he knew he would not get in; there were armed police everywhere.
    He picked a side street leading away from the river looking for a bar where he would find a television and learn what had happened. He came across a small, public house, walked in and asked for a beer. The television was switched to Sky News and already they were reporting from Parliament Square; the closest the cameras were allowed to get. It soon became clear that a Cabinet Minister had been assassinated, and the attack was already being attributed to Al Qaeda terrorists or Muslim sympathisers. There was also a rumour that it was the Secretary of State for International Development, but details were not being released until the family of whoever it was had been informed.
    True to the sensationalist character of the media, a picture of the minister was flashed up on the screen. Marcus sat bolt upright. He was looking at the man whose photograph he had taken in Covent Garden; the man he had seen