The Fog - James Herbert [67]
If it hadn’t been so catastrophic, he might have enjoyed watching the officials trying to worm their way out from the responsibility. But then, there was always the doubt, the doubt that governments all over the world could so cleverly play on. Even he wasn’t sure if it was a man-made or freak-of-nature phenomenon; the tiny doubt in the back of his mind would prevent him from going all out to lay the blame on the Ministry of Defence’s doorstep. But if he ever found concrete proof . . .
A muffled explosion jerked him from his thoughts. The ambulance pulled to a halt and as he opened the back doors, he saw that all the other traffic crossing Waterloo Bridge had done the same. As he climbed down the steps, Barrow came running around from the police car that had been escorting them.
‘Look,’ he pointed, ‘over there!’
Holman followed his gaze and saw a great ball of smoke and flames rising from the direction of the West End. It snaked up towards the blue sky, a black, billowing cloud, violently red at its base.
‘What the hell is it?’ Holman asked nobody in particular, his question echoed by the other drivers who had emerged from their cars and were standing perplexed, staring into the sky.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Barrow, evenly, ‘but it’s coming from around the area of Tottenham Court Road. It might be just in front of the GPO Tower. If it isn’t in front . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished.
Holman turned to stare at him. More muffled explosions came from the same spot and they could see flames shooting into the air.
‘It’s beginning to happen here,’ said Holman quietly.
‘What? No, we’ve had no fog here!’ Barrow retorted. ‘There’s no connection, can’t be!’
‘I wish we could be sure of that.’
Several groups of people had gathered and were talking excitedly, gesturing towards the black-stained day. Barrow walked over towards one of the groups and asked same sharp questions. A minute later, he returned to Holman.
‘There’s your answer,’ he said. ‘The people over there saw a jumbo jet circling over London. They said it was very, very low so they realized it was in trouble. Then it went into a dive. They think it hit the Tower, one old boy swears it did.’
Holman shook his head in disbelief. ‘It’s incredible. The school, Bournemouth – and now this.’
‘I just told you, it’s probably got nothing to do with the fog!’
‘I wish I could believe it, Barrow. I wish I could.’
Even in the bright sunlight, Holman felt a shiver run through him.
He was surprised at the vast basement area that was used for medical research beneath the Alexander Fleming House building. Even as a civil servant himself, he hadn’t known of its existence. They were met by the Chief Medical Officer, a fat, jovial man who explained, ‘I’m going to take you downstairs and hand you over to Mrs Janet Halstead, Principal Medical Officer for the Research Council. It’s a completely different department from ours, but they occupy that part of the building for good reasons. Their divisions of research are spread all over the place, the majority in London, but many as far as Scotland. When they need to get together on a project – and it has happened quite a number of times in the past I can assure you – they get together here. Needless to say, you’re bound by the Official Secrets Act to keep this to yourselves.’ He laughed at their serious faces. ‘It’s not that secret, you understand, but there are reasons for not letting it become public knowledge.’
They entered a lift, Casey having been taken through a more private entrance to the rear of the building.
A plump middle-aged woman wearing a white coat greeted them when the doors opened again. She stepped forward and shook Holman’s hand without waiting for an introduction.
‘You must be Mr Holman,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ve been reading about you