Read (2013) Collateral Damage for Free Online

tight, three-hundred-and-sixtydegree turn.
    Later, it was construed by the press that Gold, undeterred by
the three shots which had already penetrated his taxi, was off in hot pursuit of
the gunman. In fact, the very opposite was true. The turn was a desperate piece
of evasion by a man in a car who knew he was being shot at, but because his forward
vision was limited to a six-inch hole in his windscreen, had no idea where the shots
were coming from. By this time Koller had already rounded the corner into Sloane
Street and was weaving through the two hundred yards of late shoppers and liberated
office workers separating him from Sloane Square underground station.
    He had slipped the heavy pistol back into the shoulderholster,
and fastened the top button of his jacket. Most people were looking towards the
sound of the explosion they had just heard. The observant were beginning to point
out the rising smoke that originated from somewhere behind the Peter Jones department
store. Nobody paid any attention to a youngishlooking man running in the opposite
direction, except an elderly flower-seller at the underground, who noticed that
his face was smudged. It reminded her of something; later she remembered it was
the way the firemen looked during the blitz.
    Koller had decided from the start that the tube was to be his
getaway. He already had a ticket for Victoria station, one stop along the line from
Sloane Square. He waited a little under two minutes for a train, elbowing his way
well into the crowd, his left hand pulling his lapel over his gun. A middle-aged
woman, shopping-bags in both hands, objected to his shoving and tutted. 'Some people,'
she said.
    He turned his back to her.
    A man in a dark blue uniform came rushing on to the platform
and the terrorist watched, knowing that he had only three shots left and no escape;
perhaps he could take a hostage and force his way to the exit. The woman with the
shopping-bags might do. But as the man got closer he saw that his hair was lank
and long and that he was holding the flat cap of a private security company in his
right hand. When his train pulled out it was still a little under five minutes since
the bomb had gone off and the first police sirens were sounding in the streets above.
    In Cadogan Gardens any further part Alfred Gold might have taken
in the proceedings came to an abrupt end when, coming out of his full turn, he collided
and dented the driving-side wing of a maroon Citroen crawling by the burning Jaguar.
At almost the same time Gold's radio link came to life. He picked up the mike, gave
his call sign and asked his control to tell the emergency services to come to Cadogan
Gardens where a man had been shooting at him, a car was burning, and somebody appeared
to be badly injured. When he had said it once he had to say it again because taxi
dispatchers are amused to receiving this type of message. This time he mentioned
the injured person first. He could now see through his left window that it was a
young woman. While he was saying all this the driver of the Citroen, a sixty-ish,
florid-faced man wearing an RAF tie, came to the driver's window. 'Do you mind telling
me what you think you're doing?' he snapped. Gold ignored him and repeated his message.
Slowly, the red-faced man began to comprehend that something very untoward indeed
had happened in which the traditional role of the outraged injured party would not
be at all appropriate.
    When the cabbie had finished speaking they went together to examine
Emma, who was lying very white and still on the pavement. Her hair and clothing
were slightly singed. The plastic and foam components in the bombed car, particularly
the seat stuffing, continued to give off choking black smoke.
    'We'd better get her out of here in case the tank hasn't gone,'
said the red-faced man. He was scared, but determined not to let the side down.
He wasn't to know the tank had already exploded. Nor was Gold.
    They picked her up, the red-faced man at