crush of people being shepherded down Regent Street, he stepped to one side and looked about. Then, just as he was about to be caught up again, he spotted Trevor Jordan on a traffic island in urgent conversation with two uniformed senior policemen. Sidestepping the cordon, he ran towards Jordan, shouting, Trevor, can I be of help?'
Jordan saw him and quickly spoke to the inspectors; one of them waved off a policeman who was hot on Harry's heels. And as he skidded to a halt, Harry was apologetic. 'I ... just thought it might be a good idea to be in on this,' he gulped.
Jordan shrugged and said, 'Right now I don't see what you can do, but since you're here . . .' He shrugged again. Jordan was the easy-going sort generally, but it was obvious from his tone of voice that in the current situation he saw the Necroscope as an encumbrance. There weren't any dead people to talk to here ... not just yet, anyway.
A seasoned if occasionally variable telepath, Jordan was thirty-two years old. His looks fitted his character precisely: he was usually transparent, open as a favourite book. It was as if he personally would like to be as readable to others as they were to him; as if he were trying to make some sort of physical compensation for his metaphysical talent. His face reflected this attitude: oval, fresh, open and almost boyish. He had lank mousy hair falling forward above grey eyes, and a crooked mouth that straightened out whenever he was worried or annoyed. Mostly, people liked him; having the advantage of knowing it if someone didn't like him, Jordan would simply avoid that person. But, rangy and athletic, it was a mistake to misread his obvious sensitivity; there was plenty of determination in him, too.
Harry asked him: 'Is this where it will happen?' He scanned all about, trying to work out what was going on.
In his time (just seventeen months ago), the Necroscope had been the author of a considerable amount of bombing of his own, but he told himself that that had been different and even necessary. Or was it all in the eye of the beholder? Well, maybe, except this wasn't a nest of mindspy thugs and megalomaniacs in some nightmare-riddled chateau in the USSR, but a busy thoroughfare in the heart of London. The people who could get involved, hurt, killed here, were innocent of any crime other than being here. And there were still far too many of them.
A flood of shoppers was even now issuing from stores both east and west, adding to the crushes down Regent, Portland and New Bond Streets. And police activity had grown even more urgent. There were dog-handlers, with sniffers straining at their leads; loud-hailers boomed to left and right, issuing raucous instructions; motorists were leaving their blocked-in cars and hurrying on foot in what they hoped was the safest direction.
'Chaos!' Harry said, guessing that Jordan hadn't answered his question because he didn't know.
The name of the game, sir,' one of the police inspectors harshly answered. The three "D"s. To cause as much disruption, death and destruction as inhumanly possible. Chaos, yes. But if you're with Mr Clarke's Branch - and if this is new to you - where've you been?'
'Oh, places,' Harry looked at him in a certain way of his, and was glad that Alec Kyle had been the sort who kept himself to himself. And turning to Jordan: There are only six minutes left, and people all over the place!'
But Trevor Jordan wasn't listening. He was half-collapsed in the back of a squad car parked on the traffic island, with a pained expression on his face and his hands to the sides of his head. The policemen looked at each other, went to question him. Harry stopped them, saying, 'He's at work. Leave him.'
The police cordon in Regent Street had let a car through the crush. It slewed across the road, bumped up onto the traffic island alongside the squad car. And Darcy Clarke got out. He saw Harry at once and began to protest, 'Jesus, Harry - !'
But the Necroscope had gone down on one knee beside Jordan, who was muttering: 'It's ... it has to be ... Sean!'
'Scan?' Harry gripped his shoulder, stared hard into his squeezed-up face.
'Sean Milligan,' Darcy hissed in Harry's ear. 'He's one of their best, or worst!'
'Armed,' Jordan gasped. 'And with more than just a bomb! He ... he hasn't primed it