The Angel (9 page)

Chapter Nineteen

P
ope pressed himself behind the pillar. He had been
fortunate
. The grenade had gone off ahead of him, and his cover – in a recess, behind a statue of a parliamentarian he did not recognise – had been good enough to protect him from the shrapnel, save for the tracks of scratches that had been scored across his shoulder.

‘Con . . . Control.’

It was McNair. His voice was pained and weak. Pope looked across the corridor to where he was sheltering. His left hand was pressed to his gut in a hopeless attempt to staunch the flow of blood that was pouring from the shrapnel wound. His shirt was saturated, and gobbets of blood were soaking through and falling to the floor.

Shit.

McNair shook his head. He knew he was in trouble.

Pope knew there was nothing he could do to help him. There were four attackers left, unless others had breached the building without his knowledge. They all had automatic weapons. They probably all had grenades, too. He and McNair couldn’t retreat. If they did, there was no telling what the attackers would do. The terrorists had suicide vests. Pope didn’t know what procedure would be in the chamber when the building was under attack. Would they lock it all down? Or would they evacuate? If they did that, there was no telling how long it would take. And if they did, how would they know where the shooters were located? There would have been
several
hundred MPs, press and members of the public in there. They could be herded into a killing zone.

No. They would defend the doors and lock it down.

But if the attackers could get inside . . .

He shook his head. They couldn’t retreat. McNair had to wait. Pope knew he was going to have to deal with them.

McNair coughed. Pope looked over as he spat out a streamer of blood.

‘It’s a gut shot, Scouse,’ Pope said. ‘You’ve got a while to bleed yet. Stay with me.’

‘Nah.’ McNair shook his head. ‘I’m fucked. Feel dizzy. Losing too . . . too much blood. Must’ve nicked an artery.’

Pope grimaced. Where was Snow? They were badly outgunned.

The attackers had obviously targeted the chamber. Everything else was diversionary. He tried to think. He didn’t even know whether the doors could be locked.

He needed help.

‘Control,’ McNair wheezed.

He looked back.

McNair nodded his head at the body of the dead terrorist. The bomber had fallen between two recesses. McNair was in the first recess, then came the body, then the second.

Pope knew what McNair was suggesting.

‘Cover me,’ he wheezed.

‘Scouse—’

Before Pope could protest, McNair shuffled out of cover and lumbered to the body.

Pope swung out, saw movement in the lobby and laid down suppressing fire. He fired six shots before the gun clicked empty.

McNair grunted with effort. Pope turned and saw him hauling the dead man, face first, around the corner into the Central Lobby.

‘Scouse,’ he hissed, hoping that his words wouldn’t carry to
the lob
by.

‘I’m here.’

‘Does he have grenades?’

‘No.’

‘His Uzi? I’m dry.’

McNair appeared around the edge of the wall and slid the dead man’s machine pistol down the corridor. It came to a stop adjacent to Pope’s recess. He reached out with his toe, snagged the
bungee
cord and dragged it to him. He collected it, checked that
the magazine
was properly engaged and leaned with his back aga
inst the
recess. They couldn’t have very long. Either the attackers would get into the chamber and do what they had come to do, or if they had more grenades, they would roll a couple more toward him, and maybe he wouldn’t be so lucky the next time.

‘Control?’ McNair’s voice was weaker.

‘I’m here.’

‘Ready?’

He tried to compose himself for what he knew McNair was about to do.

‘Good luck, Scouse. Been an honour.’

Ibrahim aimed his Uzi at the entrance to the corridor. If anyone was foolish enough to follow him out of it, he would pepper him.

The Commons Lobby was about forty-five feet square, with a door at each side and all four sides formed alike. Each was divided into three equal parts, the central of which contained a deeply recessed doorway, while the remaining parts, which included the corners, were divided into two storeys. Mo was at the double doors that offered access to the main chamber.

‘Come on!’ Ibrahim shouted.

‘The doors—’

Mo took aim at the doors and fired a blast from the Uzi. Chips of wood were thrown into the air, each impact marked by a little explosion of sawdust, but the door was too solid to be disturbed by the small-calibre rounds.

‘They’ve locked themselves inside.’

Ibrahim glanced at the door. He set his Uzi on the ground and unhooked the bag that he wore around his waist. He unzipped the bag and took out two fist-sized portions of military-grade plastique explosive, the fused detonator and the battery.

‘Cover me.’

Nazir grinned. He turned on a diagonal so that he could cover the door to his right and the door from which Ibrahim had entered. Mo and Abdul faced in the opposite direction so that they could cover the door to the left and the main door. They couldn’t see down into the corridor where Faik had been killed without presenting a target, but if anyone tried to storm the lobby, they would be able to shoot them before they got very far.

Ibrahim took the plastique and tore off the strip of adhesive backing. He had taken two steps towards the door when he heard a loud shout from behind him.

‘Hey!’

He turned.

A large white man had staggered out of the corridor.

He was wearing a pair of suit trousers, a bloodstained white shirt and a suicide vest.

Faik’s vest.

The trigger was in his hand.

Nazir raised his gun.

‘Don’t shoot!’ Ibrahim screamed. If a bullet struck the vest, it would set off the explosives.

Nazir fired and missed, but it didn’t matter.

The man pressed the trigger, closing the circuit and sending an electrical charge to the detonator.

The vest exploded. Ibrahim was picked up by the blast and tossed across the lobby. As he slammed against the wall, he was just vaguely aware of another huge, tearing explosion. The last thought that passed through his mind, obliterating even the promise of heaven and seventy-two virgins, was that it was his own vest.

Chapter Twenty

I
t had been easy enough for Aamir to get away from the area. The streets around the Houses of Parliament had been chaotic. He had turned onto Whitehall and run all the way to Trafalgar Square. He had made it to the Cenotaph when the first unmarked police car screamed by, its lights flashing and siren wailing. He stopped for breath when he was at the entrance to the square as another three police cars raced south. By the time he had crossed the stalled jam of traffic around the monument, he had counted ten, and overhead the first helicopter was clattering to the scene.

He ran to the entrance of Charing Cross station, but the metal gate had been pulled across. A harassed member of staff was telling people that there had been an incident on the Undergroun
d an
d that the whole network was suspended. He climbed the stairs again, the muscles in his legs burning from the exertion, and looked around. He saw a bus. He didn’t notice the number or the destination, but it had its doors open, and it looked as if it was still running. He climbed aboard, stuffed a hand into his pocket and fumbled around until he found a pound coin. He dropped it in the driver’s tray and clambered up to the top deck. There was a spare seat a third of the way down, and he slumped down in it.

The woman next to him had her phone out. She was reading a page from the BBC News website. He saw the word ‘bomb’ before a gout of vomit pulsed up from the roil of his stomach. He fought it back, the harsh acidity burning the back of his throat.

The bus lumbered away into the crush of traffic.

Whitehall was jammed now, too.

He watched through the windows as four armed policemen sprinted south, their weapons cradled before them.

Chapter Twenty-One

A
amir had called the number Mohammed had given him thirty minutes after the bombs had been reported on the news, just as the story was switching to the drama inside the Houses of Parliament. The boy had called on a public phone, as he had been instructed. That was good. He had been frantic. That was not good. Mohammed had spent the first five minutes just calming him down. He had given him the address of the warehouse and then made preparations for his arrival.

Now that he was done, he put on his coat, collected his cell phone and the silenced Beretta M9 and went outside to his van. The warehouse was on Seabright Street. It was a half mile to the west of Bethnal Green Tube station. The entire Tube network was suspended, so he had instructed Aamir to catch a bus that would deposit him on the Old Bethnal Green Road at the stop opposite the Tesco Metro. When he arrived, he was to call him from the public phone box outside the Coral betting shop.

His van was parked fifty yards to the south, nestled between a moped and a dirty white panel van. It was a plain Ford Transit, dented and dirty, and bought for cash. It disappeared into the background, completely unobtrusive. The driving position was raised and offered him an excellent view of the warehouse and the street. The main road was several turnings away, and there were no cameras between it and here.

He had cleared his property from the warehouse that morning, transferring it into the back of the van. He had planned to move on once the operation had concluded. It was unwise to stay in one place for too long. He had a list of safe houses that would accommodate him for as long as he decided to stay in London. The next one was in Leytonstone, to the east.

He sat in the van and waited for the boy to call again, watching the news on his iPad. His mood soured as it became clear that the full, expansive goals of the operation had not been met. He already knew that the first bomb, the one on the train, had not been detonated. Worse, the bulletins eventually confirmed that the six attackers had not been able to get into the chamber of the House of Commons. On that level, it had been a failure.

But it had been encouraging in other ways.

The reporters had switched their attention from the carnage outside the station to the Palace of Westminster as soon as it became clear that the drama unfolding within was pressing and happening in real time. Several reporters covering
PMQs
had been stranded inside the building, and they provided furtive and fearful updates, whispering into their cell phones. There were dispatches from inside the chamber, where gunfire was audible, and then the broadcasters found their money shot. The cameras inside the chamber had been left running, and they had caught the moment when the
suicide
vests had been detonated in the lobby. The explosion had been enormous. He knew it was more than one vest.

The footage was played back again and again, and the studio experts suggested that three separate blasts could be discerned, each following almost immediately after the other. Mohammed agreed. The doors had been blown into the chamber, and all of the remaining windows had been smashed. There had been a minor stampede as MPs of all persuasions tried to put as much distance as possible between them and the smoke that was pouring into the chamber from the lobby. The police had quickly restored order, and an evacuation had begun. Even now, willing volunteers, no doubt keen to demonstrate their bravery to their constituents, were lining up on Parliament Green to tell their side of the story to the phalanx of reporters.

Yes, he thought, it had not gone quite as well as he had hoped. But it had been a success in the main, most fundamental way. A blow had been struck right to the heart of the country. The caliph had reached out and scratched his fingers down the door that barred the way to the heart of their democracy. They had demonstrated that nowhere was safe. They had proven that they didn’t need
airliners
to cause terror. They could do it with ten men, a handful of weapons and a few pounds of explosives.

His phone rang. It was the boy. Mohammed gave him directions to the warehouse and ended the call.

He navigated to the folder with the martyrdom videos that each man had recorded in the days leading up to today. He would release them at the appropriate time, when the news cycle needed to be given another nudge. That wouldn’t be for a few days yet. He doubted that anything else would be talked about.

He saw a slightly built young man cross the junction, pause on the other side and then carry on.

Mohammed leaned forward and concentrated.

The man returned, paused again and then walked toward the warehouse.

Mohammed collected the 9mm Beretta M9 from the glovebox. The gun had been fitted with a suppressor. He put it into his ja
cket poc
ket.

The man was closer now. Dusk had fallen and visibility was lessened, but he could see it was Aamir.

He took a pair of latex overshoes and pulled them over his trainers, then pulled on a pair of gloves and a plastic hairnet. He got out of the van, closed the door quietly and crossed over
the roa
d.

Aamir was facing the door, half-heartedly pulling the cage.

Mohammed reached into his pocket for the key with his right hand and clasped Aamir around the shoulder with his left. ‘Aamir,’ he said, ‘do not worry. It is me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ the boy said. He turned and Mohammed saw the tears streaming down his face.

He would have to be quick. He did not want to have a scene on the street; passers-by might remember.

He unlocked the cage, yanked it back, opened the door and pulled Aamir inside.

There was a large space inside. The metal sheets over the
windows
stopped all the light. The only illumination came through the gaps that edged the door, weak and ineffectual and quickly absorbed
by the
darkness. The room was damp, and Mohammed could hear the trickling of water from somewhere in the gloom. He had purchased a builder’s lamp from a branch of Wickes, and he crouched down to switch it on. The sudden glare created a vivid pool of light, picking out rows of racking that would once have been used for storage. The shelves cast a lattice of deep black shadows against the walls. Aamir looked around uncertainly.

‘What is this place?’

‘Somewhere we won’t be seen. You are safe here, Aamir.’

‘I’m sorry . . .’ He couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘What happened?’

The boy’s tears came in hungry sobs.

‘Tell me.’

‘I . . . I . . . couldn’t do it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I was there, in the train, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t . . . there were people there, tourists, I would have killed all of them.’

‘It is fine, Aamir. You don’t need to worry. I understand.’

The boy looked at him, confusion evident on his face.
Mohammed
knew why. Aamir must have expected that he would be angry with him for failing to carry out his orders. He knew the effect that he could have on people. He knew that he had a
powerful
, forceful personality, and a man with his fearsome reputation was not a man that you would want to disappoint. He had relied upon both to fashion his mules as he wished, to inspire them to do his bidding.

But this one had not done as he had been told.

‘Did anyone see you come here?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Aamir said.

‘You don’t think?’

‘I was careful,’ he whined, ‘but I’m confused. This whole thing . . .’

Mohammed spoke with the most reassuring tone that he could manage. ‘I’m sure you were careful, brother. You need to be calm. Everything is going to be all right. Where is your rucksack?’

‘I left it there.’

‘At Westminster?’

‘Yes. Inside. I left it there and ran.’

He started to sob again.

Mohammed tried to placate him. ‘It doesn’t matter. The operation is a success.’

‘Bashir and Hakeem?’

He nodded. ‘They are with the prophet now.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes. The details are a little confused, but they are reporting that there were two explosions.’

‘There were,’ Aamir said quickly, trying to please him. ‘
Definitely
. I heard them.’

‘Many infidels were killed. It doesn’t matter that you did not
detonate
your bomb. Everything will be fine, Aamir. You need
to relax
.’

Aamir looked at Mohammed, and a fresh look of confusion came over his face. He pointed. ‘Why are you wearing those?’

He meant the overshoes, the gloves and the hairnet. ‘I’m very careful,’ Mohammed explained. ‘I don’t leave evidence that I have been in a place.’

‘What about me?’

‘It’s fine. They won’t be able to follow you here very easily.’

‘So why are you wearing them?’

‘We will be leaving soon,’ he said, reassuring him. ‘You are sa
fe, Aamir
.’

He knew that the security forces would identify Aamir soon enough. They would scour the footage from the barrage of CCTV cameras in the station, and it would be a simple enough thing to find the boy with the heavy-looking rucksack that was just the same as the rucksacks carried by the two bombers. They would be able to follow his Underground journey all the way back to Euston, and then they would find him disembarking from the train. They would follow that back to Luton. Mohammed had anticipated that they would, of course. That was why he had proposed the meeting in the car park rather than in the station itself. He had checked very carefully, and he was sure that there were no cameras at the end of the station property. The police would find Bashir’s car and be able to trace their journey back to its origin in Manchester. There would be no sign of Mohammed.

And, of course, the police would be able to follow Aamir’s footsteps away from Westminster. They would be able to follow him onto the bus. They would know when he disembarked, too. But Mohammed was confident that there would be limited coverage once he left the bus, and none once he turned onto the warren of roads and alleys that eventually led to the warehouse. They would follow him as far as they could and then swamp the area with
officers
. They would find this place eventually, but it would be much too late by then. He had plenty of time, but he had to deal with the boy.

‘They’ll follow me here?’

‘Some of the way. Not once you left the main road.’

‘So why do you need that stuff?’

‘I like to be very careful. This is dangerous work, Aamir. I have been doing it for many years. Do you know why I have never
been cau
ght?’

‘Because you
are
careful.’

‘And because I don’t leave loose ends.’

He took the gun from his pocket and shot the boy in the gut. The Beretta coughed, the report muffled by the suppressor. Aamir fell to the floor, his hands clasped around his stomach, with the blood already discolouring his shirt. He looked up at Mohammed in shock. He stepped up to him, pressed the end of the silencer against his crown and fired a second time. The force of the round knocked Aamir down onto his side.

Mohammed collected both casings and put them into his pocket.

He took his iPad and opened the BBC’s iPlayer app. The usual evening schedule had been cancelled for wall-to-wall coverage of the bombing. There was a helicopter overhead offering an excellent view of the damage that the second bomb had caused. The news anchor was reporting dozens of fatalities and hundreds maimed or wounded. Survivors, many glazed over with shock, were relaying their experiences to the cameras. Senior police officers struggled to answer premature questions about who might be responsible. Politicians, only recently allowed to leave the questionable safety of the Commons chamber, fulminated angrily and promised that the perpetrators would be brought to justice. But the overwhelming impression was one of hopelessness that a powerful blow had been struck in the heart of the capital.

And that was all very, very good.

It would metastasise into fury and the desire for bloody revenge, and that was good, too.

Mohammed took a bottle of water and drank from it. He put his iPad away and made his preparations to leave.