by Chris Ryan
Danny loosened his grip.
‘You’re an arrogant cunt, Black. You think you’re the king of the fucking Regiment, don’t you? Well, one word from me and you know what you are? A sad twat on civvie street.’
And with a nasty, vicious glance at Spud, he tore away, disappearing into the mist without looking back.
Silence.
‘Danny, you’ve got to listen to me,’ Spud said. ‘We have to get out of here. We can’t trust Tony. He’d love to screw us over.’
‘No.’
‘Mate, we’ve got it wrong. The hit’s in London. The security services are all over it. You’re never going to find your daughter like this. It’s not going to happen.’
‘Fine,’ Danny said. ‘Leave.’
‘Mate—’
‘When they let the public in tomorrow morning,’ Danny cut in, ‘one of them is going to be the shooter. Maybe even Mujahid himself. We have to have eyes on. Till then, we hunker down.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Danny, you’re clutching at straws.’
They stared at each other.
‘Look buddy,’ Spud said, ‘I can’t pretend to know what you’re feeling at the moment, with your kid missing and everything. But you’ve got to see sense. The hit’s in London. You know it is. There’s nothing we can do here, and Tony Wiseman is a danger to us. We’ve got to leave.’
Danny blinked. He stared at Spud.
‘Mate, are you OK?’ Spud said, his voice suddenly full of concern. ‘You don’t look good. Look, we’ve only had a few hours’ kip in the last three days—’
‘I’m fine.’ But he wasn’t. Nausea was coursing through him. For a horrible moment, it was all Danny could do to keep standing.
‘It’s a bad plan, mate,’ Spud was saying. ‘It stinks.’
‘I know,’ Danny replied. He was feeling dizzy. Overwhelmed with exhaustion. His voice sounded slurred. ‘I know it’s a bad plan. But it’s the only one I’ve got . . .’ He snapped himself out of his nausea. ‘You don’t have to stay,’ he said.
He turned his back on his mate, and walked away.
December 25
Twenty-three
London. Dawn.
From somewhere on the other side of the river, a solitary bell was ringing. Happy fucking Christmas, Barker thought to himself.
He was standing on the south side of Millbank, watching the mist curl lazily over the Thames. Apart from that bell, London was almost silent. It was as if the old city was holding its breath.
He turned his back on the river, crossed the deserted road and headed up towards Westminster Abbey. This whole situation was ludicrous. They should be cancelling the Christmas morning service. Cordoning off the whole area. There couldn’t be a terror attack on an event that wasn’t even happening.
But word was that the PM had put his foot down. The service would go ahead as usual. He and his family would attend. To consider anything else would be to hand a victory to the forces of terror that wanted to threaten our way of life – or whatever politician’s bullshit he’d come out with. Barker couldn’t help wondering how he’d feel about his way of life if his teenage daughter was massacred on Christmas morning by some Islamic State scumbag.
The front of the church had been cordoned off into various approaches: one for the public, one for the VIPs and anyone requiring extra security. The exterior was crawling with police in hi-vis jackets, perhaps thirty of them. But there were also an equivalent number of plain-clothes guys. Guys like Barker. He saw his mate Andy Connor talking into a covert microphone on the lapel of his jacket up by the west door. Barker and Connor were in the doghouse after the fuck-up with Kailash McCaffrey, but the general situation was too serious for anyone to be truly out in the cold. The security services needed all available personnel present.
Though what they were supposed to do, Barker wasn’t sure. The abbey had been cased more times than he could count. There wasn’t a square inch of that building that hadn’t been searched for IEDs, chemical weapons, biological agents, ammo caches, weapons stashes. MI6 drones had examined and photographed every last spire and turret. Sniffer dogs were in constant attendance. There had been background checks run on every single member of the clergy or support staff who would be present for the Christmas service. By 8 a.m., there would be Regiment snipers in the rooftops of the buildings surrounding the abbey, and armed guys inside. Barker would be one of them. His position would be at the end of the front pew, five places along from the PM himself – not that the PM would know him from Adam. While the congregation were praying, or singing ‘Oh Come All Ye fucking Faithful’, Barker would be constantly scanning the interior of the abbey, picking out faces, searching for that suspicious activity, that telltale movement, that could precede an attack. The gesture that you couldn’t predict, but which you’d know when you saw it.
And if you didn’t see it?
Barker was trained to think positive. Difficult, on a day like today.
He heard a noise overhead. A chopper had hovered into view against the grey dawn sky. Barker figured he’d be seeing a few more of those before the morning was out. He knew why it was there. It was an unspoken warning to the people behind the attack: we’re expecting you, and we’re ready. A show of force. Barker didn’t have much faith in it. Sure, there would be bag checks as the congregation entered the church, and as many members of the public as possible would be scanned with hand-held metal detectors. And though the thought left a bad taste in Barker’s mouth, the reality was that those with darker skin would be more thoroughly searched than others. But there was a hole in every net. The security services knew full well that there were IS sympathisers with white skin. And if a terrorist was willing to lose their own life to make their deadly, bloody point, the possible countermeasures were limited.
A voice from behind him. ‘What are you, Barker, a fucking sightseer?’ He recognised the voice of his boss, Wallace Conlin. Barker was not in Conlin’s good books. If ever there was a time to tread softly, now was it.
‘Just trying to think what we’ve missed, boss,’ Barker said.
‘Yeah, well leave the thinking to those who can do it. The PM’s CP team will be here in twenty minutes to review the arrangements. I want all our guys in position. That means you.’
Barker knew better than to argue. He hurried up towards the front entrance of the abbey. The armed police officer monitoring entry into and out of the building recognised him and allowed him to pass. It was warmer inside than out, though only slightly. A clergyman in a white frock was lighting huge candles on the altar, and there was a lingering smell of incense. Barker’s footsteps echoed as he walked up the aisle towards the front of the church. His eyes flickered up, left and right, and he caught sight of several faces he recognised: armed Regiment men, preparing their positions overlooking the main congregation. Ready to take a shot with the advantage of height, if the situation demanded it. And as he took his place on the front pew, he retrieved his own weapon from the holster under his jacket. Sig 9mm. It felt a hell of a sight better in his hand than it did in its holster.
‘Excuse me!’
Barker looked up to see the clergyman who had been lighting the candles. The guy was standing right over him. He had jowly features, rimless round glasses and a film of sweat on his upper lip.
‘This is a holy place. Please put that thing away.’
Barker stood up and looked meaningfully around him. ‘Won’t be the only holey thing round here,’ he said, ‘you fellas don’t let us do our job.’ He holstered the Sig.
The clergyman gave a complacent smile. ‘The Lord will protect us,’ he said.
‘Course he will,’ Barker replied. ‘That’s why he got us on board.’
From the corner of his eye he saw five broad-shouldered men in suits walking up the aisle. The PM’s security, without a doubt. He turned his back on the clergyman and went to meet them.
Time check: 0700 hours.
The rising sun failed to burn the mist from the grounds of
Sandringham. It clung to everything. To the ground. To the buildings. To the trees. And to the two soldiers, hunkered down among thick, thorny bushes, thirty metres from the west gate.
They’d been scouring the grounds since Tony had left them. Or, more accurately, Danny had been scouring the grounds. Spud had been on edge. Jumpy. He didn’t trust Tony not to raise the alarm. Intruders in the grounds. So while Danny had searched every bush, ditch and outbuilding in the vicinity of the road leading from Sandringham House to the church, Spud had stood guard, peering into the mist, checking for security personnel. At one point, just after 0400 hours, he’d heard footsteps along the road. He and Danny had gone to ground, keeping eyes on. Two figures, warmly wrapped in black jackets, gloves and hats, had sauntered past. Danny could tell from their body language that they weren’t looking for anyone in particular. But their presence only served to put Spud even more on edge.
As the hours passed, Danny’s search for weaponry remained fruitless. Each time he saw a mound of thick foliage through the dark and the mist, he experienced a surge of hope. And each time that hope faded it was replaced by a new knot of panic. Spud had stopped telling him that they’d made the wrong call. He didn’t need to. It was becoming increasingly obvious.
Now, as daylight arrived, they had no choice but to stay hidden. The hard, frosty ground had sapped all warmth from them. Danny’s body felt numb. So did his mind. His eyes kept rolling with tiredness. Then, on the verge of sleep, his mind kept replaying Dhul Faqar’s video of Mujahid, Clara and their daughter, snapping him back to reality . . .
He had to keep awake.
From their OP in the patch of thick evergreen bushes almost as tall as Danny and several times as deep, they had line of sight towards the little church where the Christmas morning service would take place. Distance: 100 metres to their ten o’clock, across a well-kept lawn and a narrow road. Through the mist, he could make out the silhouettes of three figures in the vicinity of the church. Royal protection officers, performing a quick security check. His mind turned to London. He wondered how many of his colleagues would be in situ at Westminster Abbey at this very moment.
He wondered if he should be there with them.
His eyes rolled again.
Stay awake . . .
The weapons from the armoury were laid out in front of them, fully assembled. Suppressed rifles. Sidearms. The works. ‘Any of these security guys find us with all this gear, they’ll take a shot, mucker,’ Spud had warned him. ‘You know that, right?’
Yeah. Danny knew that. He looked to his two o’clock. At a distance of seventy-five metres was the western gate where the public would be entering. Danny estimated that security would open it in two hours’ time, at 0900 hours. That would give the public an hour before the royals arrived at the church. He reckoned the royals themselves would leave Sandringham House at 0945 hours.
‘If anyone’s going to take a shot at them, they’ll want to be in position by 0930 hours,’ he muttered to Spud. Spud didn’t reply. He looked as exhausted as Danny. ‘So I think our man Mujahid will walk through that gate between 0900 and 0930.’
‘Yeah,’ Spud said. ‘Either that, or we’re in a prime spot to watch all the old ladies of Norfolk waddle past on their Zimmer frames.’ His voice trembled somewhat as he spoke. He was obviously as cold as Danny.
Danny didn’t bother answering. He panned between the church and the gate. Watching. Waiting. Forcing himself to keep alert.
Big Ben struck 0900 hours.
Barker hardly heard the nine solemn echoes. His covert earpiece was a buzz of activity. Stressed, serious voices. Some he recognised, some he didn’t.
– All units, this is unit base. We have secure transport waiting outside Number 10. The PM and his family will be leaving at 0940, estimated arrival 0955.
From his position at the front of the abbey, he looked back along the aisle. The place was already a quarter full. Well-heeled Londoners in heavy winter coats. A low chatter emanating from the pews.
– All units, this is sniper team red commander. We have all personnel in position. Repeat all personnel in position.
He wondered how many of the public now filtering in for their Christmas morning worship realised that the front of the abbey was being covered by the most highly trained snipers in the world.
– All units, this is sniper team blue commander. Target interior is covered, repeat, target interior is covered.
He glanced up. The balcony was closed to the public. But there were people there – grim-faced men conducting constant, unflinching surveillance. Would any of the congregation twig who they were or why they were there?
– This is SCO19 command. We have armed personnel covering all entrances . . .
Barker’s mate Andy Connor walked up to him. Dark bags under his eyes. Concern etched on his forehead. ‘Get the impression someone’s panicking?’
‘Too right,’ Barker said.
Connor looked around. ‘What have we missed?’ he muttered.
Barker was thinking the same thing. It didn’t matter that Westminster Abbey was currently the best-defended location in the entire country. He couldn’t shake the sneaking suspicion that something was being overlooked.
‘There are no IEDs,’ Barker said. ‘The headshed’s sure of that. They’re scanning every member of the congregation as they come in. The only person not getting fleeced is the PM.’
But Connor’s gaze had drifted up towards the altar. ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘Not just the PM.’ He was eyeing the clergyman Barker had spoken to earlier that morning. He was standing at the altar, wiping an ornate golden chalice with a crisp white cloth.
Barker stared. ‘You can’t be serious,’ he said.
Connor looked deadly serious. ‘Check out the robes,’ he said. ‘You could hide enough C5 under those to take out half the abbey.’
‘He’s a fucking vicar, mate . . .’
As Barker spoke, the clergyman looked up and saw them staring at him. He looked suddenly flustered. He put the chalice down rather clumsily, then turned and shuffled hurriedly away from the altar towards the oak-panelled vestry at one side.
Barker and Connor looked at each other. Then towards the clergyman.
They followed him.
The organ started to play. Gentle music filled the cavernous space of the abbey. It barely registered with Barker. Suddenly all his attention was on the sweaty clergyman now disappearing into the vestry, ten metres from their position.
‘Barker, Connor, what the hell are you doing?’ The men stopped. The voice was behind them, but Barker recognised it well enough. Wallace Conlin, when Barker turned to face him, had a face like a thundercloud. ‘I thought I told you I wanted you in position.’
Barker and Connor exchanged a sidelong glance. A glance that said: should we tell him what we think?
Barker stepped forward. ‘Boss,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ve found a weak spot.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The priests. They need to be searched. They could be hiding anything under those . . .’
His voice trailed away as he saw the expression on Conlin’s face.
‘The priests,’ Conlin said, ‘are as white as you or me.’
‘Boss, we know there are white IS sympathisers. It’s not just about skin colour—’
‘I thought I told you,’ Conlin interrupted, and his voice was dangerous, ‘to leave the thinking to the people who know how to do it.’
‘Boss, I’m just saying . . .’ He blinked. What was he saying? A thought crystallised very clearly in his mind. ‘Boss, the people who are most likely to bring a device into the abbey are the people who’ve had access to it for weeks, months.’ He looked back towards the entrance. ‘No member of the public’s going to get an IED in here today. Not with all this security.’
‘All this security?’ Conlin cut in. He waved one finger around, vaguely indicating the security personnel all around the abbey. ‘You know why there’s all this security, B
arker? Because of you. We had a direct lead to a UK-based IS cell, and you two idiots killed the fucker with a badly placed fist. Now you seem to think you have a better handle on what’s going on here than the combined brainpower of the UK security forces? I promise you, gentlemen, that you don’t. So do us all a favour, leave the fucking vicars to fondle the choirboys and get the hell back to your positions before I have you both RTU’d.’
Barker and Connor both glanced towards the vestry.
‘Now!’ Conlin said.
They didn’t have a choice. Barker returned to his place in the front pew. Connor took up position on the other side of the aisle.
Time check: 0925.
T minus thirty-five minutes.
Time check: 0927.
Danny and Spud had watched members of the public entering the grounds without exchanging a word. Danny estimated that there were just shy of 100 people. The visibility was appalling: mist as thick as soup made it hard to discern individual figures. Nevertheless, he had used the rifle scope from his bag of gear to focus in on every member of the public as they passed through the west gates. Old ladies, mostly. A few younger couples with kids. A handful of toddlers. Several babies in prams. Woollen hats and heavy coats.
Danny’s vision went blurred. All the faces merged into one. He shook his head. Snapped out of it. Focussed in on individual faces again.
Not a single face that looked remotely Middle Eastern. Not a single person who Danny could even begin to think might be the animal who had his daughter.
Until now.
He was a tall man. Broad-shouldered. Dark skin. He wore a black beanie hat. Black gloves. A navy Puffa jacket. But it was the man’s scarf that jumped out at Danny. He could just make it out, despite the mist. The man was not wearing it in any of the usual ways: two tails hanging down, or knotted under the Adam’s apple. The thick woollen material was very precisely wrapped. Swaddling the neck. As though it were hiding something.
‘That’s him,’ he hissed.
