by KJ Griffin
***
Ministers’ Rooms, Houses of Parliament: 10:47 p.m.
From his vantage point in the western buttressing of the roof of the Commons Gerry McLaughlin caught sight of the first shadowy figure on the roofing of the Ministers' Rooms, immediately opposite him to the north.
His sniper's instincts told him to slip the Armalite AR 18 silently into firing position and wait. He was particularly glad of the night vision goggles he had insisted that Neil Smedley smuggle in inside the canvas bags. Despite the searing searchlights the police had trained on the buildings they would make all the difference now.
His patience was soon rewarded by the emergence of first one, then another figure. With the arrival of the third man, the party started moving purposefully towards him, skirting the battlements flanking Parliament Square. At a hand gesture from the first man, the searchlight in Big Ben flooding the northern side of the rooftops was instantly switched off, and as if by magic, the dark figures became even more distinct against the sandstone of the battlements.
McLaughlin put a finger to his lips and nudged Abu Fawaz in the ribs. The little Jordanian had been dozing, but he followed the direction of McLauglin's index finger, nodding vociferously and clambering up against the battlements to gain a better view.
McLaughlin tweaked the telescopic sight and focused on the second figure, his brain rapidly calculating the wind velocity while his fingers worked. Always a good ploy to go for the middle; that caused maximum panic.
He eased his firing figure back against the trigger and the shot rang out sharply despite the steadily westerly blowing across him towards the river. He stayed in position just long enough to watch the SAS man drop, but was down behind the battlements before the police snipers in the Clocktower opposite could react, spraying inaccurate return fire into the masonry of the little tower. They obviously had not spotted him, and he swivelled back into position just in time to catch the furthest of the three soldiers desperately trying to drag his stricken comrade under cover. He fired once, but in the wind a leg shot was all he could manage.
This time the police marksmen spotted his position and he was only just under cover quick enough. A volley of rifle fire ripped into the stonework of the buttress, sending shards of stone into the air above him.
McLaughlin crouched down breathing hard. It was too late by the time he realized what Abu Fawaz was up to. The little Jordanian had clambered up on top of the parapet, exposing his upper torso and aiming an RPG7 at the Clocktower. The shot screwed wide with the drag of the wind, missing the police marksmen hiding in the recesses above the clock, merely grazing the side of the famous Big Ben tower.
But Abu Fawaz was dangling in the wind long enough for danger. An answering volley spat into the brickwork all around and he fell heavily, clutching a ricochet wound in the neck. McLaughlin put the Armalite down to help his friend, but Abu Fawaz pushed him away with surprising strength, cursing or praying – it sounded like it could be either - frantically and reaching inside his jacket pocket.
McLaughlin smiled broadly when he saw the radio fuse in Abu Fawaz's hand. He had guessed all along that the little Jordanian had outsmarted Al-Ajnabi. Now he was about to find out. Instinctively, he covered his head and hit the floor.