The Angel

by Mark Dawson

  He checked through the window again. A policeman had entered the corridor. He was walking away from them.

  ‘Ready?’

  They nodded.

  ‘Now!’

  He eased the door open and stepped through. The policeman turned just as he raised the Uzi and squeezed off a quick fusillade. The man was struck several times, stumbling back until he tripped and fell onto his side. He had collapsed next to the stairs. Ibrahim rushed ahead, put a final round into the man’s head and led the way up the flight of stone steps.

  Pope saw the Sprinter and the discarded jackets and coats that had been scattered on the ground next to it. There were five of them. He paused quickly and saw the mess of opened tins and packets of produce that had been strewn around. It was easy enough to put together what had happened. The van had brought one or two men inside. Most likely it was two. The weapons for the attack had been hidden inside the opened tins and packets. The bombs were a distraction. One of the men from the van had killed the police guarding the entrance so that he could let the other men inside. The five jackets left on the ground suggested that the plan called for seven men. He had counted four and killed two. The spare jacket must have belonged to the man who had been left to guard the van.

  ‘There’s five of them, not four. And they’re all armed. Our friend had an Uzi. We better assume they all do.’

  They climbed the winding corkscrew stone staircase and emerged on the ground floor, close to the Commons Library, where they split into their separate teams. They split up. Abdul, Nazir and Mo went one way, and Ibrahim and Faik went another. Their paths would converge on the lobby that preceded the entrance to the Commons.

  Ibrahim ran, the extra weight of the explosives slowing him down. They passed through the Peers’ Lobby and the corridor beyond and reached the Central Lobby. It was a grand octagonal hall that was one of the central hubs of the building. He glanced up at the vaulted tower above them, a full sixty feet in diameter. The stone roof was supported without a central pillar and contained a long series of elaborately carved bosses. It was austere and impressive, obviously designed to cow those who visited. It did not have that effect on Ibrahim.

  There were twenty or thirty people there. He saw old men in suits, a few women, and a policeman with his back turned to them. The atmosphere was fraught with tension. They must have heard what was happening outside by now. Ibrahim had trained for precisely this situation and his reaction was instant and ruthless. He released his hold on the Uzi, letting it fall free on the bungee cord, his right hand stabbing down into one of the pouches on his vest and removing one of the grenades.

  He pulled the pin, tossed it into the middle of the crowd and slipped behind the cover of a pillar.

  The grenade burst apart with a sharp crack. Hundreds of pieces of sharp-edged shrapnel were propelled in all directions. Those near the seat of the explosion were torn to shreds. It exploded on the floor, so those who might otherwise have survived were struck below the waist. They fell to the floor, their hands reaching for the wounds to their buttocks and legs.

  Ibrahim and Faik stepped out of cover and fired at the survivors. They both emptied their magazines, then ejected and loaded fresh ones. They fired for ten seconds and then stopped.

  Ibrahim paused to get his breath.

  He smelled cordite.

  Gunpowder.

  He heard soft moans.

  Faik shouted out.

  Ibrahim spun. Another two policemen ran up the steps from St Stephen’s Hall. Faik fired first. The policemen hadn’t seen them and stood no chance. Ibrahim fired. The policemen collapsed to their knees, clutching their stomachs. Faik approached cautiously and shot both of them again.

  ‘Well done, brother.’

  ‘Allah smiles on us.’

  ‘We’re nearly there. We must hurry.’

  They left the carnage in the lobby and headed north. The walls of the corridor were covered with grand frescoes. The ostentatiousness was distasteful. He thought of the austerity of the caliph’s quarters in Raqqa. The comparison was instructive: the worldly against the spiritual. He knew which he preferred.

  He was at the entrance to the Commons Lobby when he heard more gunfire from behind him. He spun around and saw a man crouched low, aiming a pistol. He realised dimly that it was the man who had shot Bilal and Aneel as they had tried to pass through the turnstile outside. There was a second man a few steps behind him. Ibrahim tripped over his feet, just managing to launch himself into a deep recess as the pistol barked again and bullets winged out toward him.

  He crashed against the wall.

  No hits. Lucky.

  ‘Faik?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Faik?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ a man’s voice called out. ‘You’re next.’

  He risked a quick glance back. Faik was laid out on the floor. He had been shot as he had left the Central Lobby. He was on his belly, unmoving, a pool of blood inching out from an open wound in his temple.

  A gun fired again. He pressed himself deeper into the recess as a cloud of dust and stone fragments exploded just overhead.

  The firing stopped.

  ‘Do not come any closer,’ Ibrahim yelled.

  ‘Throw out your weapon.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re trapped. Throw it out.’

  ‘I have a suicide vest. My finger is on the trigger. If I see you, I will detonate it. We will both die.’

  Ibrahim heard the sudden clatter of gunfire from the other direction. Screams. He turned his head. He was almost at the end of the corridor, ten feet from the entrance to the Commons Lobby. He could see into most of it from where he was. Abdul, Nazir and Mo had entered the lobby from the east. A policeman had been guarding the doors to the Commons, but now he was on his back.

  ‘Abdul!’ Ibrahim yelled. ‘Help!’

  Besides Ibrahim, Abdul had the most battlefield experience of any of them. He knew what to do.

  They could see each other, but the angle meant that the men who had shot Faik could not see them. Ibrahim pointed back to the south to Faik’s body.

  Abdul crept ahead, lowered himself to a crouch and pressed himself against the doorway.

  He fastened his eyes on Ibrahim’s and counted down on his fingers.

  Three.

  ‘Throw out—’

  Two.

  ‘—your weapons!’

  One.

  They both span out of cover, their submachine guns up and firing. He saw a flash of colour against the dun stone and focused his aim on it, fully automatic. Bullets crashed against the wall and a storm of chips was cast out, but the men who had shot Faik were in cover.

  Mo and Nazir joined Abdul at the doorway and opened fire.

  ‘Keep firing!’ Ibrahim yelled over the sound of the fusillade.

  He took one of his grenades, pulled the pin and rolled it underarm toward where he thought the men were sheltering. The fuse was set for five seconds. The grenade detonated with a crash that was amplified by the natural acoustics of the corridor. Shrapnel clanged against the walls, and a cloud of black smoke billowed out.

  He took the chance to sprint out from cover, throwing himself into the lobby with the others.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Pope 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 lobby.

  ‘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 against 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

  It 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 Underground and 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

  Aamir 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.