The Angel by Mark Dawson

surprise on his fac e. He was wise enough to have read the same signs as Pope.
    Morley was red in the face. ‘Is that all?’
    ‘Yes, ma’am.’
    ‘You are suspended, Captain.’
    ‘Yes, ma’am. What shall I tell my agents?’
    ‘That the Group is suspended. Everyone is to stand down. Everyone. Anyone in the field is to return home. Everything stops. Effective immediately.’
    ‘Very good, ma’am.’
    Snow and McNair stood, and Pope took a quarter turn before he stopped. In for a penny, he thought. The writing was on the wall. They were going down. Might as well go out swinging.
    ‘One more thing. With respect, I’m not interested in defending my position to a civilian. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. But what I would say is this: if you’re serious about suspending the Group, then you should be prepared to explain to the country that your morality is worth more than the blood of the men and women who will die to pay for it. I suspect that will be a difficult speech to write. You should probably ask your aides to start thinking about it now.’ He straightened out his suit with two brisk downward brushing movements. ‘Good day to you all.’

Chapter Eleven
    T he van pulled up at the goods in/out entrance on Abingdon Street at five minutes before twelve. A service road led off to the left, passing through a gate and then a checkpoint beyond that. Ibrahim waited patiently as the van was photographed. Software compared the registration with the list of permitted vehicles, and when a match had been found, the gate slid aside. Ibrahim edged ahead, stopping before the metal bar of the checkpoint. Beyond that, a ramp was raised. There was a small office built into the archway through which the road descended, and inside sat two armed policemen. The security was impressive.
    Ibrahim had passed through the checkpoint many times before, and he knew the procedure. The detail changed regularly, and he didn’t recognise the policeman who came out and approached the va n.
    ‘Is this usual?’ Abdul asked nervously.
    ‘It is fine,’ Ibrahim murmured. ‘Just act normal. Relax.’
    The policeman came up to Ibrahim’s window and indicated that he should wind it down.
    ‘Name, sir?’
    ‘Ibrahim Yusof.’
    ‘Purpose?’
    ‘Food delivery.’
    ‘Your friend?’
    ‘Abdul Mansoor.’
    ‘Wait there, please, gents.’
    The man went back into the office and spoke with his colleague. Ibrahim rested his fingers on the wheel and drummed them lightly, presenting as normal a picture as he could. He was nervous, and he could see that Abdul was, too. He knew that he was as well prepared as he could be, but it would only take a moment of inattention on his part or intuition on the part of the guards for the scheme to be compromised. There was a plan B, of course, but that was not the point. Plan A was what he had worked so hard to bring to fruition , and to fail at the final hurdle would be the cruellest of ironies .
    Ibrahim had studied the Palace of Westminster for six months. It was simple enough to glean information from online searches, but he had supplemented this with two field trips, posing as a tourist on the official tour and visiting his local MP. It was an impressive building even if he did not agree with its purpose or the decisions that were made there. The Gothic edifice was a vast temple of legislation that covered an area of nearly nine acres. It presented a river frontage of nearly one thousand feet to the east, and there was a centre portion sandwiched by towers, two wings, and wing towers at each end. Inside, there were fourteen halls, galleries , vestibules and other apartments that could accommodate large crowds. Thirty-two river-facing apartments served as committee rooms. There were libraries, waiting rooms, dining rooms and clerks’ offices. There were eleven internal courtyards and scores of minor openings that allowed light inside.
    He was particularly interested in its security, especially when it