had been breached. Everyone knew about the failed gunpowder plot, commemorated every November with the burning in effigy of Guy Fawkes. Spencer Perceval had been shot here in 1812, the only prime minister ever to have been assassinated, and the building had been the target of Fenian bombs in 1885. The Irish Republican Army had struck it twice in the 1970s. In 1974, a twenty-pound bomb exploded in Westminster Hall, rupturing a gas main and causing extensive damage. Five years later, a car bomb claimed the life of Airey Neave, a prominent Conservative politician, while he w as driving out of the Commons car park in New Palace Yard. The subsequent threat of jihadist terrorism had upped the ante once again. Today, the palace was guarded by armed officers from the Metropolitan Police’s elite SC&O19 unit.
The policeman returned. Ibrahim couldn’t help but look at the Heckler & Koch MP5SFA3 semi-automatic carbine that was slung across his chest, his finger resting outside the trigger guard.
‘You’re on the list, sir, but not your friend.’
‘He should be.’
‘Says you normally have a Simon Williams?’
He smiled and nodded. ‘That’s right, we do. He didn’t come into work today. He called in sick.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have clearance for an Abdul Mansoor. I can’t let him in.’
Ibrahim sensed Abdul’s tension and spoke quickly before Abdul could say anything stupid. ‘Really? He’s been with us for as long as I have.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Call the office. I’m sure they’ll be able to clear it up.’ He reached forward and took a business card from a holder that had been glued to the dash. He handed the card to the policeman, who still looked dubi ous. ‘I’d really appreciate it if you could clear it up. It’s going to take me twice as long to do on my own, and we’re already running late.’
‘All right.’
The man went back to the gatehouse. Ibrahim saw him take a telephone and put it to his ear.
‘There’s no one in the warehouse,’ Abdul hissed.
‘I know.’
‘So?’
‘The number forwards to Mohammed’s phone. He’ll sort t his out. ’
But would he? They had taped the Smith & Wesson 9mm to the underside of his seat, and he allowed his arm to fall down next to the door so that he could feel the cold metal with his fingertips.
The policeman came back.
‘I spoke to your boss. Some kind of oversight. I’ll let it go for today, but you need to get it fixed. And I’ll need to take a look in the back. Could you come around and open up, please?’
‘Of course. Not a problem.’
The man drifted to the rear of the van.
‘We will be discovered,’ Abdul said, his voice tight with tension.
‘Relax. Whatever happens is His will. Be calm.’
Ibrahim reached for the keys to switch off the engine, but his hands were trembling and he fumbled them. Damn it. He needed to be calm, too. He managed to kill the engine, extracted the keys from the ignition and stepped out. He glimpsed the second policeman in the doorway of the little office, his carbine similarly held on a strap and angled down to the ground.
He unlocked the rear doors and opened them.
‘What have you got in here, sir?’
‘Ingredients for the kitchen. Meat, fish, vegetables. That sort of thing.’
The policeman took a half step forward, and for a horrible moment Ibrahim thought he was going to climb inside the van. Their doctored hiding places would not stand much scrutiny. But he did not. He stepped back and nodded his satisfaction.
‘Sorry to bother you, lads. We’re being careful.’
Ibrahim knew why that was. The assassination of Fèlix Rubió had caused all manner of consternation in the press and there had been protests and demonstrations afterwards. His funeral last we ek had ended with a riot that had been put down with brutal efficiency . There was talk of retaliation, of radicalisation, of increased terrorist ‘chat ter’.
They had no idea.
Ibrahim knew that the man’s murder would
The policeman returned. Ibrahim couldn’t help but look at the Heckler & Koch MP5SFA3 semi-automatic carbine that was slung across his chest, his finger resting outside the trigger guard.
‘You’re on the list, sir, but not your friend.’
‘He should be.’
‘Says you normally have a Simon Williams?’
He smiled and nodded. ‘That’s right, we do. He didn’t come into work today. He called in sick.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have clearance for an Abdul Mansoor. I can’t let him in.’
Ibrahim sensed Abdul’s tension and spoke quickly before Abdul could say anything stupid. ‘Really? He’s been with us for as long as I have.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Call the office. I’m sure they’ll be able to clear it up.’ He reached forward and took a business card from a holder that had been glued to the dash. He handed the card to the policeman, who still looked dubi ous. ‘I’d really appreciate it if you could clear it up. It’s going to take me twice as long to do on my own, and we’re already running late.’
‘All right.’
The man went back to the gatehouse. Ibrahim saw him take a telephone and put it to his ear.
‘There’s no one in the warehouse,’ Abdul hissed.
‘I know.’
‘So?’
‘The number forwards to Mohammed’s phone. He’ll sort t his out. ’
But would he? They had taped the Smith & Wesson 9mm to the underside of his seat, and he allowed his arm to fall down next to the door so that he could feel the cold metal with his fingertips.
The policeman came back.
‘I spoke to your boss. Some kind of oversight. I’ll let it go for today, but you need to get it fixed. And I’ll need to take a look in the back. Could you come around and open up, please?’
‘Of course. Not a problem.’
The man drifted to the rear of the van.
‘We will be discovered,’ Abdul said, his voice tight with tension.
‘Relax. Whatever happens is His will. Be calm.’
Ibrahim reached for the keys to switch off the engine, but his hands were trembling and he fumbled them. Damn it. He needed to be calm, too. He managed to kill the engine, extracted the keys from the ignition and stepped out. He glimpsed the second policeman in the doorway of the little office, his carbine similarly held on a strap and angled down to the ground.
He unlocked the rear doors and opened them.
‘What have you got in here, sir?’
‘Ingredients for the kitchen. Meat, fish, vegetables. That sort of thing.’
The policeman took a half step forward, and for a horrible moment Ibrahim thought he was going to climb inside the van. Their doctored hiding places would not stand much scrutiny. But he did not. He stepped back and nodded his satisfaction.
‘Sorry to bother you, lads. We’re being careful.’
Ibrahim knew why that was. The assassination of Fèlix Rubió had caused all manner of consternation in the press and there had been protests and demonstrations afterwards. His funeral last we ek had ended with a riot that had been put down with brutal efficiency . There was talk of retaliation, of radicalisation, of increased terrorist ‘chat ter’.
They had no idea.
Ibrahim knew that the man’s murder would
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