recruits play an active part in his suicide bombing plan, but was finding the long drawn-out process frustrating and tedious. Convincing them wasn’t the hard part; he’d always possessed a certain amount of charisma, able to turn on the charm whenever he needed, and could almost always get people to do what he wanted. Finding a sufficient number of the bombers was the issue.
During that scouting phase he’d been playing along with the girl and feigning interest, more as a way of alleviating the crushing boredom than anything else. She’d fallen for him hard which was irritating, making him feel like a rock with a limpet attached.
But then he’d had an idea.
He got her drunk one night, then after they slept together, he brought up the real reason why he was in the UK. He’d watched her response closely; if she reacted badly, he had a pillow ready to suffocate her. But she’d been interested. He’d adlibbed his way through the next part, and was amazed how well it worked. He outlined a plan, and she agreed to it the next day, without a query. He realised she was so infatuated, she’d do anything he wanted. All he had to do was tell her he loved her every now and then, and she was like putty in his hands.
Looking down, he saw her continuing her work.
He couldn’t remember her name.
But suddenly, he remembered something else. He checked his watch.
‘Oh shit.’
Moving from the window, he grabbed the remote control from the bed and flicked on the television. Seeing as he’d been watching it earlier, the first channel that came up was the news.
However, they were no longer showing footage from the house raid.
The shot was now inside the studio, two concerned-looking newsreaders staring grimly into the camera, their mouths moving in silence on the muted TV as they talked to the nation.
A new bulletin was running across the bottom of the screen.
Breaking News: Explosion at Emirates Stadium, hundreds feared dead.
Farha froze.
He felt a shiver of excitement.
He did it .
Holy shit, he did it.
He’d been worried that the guy would never make it inside the stadium, that he’d get stopped at the entrance. But he’d made it.
Turning to the young woman whose name he couldn’t remember, Farha grinned.
‘It’s begun.’
Across the city, another man was watching that same news report.
He was standing outside a bar in a shopping centre in Angel, North London. Ahead of him, the pub was quickly filling up, partygoers and revellers, all of them having a good time and getting an early start in to the New Year celebrations.
The man however, was all alone, with no friends around him.
Taking a sip of the soft drink he’d just ordered, he paid no attention to the festivities inside the pub. He was only interested in the series of televisions mounted behind the bar, thirty feet away.
A news report had just flashed onto the screen. The volume was off, so most of the people inside hadn’t noticed it yet, but gradually they each started to pause mid-conversation, attention turning to the television monitors.
The man glanced at his watch.
5:50pm.
Give it ten minutes, then leave .
Glancing down, he checked something else. Two black holdalls were resting by his feet. Each one was packed full and weighing close to forty pounds, zipped up tight and seemingly innocuous.
In ten minutes, the man would finish his drink and get the hell out of there.
The bags, however, were staying behind.
TWELVE
Across town, the entrance doors to the ARU burst open as if there was a hurricane blowing through the building and officers from the task force sprinted out into the car park, racing towards the three Unit vehicles parked across the tarmac.
Archer and Porter were running side-by-side, zipping up their tactical vests while cradling two MP5 sub-machine guns. Ahead of them, Mac was already standing by one of the black Fords.
‘ Let’s go! Let’s go! Move it!’ he shouted.
Archer and Porter arrived at the car.
During that scouting phase he’d been playing along with the girl and feigning interest, more as a way of alleviating the crushing boredom than anything else. She’d fallen for him hard which was irritating, making him feel like a rock with a limpet attached.
But then he’d had an idea.
He got her drunk one night, then after they slept together, he brought up the real reason why he was in the UK. He’d watched her response closely; if she reacted badly, he had a pillow ready to suffocate her. But she’d been interested. He’d adlibbed his way through the next part, and was amazed how well it worked. He outlined a plan, and she agreed to it the next day, without a query. He realised she was so infatuated, she’d do anything he wanted. All he had to do was tell her he loved her every now and then, and she was like putty in his hands.
Looking down, he saw her continuing her work.
He couldn’t remember her name.
But suddenly, he remembered something else. He checked his watch.
‘Oh shit.’
Moving from the window, he grabbed the remote control from the bed and flicked on the television. Seeing as he’d been watching it earlier, the first channel that came up was the news.
However, they were no longer showing footage from the house raid.
The shot was now inside the studio, two concerned-looking newsreaders staring grimly into the camera, their mouths moving in silence on the muted TV as they talked to the nation.
A new bulletin was running across the bottom of the screen.
Breaking News: Explosion at Emirates Stadium, hundreds feared dead.
Farha froze.
He felt a shiver of excitement.
He did it .
Holy shit, he did it.
He’d been worried that the guy would never make it inside the stadium, that he’d get stopped at the entrance. But he’d made it.
Turning to the young woman whose name he couldn’t remember, Farha grinned.
‘It’s begun.’
Across the city, another man was watching that same news report.
He was standing outside a bar in a shopping centre in Angel, North London. Ahead of him, the pub was quickly filling up, partygoers and revellers, all of them having a good time and getting an early start in to the New Year celebrations.
The man however, was all alone, with no friends around him.
Taking a sip of the soft drink he’d just ordered, he paid no attention to the festivities inside the pub. He was only interested in the series of televisions mounted behind the bar, thirty feet away.
A news report had just flashed onto the screen. The volume was off, so most of the people inside hadn’t noticed it yet, but gradually they each started to pause mid-conversation, attention turning to the television monitors.
The man glanced at his watch.
5:50pm.
Give it ten minutes, then leave .
Glancing down, he checked something else. Two black holdalls were resting by his feet. Each one was packed full and weighing close to forty pounds, zipped up tight and seemingly innocuous.
In ten minutes, the man would finish his drink and get the hell out of there.
The bags, however, were staying behind.
TWELVE
Across town, the entrance doors to the ARU burst open as if there was a hurricane blowing through the building and officers from the task force sprinted out into the car park, racing towards the three Unit vehicles parked across the tarmac.
Archer and Porter were running side-by-side, zipping up their tactical vests while cradling two MP5 sub-machine guns. Ahead of them, Mac was already standing by one of the black Fords.
‘ Let’s go! Let’s go! Move it!’ he shouted.
Archer and Porter arrived at the car.
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