rush to speculation that would grow increasingly lurid with the hours. After all, what was the point in a newspaper reporting
news when the BBC had already carried it live and in devastating colour? Almost immediately the speculation was mixed with condemnation, not just of the attackers but also of those who had made
their assault possible. The police, the security services and, of course, the politicians. Particularly the politicians, except for Marjie Antrobus, of course, who was already well on her way to
sainthood in the view of her obituarists.
Across the country, word spread like leaves scattered by an autumn wind. Housewives watching television called husbands, who spoke to secretaries, who telephoned boyfriends and mothers. Workers
returned from the john or sandwich shop to spread the news around the shop floor. Television screens in supermarkets, high streets, pubs, front parlours, main railway stations, even betting shops,
were tuned to one programme. Across the country, lunch engagements and business appointments were cancelled, hair dressers were kept waiting, taxis failed to arrive, congestion in city centres
began to grow as drivers missed lights or stopped to listen. It was like an eclipse of the sun. An entire nation stood still, in darkness, waiting.
12.28 p.m.
Masood, still standing over the body of his victim, waved his weapon above his head. ‘I hope I have your attention. You will listen, very carefully.’
He looked directly at Eaton, who tried his best to return the stare but it wasn’t easy. Inside him a million conflicting emotions were tumbling over each other; fear, shock, astonishment,
cruel incomprehension, the overwhelming desire to crawl away and hide. Yet he, of all people, was supposed to rise above adversity and somehow find a resolution. The attention of those around him
was fixed on the young gunmen yet, at the same time, the Prime Minister knew they were also looking at him, expectantly, demanding that he do something. Without even realising what he was doing, he
rose in his seat.
‘Why? Why?’ he demanded, breathless with emotion, pointing at the body. ‘She was nothing but an innocent woman.’
‘This is a world of many martyrs, Prime Minister. The graveyards of my homeland are full of them. Put there by your bombers and your guns, at your instruction.’
‘Which is your homeland? What are we talking about? Iraq? Afghanistan? Pakistan?’
‘Yes, all those. And many others. Wherever the British government and their American allies have meddled and murdered, all such places we regard as our homeland.’
‘But what had she got to do with any of this?’
‘She was part of it. Part of your rotten system, your democracy’ – he made it sound like a curse – ‘that has spread terror throughout my people.’
‘She was innocent,’ the Prime Minister insisted, his voice bubbling with grief.
‘Oh, come, Mr Eaton, let’s not debate your warped sense of innocence, nor your ideas of freedom and liberation that have piled the bodies of my people higher than the surrounding
hills. Why waste time? You have only twenty-four hours left.’
‘I . . . don’t understand.’
*
In the Ops Room at New Scotland Yard, Harry stiffened. He knew what was coming.
‘Daud Gul,’ he heard the gunman say. ‘Release him. Within twenty-four hours. By noon tomorrow.’
‘So, you were right, Harry,’ Tibbetts said softly. ‘Hit it right on the bloody nail.’
‘I so wish I wasn’t,’ Harry replied.
‘You see, I am a reasonable man,’ Masood was continuing. ‘I make no impossible demand. I even give you time to make your arrangements. More time than your
bombers gave my parents and brothers and sisters, Mr Eaton. I want to do a deal. You have my leader. And I have you. We can arrange a swap, a fair exchange. You release him within twenty-four
hours.’
‘Or?’
‘ Or? Isn’t it clear? Release him, or the hostages here will start to die. Perhaps you, Mr Eaton.
news when the BBC had already carried it live and in devastating colour? Almost immediately the speculation was mixed with condemnation, not just of the attackers but also of those who had made
their assault possible. The police, the security services and, of course, the politicians. Particularly the politicians, except for Marjie Antrobus, of course, who was already well on her way to
sainthood in the view of her obituarists.
Across the country, word spread like leaves scattered by an autumn wind. Housewives watching television called husbands, who spoke to secretaries, who telephoned boyfriends and mothers. Workers
returned from the john or sandwich shop to spread the news around the shop floor. Television screens in supermarkets, high streets, pubs, front parlours, main railway stations, even betting shops,
were tuned to one programme. Across the country, lunch engagements and business appointments were cancelled, hair dressers were kept waiting, taxis failed to arrive, congestion in city centres
began to grow as drivers missed lights or stopped to listen. It was like an eclipse of the sun. An entire nation stood still, in darkness, waiting.
12.28 p.m.
Masood, still standing over the body of his victim, waved his weapon above his head. ‘I hope I have your attention. You will listen, very carefully.’
He looked directly at Eaton, who tried his best to return the stare but it wasn’t easy. Inside him a million conflicting emotions were tumbling over each other; fear, shock, astonishment,
cruel incomprehension, the overwhelming desire to crawl away and hide. Yet he, of all people, was supposed to rise above adversity and somehow find a resolution. The attention of those around him
was fixed on the young gunmen yet, at the same time, the Prime Minister knew they were also looking at him, expectantly, demanding that he do something. Without even realising what he was doing, he
rose in his seat.
‘Why? Why?’ he demanded, breathless with emotion, pointing at the body. ‘She was nothing but an innocent woman.’
‘This is a world of many martyrs, Prime Minister. The graveyards of my homeland are full of them. Put there by your bombers and your guns, at your instruction.’
‘Which is your homeland? What are we talking about? Iraq? Afghanistan? Pakistan?’
‘Yes, all those. And many others. Wherever the British government and their American allies have meddled and murdered, all such places we regard as our homeland.’
‘But what had she got to do with any of this?’
‘She was part of it. Part of your rotten system, your democracy’ – he made it sound like a curse – ‘that has spread terror throughout my people.’
‘She was innocent,’ the Prime Minister insisted, his voice bubbling with grief.
‘Oh, come, Mr Eaton, let’s not debate your warped sense of innocence, nor your ideas of freedom and liberation that have piled the bodies of my people higher than the surrounding
hills. Why waste time? You have only twenty-four hours left.’
‘I . . . don’t understand.’
*
In the Ops Room at New Scotland Yard, Harry stiffened. He knew what was coming.
‘Daud Gul,’ he heard the gunman say. ‘Release him. Within twenty-four hours. By noon tomorrow.’
‘So, you were right, Harry,’ Tibbetts said softly. ‘Hit it right on the bloody nail.’
‘I so wish I wasn’t,’ Harry replied.
‘You see, I am a reasonable man,’ Masood was continuing. ‘I make no impossible demand. I even give you time to make your arrangements. More time than your
bombers gave my parents and brothers and sisters, Mr Eaton. I want to do a deal. You have my leader. And I have you. We can arrange a swap, a fair exchange. You release him within twenty-four
hours.’
‘Or?’
‘ Or? Isn’t it clear? Release him, or the hostages here will start to die. Perhaps you, Mr Eaton.
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