glistened under the tunnel lights. Shepherd couldn’t see any facial features. The man’s left hand was hanging by his side; he couldn’t see the right. Shepherd was all too aware of the enormity of what he was doing: he was shooting a man in the back of the head, with no warning, giving him no chance to surrender. It was a cold kill, done for no other reason than that Major Gannon was telling him to do it. Shepherd didn’t even consider that the major might be wrong. He trusted him.
Shepherd pulled the trigger and the Glock kicked. The front of the man’s forehead exploded in a shower of blood, brain matter and bone fragments. Immediately Shepherd fired again and this time a chunk of skull blew across the tracks.
The shots were deafening in the confined space, followed by screams of terror. Passengers scattered, bent double and running for the exit. Shepherd ignored them. He stayed focused on the target. A BTP officer rushed out on to the platform, saw what was happening and dashed back into the pedestrian tunnel.
The man’s legs started to go. The right hand appeared at his side, fingers fluttering like the wings of a trapped bird. Shepherd fired a third shot, which blasted away most of what was left of the top of the skull.
As the body slumped to the floor Shepherd kept the gun trained on the man’s head and started walking. He fired again. And again. He had to be sure.
The body hit the ground, blood seeping from the gaping head wounds. The legs were twitching. Shepherd pumped two more rounds into the head at close range. Gobs of brain matter splattered across the platform.
Shepherd was breathing heavily and his heart was pounding. It hurt when he swallowed. If the man he and Gannon had killed was just an innocent bystander, all hell was about to break loose.
Slowly he knelt beside the body.
The phone on Gannon’s desk rang. He kept his eyes on the monitor as he took the call. It was Commander Richards at the New Scotland Yard control centre.
‘The vests have timers,’ said Richards. ‘The EOD boys have defused the one in Brixton. It was set to go off at five-oh-two p.m.’ Gannon’s eyes flicked to the wall clock. It was exactly five o’clock.
‘Any other circuits?’
On the monitor, Shepherd was using his Swiss Army knife to cut the raincoat up the middle. He stripped it away as if he was skinning a rabbit.
‘Just the timer and the manual switch,’ said Richards.
‘I’ll call you right back,’ said Gannon, and replaced the receiver. ‘Spider, you okay?’
On the monitor Gannon saw Shepherd’s hand go to his mouth. ‘Good call, Major,’ he said.
‘Listen to me, Spider. There’s a secondary circuit. The EOD guys at Brixton called it in. If it’s not detonated by hand, a timer kicks in.’
‘What do I do?’ Shepherd seemed unfazed by what he had been told.
‘The EOD guys say there are no booby traps so you can just pull the detonators out of the explosives. Then rip the clock out of the circuit. Easy-peasy.’
The man was one of the Invisibles, but after he had fulfilled his destiny he would be invisible no longer: his name would join the long list of martyrs to the cause of Islam. He was British-born of Iranian parents who had fled their country when it was known as Persia, but the man had never felt British. He was a Muslim, first and foremost. It was as a Muslim that he lived and it was as a Muslim that he would die.
He stepped off the train and groped inside his coat for the button. He looked left and right down the platform. It was packed with commuters rushing to get upstairs and on to their trains home. Liverpool Street station, five o’clock in the evening. The place and time of his destiny. The place and time that would be remembered for ever.
He walked along the platform. People were still pouring off the train. The exits were blocked and the man heard sighs of annoyance and frustration. He was nudged in the back, his shoulders were pressed tight on either side; all around him, men and women were pushing and shoving, like cattle rushing into an abattoir.
‘
No, he thought. It wasn’t something to be whispered, as if he was ashamed of what he was doing. There was no shame. He was proud to die in the service of Allah. It was something to be shouted with pride.
‘
Shepherd ran his hands down the vest. There were four pockets in the back, each with a slab of explosive wrapped in nails. Wires led from the front to the explosives. Shepherd tugged at one and a thin metal cylinder the size of a cigarette eased out. Shepherd quickly pulled out the other three detonators, then rolled the body over. There were six pockets on the front of the vest, three on each side of the chest. Shepherd used both hands to pull out the detonators. Then he grabbed the wiring cluster and yanked it away from the vest. A digital clock emerged from a pocket. Shepherd grabbed it and pulled out the wires. He stared at the digital readout: 17:01.
The main set burst into life. ‘MP, Trojan Five Six Nine, are you receiving?’ A man’s voice.
Sutherland reached over and picked up the microphone. ‘Trojan Five Six Nine, receiving.’
‘Trojan Five Six Nine, we’ve just received intel on the bomb in Brixton. There is a secondary circuit attached to the device, activated by a timer.’
Sutherland stared through the windscreen at Rose. He was holding the Arab’s raincoat open.
‘What do we do?’ asked Sutherland.
‘Is there an EOD team there yet?’
‘Negative,’ said Sutherland.
‘The detonators can be removed from the explosive,’ said the controller. ‘Just slide them out. What is your situation there?’
‘Trojan Five Six Nine, hang on . . .’ Sutherland got out of the car and waved both hands above his head. ‘Sarge! Sarge!’
Rose turned, still holding open the raincoat.
Before Sutherland could say more, Malik and Rose were engulfed by light. The two men were vaporised as the ten kilos of Semtex exploded. A hundred yards away, Sutherland was flung back against the car by the force of the explosion.
The Saudi watched the BBC reporter detail the casualties. Forty-seven dead, including a police officer. Over a hundred injured. Third time lucky. Only two explosions, and one had been above ground, but it had been more than enough. The TV images of the dead and dying were winging their way round the world. There would be more pressure on the British government to pull out of Iraq. More protests in the streets. More recruits eager to join the ranks of al-Qaeda, willing to sacrifice themselves in the war against the infidel.
The Saudi knew it was time to move on. He had done his work in London. He already had his ticket for Thailand. It would soon be the peak tourist season in Phuket, the island in the south of the country. Much of the population in the south was Muslim and the Saudi already had three cells in place, planning his next operation. The bar area of Patong was a prime target, packed every night with Australians, Americans and Brits. It was a soft target, the sort the Saudi preferred.
He would be travelling on a British passport so he wouldn’t need a visa. He would automatically be granted a month’s stay on arrival. The Saudi had held British citizenship for more than twelve years. His father had invested heavily in the country and had made large donations to both major political parties. He had offered his hospitality to MPs from across the political spectrum, and over the years several dozen had enjoyed themselves on yachts in the South of France, in hotels in Dubai and on the family’s stud farm in Ireland. His application for citizenship for himself and his family had gone through smoothly, boosted by the fact he had signed a half-billion-pound contract with a British construction company. The government had bent over backwards to welcome the Saudi’s father, even though in private the man made no secret of his hatred for the British. They were there to be used, he said. They granted citizenship to anyone willing to pay for it, allowed outsiders to live in their country without paying taxes, allowed foreigners to buy everything from land to their football teams. They had no pride in their country and were prepared to prostitute themselves to the world. They deserved what they got.
The Saudi had been educated at a top public school, his entrance facilitated by his father’s multi-million- pound donation towards a new science wing. No bribe had been necessary to get into the London School of Economics: the Saudi had won his place on merit. With his perfect English, first-class degree and wealthy family, the world was at the Saudi’s feet. But his hatred of the West matched his father’s, and he had devoted his life to
