Slowing. Stopping. Reversing. Parking.
‘Three minutes,’ said Gregor.
Hari opened his eyes, peered through the darkened rear window. Ahead, through a piazza, the steps to the cathedral. The old on the left, the new to the right. Mounted on the cathedral wall was a huge bronze sculpture. It showed a triumphant, three-metre-tall angel, wings unfurled, a large spear in his hand. At his feet, a humbled, chained, supine devil. Good versus evil. Good triumphing over evil. A religious fantasy.
He watched a rabbi enter the cathedral. Hari started to shake. Binici placed a hand firmly on Hari’s leg.
‘Breathe,’ he whispered.
Hari heard a powerful car pull alongside. He saw Gregor glance at it briefly, then look away. Doors slammed. Children’s voices.
Voices he recognized.
80
8.55 a.m.
SAM AND SOPHIE saw them at the same time. Sam reached for Sophie’s arm before he realized they were watching the same thing. From the car park in the piazza, just beyond the fountains, a girl, no more than twelve, was walking at a funeral pace. She was apparently on her own, her arms stuck to her sides. Oblivious to anything that was happening around her. She had long, shoulder-length black hair, brown skin, and was wearing a pink T-shirt and denim shorts. A few metres behind her walked an identical girl. Same hair, T-shirt and shorts.
‘Twins!’ said Sam. ‘It’s them. It has to be!’
Sam and Sophie stood up from the steps, then immediately sat down again. They peered beyond the girls, eyes searching the piazza.
‘There,’ said Sophie without pointing. A sharp intake of breath. ‘Sweet Jesus.’
A grey-haired woman in a black and gold sari, wearing gold wire-frame glasses, with a squat, round-shouldered man in a suit and dark glasses. The man was only a few centimetres behind the woman. His arm appeared to be pressed against her back. They too walked slowly, as though all four were linked together.
‘Amal Hussain,’ whispered Sophie. ‘Without question. Shit.’
‘And the girls’ grandmother,’ said Sam. ‘With a knife at her back. Or something.’
The first girl had reached the foot of the piazza steps. Her posture was ramrod-straight, walking as though she had a book on her head. She was chewing her bottom lip. As she reached the middle steps, her sister reached the foot. Hussain and their grandmother were a few metres further back.
Sophie scrambled behind Sam.
‘Might he recognize you?’ he said.
A pause. ‘Definitely.’
Sam sat taller.
‘They’ll be inside in sixty seconds,’ whispered Sophie.
Sam was hitting keys on his phone, found what he was looking for. ‘It’s a terrible camera,’ he said, ‘but it’s a camera.’ He pointed his phone at the two girls, then Hussain and the grandmother. A heavy, old-fashioned shutter noise came from the phone. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered, then, to Sophie, ‘Text Famie, I’ll call the police.’
Sam hunched down, covered his mouth with a hand. ‘Police,’ he said. A pause, then, ‘My name is Sam Carter. I’m a journalist at IPS.’ His tone was businesslike, urgent, hushed. ‘I’m on the steps outside Coventry Cathedral and I’m sure I’m looking at Amal Hussain. Wanted for the May attacks in London. He appears to have hostages including two girls. We think there’s an attack planned.’ Another pause. ‘Yes, I can still see him, he’s getting closer. Walking up the steps.’
Sophie texted Famie, then glanced between the two girls. There was no doubt now: Hari’s twin sisters were in front of her. The first was level with her, the second near the middle step. Eyes down, they both seemed to be talking to themselves. No one paid them any attention. At the entrance, the first girl glanced around. Seeing her sister close behind, she walked straight into the cathedral.
‘No, this is not a hoax,’ said Sam. ‘I’m Sam Carter, IPS. International Press Service. Just get your people here.’ He hung up.
The second girl, clearly distressed, stumbled slightly at the top, before regaining her balance. Step by careful step, she followed her sister inside. Now ten metres behind them, Hussain and the grandmother shuffled closer. The old woman looked straight ahead, Hussain, like some dutiful bodyguard on the move, looked everywhere. Into the cathedral, through the porch.
Up the stairs.
‘Looking straight at us,’ said Sam in the direction of his shoes. ‘Stay small, Sophe.’
Sophie pushed herself tighter into Sam’s back. She texted Famie again. Sam sent Famie the photos.
Hussain and the grandmother stopped outside the entrance. Keeping a firm hand on her shoulder, he took one more look around. Short, jerky movements of his head that took in all angles. Apparently satisfied, he steered the woman inside.
‘All clear,’ said Sam.
Sophie uncoiled. ‘So what’s it to be?’ she said. She didn’t need to explain.
‘The official advice is “run, hide and tell”,’ he said, ‘but I’ve already done the telling.’
‘You want to run and hide?’ she said.
‘Yes, actually,’ said Sam.
‘But you’re not going to, are you?’
He turned to look at her. ‘Of course I’m not. But you are. Hussain knows you. You can’t go in there.’
Sophie gave Sam a brief smile. ‘Not arguing.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Let’s hope the coppers are fast. Take care. Hussain is a psycho.’
‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘I’ll come with you now, make sure you’re safe. But then I need to come back here.’
Sam scrambled to his feet, started to climb down the steps. Sophie stood too. Hussain had stopped just the other side of the glass, the folds of the woman’s sari twisted tightly in his fingers. Sam hesitated. Hussain glanced round.
81
8.57 a.m.
HUNTER’S BMW HIT the Kenilworth Road to the university and topped ninety. Espie drove, Charlie behind her, Hunter the front passenger, Famie behind her. Hunter was on her radio, Espie on hers. Two separate, shouted conversations, a howler siren. Hunter identifying herself as a Met officer, Espie talking to Control.
Famie felt her phone vibrate, pulled it from her pocket. She read the text twice. ‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ she said. She
