Oh my God, Hari, stay safe.
The steps Sophie and Sam had been on when they took the photos were just ahead, beyond one more broken, restored, weathered, centuries-old column. The shadows were good to them, swallowing their figures in the massive gloom cast by the sandstone.
Espie stopped, listened to her radio. ‘ARVs are two minutes away, sirens off. Orders are to wait.’
‘We’re not waiting,’ said Hunter, and eased her way around the corner.
She recoiled immediately, startled eyes, bloodless lips. Famie saw the fear and shock, then, from below, heard running footsteps. Heavy, percussive, echoing around the ruins. Hunter slid to the ground, reached for her radio.
‘This is DC Hunter in the old cathedral. Looking at …’
‘Saint Michael’s Avenue,’ said Espie.
‘Saint Michael’s Avenue.’
Famie’s stomach lurched. She retreated a few steps, peered through a small space where a holy window had once stood. She was just in time to see a crowd of men pushing, jostling their way through the glass door.
‘Six maybe seven men are approaching from the car park.’
‘Eight,’ Famie called.
Hunter made the correction.
One of the men – green T-shirt, tattooed arms – reached for the back of his waistband. He pulled out what looked like a piece of black tubing. He pressed a button. A steel blade snapped into position. Famie gasped.
‘I suspect these are the men from Boxer Street.’ Hunter’s words were coming in short, staccato bursts. ‘And maybe the May twenty-two attacks also.’
The men were now inside the cathedral and, momentarily, lined up by the glass wall. Famie scanned what she could see. Six white skins, two brown. One was tall and sinewy, the other shorter, maybe rounder. Spiky black hair. Powerful arms held at his side.
Hari.
And he too held a knife.
82
9.08 a.m.
HARI, BREATHING HARD, put himself at the end of the line. He wasn’t sure why. He pressed back against the glass wall, an engraved angel at his shoulder. The screen felt cool, the cathedral cooler. A young woman at the book stall looked up, frowned, looked away. Standing with her, a tall white-haired man in ecclesiastical grey robes studied the arrivals. His gaze was steady. He shifted his balance as he eyed the line. Hari thought the man sensed trouble. Damn right there’s trouble. He held his knife at his side. If you’ve got a panic button, now would be good. The white-haired man flinched, steadied himself on a shelf. Didn’t move.
Hari had never been in a cathedral – he’d had an opt-out from all RE lessons and expeditions – but he scanned this one, fast. It was a vast, open space. An aircraft hangar of a building. At first glance it appeared almost empty of adornment, the space dominated by a tennis court-sized tapestry. Hung behind the altar, floor to ceiling, it showed Christ sitting, dressed in white vestments, hands held up in benediction. A gold aura surrounded him, various winged figures Hari didn’t recognize attended to him. Everything else was a rich green. The white, green and gold shimmered down the length of the nave. Light seemed to pour from its zigzag walls, angling the sun on to the tapestry, like spotlights at a theatre.
Hari felt filthy and exposed.
A priest had started the service. He was dressed in robes of rich blues and reds, his arms held wide in welcome. From behind the altar – a raised platform with a bus-length slab of concrete on top – he addressed his congregation. Worshippers. Targets. Victims. About two hundred of them, Hari guessed, seated in neat rows on wooden chairs. A modest crowd, he thought, disappearing among the tapered pillars, the massive candlesticks and the thorn-like canopies above the choir stalls.
He had heard his sisters’ voices. They were here, brought by that bastard Hussain. If he shouted for them, they would come. Hussain would kill them first of course. But they were close. As he studied each row, seat by seat, he gripped the handle of the Böhler even tighter.
Hari spotted the rabbi he had seen earlier, seated next to a bearded man in a blue kurta. An imam presumably. Other clergy wore vestments, robes or dog collars. A round man with a gold chain around his neck was studying his phone. Millie. Amara. Hussain. All here somewhere. How was it possible to hide in such a small crowd? How could he protect them if he didn’t know where they were? He sensed Kamran next to him getting impatient. Hari didn’t know what they were waiting for.
The priest was still talking. His head was down, he appeared to be reading. ‘So, since the terrible attacks on this city in 1940, working for tolerance, forgiveness and understanding has been at the heart of everything that happens here.’ His voice was strong, carried through the cathedral by discreet pillar-mounted loudspeakers. ‘This month is the anniversary of the Allies taking formal control of Germany in June 1945. The Berlin Declaration brought peace and reconstruction.’
Hari glanced left. The citizens were restless, agitated.
The priest looked up, smiled. ‘Today we welcome our American and German friends. Our Jewish and Muslim friends. Together we declare our resolute commitment to each other, and our communities.’
Then, in a priestly silence, a tiny cough. And Hari had them. Second pillar from the front. The other side of the second pillar from the front. It was a wheezy cough, an asthmatic cough. It was Amara’s cough, and it was all he could do not to sprint the length of the nave and grab them both. He tapped the knife against his leg, wiped his face with his T-shirt. A five-second sprint. That was all it would take. He stared at the pillar, leant left and right to try and catch a glimpse. Confirmation came from half of Hussain’s face as he peered slowly around the upright, inspecting the line. He was checking on Hari. Hari was checking on him.
It was also the cue. The
