Also, Famie thought, how do they know who to protect and who to kill? If you had a knife, you were guilty, but there was nothing to stop the attackers dropping or hiding their weapons, then running for it. Joining the congregational exodus. Three gun barrels tracked a long line of escapers bolting for the door, a few running hunched and low to the ground, the rest just running for freedom. They couldn’t see any active attackers, neither could the police. At the glass wall, more police hustled them away, frantic arms waving them to safety. When they were out, the guns tracked back to the front. Espie still cradled Hunter.
Famie tried to count. She’d seen eight attackers, including Hari. So make that seven. Plus Hussain. Eight then. She could only see two dead, plus another one taken out. Five to find? She’d seen maybe a hundred of the congregation escape which still left many unaccounted for. Another eighty, possibly more.
To her left, there were a few steps to a small chapel. Circular, intricate flooring. More stained glass, more chairs. A sign said ‘Chapel of Unity’. She wasn’t good on cathedral architecture but that might be the answer to the missing congregants. Or hostages, as she should think of them. Eighty or so missing hostages, maybe five terrorists with knives, six police with guns. It was a question of who would find who first.
Espie appeared at her side, pointed at the chapel. ‘Same thought as you. It’s empty. Been watching since we came in.’
Famie nodded at the prone Hunter, her head now propped up, Espie’s uniform jacket tied tightly around her midriff. ‘Will she be OK?’
‘Think so. But the medics will need to get to her soon, she’s lost a lot of blood. We tasered two but the third got to her.’
The armed unit was moving again, this time with a sudden burst of speed. Famie and Espie followed. Now they saw it. Movement behind the altar, a head turning behind bars. Bars that she hadn’t noticed before. She had seen the tapestry, the high altar, the cross and the candlesticks. The bars she had missed, their vertical lines blending with the markings and design of the weavers.
Outside there were sirens, a multitude of them, closing fast. Inside, just shoe leather on marble. Rapid, short steps. The two police units were coordinating now, the three men on the east side mirroring the movements of those on the west. Pillar to pillar.
This felt to Famie like it would be the end of things. She had been there at the beginning of this story, she needed to be at its conclusion. When the police unit turned behind the last pillar and swivelled right, Famie followed.
87
IN THE CHAPEL, Collins held the jumpsuit girl with one arm, the knife with the other. Back to the bars. Outside the chapel, Gregor, on watch, head tracking from side to side.
‘Everyone kneel,’ ordered Collins.
Everyone but Hari knelt. There wasn’t room. Some crouched. Collins didn’t notice.
‘First your knife,’ she said. ‘One hand only.’
Hari held up his left hand, took the knife from his waistband with his right. He held it up, his eyes only on Collins.
‘Quickly. To the bars, hand it to Gregor.’ She pushed the knife against jumpsuit girl’s neck, its tip snagging her skin. ‘You know I will, Hari, don’t you,’ she said. ‘And after her, I’m sure I’d find your little sisters in here somewhere.’
Hari flinched in spite of himself.
Collins grinned. ‘Thought so. Get a move on.’
He stepped to the bars, held the knife for Gregor to take. He felt it being snatched from his fingers, heard Gregor say ‘You’re so fucked’, and stepped back.
‘Let him in,’ said Collins, nodding at the gate. ‘Open it. Do it now.’
Hari hesitated and Collins pushed the Böhler in again. A small cut. Only a nick but it bled, and it was enough.
‘OK! OK! I’m doing it.’ Hari’s voice was raised.
Around him, his fellow captives pushed back, scrambling on their knees. Someone took the small cross of nails from the altar, began reciting the Lord’s prayer.
He stepped to the gate. Reached for the key. Gregor bouncing on his feet. ‘You’re so fucked, Indian boy,’ he said, his face deformed with a grotesque expectation.
Hari turned the key.
Stepped away.
Gregor raised both hands, a knife in each.
Stepped forward.
Three 9×19 Parabellum bullets took the top of his head off.
In the chapel, the percussive force of the shots was traumatic. Everyone yelled or screamed. Gregor’s body disappeared. Collins released the girl, dropped to the floor, forced her way to the small altar. Hari, wedged between the hissing woman and one of the rabbi’s helpers, felt metal pushed into his hand. He recognized the feel immediately. The rivets, the steel bolster, textured handle. Someone in the chapel had given him a Böhler knife. He didn’t have time to see who it was. Collins was heading for Millie and Amara. As she said she would.
He knew he couldn’t stand. He had a knife. The police wouldn’t hesitate. Hari squirmed round one-eighty degrees, then dived between the terrified hostages, clawing his way to the altar step. Knife in his right hand, he hooked the fingers of his left around the altar corner and gripped hard. He dragged himself to the narrow space between the altar and the tapestry. The safe space. Behind him at the bars, six voices yelled in a chaotic chorus of warning: ‘Armed police! Stay down! Armed police! No one move!’
Hari would stay down, but he had one more move. Collins was stretched out in front of him, reaching for Amara, her hands in the girl’s hair. With all his remaining strength, Hari drove the Böhler through the back of Collins’ knee. The blade sliced her hamstring, quadriceps and cartilage, the force of the blow detaching her tibia and shattering her kneecap. As she convulsed in pain, Hari threw himself on top of her. Collins had passed
