Hussain was their recruiter but he had made Gregor the contact for the FSB. Hussain had made it clear to them that he had no dealings with technology. It was, he explained, what had kept him safe and what would keep them safe. He had put together a team. He had promised revolutionary, sectarian work, and 22 May had been precisely that. The brothers had loved it and wanted more. The country had been convulsed by what they had achieved. Money and resources were available. They were in it for part two.
But Coventry had gone wrong almost from the start and now his brother was dead. He had been told to get the rabbi but he never got close. He had seen Hussain slump to the floor, then, distracted, had only stuck two. When the police arrived, so much earlier than they should have, he was working his way to the front fighting an idiot woman who had slashed his hand with scissors. He had stuck her in the end but was too late to help repulse the black woman with her taser. Soon after that, the attack was over. When the shots were fired, he’d played dead, falling near toppled and broken chairs. A discarded jacket, draped over his shoulders, had covered his tattoos. He’d waited for his moment, listening to the chaos around him. He had heard much. In spite of the crazy tattooing of ETB, Hari Roy had been a traitor after all. He had been communicating with a journalist. And now that journalist’s daughter was in a pizza restaurant a hundred metres away. A pizza restaurant they had driven past in the van. Triple windows, a picture of a dancing chilli in the middle. He would go there.
Newly acquired jacket over his shoulders and knife stashed carefully in its newly ripped lining, he had rushed from the cathedral with some of the last of the escaping congregation. They had been herded down the steps, past the angel and devil statue and towards a fleet of ambulances. Their back doors were open, crews ready. Flashing blue lights strobed the piazza. Beres took a proffered bottle of water, waited for his moment, then slid between the ambulances.
He took a hard right along a paved path which looped back past the ruins of the old cathedral. Three retractable yellowstriped bollards had failed to retract, so police and fire trucks were backed up along the path, their lights also flashing. Beres walked fast, hitting the cobblestones within a minute. The sign said Bayley Lane. It rose steeply past the ruined nave on his right, and was lined with some sagging Tudor buildings on his left. Beres kept left. He needed a speed that said he was happy to be moving away from chaos but not so fast that he looked suspicious.
The air filled with sirens. When six uniformed police officers ran in from a side street, he slowed, leant against one of the locked, ancient doors. Like he was taking a breather. Each of them stared as they passed, only the last peeled away, prompting his partner to join him. A few glances back from the others and they were gone. Beres let his hand drift to the lining of his jacket.
‘You need to be out of here, now,’ said the first to stop.
Beres stood up straight. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I am lost.’ Heavy accent, sing-song phrasing.
The policeman pointed at the street they’d just emerged from. ‘Hay Lane. Turn left into it, don’t stop till you’re out of it. Go. Now.’
Beres mumbled his thanks.
He walked as fast as the police would expect. He could act like a tourist if he needed to, he’d done it many times before. But now he ignored the Gothic tower, the historic graveyard and the quaint pubs; he had been given his orders. The approaching sign, black letters on white enamel, said ‘Hay Lane’. He turned left. Cobbled street and cobbled pavements. More sandstone, more leaning Tudor beams. High-end cafés, tables and chairs in the street. Linen, white towels, perfume. And at the end, the grey sign with the red chilli. The pizza restaurant.
Behind Beres, the sudden appearance of blue and white police tape, rolled out by two policewomen. It stretched across Hay Lane. The cordon was up. He had just made it in time. The pizza restaurant was less than a minute away. A few curious shoppers drifted to the tape to see what was happening. Beres stepped out of their way, head down. Conciliatory. Respectful. Humble. He put his right hand into his jacket, found the Böhler’s handle and gripped it. He winced as the cut in his hand from the idiot woman’s scissors opened again. He gripped it tighter.
At the first of the pizza restaurant’s windows, Beres stopped, peered in. Neat rows of circular stone tables were set out in a tidy rectangle. Only one had two women together. They were both white, both had curly hair, the younger’s wilder, less cared for. The older one had her hands resting on her stomach. He looked from one to the other, then shrugged. The other tables contained four customers in total. Three sat together near the door, one sat near the open kitchen. Four chefs, three waiters.
He walked to the door, pulled out the knife, stepped inside. Sophie looked up immediately. Saw the knife. She stood up and screamed at him. Charlie stood too. Beres ran at them. The two women began tipping tables in his path as they retreated towards the kitchen. Stone, metal, cutlery, crockery and glass all hurtled to the floor in great waves of noise. The other customers stood, the waiters and chefs froze. Charlie hurled a Coke bottle which hit Beres on the ear, then a pizza cutter which missed. Sophie picked up a
