The Angel by Mark Dawson

It was, to borrow a term that the Americans used, ‘target rich’. And security, although improved since the day when two protestors had lobbed condoms stuffed with purple flour at Tony Blair, was still unimpressive.
    He was confident that they would be able to surmount it.
    The ticker along the bottom of the screen announced an item of breaking news.
    ‘REPORTS OF EXPLOSION AT WESTMINSTER UNDER GROUND STATION’
    A moment later, Mohammed saw a man in a traditional black suit with knee-length britches and a sword at his side approach the Speaker’s Chair and speak quietly into the occupant’s ear. The Speaker asked a question, received the answer and then gave a nod that he understood. He called for order.
    ‘Honourable Friends, I have just been informed that there has been an explosion at Westminster Underground station. I’m afraid I ha ve no further details, but the police are requesting that we remain in the chamber until they can confirm that there is no threat to us.’
    The camera jerked to the familiar view over the dispatch box, then to the prime minister and the front bench of the government. Another man in a dark suit was leaning over the seated prime minister. The politician rose and followed the man out of shot. Others followed: the leader of the opposition, the front bench.
    Mohammed grimaced. They were being taken somewhere else. Th at was annoying, but it was not unexpected. He had assumed that standard procedure would be to remove the leaders to a panic room, and that appeared to be what was happening. No matter.
    The camera pulled back to a wide shot. The parliamentarians were conferring anxiously, a hubbub of noise that provided a backdrop for the sombre tones of the presenter as she explained that sources were now confirming that the explosion had been caused by a bomb.
    Mohammed was expecting what would come next, but when it happened, the payoff was better than he could possibly have imagined. The detonation of what he took to be the third bomb was only five hundred feet from the House of Commons. The blast, separated from the House only by the open space of New Palace Yard, was close enough to be audible as a loud detonation, easily picked up by the microphones in the chamber. There were six windows on the east and west sides of the House, each filled with rich stained glass. The pressure wave shattered the westward-facing windows , casting fragments of glass down onto the benches below. The presenter swore, and screams went up from the chamber.
    The feed remained live for a moment, men and women standing and hurrying to the aisles, and then it cut to black. When the picture resumed, the feed had been switched to the BBC News Channel. The presenter looked flustered and panicked.
    ‘You join me now as we hear the breaking news that there has been a series of explosions near the Houses of Parliament. Police sources are reporting that an explosion at Westminster Underground station was most likely a bomb. We can only assume that what you are about to see, filmed from inside the House of Commons , is the moment a second bomb exploded . . .’

Chapter Seventeen
    I brahim Yusof was in the back of the Sprinter. He knew the plan called for three separate blasts. The first was to detonate on the train, and he doubted that he would have heard it occurring one hundred feet below the surface. The muffled crack was the second, in the station. The third, just now, was outside. It w as deafening.
    It was also their signal to move.
    He opened one of the bags of vegetables and took out the small Uzi submachine gun that was hidden inside. He took one of the magazines, pressed it into the pistol grip and switched the three-position selector behind the trigger group to automatic fire. The irony that this was a Jewish weapon was not lost on him. The open-bolt design meant that contamination was more likely than with other weapons he could have chosen, but he had packed the gun carefully, and its compact design