The Angel by Mark Dawson Page A

meant that it was worth the risk. He took two additional fifty-round magazines and stuffed them into the pockets of his jacket. He wore the machine gun on a bungee cord around his neck and hid it beneath his jacket. Then, he tore back the hinged lid on the empty tin of peas and pulled out two Swiss HG M1985 fragmentation grenades. He put one in his pocket and held the other in his hand. Finally, he opened an empty can of carrots and took out a small bag that could be worn around the waist. He passed the belt around and snapped the clips together.
    ‘Wait here,’ he said to Abdul.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Get the vests ready. If anyone comes, shoot them.’
    He jumped down and hurried out of the loading area. He jogged up the ramp and out into the sunshine. An inky mushroom cloud was unfolding into the blue, already cloaking the walls of the clock tower above him. The sound of sirens was audible, still distant but drawing nearer. He needed to be quick. He ran, knowing that that would not be out of the ordinary given the panic that was erupting around him, sprinting hard along the side of the building until he got to the security booth that served the main exit onto Bridge Street.
    The two policemen were out of the booth, standing at the fence and looking east to the seat of the blast. He drew a little closer and saw Faik walking to the gate, fifty feet away. Behind him he saw Nazir, Mo, Bilal and Aneel. The men were in position, just as they were supposed to be.
    He slowed to a fast walk.
    One of the policemen turned to him. ‘Stay back, sir. There’s been a bomb.’
    ‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘Where?’
    ‘Underground station. Two, I think – one inside and one out. Best stay here. It’s not safe out there.’
    The policeman turned back to the fence.
    Ibrahim pulled the pin of the grenade and rolled it, underarm, into the space between the booth and the fence where the two men were standing.
    He pressed himself behind a brick wall strut and held his breath .
    Neither policeman saw the grenade. Their attention was distracted. It was equipped with a pre-segmented shell filled with 155 grams of high explosive. The blast turned the steel casing into a storm of razored shrapnel, and it blazed out in all directions. The men were peppered with shards, their backs absorbing most of the dam age. They slumped against the fence and then slid down it to the ground, blood pooling on the concrete beneath them.
    The door to the booth was ajar. There was a button on the wall that released the lock on the turnstiles, and he pressed it, hearing a satisfying click from outside. The men ran for the gate. Faik pushed through the gate first. He was grinning.
    ‘The weapons are in place,’ Ibrahim said as Nazir and Mo followed Faik through the turnstiles.
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Follow the road to the loading area. Abdul is waiting for you.’
    He was still inside the booth when he saw the man with the gu n.
    He was covered in ash and soot, and his clothes were torn, but he did not appear to have been injured. He was walking to the gate, a pistol held out before him in a steady two-handed grip. Ibrahim shouted a warning, but it was too late. Bilal was negotiating the turnstile, his range of movement severely curtailed. The man with the gun adjusted his aim and fired two shots from twenty feet away. The y both found their target. Bilal was struck in the leg and the back and fell forward, jamming the gate with his body. Aneel was behind him, and now the turnstile was blocked. Ibrahim watched, helplessly, as the man changed his aim and shot him, too.
    Ibrahim tensed, expecting one or both of them to trigger their suicide vests, but they did not. They must have died before they could reach for the triggers. He shouldered his way out of the booth, raised the Uzi and fired a long burst through the railings. The man dropped to the ground and rolled behind the cover of a bus.
    He ran. Faik, Nazir and Mo were ahead of him.
    ‘Bilal?’ Faik called back to him.