The Angel by Mark Dawson Page B

He hadn’t seen what had happened .
    ‘Shot by the police. And Aneel. Put them out of your mind. There are five of us. That is enough.’
    They ran down the ramp back into the building.
    ‘We must be quick. They will start to move the targets.’
    Ibrahim took off his jacket and dropped it as he ran, freeing the Uzi. He led the way back to the loading dock, the other men following behind him. As he turned onto the ramp, he saw two members of the resident catering staff coming towards them. He raised the submachine gun and sprayed them with automatic fire. The man and the woman were close, and it would have been difficult to miss them. They were stitched with several rounds each, both of them stumbling, halting and falling to their knees.
    Ibrahim ran by them to the van. Abdul was in the back. He opened the door and handed out the hidden weapons. Each man had a submachine gun, a handgun, multiple magazines and three grenades.
    Ibrahim turned to the newcomers. ‘Do you have your vests?’
    He could tell from the bulk that was evident beneath their jackets that they did. Faik unzipped his coat. He was wearing an armless gilet with stitched-on loops into which six pipe bombs had been fitted. Each explosive was surrounded by a fragmentation jacket that was stuffed with nails, screws, nuts, and ball bearings . It was the shrapnel that effectively turned each jacket into a crude, body-worn claymore mine. Mohammed had made them in his workshop and delivered them yesterday.
    ‘Take off your jackets. Let the infidels see them.’
    They did.
    They had smuggled their own vests into the building inside two paper sacks of potatoes. Abdul had put on one of the vests. He handed Ibrahim the remaining one.
    Ibrahim put it on. It was heavy, around forty pounds. But it felt good. It made him feel potent.
    He would have liked to pray, but there was no time.
    ‘You know what to do?’
    Each man nodded that he did.
    There was nothing else to say. Ibrahim took a breath to ready himself and then led the way into the heart of the building.

    Pope, Snow and McNair approached the gate, weapons drawn. The first man had fallen onto his face. The second man had tried to force the gate, but it had been blocked by the first man’s body. He had taken a step back and had looked as if he was about to run when Pope shot him, too. Snow approached the second man.
    ‘Be careful,’ Pope called. ‘He could have a vest on.’
    Snow fired a shot into his leg from twenty feet away. The limb jerked, but the man did not move. He was dead.
    The man lying inside the turnstile was motionless, but Pope was not prepared to take chances with him either. He stayed out of range, aimed and fired a round into his thigh. No movement. He was dead, too. Pope hurried ahead, took the man by the ankles and hauled him out of the way.
    ‘What do we do?’ Snow said.
    ‘I’m going in. Paddy – you’re with me.’
    ‘And me?’ Snow asked.
    ‘Find a policeman, tell him what’s happened, then come after us.’
    ‘You see how he fired?’ McNair said. ‘Close bursts, targeted. He’s been trained.’
    Pope nodded. He had noticed that, too.
    ‘This is bad.’
    McNair dropped to his haunches next to the man beside the gate. He unzipped the man’s jacket and swore colourfully. Pope turned to look.
    The man was wearing a gilet fitted with pipe bombs.
    ‘It’s worse than that,’ Pope said. ‘Hurry, Snow. Tell the police we’ve got multiple suicide bombers inside. We’re going to need backup.’
    Snow sprinted away.
    He turned to McNair. ‘Ready?’
    McNair nodded.
    ‘Come on.’
    Pope pushed through the turnstile and ran in the same direction as the attackers.

Chapter Eighteen
    I brahim led the way. He knew the layout of this part of the building from visiting it every day for the last few weeks. They climbed a flight of stairs out of the basement and emerged in the kitchens. There w as a series of dining rooms set out along the oak-panelled corridor that began at the