6. 26/01/2015

04:15. Canberra

Dark shapes – trees, the neighbours' cars, wandering kangaroos – were briefly, brilliantly lit up by her headlights as Ilian pulled out of her driveway and wound her way through the weakly lit suburban streets towards the main thoroughfare to work. It was still over an hour to dawn and almost two hours before her flight but she hadn't been able to sleep, keeping Meg awake with her tossings and turnings. Giving up the fight she got up, dressed, picked up her bag, kissed her wife and was now making her way to the office – on the way to the airport anyway – for a little while. Traffic was non-existent at this hour on a public holiday so it didn't take long to get there, circling around Parliament House hidden under its green lawn on the way, the most obvious part of it at this hour being the flood-lit, gigantic stainless steel flagpole on the apex of the roof – or the top of the hill, if you preferred.

Leaving everything in the car she walked through the empty corridors quickly, trying to burn out some of the nervous energy that had kept her unsettled all night. Once through the secure airlock there were more people around, night shift busily monitoring whatever popped up on the radar. There were more here this morning than usual because of what they knew was planned for Sydney; waving casually at the few people who spotted her moving through the area, Ilian sought out the night shift supervisor, a man in his late thirties with a pronounced limp who was ex-Army and had been caught in an IED blast in Afghanistan in the early days of that war.

"Anything?"

"No, Ma'am," was the response, still military-crisp. "They're all sleeping the sleep of the just, apparently."

"Or on their mats praying to their perverted god…"

"Exactly. Whatever they're doing, they're leaving not even the whisper of a footprint in either the real or the cyber world."

She left him to it and closeted herself in her office, logging into her email to see if there was anything there either. Nothing. To be honest, she hadn't really expected anything to happen overnight: according to Brendan everything was ready to go, all that was left was the final meeting in a few hours and then… Ilian didn't want to think about it as it was worrying her from just about every angle you could think of. Top of that list was the fact that she had wanted to act last night to pull all of the suspects in, thereby avoiding any risk to the greater populace. Hope, although still not officially in her job, had agreed but they had been over-ruled from higher up, specifically from the political side of life, by people who decided that it would be preferable to let the operation run and only then take out the perpetrators, red handed and providing an absolutely water-tight case against them. Ilian could actually see where they were coming from: on more than one occasion in the past they had hauled in people that they knew were planning an attack only to have the case thrown out of court due to 'lack of evidence'. Or, more likely, the gift of the gab held by certain barristers, she thought sourly. She didn't know how Meg put up with them when they appeared in her court. An involuntary grin twitched her lips; actually, she did know how Meg dealt with them: with very little patience and extreme prejudice.

By 05:30 she was getting twitchy again so shut down the computer and left to prowl the frequent flyer lounge at the airport instead. She passed Ruby on the way out of the building: the other woman was looking pallid and worried so she did her best to reassure her, reminding her that not only would Lucas be around but so would Ilian herself, along with most of Lorraine's Sydney crew and the place would also be crawling with every branch of the police force that was available, along with army snipers stationed on strategic rooftops. It wouldn't stop her worrying about her nephew but sometimes it helped to be reminded of the facts. Ilian had been tempted to tell Ruby to stay away completely today but knew that would be even worse for her so had agreed to let her run head office for the day while she herself spent it on the ground in the Big Smoke. It still wouldn't stop Ruby worrying but it would be better than sitting at home, wondering.

08:30. ASIO office, Sydney

Lorraine had gathered all of the main players together for a final briefing before they scattered to their operational areas. Lucas was the last to arrive, just after Ilian, and was surprised for a moment at the sea of casual dress that greeted him until he remembered what the day was. Australia Day. A celebration or a day of mourning, depending on which side of the fence you were on, commemorating the unwelcome arrival of the First Fleet and the rag-tag, largely masculine cargo of thieves, con-men, political prisoners and murderers that it carried, the chained, beaten and brutalized representatives of Britain dumped here against their will who would, out of having no choice, go on to forge their own unique take on European civilization here on the far side of the planet in a country so alien it might as well have been the moon, largely displacing the existing inhabitants in the process. There were casualties all around, of course, both in those first years and since, which left deep scars that were still raw but generally most people took the day to relax with family and friends and not take anything too seriously, including any of the official events. Hence the sea of green and gold or red white and blue that greeted him when he walked into the room.

Loud t-shirts and shorts seemed to be the order of the day, despite the forecast being for unusually cool weather; he himself was sticking with safe, anonymous jeans and a polo shirt. Ilian hadn't changed yet but she was promising that none of them was going to recognize her and Lorraine, who would be running the show from an office that they had purloined in Circular Quay railway station (working on the assumption that the biggest effect and thus most likely target would be achieved by attacking the hub of tourism in the CBD), stood out like a sore thumb in normal work clothes.

The briefing was short, sharp and to the point. They were still waiting on word of the final target from Brendan, which might throw up some difficulties if it ended up being somewhere they weren't expecting but they were planning to be mobile so, with half an hour's warning, could be in place almost anywhere. The core group had been under twenty-four hour observation for the previous week and would be shadowed every step of the way today but everyone had to be on their toes once they started to move, to prevent any chance of it all going terribly wrong.

They were as ready as they could be. At the end of the meeting word came through from the watchers that Brendan was on the move, just as Lucas received a coded text from the young man telling him the same thing. There was still no sign from the Egyptian although his English side-kick was in his car and driving in approximately Hadad's direction. Ilian and Lorraine went off to update the politicians; Lucas, like the others, was left to mill around aimlessly, making coffee and checking their equipment while they waited and tried to ignore the butterflies in their stomachs.

10:30 Meeting Hall, Lidcombe

Brendan had been surprised to get the message telling him to meet at their old hall in Lidcombe. No reason had been given and his imagination had been in overdrive on the trip there but it turned out that it was merely because it was closer to town, closer to the public transport they were going to be using to get into town and had been used to hold the weapons for some months, apparently. It had also, Brendan knew, been stripped of its surveillance equipment after the meetings had moved to Samatar's residence. He knew everyone was being tailed so he just hoped that would be enough to get the surveillance teams in the right place at the right time. It had long been deemed too dangerous for him to be wired so his only comms was his phone.

The meeting had started off with prayers followed by an intense haranguing from Samatar that had gone on for over an hour. Cyril entered into it with fervour; Brendan did not. They had broken for refreshments during which time Samatar continued to exhort them to their glorious jihad; although the others that were there – Feysal, Bolzaar and Wanawangul, there was no sign of the women – were tucking in with gusto, Brendan couldn't, picking at his food under the pretext that he was still full from breakfast. Finally the moment came when the target and plan was revealed: they were all to make their way independently to the focus of today's festivities in the place that was the site of the first European settlement on the continent: The Rocks and First Fleet Park on the western side of Circular Quay.

Once there, they would effect a staged attack. Hadad would start with his drone: no toy, this was large and masquerading as a film unit but instead of a camera it would be carrying an equivalent to the Metal Storm system, developed from hacked plans by Hadad and Abdul-Rahman, and would be launched from the northern end of George Street, at the corner of the Quay, from where it would fire thousands of deadly steel needles into the crowd. Automated, it would continue to fire until it ran out of power; in the meantime Hadad was taking a pistol-sized version as well and would use it to add some impetus to the fleeing crowds while Abdul-Rahman would be at the southern entry to the Playfair Street market and would be carrying a larger model of the hand weapon as well as a razor sharp knife normally used to cut sugar cane to use on the crowds packed into the confines of the market. Once the crowds had started to panic and flee Bolzaar, at the other end of the street to Abdul-Rahman would also press the attack. While this was going on, Cameron and Brendan had their own mission: to strike down as many of the white infidels as they could, in the name of Allah and in revenge for what had been done to their ancestors.

That wasn't really news to the young man, apart from the details of the weaponry on the drone. The final announcement was new but only confirmed his worse suspicions. Samatar was almost slavering with excitement as he stood before the small group and told them about the bombs that would be the crowning glory of the day. Idil Waris Feysal and Samatar himself would be transporting the explosives into town, where they would be placed and then set off at one minute past mid-day, by way of a signal repeater for the mobile phone they would be using so that he and Feysal could spend their last few moments glorifying the jihad in the best way possible with machetes and more cane knives and ensuring that the group would all enter Firdaws, the highest level of Paradise, where they would dwell alongside the prophets for eternity.

Brendan's pulse rate was well above normal as they progressed through more prayers before the final gathering of the weapons and dispersal began. His mind was racing even faster than his heart as he considered, while they were praying, his options for getting the information back to Uncle Joe. There was only one way that he could see, as he was going to be saddled with Wanawangul once they left here: he was going to have to send a text before they left. From the toilet.

11:10 Auburn Railway Station; Meeting Hall, Lidcombe; Circular Quay

Brendan's opportunity didn't come until the end of the meeting. The weapons on site had been distributed and prayers said over them; their watches were synchronized and everyone began to leave. Pleading a sudden need for the toilet cubicle Brendan excused himself to the last of the group, Wanawangul, and made a convincing dash into the facilities, where he locked himself in, dropped his trousers, sat down, got his phone out and madly texted a summary to Uncle Joe and Lorraine. Immediately after it went he deleted it from his call log, then leaned forward and fought to repress the wave of sickness that threatened to overwhelm him. He didn't have time for nerves, not now. Eventually he stood up, fixed his clothes, flushed the toilet and walked out.

Auburn station was, like most of its ilk, singularly unprepossessing, almost depressing, in its utilitarian austerity. Concrete platforms topped with asphalt and functional steel-framed weather shelters were as glamorous as it got but at this hour on a sunny, cool public holiday morning the commuters didn't care. They were mostly heading for the festivities on the harbour foreshore and, like the group at the meeting in town, were dressed accordingly, although here sprinkled with artistically arranged hijabs made from Australian flags, and were mostly in a jovial mood. Hadad and Abdul-Rahman arrived with a couple of minutes to spare, both carrying backpacks and dressed innocuously in jeans and t-shirts. The equipment was heavy but their task buoyed them and they chatted amiably as they waited, just another pair of locals heading for an afternoon of entertainment.

As the train rolled to a stop they picked up their bags and moved with the throng towards the open doors. Behind them, a middle aged Indonesian man, who looked a little Chinese and was dressed in board-shorts printed with the Southern Cross, a loose shirt, sandals and a beaten up bucket hat with a Boxing Kangaroo logo, got up from his seat and followed them into the carriage, continuing to talk volubly into his phone in some obscure dialect of Chinese until the train jerked into movement again. At the other end of the line one of Lorraine's analysts was translating his words for her and the rest of the small crew keeping watch over bank of CCTV screens that took up an entire wall and all the incoming audio feeds from the teams out in the field:

"On the train with Bravo Four and Five, departing Auburn now. ETA thirty five minutes."

"Stay with them," she responded before activating another broadcast and repeating the message so that Ilian, Lucas and the others could hear and acknowledge. On the train, Wisnu Haryanto, back from Darwin for the moment and being in charge of the team tasked with watching Hadad and Abdul-Rahman, kept his eyes fixed on the targets. When they moved at the other end he would be ready.

Hearing the confirmation that things were starting to move, within minutes of receiving Brendan's text, Lucas' heart leapt into his mouth. It was starting to happen. He just hoped it would all work out well. Out and about in the crowds by now, he had been circulating through the Botanic Gardens behind the Opera House, memories of the Capricorn Downs plot live in his mind, but now he threaded his way through the crowds and began to make his way towards the centre of the Quay. He wanted to be ready, no matter which way these people went when they arrived – despite Brendan's text he wouldn't put it past one of them to be unable to resist the lure of making their splash outside the iconic building on Bennelong Point.

Harry and Ruth had treated themselves to a very swish hotel for the long weekend, waking up to magnificent water views every day. This morning had been no different and they had enjoyed the panorama over a leisurely breakfast delivered to their room. Now, having watched the crowds and activities increase over the past hour or so, they had decided to go out and join the fun for a while before returning to their vantage point to watch the spectacular of the 179th Australia Day Regatta. The markets in The Rocks had just started so they made their way to the elevator and enjoyed a quiet cuddle on the way down to the ground floor. Neither had forgotten Lucas' warning but neither were inclined to let terrorists control their lives now any more than they had ever been. They would trust the locals to ensure that nothing would go wrong, even if it was still happening. Having heard nothing more from the younger man they were half-inclined to think that it was all over already.

Wanuwangul was waiting when Brendan came out of the cubicle. Startled, he grinned and said,

"Hey, bro, all ready?"

The other man didn't move, blocking the exit from the small room.

"What were you doing in there?" He was hostile, mistrustful and, now Brendan came to think about it, had been a bit off all day. Still, he grinned and responded,

"What do you think, man!"

There was no glint of returning humour.

"No you didn't. I've been here since you shut the door and the only thing I've heard was the flush. So what were you doing?"

Brendan allowed his smile to fade.

"Alright. I'm nervous, man, that's all. I thought I wanted to go but then couldn't so I just sat in there and prayed to Allah, peace be upon Him, for a moment. Now, insha-Allah, I am ready to take the battle to the invading infidels."

There was silence as they eye-balled each other. Cameron Sales Wanuwangul had resented Cyril King from the day he had arrived, feeling outshone by the bright, humble scholar who had the sort of deep and abiding connection with Country that he himself could only hope for and yet who could also read the Koran in its original language. As he had quickly and obviously become a favourite with Qirfa Alsoswa the resentment had turned to hatred and so he had begun to look for reasons to mistrust the younger man. There wasn't much: about the only thing he could fix on was the other's mild obsession with his phone and he had built that up in his mind to be something suspicious. Now, for once correctly, he suspected that Cyril had been in the toilet sending text messages and he wanted to know to whom.

"Liar. You were sending texts to someone, telling them what we are doing."

The words chilled Brendan to the core. He suspected it was a lucky guess – he knew the other man didn't like him and had been looking for ways to undermine him – but it was too close to the bone and he was going to have to do something about it.

"What? No, brother, where you getting that idea from—"

Cameron suddenly grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pushed him against the wall, almost screaming into his face.

"It's not an idea, it's the truth and I'm not the only one who thinks it!" He was lying but Cyril wouldn't know that. "You've got too much whitefella in you – all your precious university studies and devotion to their money to pay for it – and I don't trust you, you're probably working for them! So I'm going to stop you, permanently—" The fist that hit him in the solar plexus was like iron and he doubled over, unable to breathe and in intense pain but he barely had time to register it when a quick one-two to the head knocked him unconscious. Brendan shook his hands and then flexed them, cursing quietly at how painful it was to punch someone without gloves but didn't tarry, instead using the man's own belt to tie his hands behind his back before scouting around until he found some twine in the small, rickety kitchenette which he used to bind Wanawangul's feet together. He was still out for the count so Brendan rolled him on his side, used the rest of the twine to hog-tie hands and feet and then gathered together all the weapons, put in a phone call to Uncle Joe and appraised him of what had happened while he dumped the gear, very obviously and for the benefit of any remaining tails, in a wheelie-bin out the front.

Phone call over, he ran for the railway station – he didn't have long to get there before the train arrived. As it was, the thing was pulling into the station as he got there so, thankful he didn't have to get to the platform on the far side, he vaulted the ticket gates and made it on board just before the doors shut. Breathing hard, he found a seat to himself and collapsed, waiting for his heart to settle as he considered what to do at the far end. Unbeknownst to him Hadad and Abdul-Rahman were seated two carriages ahead and quietly discussing much the same thing.

11:48 The Rocks, Sydney

Samatar and Feysal had been the first to arrive, five minutes ago, having dumped their car in a small lane nearby and walked the rest of the way. They were being shadowed and filmed every step of the way. Then the train carrying Brendan, Wisnu, Hadad and Abdul-Rahman had pulled in at much the same time as the car carrying Bolzaar dropped him off almost at the northern end of George Street, near the overpass leading the famous Bridge which towered overhead.

Lucas was waiting for Brendan at Pier Six at the western end of the Quay and only about 100m from the stage set up in First Fleet Park; Ilian was circulating through the crowd, unrecognised by any of her crew, between the southern end of the markets and the Park and Lorraine, in her electronic eyrie, suddenly felt like an overworked air traffic controller trying to juggle several incoming squadrons of FA-18s. All over this part of the city adrenaline was flowing like water while nerves were stretching ever tighter and dozens of pairs of eyes were watching, endlessly watching, fearful of missing something, anything.

Ruth and Harry had made their leisurely way down Hickson Road and part of George Street before turning left past Cadman's Cottage so they could walk to First Fleet Park along the water front, enjoying the spectacular view of the Quay and the Opera House across the inlet. Like a few other people around this day they could never now look at the unique building without remembering how close it had come to being the epicentre of something that would have changed the city forever. Ruth would always be transported to that confrontation on the tarmac at Cairns airport while Harry's memories revolved around a small aeroplane and a road out in the middle of nowhere with bullets, blood and dead bodies everywhere…

He shivered as someone walked over his grave then subconsciously shook himself. Nothing was going to happen here today. His wife eyed him curiously, aware of some passing wraith disturbing his peace, but the racket of a train rolling into the elevated platform a couple of hundred metres ahead of them disturbed her thoughts and nothing more was said. Stopping by the Harbour Master's Steps and settling in to enjoy their surroundings they were completely unaware that Lucas was on the corner of the Quay, almost within shouting distance.

11:49

A well-kept four-wheel drive stopped briefly just west of the junction of Argyle and Harrington Streets and disgorged two women, one heavily pregnant, both modestly dressed in long skirts and long sleeved shirts, followed by a toddler girl and baby boy. The women unpacked a pram that was clearly modelled on the traditional carriages favoured by the nannies to the British aristocracy, loaded it up with the children and a couple of nappy bags and began to walk east through Jack Mundey Place as the car disappeared towards the city. The younger, pregnant woman was clearly tense and distressed but her taller, older companion was serene, reassuring her that they were doing the right thing and would all soon be in a much better place.

"It seems so unfair on the children," Parvani Khorasani murmured, tears in her eyes behind her Gucci sunglasses but Qirfa Alsoswa merely touched her briefly on the arm and smiled seraphically.

"The children will be even more welcome by Allah, as they are pure and innocent. Do not fear, Parvani, insha-Allah all will be well."

Unknown and unobserved, the pair continued their walk towards their fate.

11:50

Brendan was out of the train and sprinting down the escalator ahead of most of the crowd, spotting the tall, almost etiolated figures of Samatar and Feysal before he saw his handler. Ducking behind a group of tourists and making sure he stayed out of site of his co-conspirators he approached Uncle Joe casually, leaning against the railing and facing the opposite direction to take in the same view as the older couple not so far away.

"Samatar and Feysal are walking across the park behind us."

Lucas glanced over from behind the protection of his sunglasses and noted the two tall figures walking under the trees, just in time to see one of them slow down at the north-east corner of the park while the other kept going past the front of the Museum of Contemporary Art. As he did so Wisnu, now hooked into the network, whispered in his ear,

"Bravo Four and Five out of the station and walking towards you, Alpha Three. Alpha Two copy."

"Alpha Two," Ilian acknowledged from wherever she was hiding in the crowd. "No sign of Bravo Three yet."

While Brendan continued to avert his face so that Hadad and Abdul-Rahman wouldn't clock him, Lucas allowed his gaze to wander over the crowd approaching from the railway station, identifying Abdul-Rahman immediately by his huge red beard. After the pair walked past, less than ten metres away, and Wisnu had stopped briefly directly in front of him to light a cigarette (the signal for action stations) before moving on, he pushed himself up from where he had been leaning against the railings and muttered,

"Come on, time to get going. Make sure you stay behind me, or preferably go home. You've done your bit."

Brendan's response was instant and vehement.

"No. I've come this far, I want to see it through to the end. Please."

"Let him," Having dimly heard the lad's words via Lucas' comms Lorraine's disembodied voice spoke. "He can positively ID all of them. Just keep him safe."

11:51

Hadad and Abdul-Rahman walked up the side of First Fleet Park to its junction with George Street where, on the footpath in the shade of the trees and the shadow of the overhead railway line they pulled the parts of the drone out of their bags. As the Egyptian began to snap it all together with practiced speed his English companion bade him farewell and after a convincing exhortation to catch up on the other side, in Firdaws, began to walk at speed towards the southern end of Playfair Street and his appointment with Allah. Wisnu elected to stay in view of Hadad and the drone so Lorraine scrambled a couple of under-cover anti-terrorism police to follow the Englishman.

11:52

Further north, Jahan Bolzaar turned the corner into Playfair Street and into the view of a CCTV camera being monitored by Lorraine's crew. The news was passed instantly to the ground personnel as he stood there, contemplating the market stalls and the crowds ahead of him and saying a quiet prayer. To his left a six story brick building, its windows like blank eyes staring at him, lifted its bland face above him while an older, shorter building made from the local honey-coloured sandstone directly bordered the footpath to the right. Checking his watch he realised he only had a few minutes left; hitching the bag containing his AK-47 up on his shoulder he began to politely make his way through the crowds towards the top end of the market, off the tiny, pretty Athenden Street.

In the park, Dahir Samatar was surreptitiously fixing his signal repeater to a small tree on the corner of a path leading from the main walkway above the water and, coincidentally, almost opposite Harry and Ruth, who were watching a busker doing a contortionist show nearby, while Feysal was doing the same thing at the northern end of the lawn outside the Art Museum. The park was filling up quickly, prior to the concert due to start in a few minutes, and the party atmosphere was building; also checking his watch he glanced up towards George Street as the women were due to arrive with the bombs any minute.

Brendan and Lucas were moving north on the grass, towards Feysal's position so they could be half way between the two terrorists. They were near Nev van Ruytenburg, Ilian's senior techie, who was on the scene with a couple of his young specialists, the youngsters ready to move in to neutralise and retrieve the repeaters while Nev himself was armed with a jammer that he guaranteed would wipe out the signal of every mobile phone in the place within a radius of 250 metres.

Harry and Ruth, still by the steps, had been debating whether to move further north, away from the ferry piers, back to their hotel room or around the Quay to the Opera House so they could get a better view of the start of the sailing regatta. At this point, enjoying the weather and atmosphere and seeing the small stage starting to clear in readiness for the start of the concert, they decided to stay where they were for a few minutes and see at least the start of the show.

11:53

Alsoswa and Khorasani were pushing their way through the crowds on the eastern George Street footpath, making slow going because of the crush and hyper-aware of the load they were carrying. Checking her watch, Alsoswa realised they were running behind time and urged the other woman onwards. Baby Mohammed was whimpering, starting to get hungry for his lunch, but she ignored him; soon he would be in Paradise, playing at the feet of Allah and the Prophet and dining on milk and honey for eternity.

Mustafa Abdul-Rahman was one street to the west, walking north on Harrington Street and also battling the crowds. He was itching to get his weapon out and start using it on all these stinking, god-less infidels but they had agreed to wait so wait he would, until he was in place. It would only be a few minutes, anyway.

11:55 to 11:59

Hadad slung his false Press credentials on a lanyard around his neck, picked the drone up and moved out away from the trees as another train rattled overhead and the noise of vehicles on the Cahill Expressway immediately above the rail line was momentarily deafening. The crowd in the park was thick so it was about time he got into position.

As the man powered up the rotors on his machine Ilian, hearing the news through her earpiece, decided to call time. At her word, two more plain-clothes police materialised next to Wisnu and the trio bore down on the Egyptian, having him in handcuffs and his machine under their control within moments. Wisnu then took off at a run towards the top of Playfair Street where Bolzaar was reported to be almost at the top of the markets; the two police officers tailing Abdul-Rahman reported that he was close to the southern end of the market street and that they were closing in on him fast.

The disturbance drew the attention of both the Somalis, Feysal having returned towards First Fleet Park after ensuring his repeater was live, as well as Ruth and Harry. Samatar looked confused and hesitated, looking anxiously for his wife and Khorasani, but Feysal turned and ran, intuitively understanding that it was all over, throwing his backpack full of weapons over the barrier and into the water as he did so. Ilian took off after him but a sudden mass of people pushing in front of her to get into the park forced her to stop and she swore under her breath as the man vanished towards the Overseas Passenger Terminal. She told Lorraine and just had to hope that the police or the army snipers could stop him.

Lucas and Brendan began to forcefully push through the crowds in park, echoed by a number of both uniformed and counter-terrorism police while one of the Tactical Response Team's heavily armoured, black vehicles made it silent, although visible, way around the corner from Alfred Street into George, catching Harry's eye as it did so. Then, about fifty metres away, two men diverted his attention.

"That's Lucas," Harry murmured to Ruth, his eyes glued to his former Section Chief and his wife's gaze followed his, her face turning pale under her tan.

"And Brendan. Don't tell me it's happening after all."

"Looks like it." The adrenaline was beginning to kick in, the old spy's instinct suddenly alive but, well aware of Ruth's propensity to attract nothing but disaster in the field, he knew they had to move. It wasn't their fight, after all. He was about to say as much to her when faint screaming could be heard coming from somewhere north-west of them. It looked like it was too late.

Abdul-Rahman had reached the southern end of the Playfair Street mall and gazed with satisfaction at the packed humanity in front of him, all innocently enjoying their public holiday. He glanced at his watch again: technically it was still too early but only by a minute or so and he just couldn't wait. The past eighteen months of his life had been leading him to this moment of martyrdom in support of the jihad and he was going to enjoy it. Pulling his high-tech weapon out of his bag he yelled a triumphal,

"Allahu akbar!" and pulled the trigger. Screams erupted as the deadly rain of steel needles shredded first one, then another teenager, their blood spewing all over the brick paving as the remnants of the shot cut into other bystanders. The crowd panicked and ran, pushing back up Playfair Street and off to the sides, into any open doors or just hitting the deck behind anything they could find. The high was incredible but it didn't last, as the weapon jammed after a couple of seconds. A pair of beat police, hearts in their mouths, came running around the corner from Kendall Lane into Jack Mundey Place and towards Abdul-Rahman; seeing them, the Englishman threw away his now useless gun and, as they came within reach, hauled out the razor sharp cane knife, swinging once and decapitating the young policewoman and then again at her male partner, slicing off his arm below the elbow. The screaming got louder but, unexpectedly, much of the noise was coming from further up the street and the pushing was confused, some people running away from him while others were streaming out and towards him. He didn't have time to think, though; high on the clock tower of the building behind him, an army sniper finally got a clear shot and put a bullet into the back of his shoulder just as the two plain-clothes police who had been tasked with following him arrived. Neither they nor the sniper had a chance to act next, though; a small group of British Army troops, on R&R from Afghanistan, realised what was happening and, as one, fell upon their compatriot, who disappeared under a writhing mass of flailing fists and boots.

At the northern end of Playfair Street both Bolzaar and the crowd had heard the screaming and then saw the pulse of people scrambling to get away. Instantly realising what had happened, Bolzaar uttered up a final prayer for his wife and unborn child, pulled out the AK-47, echoed Abdul-Rahman's exhortation and taken aim. His gun didn't jam and several people went down until Wisnu, lungs almost bursting and muscles burning from the effort, skidded around the corner, saw his target, pulled the pistol out from its shoulder holster under his loose shirt and emptied his magazine into the Iranian, watching without satisfaction as the other man fell, unmoving, to the paving. Breathing heavily he muttered,

"Bravo Three neutralised," and then collapsed against the old sandstone wall. He had been a fraction of a second too late.

Back at the park Samatar finally acted. He had a backup plan with Qirfa, he just had to get to her before she arrived. Glancing around for an escape route he could only see one, where the crowd, now starting to get infected by the sense of panic rippling down from the markets, was thinning as people began to move away from the park. If he could get through over there he could loop around the back of the park and intercept the women. Sensing the net closing around him he ran, initially dodging anyone in his way but actively pushing them when there was no room. He could see the water and the clearer pathway but there were still people in the way so he chose the weakest link, an older couple who were looking directly at him as he approached. They didn't look like they understood what was going on, that they should get out of his way, so he ran straight at them and thrust out an arm to push the old man, who was standing in front of his wife, out of his path.

That was exactly what Harry was banking on. As Samatar attempted to push him he grabbed the offending arm and, using the man's own momentum, pulled him past and tripped him up, the pair of them ending up face-down on the footpath. Kneeling on the Somali's back and still in possession of the man's wrist in a surprisingly iron grip, he twisted the arm up behind Samatar's back, pushing hard enough to make the man groan in pain. He was still wriggling, trying to throw Harry off his back; that man, with great pleasure, leaned over and whispered in his ear, voice effortlessly elegant and chilling,

"I have killed more people like you than you can even begin to imagine. You have two choices: you can stop moving or I will break your neck." On the last word he rammed the man's arm up even further; muscles ripped and Samatar shrieked in agony, immediately stopping all movement in the hope of getting this mad man to let him go.

"What are you doing here?" Lucas' voice was pure disbelief but there was more than a tinge of relief in his voice as he came to a stop.

"Stopping yet another terrorist, by the looks of it. Is anyone around to take charge of him? I would quite like to get off this knee." He couldn't resist applying more pressure, just to hear the man squeal again; jogging footsteps came to a halt and Ilian's voice floated over them.

"They're just about here. Nice work, Laurence." Harry looked up and did a double take, as did Lucas: the normally glamorous woman was dressed in a couple of tattered, tight singlets, ripped denim shorts, dirty running shoes without socks, a baseball cap emblazoned with a well known brand of beer, hair screwed up underneath it, no makeup and huge cheap plastic sunglasses obscuring half her face. A cigarette hung from her lips, she was bedecked in layers of cheap jewellery and several fake, faded tattoos adorned her body. The worst of it was that Lucas had seen her a couple of times this morning and had not recognised her on either occasion. He knew she would take great pleasure in that later but at the moment she wasn't smiling, tensely listening to the whispers in her ear.

"Don't mention it," he responded, aware of her mood but not entirely knowing the reason. Suddenly they were surrounded by police, helping Harry back to his feet while cuffing Samatar prior to leading him away. The man glared at them all and spat.

"You haven't won. You can't stop what is coming."

One of the police pulled at his arm to get him moving, unknowingly the one that Harry had stretched, and they were all slightly gratified by his sudden, mewling acquiescence as he was led away.

12.01

Brendan arrived in time to see his former Imam being led away and joined the small group, urgency written on his face. He had picked up the bag Samatar had been carrying and checked it before tossing it to one of the uniforms and now he was worried.

"It's not over, Uncle Joe, it can't be. There were no bombs. There are supposed to be bombs, going off in—" he looked at his watch "—a bit over a minute. Where are they?"

Ilian, despite her growing sickness as details of what had happened in Playfair Street filtered through her earpiece, grabbed him by the arm to calm him down.

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes! Otherwise why the repeaters? Did you get his phone?"

They all looked at each other; Ilian passed the message on and they saw the group now about to push the man into the paddy-wagon stop, search the detainee's pockets and remove not one but two mobile phones. It wasn't enough for Brendan, though, his eyes were still scanning their surroundings and the crowds now pouring, terrified, down from the massacre at the markets. The others began to follow suit until an intake of breath from the young man alerted them.

"Oh shit, they've got them."

"Who?" Lucas, Ilian and Harry demanded in concert.

"Over there. The two women struggling down the steps from George Street with the big old pram. The pregnant one is Parvani Khorasani, Bolzaar's wife. I presume the other is Qirfa Alsoswa although I've never seen her face before. They have the bombs, they have to. There's no other reason why they would be here."

Ilian didn't wait but ran, swift and light, talking into her comms as she went. Lucas was on her heels and Brendan not far behind, leaving Harry and a shell-shocked Ruth standing sentinel among the fleeing crowds. The two women were at the bottom of the steps now, looking around for Samatar; Lucas finally overtook Ilian half way across the park, eyes glued to Alsoswa as her perplexity turned to understanding and she began to rummage in the nappy bag, saying something to the clearly terrified Khorasani as she did so. Now aware of the approaching trio she looked straight at Lucas as she removed the manual trigger from the bag.

Brendan shouted,

"No, Uncle Joe!" and launched himself into a low rugby tackle just as Alsoswa screamed,

"Allahu akbar!" and pressed the button.

The world went white.