a store or in the Underground. I think it’s more important for us to strike at well-known
places than to try to kill the maximum number of people. They’ll be expecting us at the Old Bailey in a few days’ time, but
not this afternoon.”
Hasan Shawa looked doubtful. “When I passed there in the car an hour ago, I didn’t like what I saw. It was too quiet. People
seemed to be in a hurry to come in and go out of the courthouse. There were small groups of men stationed around, some at
the edge of the street. Not one uniformed policeman in sight. I believe they’re waiting for us.”
“Of course they are,” Naim said. “They’re guardingevery potential target in Britain round the clock. That’s why we have to hit one of those to make a strong impression. An
Underground station or the Regent’s Park Zoo would be too easy. That would be cowardice on our part, at least in their eyes.
But if we come right at them, in spite of their vigilance, and succeed, then we will hurt them. They will know that nothing
is safe then. At that point they will squabble among themselves, the weak one blaming the strong. Then you will hear that
the announcement of the intention to sign has been postponed. But not if we back down and start hitting safe targets. If we
do that, they will see that they have won and we are in retreat. We have to stay on the attack. No matter what defenses they
put up, we must be cleverer than them, more daring.”
“With a shotgun, a bag of nails, and some plastique?” Hasan asked mockingly.
Naim’s eyes glittered. “With our bare hands if we have to.”
Hasan no longer challenged him.
Naim finished sanding the wood handle of a toilet plunger. He slid the wood handle into the barrel of the shotgun. It was
a tight, perfect fit. Next he two-thirds filled the plunger’s rubber suction cup with three-inch nails. On top of those he
placed a thick cake of plastic explosive, which he crimped around the edges of the suction cup like a cook crimps the edges
of the pastry dough around an uncooked pie. He pushed three impact detonators into the explosive, making a triangle.
The gun was cheap, a single-barrel single-shotbreechloader. With a knife he picked out the circular card at the end of a cartridge and spilled out the shot. Having broken
the shotgun, he loaded the cartridge into the breech so that the base of the plunger handle fitted tightly into it. Náim closed
the gun, leaned it in a corner, and wiped his hands with satisfaction.
“They’ll be looking for something big,” he said to the others. “They won’t be expecting anything small-scale and at a distance.
We go in once, that’s all, win or lose. If there’s no one in the entranceway or the doors are closed, I’ll aim it through
a window.”
So they would not lose each other in traffic, they drove along the Thames all the way, Hasan driving the first car with Naim
in the backseat, and Ali alone in the second car. They turned left at Blackfriars Bridge, rounded Ludgate Circus, went along
Ludgate Hill, and turned left into Old Bailey, the street which gave its name to the Central Criminal Court. The courthouse
was at the other end of the street from them, on their right. Since traffic drove on the left, they would be attacking from
the far side of the street to the courthouse. Security men would not be expecting this. Another advantage was that they could
hang a quick left turn onto Holborn Viaduct and avoid being trapped where they were.
“You see the two cars pulled in over there, a driver in each?” Hasan asked urgently. “There’s two more farther up. Look at
those men standing there. Seethat one with the loose coat I bet he has a submachine gun under it.”
“Keep going,” Naim said from the backseat, calmly rolling down the right rear side window. “Ali is right behind us. He’s the
one who will have to take most of the heat.”
“You better cock your pistol,” Hasan said,
places than to try to kill the maximum number of people. They’ll be expecting us at the Old Bailey in a few days’ time, but
not this afternoon.”
Hasan Shawa looked doubtful. “When I passed there in the car an hour ago, I didn’t like what I saw. It was too quiet. People
seemed to be in a hurry to come in and go out of the courthouse. There were small groups of men stationed around, some at
the edge of the street. Not one uniformed policeman in sight. I believe they’re waiting for us.”
“Of course they are,” Naim said. “They’re guardingevery potential target in Britain round the clock. That’s why we have to hit one of those to make a strong impression. An
Underground station or the Regent’s Park Zoo would be too easy. That would be cowardice on our part, at least in their eyes.
But if we come right at them, in spite of their vigilance, and succeed, then we will hurt them. They will know that nothing
is safe then. At that point they will squabble among themselves, the weak one blaming the strong. Then you will hear that
the announcement of the intention to sign has been postponed. But not if we back down and start hitting safe targets. If we
do that, they will see that they have won and we are in retreat. We have to stay on the attack. No matter what defenses they
put up, we must be cleverer than them, more daring.”
“With a shotgun, a bag of nails, and some plastique?” Hasan asked mockingly.
Naim’s eyes glittered. “With our bare hands if we have to.”
Hasan no longer challenged him.
Naim finished sanding the wood handle of a toilet plunger. He slid the wood handle into the barrel of the shotgun. It was
a tight, perfect fit. Next he two-thirds filled the plunger’s rubber suction cup with three-inch nails. On top of those he
placed a thick cake of plastic explosive, which he crimped around the edges of the suction cup like a cook crimps the edges
of the pastry dough around an uncooked pie. He pushed three impact detonators into the explosive, making a triangle.
The gun was cheap, a single-barrel single-shotbreechloader. With a knife he picked out the circular card at the end of a cartridge and spilled out the shot. Having broken
the shotgun, he loaded the cartridge into the breech so that the base of the plunger handle fitted tightly into it. Náim closed
the gun, leaned it in a corner, and wiped his hands with satisfaction.
“They’ll be looking for something big,” he said to the others. “They won’t be expecting anything small-scale and at a distance.
We go in once, that’s all, win or lose. If there’s no one in the entranceway or the doors are closed, I’ll aim it through
a window.”
So they would not lose each other in traffic, they drove along the Thames all the way, Hasan driving the first car with Naim
in the backseat, and Ali alone in the second car. They turned left at Blackfriars Bridge, rounded Ludgate Circus, went along
Ludgate Hill, and turned left into Old Bailey, the street which gave its name to the Central Criminal Court. The courthouse
was at the other end of the street from them, on their right. Since traffic drove on the left, they would be attacking from
the far side of the street to the courthouse. Security men would not be expecting this. Another advantage was that they could
hang a quick left turn onto Holborn Viaduct and avoid being trapped where they were.
“You see the two cars pulled in over there, a driver in each?” Hasan asked urgently. “There’s two more farther up. Look at
those men standing there. Seethat one with the loose coat I bet he has a submachine gun under it.”
“Keep going,” Naim said from the backseat, calmly rolling down the right rear side window. “Ali is right behind us. He’s the
one who will have to take most of the heat.”
“You better cock your pistol,” Hasan said,
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