pulsed up the shaft and flattened everyone in its wake. It lifted Aamir up and tossed him , dropping him on his front, the rucksack beneath him. The rumble was followed by the sound of shrapnel striking against the concrete walls of the shaft and the metal treads of the escalator. The sound was like a whoosh, the noise that a very strong wind might make. It almost felt electrical, and his hair stood up on end.
There came a sudden silence. Aamir heard the sound of his own breathing, in and out, ragged and on the edge of panic, and then came the shrieks and screams. The horror. Smoke coursed out of the mouth of the shaft, black and choking, and Aamir felt it sting his eyes.
Aamir shook the rucksack from his shoulders and left it on the floor as he scrambled to his feet.
He forgot about it and ran.
He crashed into a large man in a London Underground uniform . He was old, his kindly face absorbed with shock and horror . The man was trying to forge a path through the on-rushers so that he could get to the escalators.
Aamir looked up and saw the white of daylight from the s tation exit s.
He had to get outside.
Aamir ran to the gate line, bumped and baulked by the others around him. The gates were all open, and he squeezed through, climbed the steps and emerged into the bright sunlight. He looked up. Big Ben stretched overhead, and behind it, the towers and crenellations of the Palace of Westminster. A single Union Jack flew from a flagpole atop one of the towers. The pennant hung down, rustling in the negligible wind.
Aamir looked across the road and saw Bashir opposite the exit to the station, crossing the road and heading right at him. Bashir looked back at him for a moment, confusion quickly replaced by ange r.
‘Stop!’
Aamir saw the bulk of his rucksack and knew what was about to happen.
He ran.
Chapter Fourteen
P ope, McNair and Snow stepped out of the office. The street was shaded by the tall shoulders of the buildings on either side, but as they walked on, they passed into the sunshine that shimmered down onto Whitehall.
He had said too much. He had known that he would if they pressed the wrong buttons. He had promised himself that he would be diplomatic, hold his tongue and ignore all the provocation that he knew was coming his way, but he just couldn’t. He had no respect for any of those people. They pronounced and opined without any idea of what it was that the men and women under his command did for their country.
He had been an active member of the Group until his predecessor had gone rogue. He had more than his own share of kills, and the price he had paid for each one of them was high. He had always tried to take his own feelings out of the equation. He had been a weapon. Someone else chose the target and aimed the weapon. He simply carried out his orders and then went back to his family and tried to forget about them. That had been his policy, although, of course, it wasn’t as simple as that. He had probably handled it better than John Milton, but what did that say about him? Milton had wrestled with his demons for years, tried to drown them in drink, and eventually he had decided that the only way he could deal with them was to take himself as far away from London and his old life as he could. Milton was out, and good luck to him. Pope found that he wished he could join him.
They ambled down Whitehall. Snow was smoking a cigarette, his second, sucking down the tobacco with greedy gulps. He smoked compulsively, especially when he was irritated, and he certainly had grounds for irritation now.
‘Fuckers,’ McNair said.
‘I know,’ Pope said.
‘They have no idea. Not the first clue.’
‘It’s not over yet. Someone will see sense.’
He said it, but he didn’t really believe it. He knew that there would have to be a scapegoat for what had happened to Fèlix Rubió. A bloodletting was inevitable. It should have been the police and the spooks for the faulty intelligence, but Group
There came a sudden silence. Aamir heard the sound of his own breathing, in and out, ragged and on the edge of panic, and then came the shrieks and screams. The horror. Smoke coursed out of the mouth of the shaft, black and choking, and Aamir felt it sting his eyes.
Aamir shook the rucksack from his shoulders and left it on the floor as he scrambled to his feet.
He forgot about it and ran.
He crashed into a large man in a London Underground uniform . He was old, his kindly face absorbed with shock and horror . The man was trying to forge a path through the on-rushers so that he could get to the escalators.
Aamir looked up and saw the white of daylight from the s tation exit s.
He had to get outside.
Aamir ran to the gate line, bumped and baulked by the others around him. The gates were all open, and he squeezed through, climbed the steps and emerged into the bright sunlight. He looked up. Big Ben stretched overhead, and behind it, the towers and crenellations of the Palace of Westminster. A single Union Jack flew from a flagpole atop one of the towers. The pennant hung down, rustling in the negligible wind.
Aamir looked across the road and saw Bashir opposite the exit to the station, crossing the road and heading right at him. Bashir looked back at him for a moment, confusion quickly replaced by ange r.
‘Stop!’
Aamir saw the bulk of his rucksack and knew what was about to happen.
He ran.
Chapter Fourteen
P ope, McNair and Snow stepped out of the office. The street was shaded by the tall shoulders of the buildings on either side, but as they walked on, they passed into the sunshine that shimmered down onto Whitehall.
He had said too much. He had known that he would if they pressed the wrong buttons. He had promised himself that he would be diplomatic, hold his tongue and ignore all the provocation that he knew was coming his way, but he just couldn’t. He had no respect for any of those people. They pronounced and opined without any idea of what it was that the men and women under his command did for their country.
He had been an active member of the Group until his predecessor had gone rogue. He had more than his own share of kills, and the price he had paid for each one of them was high. He had always tried to take his own feelings out of the equation. He had been a weapon. Someone else chose the target and aimed the weapon. He simply carried out his orders and then went back to his family and tried to forget about them. That had been his policy, although, of course, it wasn’t as simple as that. He had probably handled it better than John Milton, but what did that say about him? Milton had wrestled with his demons for years, tried to drown them in drink, and eventually he had decided that the only way he could deal with them was to take himself as far away from London and his old life as he could. Milton was out, and good luck to him. Pope found that he wished he could join him.
They ambled down Whitehall. Snow was smoking a cigarette, his second, sucking down the tobacco with greedy gulps. He smoked compulsively, especially when he was irritated, and he certainly had grounds for irritation now.
‘Fuckers,’ McNair said.
‘I know,’ Pope said.
‘They have no idea. Not the first clue.’
‘It’s not over yet. Someone will see sense.’
He said it, but he didn’t really believe it. He knew that there would have to be a scapegoat for what had happened to Fèlix Rubió. A bloodletting was inevitable. It should have been the police and the spooks for the faulty intelligence, but Group
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