‘Ian, what the hell’s happening here?’ He waved at the screens. ‘We’re not seeing anything? Who’s doing this?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Chapman. A phone rang and Chapman grabbed it. As he listened, the colour drained from his face. ‘That’s one of the stewards outside the ground,’ he said. ‘A helicopter’s just crashed.’

‘Crashed where?’

‘He’s not sure exactly. He just saw it coming down at speed with smoke pouring from it.’

Confused, Fielding turned to the screens, rubbing the back of his neck.

‘We need to get ambulances in here now,’ said Chapman.

Fielding continued to massage his neck. ‘I’ll check with Superintendent Enfield. He’s Gold Commander on this.’

‘Andrew, there isn’t time. We need to call for ambulances now and we need to get the gates open. And we need to find out where that helicopter crashed – there could be more casualties.’

Fielding reached for his radio.

Mohammed al-Hussain took a breath, released half, and squeezed the trigger. The stock kicked against his shoulder and he relaxed. The bullet sped through the air at close to three thousand feet per second, friction slowing it every step of the way but it still hit its target in less than half a second. The man slumped back in his seat, a look of pained surprise on his face.

Al-Hussain ejected the cartridge. He loaded a round, then put his eye to the scope and searched for another target, this time on the opposite side of the stadium.

Muhammad Saleem fingered his prayer beads as he recited the ninety-nine names for God. He had parked in a side road about two hundred yards from the stadium. He was on double yellow lines but nobody was going to give an ambulance a ticket. His mobile phone lay on the seat next to him. It buzzed to show he had received a message and he picked it up. Three words. It is time. He smiled to himself, took a deep breath, then pressed the switch to start the siren and flashing lights. He put the ambulance into gear, pressed the accelerator, and started to drive. The wail of the siren set his pulse racing but he calmed himself by concentrating on the names of God. Al Jabbaar: The Powerful. Al Haqq: The Truth. Al Qawiyy: The Strong. Al Mumit: The Bringer of Death. Al Muntaqim: The Avenger.

‘On three,’ mouthed Shepherd, and the officers nodded, their guns at the ready, fingers on triggers.

Shepherd mouthed, ‘One, two, three,’ then kicked the door hard putting his full weight behind the blow. The jamb splintered but the lock held. Shepherd stepped back and kicked again. This time the door crashed inwards and he stepped into the room, both hands on his gun. The two men he had recognised in Page’s photographs – Amma al-Kawthari and Elyas Assadi – were sitting on the sofa, mouths open in shock. The sniper was lying on a table, taking aim through the open window. The fourth man was holding a gun and swinging it towards the door. Shepherd fired twice in quick succession and the double-tap hit the man squarely in the chest. Two red roses blossomed on his shirt and he slumped to the floor.