‘It’s British. An L115A3. It’s a very tasty bit of kit. It holds the record for the longest confirmed kill. A corporal by the name of Craig Harrison killed two Taliban with consecutive shots at a little over nine thousand feet in Helmand Province. With his third shot he took out their machine-gun. It’s one hell of a weapon.’

‘How good can it be if your man here kept missing?’

‘Missing?’

‘I’m getting the info over the radio from Met Control. Zero kills. Five shots and he didn’t kill anyone. Leg wounds, shoulders. But no kills.’

‘That’s impossible,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s the real deal. And a real sniper would have no problems with a kill shot, even at this range.’

‘I’m just telling you the facts,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘I’m hearing all the radio traffic through Met Control. There are five casualties. No deaths. The ambulances are going in now.’

Shepherd frowned. ‘Ambulances?’

‘For the casualties. They’re badly injured and they need to get to hospital immediately. They’ve just opened the gates to let them in.’

Shepherd’s frown deepened. He turned towards the window, brought the sniper scope up to his eye and focused down at the stadium.

The bout was still going on, the Russian and the Brit were trading punches, toe to toe.

‘They got here fast, the ambulances,’ said Shepherd.

‘They were probably on standby,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

Shepherd aimed at the VIP section, packed with the famous and wealthy. He tracked to the far end of the stadium where two ambulances were moving at walking pace, blue lights flashing.

‘On standby outside? Does that make sense?’

Green and yellow flashed through his scope. It was an ambulance. There was a paramedic sitting in the driver’s seat wearing a green uniform. The man was Asian and Shepherd focused on his face. The breath caught in his throat as he recognised the man from the passports Yusuf had shown him in Turkey. The man was muttering to himself and there was a glazed look in his eyes. Shepherd swore. He pushed the dead sniper off the table and lay down, bringing the stock of the rifle against his shoulder.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Jihadists in the ambulances,’ hissed Shepherd. ‘Suicide bombers!’

Willoughby-Brown’s jaw dropped but he reacted quickly. ‘Wendy, patch me through to Bow Control Centre, now!’

Shepherd had the ambulance in his sights again. He focused on the man in the driver’s seat, knowing he’d have to fire at least twice. The windscreen would shatter but almost certainly alter the bullet’s trajectory. He’d need at least two shots to be sure of a kill. He pulled the trigger, felt the stock kick into his shoulder and saw the windscreen explode into a shower of cubes. In less than a second he aimed and fired again. This time he saw the man’s face implode into a red mush.