Bowman said calmly, ‘Those seats are reserved, sir. We’ll be able to keep an eye on you from where we are.’

‘And when this is over? What then?’

‘As soon as it’s time to leave, the other lads will bring the cars round. Me and Dave will escort you out of the Abbey.’

‘You did very well back there. I’m grateful.’

‘Just doing my job, sir.’

He left the president and threaded his way across to Poets’ Corner, sidestepping a woman with a hat so wide you could land a helicopter on it. A small door had been built into the south-east corner of the transept. The door led to an unseen part of the Abbey: a secret network of staircases and passages leading to the upper levels of the Abbey. Bowman ducked through the opening and climbed a dusty spiral staircase to a narrow walkway on the south side of the transept. He walked carefully along the passage and ascended the steps to the mezzanine gallery. Then he found Kember sitting in the far corner, watching the guests. From their position the two soldiers had a commanding view of the action below. If anyone tried to breach the Abbey via the north or south entrances they would be instantly spotted, giving the team time to act before the principal came under threat.

‘How is he?’ Kember asked as Bowman drew up alongside him.

‘Shaken,’ Bowman said. ‘But otherwise okay.’

‘Does he suspect anything?’

Bowman considered for a beat, recalling the look of raw fear in his eyes. ‘I don’t think so. He just looks shit scared.’

‘That’s hardly surprising, is it?’ Kember said. ‘His people are out to get him. I’d be worried too, if I was in his boots.’

‘He’s a tyrant, mate. He’s spent twenty-four years in power. You’d think he would be used to people having a pop at him.’

Kember grunted. ‘Maybe he’s losing his nerve.’

Amid the crowd, Bowman caught sight of a guest approaching Seguma. A broad-shouldered man dressed in a striped morning suit and a pink tie, a pocket square jutting like a shark’s fin out of his breast pocket. The man wore a pair of thick-rimmed glasses; his large round eyes were as black as his slicked-back hair. He had the build of a retired boxer, with hands the size of shovels and a prominent scar running like a tear down his left cheek.

The man pumped Seguma’s hand, slapping him on the back and whispering into his ear. The president nodded along, occasionally glancing at Bowman and Kember in the gallery above.

Kember nudged his partner, inclining his head towards the man chatting with the president.

‘That’s one of the Lang twins, isn’t it? Those Cockney mobsters.’

‘Freddie,’ Bowman said. ‘That’s Freddie Lang.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘He’s the one with the scar on his cheek.’