‘Wait here,’ Studley said. ‘Don’t say anything or speak to anyone until the others show up. Then you can tell them exactly what Lang said.’

Seven

Seven

The first paramedics arrived on the scene six minutes later. Half a dozen of them, jogging along either side of a gurney. Like soldiers at a siege, lugging a battering ram towards the enemy’s gate. They huddled around Lang, checking his vitals. One of the medics shone a pen torch into his eyes. Another swabbed the inside of his mouth. A third asked Lang if he could hear them. Lang didn’t respond. There was a big discussion amongst the medics interspersed with radio chatter, messages bouncing back and forth. Decisions being made. Then a complicated operation to lift Lang onto the gurney. Bowman looked on as they wheeled him away to the waiting ambulance. He felt no remorse for Lang. The guy was a sadistic psychopath. He’d inflicted untold misery in his life. He didn’t deserve a happy ending.

And if he dies, thought Bowman, my secret is safe.

After fifteen minutes the last of the VIPs had been driven away from the hotel. By that point the police had managed to evacuate the remaining civilians from the building. A steady stream of staff, security officials and caterers traipsed through the emergency exits to a cordoned-off area across the road. Another team of paramedics treated guests for minor injuries. Some were in shock. Others had fallen or hurt themselves in the crush to escape the ballroom.

A short while later, a smartly dressed figure stepped in from the cold.

He was in his mid-fifties, though his weathered face suggested someone at least a decade older. His greying hair was swept back in a silver wave. His eyes gleamed with menace, like knife tips catching the sun. He had the lean greyhound physique of a Regiment veteran, a body built for endurance and hardship and killing, rather than grunt work. But he was dressed more like a partner at a City law firm on casual Friday: dark blazer, light blue shirt, black trousers and tobacco-brown suede shoes, a stainless-steel Breitling watch clamped around his wrist. Bowman recognised him at once.

John Mallet. A former legend of 22 SAS.

The leader of the Cell.

Studley tucked away his phone and greeted the ex-Regiment man as he marched over. He seemed small next to Mallet, thought Bowman. It wasn’t a physical thing: Studley was only two or three inches shorter than the other man. It was something in the way Mallet carried himself. Composed, still, a quiet but robust confidence. Studley seemed deferential towards the older man. Subservient, almost. As if he was in the presence of a superior being.

The two men approached Bowman. Studley gestured to the silver-haired ex-officer at his side.

He said: ‘You’ve met John before, haven’t you? He runs the Cell these days. He’s got a few questions.’