He had to move before they could consider it.

Penfold sprinted away from the crowd closest to him before he could be stopped. A few reacted quickly, giving chase. Others stayed rooted to the spot.

A few of the chasers were slower than Penfold. Others were not. The quicker ones were gaining on him fast. Penfold could feel them closing.

He looked ahead and saw a wall of bodies forming. A wall he could not pass.

His decision was made in an instant. No time for second thoughts. No time for hesitation. Penfold had perhaps two seconds left. He would need them both.

Penfold swung his rucksack behind him as he ran. As far back as he could stretch. Once he reached his limit he launched the bag forwards. Over the main deck rail. Down to the deep tidal river that led to the port.

He reached the rail just as the bag went over. Grabbing the thick metal, he used it to launch himself over.

The man closest to him reached out. Almost managed to grip Penfold’s trouser hem. Almost. But close is not close enough. The chaser’s arms were still outstretched as he watched Penfold fall. Ninety feet. From the top deck to the deep water below.

Joelle Levy stood on the dock. On the spot where the ferry’s passengers would disembark.

Four men from MIT One stood behind her. Behind them were ten more police officers. Members of the Essex Police Firearms Unit.

No chances were being taken.

Levy had been at the port for thirty minutes. As long as the ferry had been in sight. She had timed the trip from London perfectly.

Since her arrival the boat had come ever closer. Its size more obvious and so the scale of any search more apparent. If a search was needed.

‘How long before they dock?’

Levy was speaking to the man beside her. Stephen John. The Stena Line’s operating manager for Harwich International Port.

‘I’d say seven minutes or so,’ John replied.

‘OK.’ Levy turned to her team. ‘Keep your wits about you, people. Penfold is on that ship but he is not getting past this port under any circumstances. Understood?’

‘Ma’am.’

The team spoke as one. Regimented. Every officer knew his or her duty; knew exactly why they were here.

Levy turned back towards the ferry. It was close enough now that she could make out the crowds on the upper deck.

She reached inside her jacket for her shoulder holster and removed her pistol. A Glock 19. Smaller than the standard issue Glock 17, it was still plenty big enough for the job.

Levy checked the weapon. Fully loaded. Fifteen 9×19mm Parabellum rounds. Levy took good care of her weapons. She had undergone extensive firearms training with the Metropolitan Police, training which had not come close to the expertise already instilled in her by the Israel Defense Forces or Shin Bet.

Levy rarely expected to use the pistol she carried.

She felt differently today.