He heard Inspector Newbold issue a terse command and suddenly car doors were springing open, everyone was dismounting, fanning out across the street in a staccato rush of rubber-soled boots on tarmac, taking up positions on either side of York Way. The empty side street was suddenly full of grey uniforms and weapons. Luke stayed close behind Inspector Newbold, who was dressed identically to her team in Pro-tec ballistic helmet, goggles and black gloves. He could see little natural cover, just a long, low brick wall on the left, stained black with years of London grime, a line of transparent barriers that ran down the central divide in the road and some large bins beneath the red canopies of Franco Manca. They positioned themselves behind the bins, squatting on one knee as they faced northwards, staring up the length of York Way. Waiting.

It was a white van in front, moving slowly, doing a cautious 20mph, drawing level with the green glass cube of the Guardian News building. Behind that, another vehicle, too far off for Luke to make out what it was but possibly a pick-up truck. Had he seen either of them at the warehouse? He couldn’t recall. Maybe he’d been too busy trying to stay alive at the time. But now he was picking up a familiar noise: the approaching thud of rotor blades, clearly audible above the perpetual London soundtrack of distant sirens. A black-and-yellow police helicopter swung into view from the north, behind the oncoming vehicles. Luke recognized it as a Eurocopter, part of the Met’s emergency back-up for CTSFO operations. The cut-off group for the ambush.

The two vehicles stopped abruptly. He guessed their occupants must have heard the chopper. Still squatting next to him, Inspector Newbold was listening intently to something in her earpiece, her fingertips pressed against it. Then she leaped to her feet. ‘All call signs,’ she said into her mike, ‘confirmed. It’s them. Execute.’

Grey-uniformed figures surged forward towards the vans, the black muzzles of their Swiss-made SIG Sauer SG516 assault rifles jutting out in front of them. Luke could see that the helicopter had gone into a hover, low to the ground and just beyond the Guardian building. Lit by the streetlamps, a stream of tiny figures was fast-roping down on to York Way. The targets in the vans were trapped. Luke scrabbled for his phone and sent a single curt message to Angela at Thames House: Contact. We’re engaging.

114

York Way, King’s Cross, London

Monday, 21 March, 0349hrs GMT

INSPECTOR NEWBOLD WAS standing in the dark, beneath the red canvas awning of Franco Manca, her goggles pushed on to her helmet, frantically signalling to someone behind them. An officer ran up and handed her the megaphone. She grabbed it without a word and began walking down the pavement towards the two vans, past a South East Asian food outlet and a barber’s shop. Then she stopped.