‘And by the time our rubbish fucking bus picture is on tomorrow’s newsstands with no real news underneath it,’ said the Editor, ‘they’ll have been arrested by those fucking halfwits from Thames Valley Police, probably live on Radio Oxford, God damn it, those motherfucking cunts, cunts, cunting cunts!’ He squeezed his great fists. ‘Perhaps we ought to call the BBC ourselves, and the police, and tip them both.’ Geraldine went pale. ‘After all, an attack on the Beast is an attack on us all. The Beast has called for unity in the face of terror; perhaps now is the time for us not just to report, but to lead, to demonstrate to the world that the cost of unity is the sacrifice of individual advantage – a price anyone should gladly pay to protect British lives. So that, when people look back on the Beast’s achievements in these momentous days, they will point not to yesterday’s scoop, but to today’s relinquishing of a scoop, and say, This was their finest hour.’

Geraldine unconsciously pushed her bracelets up her forearms, so they stuck. ‘Or,’ she said, ‘there is another way.’

The Editor looked at her with something bordering on love. They understood each other. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There is.’

‘We did it with Archbishop Morton.’

‘Near Tiverton.’

‘And with those fraudster brothers, the Sheridans.’

‘Outside Wolverhampton.’

Anna said, ‘You can’t do that with a busload of people.’

‘Don’t you see that this is a war? They’ve activated cells all over the country. We’re in a state of emergency.’

Anna said, ‘There could be sixty people on that bus.’

The Editor didn’t answer. He and Geraldine were each working through the same idea. Then he asked, ‘How much money do your men have with them?’

Anna relayed the question into the phone, then said, ‘Between them just short of two thousand.’

‘How reliable are they?’

‘They’re reliable.’

‘And you? We can’t afford any hesitation. If you can’t do it, Geraldine can.’

Anna felt from all around her the newsroom’s desperate hope: that the Beast would protect them. She surrendered to it. ‘Fuck that,’ she said. ‘We’re not just going to lie here. If you fuck with the Beast, the Beast fucks back.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now, when your people squeeze the bus over on to the hard shoulder’ – Geraldine drew in her breath – ‘it will be of the essence that the terrorists don’t see the snapper. Everything depends on that. If they realize they’re being photographed they could blow their vests, take hostages, anything. So while the reporter gives the driver a thousand immediately, holding the other thousand in reserve, the snapper has to run into cover somewhere he can shoot the bus.