Only one person in the crowd saw who was throwing the flyers. That person was seventeen-year-old Jessie Johnson, who, three days before, had gone into anaphylactic shock after eating a peanut. She saw the woman in the 1940s army uniform leaning over from one of the levels, tossing the papers into the air.

“She’s there,” Jessie said. “Right there.”

Jessie’s observations were lost in the mayhem as a helicopter appeared low overhead, drowning out everything with the sound of chopper blades and blinding everyone with its powerful searchlight. It scanned the top of the car park while the people below shielded their eyes and their candles and tried to continue with the vigil.

“We will never forget,” the person at the microphone yelled, “that the victims have names, have faces . . . We will take this night back . . .”

Jessie watched as the woman in the uniform finished throwing the flyers and disappeared. A few minutes later, she walked briskly out of the car park, right past three police officers. Even as it was happening, Jessie was rewriting the story in her mind. It was too odd. The woman must have been a police officer or something like that. She had no idea that she had just seen the British army’s last active soldier from the Second World War, still in her uniform, still defending the East End.

Jessie looked down at the flyers, which coated the street and were being read by thousands of people and filmed by dozens of television cameras. They read

THE EYES WILL COME TO YOU

TERMINUS TERIMNUS

TERMINUS TERIMNUS

Men would be angels, angels would be gods.

—Alexander Pope, “Essay on Man”

Chapter 33

33

WE WERE SITTING IN THE POLICE CAR ACROSS THE street from Regis House. It was one of countless large office buildings in the City of London, maybe ten stories, made of grayish-white stone, full of offices. The front was mostly made of glass, with a large circular overhang in black metal giving its name and address, 45 King William Street. We had dropped Callum off at London Bridge station a few minutes before. Right now, he was making his way under the Thames via a tunnel.

“We’ll give him ten more minutes,” Stephen said, glancing at the dashboard clock. It was three forty-five.

Stephen looked out the window and surveyed the street. King William Street led up to London Bridge, and there weren’t many pubs or restaurants on this stretch. The street was deserted except for us. I watched the traffic lights change, the little man on the “walk” sign turn from green to red.

Once again, it was time to wait. All of London was waiting, silent, as if the population had collectively drawn its breath in anticipation. There wasn’t enough air in the car for me. Something was pressing on my chest. Fear. I tried to keep Jo’s words in my mind—fear couldn’t hurt me. It was a snake with no venom.