Gabriel groaned in pain as she lifted him upright. He took a step forward and staggered. Chiara seized hold of his arm and kept him from falling.

“Lie down, Gabriel. Wait for the ambulance.”

“No ambulances. Help me walk.”

Mikhail came over at an awkward trot, gun still in his hand, and together with Chiara helped Gabriel slowly toward the van. The driver hung upside down from his seat belt, blood flowing freely from his burst skull. Ishaq lay in the back, bleeding from his nose and mouth, left leg snapped above the knee like a broken matchstick. Gabriel looked at Mikhail.

“Pull him out by the leg,” he said in Hebrew. “The broken leg.”

“Don’t do this,” Chiara said.

“Walk away.” Gabriel looked at Mikhail. “Do what I tell you or I’ll do it myself.”

Mikhail ducked into the van through the open cargo doors and seized hold of the shattered leg. A moment later Ishaq lay writhing on the ground at Gabriel’s feet. Chiara, unable to bear the sight, walked away across the field. Gabriel looked down at Ishaq and asked, “Where’s my girl?”

“She’s already dead,” Ishaq spat through the blood.

Gabriel held out his hand to Mikhail. “Give me your gun.”

Mikhail handed it over. Gabriel pointed it toward the broken leg and fired once. Ishaq’s screams echoed over the flat landscape and his fingers clawed at the sodden earth. The pheasants took flight and circled above Gabriel’s head.

“Where’s my girl?” Gabriel repeated calmly.

“She’s dead!”

Another shot. Another scream of agony.

“Where’s my girl, Ishaq?”

“She’s already—”

Pop.

“Where’s my girl, Ishaq?”

“Allahu Akbar!”

Pop.

“Where’s Elizabeth?”

“Allahu Akbar!”

Pop. Pop.

“Tell me where she is, Ishaq.”

He leveled the gun and prepared to fire again. This time a hand went up, and Ishaq, between cries of pain, began hurling information at Gabriel like stones. Number 17 Ambler Road. Two martyrs. Westminster Abbey. Ten o’clock. God is Great.

Chapter 58

58

FINSBURY PARK, LONDON: 7:30 A.M., SUNDAY

They barged into her cell with a demeanor she had never seen before. Cain spoke to her for the first time in more than two weeks. “You’re going to be released,” he blurted. “You have twenty minutes to prepare yourself. If you are not ready in twenty minutes, you will be killed.” And then he was gone.

Abel appeared next, bearing a plastic bucket of warm water, a bar of soap, a washcloth and towel, a parcel of clean clothing, and a blond wig. He placed the bucket on the floor and the rest of the things on her cot, then removed her handcuffs and shackles. “Wash carefully and take your time dressing,” he explained calmly. “We brought you something nice to wear. We don’t want the world to think we mistreated you.”