‘Military options?’ Tennant asked.

‘The MOD have their own team working with specialist kit. We’re in touch with them, but that’s more aimed at fully armed military drones in theatre, not these sorts of consumer models.’

‘What about physically stopping them?’

‘We’ve experimented with drone vs drone tech with mixed success. The Dutch tried birds of prey trained to swoop on these, but again with variable success and the risk of injury to the bird. I regret to say that if the electronic options don’t work, then the only kinetic option we can fall back on is snipers.’

‘Christ,’ said Tennant, ‘that’s a desperate tactic.’

‘Yes, sir, but the small tactical advantage the sniper option gives us is that the drone may not explode, and if it does, at least it’s over an area of our choice, not the terrorists’.’

‘Thank you,’ said Tennant. He’d hoped for more reassurance than this. He turned to the firearms commander sat alongside her. ‘Your take?’

The commander looked at the picture of the drone on the video wall. ‘A sniper certainly could take one of these out, but these drones can be fast – the model they’re using can reach thirty to forty miles per hour. The odds of hitting a target like that are better if it’s coming towards you – so we’d need a team high up on the roof at Wembley.

‘Two things. If these are packed with explosives, and possibly shrapnel, shooting them down over civilians could have serious implications. Even if the drone doesn’t explode, we’re talking about a three-kilo object dropping one hundred and fifty feet into a crowd. Additionally, there’s collateral risk from stray rounds. A round could travel up to eight thousand feet if fired upwards and it could land anywhere or on anyone within two miles.’

‘Let’s keep our options open,’ said Tennant. ‘Get the kit for jamming the signal ready at Wembley ASAP, and brief the snipers. And I want to see the risks of collateral damage against the risks of exploding something above Wembley.’

#

Wembley, North West London

A toddler scooped up the chunk of bread and crammed it into her mouth with a fist. She chewed three or four times, then wrinkled up her nose in disgust and stuck out her tongue, globs of sticky dough dropping to the floor. Her mother tutted, bent over to pick them up with a tissue and lifted the girl. The toddler’s face was now level with Asad, and she stared at him from the next table over her mother’s shoulder, her brown eyes alive and wide. She gave a full-throated laugh.

Asad was sat at a two-person table in the corner of the cafe, as far from the door as he could, his rucksack on the chair opposite. The German waiter brought over his mint tea with an obsequious smile. Asad took a sip but couldn’t drink it. He felt sick again, his mouth was dry and a wave of panic swept over him. Was the mother of the toddler watching him?