‘Pride, ma’am?’ said Bose. ‘Split the targets, divide our resources?’

‘Maybe. Come on. What else?’

‘Maybe they weren’t needed, ma’am,’ said a young sergeant. ‘Maybe he recruited four, saw who was good, picked the best and then dumped the others – killing one along the way.’

‘He’s a terrorist, Sergeant, not running an episode of The Apprentice,’ said Gabriel. ‘Come on. Better.’

‘The marathon?’ said a DC from the back of the room.

Gabriel shook her head. ‘It’s possible, I suppose. The plan could be to hit the stadium hard, and then when our attention is focused on Wembley, strike at the marathon. But my assessment tells me no. Everything we’ve uncovered points to the drones strike, to this flat, and to Wembley.’

But what was his next move? she asked herself. Had Abu Mujahid been at the flat? She knew he was no suicide bomber. He was the sort of man to groom others, but when it came to martyrdom, he’d be long out of the door before the bombs went off. She turned again to the screens. The people looked so vulnerable. And then a shiver of ice ran through her guts. What if the drones were part one? She knew Abu Mujahid. He liked setting up complex plots, multi-part plots, like his behaviour since returning: hiring a flat, going to the Lakes, all that complicated business with Amazon. It was good, but it wasn’t simple. He didn’t do simple. And what about the rifles? He’d gone to huge trouble to get rifles not just from the cache sent to him from Beirut, but he’d found a contact in the army and got one off him face to face. Abu Mujahid wouldn’t have taken that risk without a good reason.

And then she knew what he was planning. Her insides screamed out the answer and the horror of what was about to unfold hit her.

‘Get me Gold now.’

The radio came on. The face of the Gold Commander came on the screen.

‘I think I’ve got it, sir. What Abu Mujahid is planning. I need to talk to all the officers at the stadium. Now.’

‘Hang on, Gabriel – that’s a bit irregular. There are channels.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but there is literally no time for your channels. We have seconds. Please. Now.’

Tennant came on. He spoke decisively, in a tone that no one would challenge. ‘Do it. Put her through.’

There was a crackle. ‘You’re through, ma’am.’

She spoke clearly, steadily and with more confidence than she felt.

‘This is Detective Superintendent Sophie Gabriel from SO15. I am leading the hunt for the cell of five terrorists planning today’s attack. We have shot and killed one of the drone controllers, another – the cell leader Abu Mujahid – is on the run. But I now have evidence…’ That technically wasn’t true, but there was no time for semantics, ‘…I have evidence that the other two are waiting with assault rifles to fire upon the fleeing crowds. I repeat, I have evidence that there are two men armed with assault rifles preparing to fire upon the spectators leaving Wembley. One is an IC4, the other an IC3, and you will get the photos on your devices immediately. The more quickly we can identify and neutralise them, the more lives we will save today. Thank you and good luck.’