‘No. What about the peace march? Think about it. It’ll have all the key community leaders, the major opposition politicians, tens of thousands of Muslims, a similar number of allies – all the people the NRF and their supporters are gunning for.’

An unfortunate phrase, Gabriel thought, but sadly appropriate. ‘Hang on, sir, Chilton Park has been months in the planning. Are you suggesting the second attack is on a march that was organised thirty-six hours ago?’

‘Think about it,’ said Tennant. ‘What happens after every terrorist atrocity on UK soil? We get a mass protest, we get an obligatory two-minute silence. They’re part of the grammar of modern life. So, yes, tomorrow’s march was only organised a couple of days ago. But the NRF don’t need to be psychic to have predicted there would be a protest march. They won’t have known the date, but they’ll have been certain one was coming.’

Gabriel considered the idea. There was something in it.

‘How many are we expecting for the march?’

‘Hundreds of thousands.’ He paused. ‘Look, I’m tied up for a couple of hours now, but can you pop round later? Seven-ish. I need to talk to MI5 and JTAC again. And I’m going to speak to the public order team, but I know they won’t consider ramping up policing for the march if JTAC and MI5 aren’t moving.’

The call ended. Gabriel felt like they were building a tower of playing cards with guess carefully balanced upon guess. That the code in the video meant one in three. That one in three meant two more attacks. That the next attack was the protest tomorrow. And after that?

#

Islington, North London

Asad had seen the NRF video half a dozen times, but its brutality still had the power to reignite his rage.

‘This is the face of our enemy – the face of those who wish to destroy Islam and defile the Prophet,’ said Mirza. ‘This is the face that confirms what we already know – that this country is institutionally and deeply Islamophobic. If you doubt me, look at this. See how the kafirs stand by and do nothing.’

The Group members were silent. Mirza leant forward to the computer. A video filmed on a phone appeared showing Fletcher leaning forward and lunging with a knife. A dark liquid sprayed into the air. The video paused, then repeated the scene, this time much slower. Asad looked away.

#

Asad had joined the Group six months earlier at Mirza’s invitation. It took only a couple of meetings, in the flat above the electrical shop, for him to realise the Group was the end point on a road he had been on since he was fourteen. That was when he plucked up the courage to walk into Butetown Youth Club and attend his first Youth of Islam study circle, much to his mum and dad’s disapproval. His parents had been born in the city, children of those who had arrived from Somalia to work in the docks in the 1950s. The YOI, in his father’s eyes, was run by the ‘wrong sort’ – men who had too much interest in political Islam and not enough in their spiritual connection with Allah. But to Asad, YOI offered friendship and identity, unlike the gangs of white kids at school, who’d offered hatred or disinterest. The members were the first people he’d come across who talked about the plight of the Muslim Ummah, Sharia law, politics, corrupt Muslim leaders and the enemies of Islam. These were the first people he’d met who didn’t apologise for striving to establish a Caliphate and the battle against the Islamophobic West in the Middle East. And the first who talked meaningfully about racism.