Free The Angel by Mark Dawson

Fifteen was an easier target. There would be an inquest to find out what had happened, and far better for the agency to be disbanded and dispersed, to forestall the possibility that a light might be shone on the murky, grubby world in which they operated. Similar steps were taken after Bloody Sunday. The men involved were scattered far and wide to prevent the truth from emerging. The playbook hadn’t changed in forty years. It was still the obvious response. It was as craven and short-sighted now as it had been then, but Pope was long enough in the tooth not to be surprised by such things.
    He grimaced again and wished, for the second time, that he had held his tongue.
    Snow noticed his expression. ‘Forget it, sir. You did what y ou coul d.’
    ‘At least they know how you feel about it now,’ McNair added.
    Pope allowed himself a small smile in response.
    They passed The Red Lion pub, Derby Gate and then St Stephen’s Tavern. Snow finished the cigarette and immediately lit a third. Pope found himself wondering what to do for the rest of the afternoon. He had never been suspended before, and he realised, with a rueful grin, he had no idea what that meant in practical terms. Should he go home? No , he thought. There were people with whom he needed to discuss the morning’s events. But where should he do that? What did suspension mean? Was he supposed to go back to their building on the river, make his calls and then wait for further orders? Was he supposed to go home?
    They joined the scrum of pedestrians at the junction of Bridge Street and Whitehall. He looked up at Elizabeth Tower. It rose up with a stately rhythm, higher and higher, and then there came the iconic clock face, picked out as a giant rose, its petals fringed with gold. There were medieval windows above that and then the dark slate roof, its greyness relieved by delicate windows framed in gold leaf. Finally came a rush of gold to the higher roof that curved gracefully upwards to a fairy-tale spire topped with a crown, flowers and a cross.
    It was a minute before midday. The traffic lights changed in their favour just as the minute hand ticked over to an upright position and the famous chimes pealed out. The tune was that of the Cambridge Chimes, based on violin phrases from Handel’s Messiah .
    The Chimes finished, and Pope waited for the first strike of the hour bell.
    The detonation came from Bridge Street, in the direction of the river. It was a deep, guttural boom, accompanied by a tremor that passed beneath his feet. Pope knew it was a bomb immediately. The blast had been very slightly muffled. It had come from the direction of the Underground station. He ran toward the entrance, Snow and McNair hard on his heels, just as a huge cloud of dust and smoke poured out and billowed up into the bright afternoon.
    He saw the man on the other side of the street. Most people were standing around, confused and befuddled. They were slack-jawed, their eyes black and dazed. But this man was moving. He was dressed in black and carrying, with obvious effort, a rucksack that he wore on his back.
    Pope knew how to spot a suicide bomber. He knew the playbook after an attack, too. He had served in theatres where suicide bombings were often a daily occurrence: Iraq, Libya, Afghanistan, Lebanon, Israel. The first blast was often diversionary. Lethal, yes. Deadly. But it was designed to funnel as many targets as possible into a killing zone where they could be attacked by a bigger secondary explosion. The jihadis did it with IEDs, using one to herd soldiers and civilians into a position where the second bomb could do serious damage.
    The man with the rucksack wasn’t standing still. He wasn’t confused. He was walking with a determined stride, right into the middle of the crowd.
    ‘No!’ Pope yelled.
    The man reached into his pocket.
    ‘Bomb! Run!’

Chapter Fifteen
    A bright yellow light, seemingly everywhere, and then Pope was lifted, twisted and flung to the