“Good. In forty-five minutes I will expect to hear news of our message to the West. Do not fail us, Bahar.” Hercule slipped his mobile back into his pocket. All would go well this time, Hercule felt it to his bones. He thought of Elizabeth again. Could she possibly survive the blast where she would be standing?
Hercule had always been a fatalist, had never believed in the absurd rewards that supposedly awaited a devout Muslim upon his death. He wondered if Elizabeth was one of those who believed in an afterlife, wondered if that would comfort her in the instant before her heart stopped beating. It was doubtful, though, that she would even have that. The explosion itself was an instant in time. Then he thought of Lord Harlow, seated on the groom’s side, close to the front since the families were close, and of the eight million British pounds, half of which already resided safely in one of his Swiss accounts.
He poured himself another glass of chardonnay and walked to the wide window overlooking the Thames. He looked east, toward St. Paul’s. He wouldn’t see it explode from here, but he would hear the explosion, see the billowing clouds of black smoke rising about the buildings. And when St. Paul’s exploded, or a goodly part of it came crashing down, he would hear the beautiful sound echoing around the city, and the sirens that would follow.
He raised his glass to Elizabeth and to Lord Harlow.
ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL
LONDON, ENGLAND
Monday afternoon
Bahar walked slowly along St. Paul’s Church Yard, the wide busy street that formed the long south boundary of the rough triangle of land that enclosed St. Paul’s Cathedral. The fa?ade of the church wasn’t set back from the incessant traffic or the encroaching buildings; it stood there right in the center of things, flanked on all sides by bicycles, big red tourist buses, and countless people scurrying about. Many small outdoor tables were filled with coffee and tea drinkers at the nearby London cafés.
He knew the real-time cameras of the state-of-the-art video surveillance system and people watching it from the on-site control room would pick him up when he entered the cathedral. They didn’t know who they were looking for, in any case, so it wouldn’t make any difference. No one would give the frail old lady a second glance.
They prided themselves on their Smartcards, given out to more than two hundred of their staff. Like most security ideas, the Smartcards sounded like a good idea, the most effective way to have a solid handle on the cathedral’s security, but it was so far from the truth, it was laughable. He hadn’t even risked stealing one. The truth was St. Paul’s allowed visitors to enter its sacred portals without even passing through an X-ray machine, and to an expert like himself, it was low-hanging fruit. The cathedral staff didn’t have the space to run such a system, not when more than two million tourists flocked here every year into an area no larger than a quarter of a square mile. The great Christopher Wren couldn’t have imagined what was going to happen to his grand creation.
Bahar felt blessed. He would achieve immortality today. He would forever be known as the man who destroyed one of the sacred shrines of the English, and of Londoners in particular. It would enrage them, they would yammer and yell, certainly, but even more, it would scare them stupid. Ultimately, what could they do but change their ways, and he couldn’t imagine that. The English mouthed every platitude of inclusion, praised diversity and tolerance, like the bloody Americans, but in the end they were certain of their own superiority, and that superiority made them objective and ethical. Hypocrites, the lot of them.
He smiled, thinking of what was to come. He wanted to whistle, but couldn’t, not as he presented himself today. Their lovely wedding would begin soon in St. Paul’s. The Strategist had expected as many as five hundred bejeweled and well-dressed nobs would be inside to witness the Christian union of these two old prestigious families. Bahar joined a crowd of sixty-odd wedding guests as they queued at the church entrance, past dark-suited men he thought now were added security. The Brits had moved fast since the attempted bombing of St. Patrick’s in New York less than a week before. He imagined they’d added other security measures he didn’t know about, and couldn’t see. He would if he were in their shoes. What had they done? Sadly for them, it wouldn’t matter. He held up his invitation to the security guard, who merely nodded at him as he passed into the church.
He walked slowly, regally, as he’d practiced it, into the vast nave and down the aisle toward the magnificent altar. The couple would be joined there with great pomp beneath the magnificent dome, guests on three sides. The lovely dome would come down; the Strategist had calculated where to place the explosive to ensure it. Bahar split from the herd of guests to pay a visit to the chapels of St. Michael and St. George, blending in easily with a dozen other guests. He moved to the Wellington Monument and stood for a respectful thirty seconds before walking as stately as the queen toward the south transept. He stepped into the stairwell that led to the Whispering Gallery, the library, and the two hundred and seventy steps to the Dome. There were half a dozen people coming down the steps, another three waiting to go up, speaking, admiring. He’d been inside several times before, knew where the cameras were positioned. He dropped his ancient Chanel bag, shook his head at the two helpful gentlemen, and leaned down slowly and carefully to retrieve his belongings. He slid a packet of C-4 and its detonator beneath the stairs with his foot as he rose. He made two other stops before he moved back into the nave and turned toward the south transept, stopping beside the Nelson Monument. He leaned against it, looking at the rows of chairs being filled by wedding guests. He chanced to catch the eye of a pretty young woman with a young child sleeping in her arms. She looked all milk-and-white English, stylish in her pale blue dress. He saw a slash of dark hair on the babe. She was smiling at him, beckoning him to sit in the empty chair beside her.
He found himself smiling back. He checked his watch, not wanting to draw attention to himself as the remaining seats filled, and he would join her. He would say little, perhaps compliment her child and wish her a fond farewell when he left her in a few minutes. When he was clear of St. Paul’s he would set off the detonators and enjoy the earsplitting explosions and the chaos and the screams that would follow. A pity the Strategist wouldn’t see the falling stone, the crumbling edifice, but he would see the flames and black smoke shooting above the skyline.
The young woman leaned close. “Aren’t all the roses beautiful? I think the family must have emptied out all the florists’ shops in London. You’re a friend of the bride’s family?”
The bride’s family—the Colstraps, an ancient barony bestowed upon the family hundreds of years ago, later an earldom, still rich despite all the heavy taxes because they’d turned to banking and succeeded. He didn’t know them personally. It was enough for him to know who and what they were.