Two four-man assault teams stood in silence in a line along a dark corridor inside the exchange, the hoods of their bio-suits tied tightly around their gasmasks, their SMGs in gloved hands, not a spec of flesh visible.The first team leader stood at the slightly open door that led directly out on to the quay across from the Alpha Star, watching it, finalising his route to the boat now that he could actually see it. The third assault team was huddled near the fishing boats just south of the target.

Captain Singen watched from a window above the grain silo, the Squadron Sergeant Major beside him. The phone was perfect. London had given him the green light only a few minutes earlier and he was waiting for the best opportunity in the five or so minutes he allowed himself to choose a window to ‘go’. The best opportunity was defined by the greatest number of enemy that could be pinpointed at a given moment, preferably a visual pinpoint so that snipers could take them out of the game at the onset. Out of the eight probable targets on board - three in the bridge, Red on deck, Yellow One and Two below, Yellow Three possibly in the accommodation block or superstructure, and one below - only one target was visual and that was Red. The three on the bridge were fifty per cent visible, which was not ideal, but since the sniper knew where the phone was, now that it was ringing, all he had to do was sight it and wait for someone to walk over and answer it. That would give Singen a twenty-five per cent target lock, which was, for ship assaults, high.

The sniper watched a figure walk across the bridge and stop by the desk. ‘Phone picked up,’ said the directional mic operator. Had there been time MI5 would have provided a listening team to monitor the ship’s communications, giving Singen far more data on crew whereabouts. But the situation at present would do him just fine.

‘Standby . . . standby . . . Go!’ Singen said into his throat-mic.

The two teams snaked out of the door and moved from the building as if pieces of the brickwork had melted off and formed into stealthy black shadows. Team three moved briskly in file along the edge of the quay from the fishing boats.

Team one headed north of the corn escalator towards a large steel derrick on the edge of the quay that overlooked the boat. Team two headed for mid-ships. Team three went for the aft main deck. The sniper on the nearest fishing boat had Red in his sights.

As the first team broke darkness to be illuminated by the ship’s lights a bullet passed soundlessly through Red’s head. It entered his eye blowing out the back of his skull and he was dead before he hit the deck. The sniper hit him with another round just to make sure.

The sniper with the man on the phone in his sights did not fire immediately. He was waiting for team one to mount the exterior stairs and the leader to reach the bridge deck. If he took his shot too soon the other men in the bridge would be alerted and go for their weapons, giving them a chance of returning fire before the team could enter the bridge.

The three teams leapt on to the ship simultaneously and team one ran up the steps soundlessly in their high-adhesion footwear. The sniper kept one eye on the team leader and the other on the man talking on the phone. Team two’s leader paused by the main deck starboard entrance into the superstructure just long enough to look back and make sure his men were bunched behind him ready to go in, then he grabbed the edge of the partially-closed door, faced his partner, nodded once, and opened the door, rushing in at the half-crouch, gun-barrels pointed forward, taut against harnesses and levelled just below their faces. From that point on the team worked in pairs, clearing the main deck interior level before three men headed up to the next deck where they would clear no further and go secure, unless of course their support was requested.

As the third man in team one scaled the steps, he caught a glimpse through the small window in the external ‘B’ deck door of someone in a yellow coat at the far end of the corridor. ‘Target, “B” deck, port side, inside heading out,’ he said as he continued with his team to the bridge - he would not engage since he had his own job to do. That target belonged to someone else. As his team leader and the number two operative reached the starboard bridge wing something zipped over his head and slapped through the window of the bridge deck, making a single tiny hole in the toughened glass, and the man on the phone lost the front of his forehead. It took a moment for the rest of his body to get the message that he was in fact dead, and he dropped the handset a good second before his legs gave way. His two pals sitting in the corner of the bridge sipping tea saw him crash to the floor like a felled tree and got to their feet, but the reason for his collapse was not immediately apparent to them. By the time one of them caught sight of the dark figures closing in outside and went for his gun, bullets spat in through the windows and shredded him and his partner. As they hit the floor the starboard door slid open and the team issued in.

Team three ran across the aft deck to the rear door of the central superstructure that led down onto the lower deck and eventually into the engine room. As they approached the door they heard the short message describing the target on ‘B’ deck port side heading out. It was followed by another short message. ‘I confirm, Yellow Three on “B” deck starboard outside staircase.’ It was Spinks who could clearly see the target from where he was in the water.

The team leader moved to the port aft corner of the superstructure followed by his partner and they looked around it. The figure in the yellow jacket was coming down the steps.

He walked down the steps and paused at the bottom to decide which way around the superstructure to go. He didn’t want to bump into the red jacket. Hank took his SMG in his hands and turned back on the stairs to head aft. He hardly had time to blink when the figure in black that stepped out in front of him fired. It happened so fast his mind didn’t have time to register what had happened until the second bullet hit him like a hammer blow to the side of his head. The first struck him in the chest close to his left shoulder. He spun back, grabbed for the air as his balance went and his legs buckled. Something hit him in his side or he hit it and the world spun and turned upside down. A second later he plunged into the icy water. The shock served to realign some of his senses, but only barely. He had no idea what was up or down. His arms and legs flailed automatically but he had nothing to aim for. It was so black he could have been blind, and his head throbbed as if nails were being driven into it.

He rejoined his team with his partner by the open door where a ladder inside led directly to the deck below and they hurried down.

The team moved swiftly forward through a dark storeroom to a door. The leader squeezed his partner’s shoulder once, twice and on the third they hurried through the door followed by the others and spread out in a corridor, pausing long enough to compare it with the area they had studied endlessly on the blueprints. A flight of stairs led up to the main deck that team two was clearing. They ignored it and moved down the corridor, checking a door on the left first, an empty room, then pausing outside another on the right. The team leader opened the door quickly and moved in splitting left, his partner right. They paused, guns up on aim at a man on the floor with a hood over his head and tied around a pole. The other two team members carried on down the corridor to clear the engine room while the leader quickly scanned the room as he moved to the prisoner. His partner found another man in a yellow jacket lying under a tarp.

Two dull thuds came from the engine room bulkhead, silent bullets that had passed through the target inside to strike the wall. ‘Engine room clear,’ came a voice over the radio.

The team leader removed the prisoner’s hood and pulled his head back to get a look at the face. He then removed his own hood and gasmask. It was Lieutenant Stewart. He scrutinised the dead man in front of him. ‘This isn’t Hank Munro,’ he said.

The team on the bridge paused long enough to be certain nothing else was alive within their target area. Both side doors were open and the bridge decks were being covered. ‘Bridge clear,’ said the team leader into his throat-mic.

‘Main deck and “B” deck clear,’ came a voice over the air. ‘Engine room and lower deck clear,’ came another voice.

The team leader then noticed the bridge phone swinging by its cord over the edge of the table. He picked it up, pulled his hood back to expose his ear, and placed the phone against it. It was silent, and then after a moment, the line went dead.

Father Kinsella disconnected and wondered if he should try calling again, and then had a horrible feeling something had happened. Considering what he had just seen outside MI5 headquarters it was a distinct possibility. If something had gone wrong he wouldn’t be able to find out just yet. He had done all he could anyway. His best bet was to get back home. In fact leaving England as soon as he could was probably a wise decision, all things considered.

He looked around for a taxi without luck and decided to walk to Waterloo station where he would get one for sure.Things had not gone as he’d hoped or indeed expected. Not at all.

Stratton looked for the others in his team. Wilks was sitting shaking his head as if his ears were ringing and gave a thumbs-up to Chaz, who was walking over to check on his partner.

Aggy looked over at Lawton lying still on his back at the top of the steps and made her way to him. She knelt by him thinking he was dead until he took a sudden breath and opened his eyes, blinking hard. ‘Aggy?’ he asked, full of panic and fear, his voice dry and raspy.

‘I’m here,’ she said.

He moved a hand towards her and she took it.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she nodded, wishing she could say as much for him. Blood was seeping out from beneath him and pooling on the step. Her immediate thought was to get some aid or call for an ambulance but she decided to stay with him in case he didn’t have very long. Someone would be calling the emergency services by now anyway.

Stratton walked up the steps and loomed above them. Lawton focused on him and, surprisingly, appeared to smile.

‘Stratton,’ he croaked with difficulty. ‘Always . . . survive . . . don’t you? And . . . I bet . . . you’re . . . the only one of us . . . who doesn’t want to live for ever.’ He found his comment amusing but could barely manage a laugh before the pain cut it off.

Stratton hoped the man would die from his wounds very soon otherwise he’d have to end it for him, preferably before anyone arrived. He didn’t want to have to do it in front of Aggy. He’d heard the Mick had always been a good-humoured sort and now that he was all busted up and dying he wasn’t whingeing and whining but trying to be entertaining. If a man was likeable in his last moments before death, he was likeable in life. Aggy obviously liked him.That said something for the man.

Lawton looked at the gun in Stratton’s hand and seemed to know what Stratton had in mind. It wasn’t a surprise. ‘I don’t think there’ll be a need for that somehow,’ he said.

Aggy glanced at the gun then up at Stratton. Of course. How stupid of her. There was every reason for Lawton to die and not one for him to live. She looked at Lawton; he was probably right. At that moment she truly hated the business she was in.

Stratton wanted to tell them it didn’t matter anyway. According to Sumners the explosion wasn’t enough to kill the virus; they were all covered in it, inhaling it, and therefore also dead. He chose not to say anything if for no other reason than to save Lawton the anguish of knowing he had failed Aggy in his final hour. It was obvious that Lawton’s motivation for doing what he had was to save her.

Chaz and Wilks walked up the steps to join them. They didn’t look as if they’d sustained any damage, not physically, but Wilks’s eyes betrayed a deep concern.

‘We fucked then, are we?’ he asked Stratton. ‘Chaz said according to your bloke the explosion wouldn’t be enough to burn up the bio.’

So much for sparing Lawton. ‘I guess not,’ Stratton said.

‘’Ow long we got?’ Wilks asked.

‘Don’t matter,’ Chaz said. ‘We’re gonna have to stay right here until they come and take us away in big plastic bags and then keep us isolated until the end. Isn’t that right?’

‘Something like that,’ Stratton said.

Wilks lowered his eyes. The thought of never seeing his wife and kids again was like a knife in his heart.

‘Focking bang seemed big enough. Another pound and I reckon old matey there would’ve made the river,’ Chaz said, jutting a chin towards the road where Brennan lay, still smoking from his short flight. ‘If only you’d used two,’ he added.

Stratton found the comment curious. ‘What exactly did Sumners say?’ he asked.

‘He said it wouldn’t work, that the boffins said one Super “X” charge wouldn’t work, but two would be enough. If you’d put two in, it would’ve killed the virus.’

‘I used three,’ Stratton said matter of factly.

Wilks looked up at Stratton with an expression not unlike that of someone who’d just had an execution order reprieved. ‘You serious?’

Lawton started to spasm and choke. Aggy held his hand, frustrated that she was unable to do anything for him.

‘Kathryn,’ he said. ‘Kathryn . . . Munro.’

Lawton’s pain was increasing but he was determined to speak through it.

Stratton knelt beside him to hear him better.

‘Term . . . terminal . . . f . . . four,’ Lawton said. He gripped Aggy’s hand more strongly, as if he had more to say. ‘K . . . Kinsella . . . priest. Father . . . Kinsella.’ The effort was too great for him and he nearly fell unconscious. He gripped her tightly again, unfinished. ‘Godfather,’ he said with his last gasp of breath and his hand went limp in Aggy’s. She kept hold of it, gripping it. No matter what Bill had done, his last act had been generous; she owed her life to him. A tear rolled down her cheek but she kept her head down, hiding it from Stratton.

Stratton stood and put his gun back in its holster as several police cars arrived, their lights flashing. People began to step cautiously out of the MI5 building. Chaz turned to head down the steps towards the police.

‘Chaz,’ Stratton called after him. Chaz stopped and looked at him. ‘No mention of the virus.’

Chaz nodded and walked over to the police, holding his badge out to them.

Stratton started down the steps and stopped to look back at Aggy. ‘We have one more stop to make,’ he said.

She didn’t look at him. He took it as a message to go away. He understood. It was obvious she had felt a great deal for Lawton - and little for him. It wouldn’t have worked anyhow, he reminded himself again. But losing her to a dead spy was an irony. His eyes lingered on her a while, knowing it would be for the last time.

He turned and walked away.

‘Stratton,’ Aggy called out. He stopped and looked back to see her stand and walk down the steps towards him. ‘I was saying a prayer for him. Where are we going?’

He wanted to smile but it wouldn’t have been appropriate. He would never understand women. ‘You pray?’ he asked, sounding every bit as surprised as he was.

‘Not usually. It was for him. He said he used to pray until a priest put him off the church.’

Stratton removed the bus driver’s jacket as they walked over to a police car and he showed an officer his badge. ‘We need to get to Heathrow,’ he said.