In that instant, my plan switched to s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up the shoot and finding something to blame it on. I couldn't stop myself.

The snipers wouldn't know who else had a sight picture, and it wasn't as if we were all going to get together and have a debrief over coffee the next morning.

I'd take my chances with the Yes Man.

The boy moved back into the crowd, towards his dad. I could just about make out his shoulder through the crowd.

The three lights went out simultaneously. Then Two's came back on. This woman wasn't giving up on her target. I guessed she wasn't a mother after all.

Three seconds later it went out. Wrong or right, now was my time to act.

I pushed the send press el once with my thumb, keeping my eyes glued on the boy.

Then I pressed it again, and at the same time hit the detonation b.u.t.ton. The third time, I pushed just on the send press el The explosion the other side of the Thames was like a ma.s.sive, prolonged clap of thunder. I watched the boy and everyone around him react to the detonation instead of doing what I'd planned for him.

The shock-wave crossed the river and rattled my window. As I listened to its last rumblings reverberate around the streets of Whitehall, the screams of the tourists below me took over. I concentrated on the boy as his father bustled him towards the door.

As panic broke out on the terrace, the photographer was in a frenzy to get the shots that would pay off his mortgage. Then the Yes Man came into view and stood beside the PR women, who were helping people back inside. He had a concerned look on his face, which had nothing to do with the explosion and everything to do with seeing the target alive and being dragged to safety. The boy disappeared though the door and others followed, but the Yes Man still didn't help. Instead he looked up and across the river at me. It was weird. He didn't know exactly where I was in the building, but I felt as if he was looking straight into my eyes.

I was going to be in a world of s.h.i.t about this, and knew I had to have a really good story for him. But not today: it was time to head for Waterloo. My Eurostar left in an hour and five. The snipers would now be standing at their crossover point their exit door from a contaminated area to a decontaminated area peeling off their outer layers of clothing, throwing them into their sports bags, but leaving their gloves on until totally clear of the Portakabin. The weapons, binos and lunch-boxes remained in place, as did the hide.

With speed but not haste, I leant over to the window and opened it a fraction to retrieve the antennas. The clamour from people outside was now much louder than the explosion had been. There were shouts of fear and confusion from men, women and children at embankment level. Vehicles on the bridge had braked to a halt and pedestrians were rooted to the spot as the cloud of black smoke billowed over the rooftop of the MoD building.

I closed the window and left them to it, taking down the tripod for the binos and packing away all my gear as quickly as I could. I needed to get that train.

Once all the kit was back in the bag, including the shaving-foam cap, I put the dirty coffee mug, Wayne's World coaster and telephone back exactly where they'd been before I'd cleared the desktop to make room for the binos and lunch-box, using the Polaroid I'd taken as a reference. I checked the general area pictures I'd taken as soon as I broke in. Maybe the net curtain wasn't exactly as it should have been, or a chair had been moved a foot or so to the right. It wasn't superst.i.tion. Details like that are important. I'd known something as simple as a mouse mat out of place leading to an operator being compromised.

My brain started to bang against my skull. There was something strange about what I had seen outside. I hadn't been clever enough to notice, but my unconscious had. I had learnt the hard way that these feelings should never be ignored.

I looked back out of the window and it hit me in an instant. Instead of looking at the column of smoke to my right, the crowd's attention was on the hospital to my left. They were looking towards the sniper positions, listening to the dull thud of six or seven short, sharp, single shots ... There were more screams below the window, mixed with the wail of fast approaching police sirens.

I opened my window as far as it would go and pushed the net curtain aside, sticking out my head and looking left, towards the hospital. A fleet of police cars and vans with flashing lights had been abandoned along the embankment, just short of the sniper positions, their doors left open. At the same time I saw uniforms hastily organizing a cordon.

This was wrong. This was very, very wrong. The event I was witnessing had been planned and prepared for. The frenzy of police activity down there was far too organized to be a spur-of-the-moment reaction to an explosion a few minutes earlier.

We had been st.i.tched up.

Three more shots were fired, followed by a short pause, then another two. Then, from further along the riverbank, I heard the heavy thuds of a flash bang going off inside a building. They were hitting Number Three's position.

Adrenaline jolted through my body. It'd be my turn soon.

I slammed the window down. My mind raced. Apart from me, the only person who knew the exact sniper positions was the Yes Man, because he needed to position the target well enough for it to be identified. But he didn't know precisely where I was going to be, because I hadn't known myself. Technically, I didn't even have to have eyes on target, I just needed to have com ms with the snipers.

But he knew enough. Messing up the shoot was the least of my worries now.

FIVE.

Helicopters were now rattling overhead and police sirens were going ape s.h.i.t in the street as I closed the door gently behind me and moved out into the wide, brightly lit corridor.

My Timberlands squeaked on the highly polished stone floor as I headed towards the fire-exit door at the far end, maybe sixty metres away, forcing myself not to quicken my pace. I had to stay in control. I couldn't afford to make any more mistakes. There might be a time to run, but it wasn't yet.

There was a turning to the right about twenty metres further down, which led to the stairwell that would take me to the ground floor. I reached it, turned and froze. Between me and the stairwell was a wall of two-metre-high black ballistic shields. Behind them were maybe a dozen police in full black a.s.sault gear, weapon barrels pointing out at me through the gaps in the shields, blue a.s.sault helmets and visors glinting in the strip-lighting.

"STAND STILL! STAND STILL!".

It was time to run like the wind. I squeaked on my heels and lunged the couple of paces back into the main corridor, heading for the fire exit, just willing myself to hit that crossbar to freedom.

As I zeroed in on the exit door, the corridor ahead filled with more black shields and the noise of boots on stone. They held the line like Roman centurions. The last couple emerged from the offices on either side, their weapons pointing at me at far too close a range for my liking.

"STAND STILL! STAND STILL NOW!".

Coming to a halt, I dropped the bag to the floor and put my hands in the air.

"Not armed!" I yelled. 'I'm weapons free! Weapons free!"

There are times when it's an advantage just to admit to yourself that you're in the s.h.i.t, and this was one of them. I just hoped these were real police. If I wasn't a threat, then in theory they shouldn't drop me.

I hoped, too, that my black cotton bomber jacket had ridden up enough to show them there wasn't a pistol attached to my belt or tucked into my jeans.

"Not armed," I yelled.

"Weapons free!"

Orders were screamed at me. I wasn't too sure what it was all too loud and too close, a confusion of echoes along the hallway.

I pivoted slowly so they could see my back and check for themselves that I wasn't lying. As I faced the corridor junction, I heard more boots thundering towards me from the stairwell corridor, closing the trap.

A shield moved out of the corner then slammed into position on the floor at the corridor junction. A muzzle of an MP5 came round the side of it, and I could see a sliver of the user's face as he took aim on me.

"Weapons free!" My voice was almost a scream.

"I'm weapons free!"

Keeping my hands in the air I stared at the single, unblinking eye behind the weapon. He was a left-handed firer, taking advantage of the left side of the shield for cover, and the eye didn't move from my chest.

I looked down as a red laser spot the size of a shirt b.u.t.ton splashed on it dead centre. It wasn't moving either. f.u.c.k knew how many splashes there were on my back from the fire-exit crew.

Frenzied shouts finished bouncing off the walls as a loud, estuary-English voice took command and shouted orders that I could now understand.

"Stand still! Stand still! Keep your -hands up ... keep them up!"

No more turning, I did what he wanted.

"Down on your knees! Get down on your knees. Now!"

Keeping my hands up, I lowered myself slowly, no longer trying for any eye contact, just looking down. The left-handed firer in front of me followed my every move with the laser splash.

The voice shouted more orders from behind.

"Lie down, with your arms spread out to your side. Do it now."

I did as I was told. There was total, scary silence. The cold of the stone floor seeped through my clothes. Minute pinp.r.i.c.ks of grit pressed into my right cheek as I snorted up a lungful of freshly laid wax.

I found myself staring at the bottom of one of the stairwell group's ballistic shields. It was dirty with age and chipped on the corners, so that the layers of Kevlar that gave protection from even heavy-calibre ammunition were peeling back like the pages of a well-thumbed book.

The silence was broken by the shuffle and squeak of rubber-soled boots approaching me from behind. My only thought was how lucky I was to be arrested.

The boots arrived at their destination, and heavy breathing from their owners filled the air around me. One old black creased-leather size ten landed by my face and my hands were gripped and pulled up in front of me. I felt the cold, hard metal bite into my wrists as the handcuffs were ratcheted tight. I just let them get on with it; the more I struggled the more pain I would have to put up with. The handcuffs were the newer style, police issue: instead of a chain between them they had a solid metal s.p.a.cer. Once these things are on, just one tap against the s.p.a.cer with a baton is enough to have you screaming in agony as the metal gives the good news to your wrist bones.

I was in enough pain already as one man pulled at the cuffs to keep my arms straight, and someone else's knee was forced down between my shoulder blades. My nose got banged against the floor, making my eyes water, and all the oxygen was forced out of my lungs.

A pair of hands, their owner's boots each side of me now that he'd removed his knee from my back, were making their way over my body. My wallet, containing my Eurostar ticket and my Nick Somerhurst pa.s.sport, was taken from the inside pocket of my bomber jacket.

I felt suddenly naked.

I turned my head, trying to get as comfortable as possible during the once-over, and rested my face on the cold stone. Through blurred vision I made out three pairs of jeans emerging from behind the shield at the junction and heading my way. One pair of jeans moved out of vision as they pa.s.sed me by, but the other two moved in close: a set of trainers and a pair of light tan boots, their Caterpillar label now just inches from my nose.

I started to feel more depressed than worried about what was coming next. Men in jeans just don't ponce about during an armed arrest.

Behind me I heard the zip of my holdall being pulled back and the contents given a quick once-over. At the same time I felt my Leatherman being pulled out from its pouch.

There was still no talking as hands ran down my legs to check for concealed weapons. My face acted like a cushion for my cheekbone as I was hauled around like a sack of spuds.

Hands forced themselves around the front of my stomach and into my waistband, then extracted the three or four pounds' worth of change in my jeans.

The same set of hands went under each armpit and hauled me up on to my knees, to the accompaniment of laboured grunts and the squeak of leather belt-kit. My cuff-holder let go and my hands dropped down by my knees as if I was begging.

The cold stone floor was hurting my knees, but I forgot about them instantly when I saw the face of the man wearing the Cats.

His hair wasn't looking so neat today: the Sundance Kid had been running about a bit. Above his jeans he was wearing a green bomber jacket and heavy blue body armour with a protective ceramic plate tucked into the pouch over his chest. He was taking no chances with me today.

There wasn't the slightest trace of emotion in his face as he stared down at me, probably trying to hide from the others that his part of the job hadn't gone too well. I was still alive; he hadn't been able to make entry into the office with the help of his new mates here and claim self-defence as he shot me.

My doc.u.ments were handed to him and they went into his back pocket. He played with the coins in his cupped palms, c.h.i.n.king as they poured from one to the other. Sundance and his mate, Trainers, were joined by the third pair of jeans, who had my bag over his right shoulder. I kept my eyes down at calf level now, not wishing to provoke him. It was pointless appealing to the uniforms for help. They'd have heard it all before from drunks claiming to be Jesus and people like me ranting that they'd been st.i.tched.

Sundance spoke for the first time.

"Good result, Sarge." His thick Glasgow accent was directed to someone behind me, before he turned away with the other two. I watched them walk towards the stairwell, to the sound of Velcro being ripped apart as they started to peel off their body armour.

As they disappeared past the corridor junction I was dragged up on to my feet by two policemen. With their strong grip under each of my armpits, I followed them towards the stairs. We pa.s.sed the shields at the corridor junction, as the armed teams started to break ranks, and made our way down the stone stairs. Sundance and the boys were about two floors below. I kept catching glimpses of them as they turned on the stone and iron-railed landings, and wondered why I hadn't been blindfolded. Maybe it was to make sure I didn't trip on the stairs. No, it would be because they didn't care if I saw their faces. I wasn't going to live long enough to see them again.

We exited the building via the gla.s.s and metal-framed doors I'd made entry through earlier. At once the noise of boots on the stairs and the policemen's laboured breathing from the effort of hauling me about was drowned out by the confusion on the street. Sweat-stained, white-shirted police officers were running about, their radios crackling, yelling at pedestrians to follow their directions and clear the area. Sirens blared. A helicopter chopped the air loudly overhead.

We were on the private entry road to the Marriott Hotel, part of the County Hall building. To my left was its turning circle, bordered by a smart decorative hedge. Police were preventing guests from coming out of the main entrance as they tried to see what was happening or to run away, I wasn't sure which.

In front of me, at the kerb side was a white Mercedes estate, engine running, all doors open. One of the pairs of jeans was in the driver's seat ready to go. As a hand pushed down on top of my head and I was quickly bundled into the back, my feet connected with something in the foot well It was my holdall, still unzipped.

The guy with the trainers sat on my left and attached one end of a pair of handcuffs to the D ring of the centre set of seat-belts. He then flicked the free end around the pair that gripped my wrists. I wasn't going anywhere until these boys were good and ready.

Sundance appeared on the pavement and said his goodbyes to the uniforms. Thanks again, lads."

I kept trying to make eye contact with the guys who had dragged me down here, who were now standing by the entrance to the office block. Sundance got into the front pa.s.senger seat and closed his door, obviously aware of what I was doing.

He bent down into his foot well That isn't going to help you, boy." Retrieving a blue light from the floor and slapping it on to the dashboard, he plugged the lead into the cigarette-lighter socket. The light started flashing as the car moved off.

We came out of the hotel's approach road and on to the main drag at the south end of the bridge, directly opposite the hospital buildings. The road was cordoned off and surrounded by every police vehicle in the Greater London area.

The windows of the hospital were crammed with patients and nurses trying to get a grandstand view of the commotion.

We wove around the obstacles in the road and through the cordon. Once over the large roundabout, we pa.s.sed under the Eurostar track a hundred metres further down. I could see the slick, aerodynamic trains waiting in the gla.s.s terminal above me, and felt sick that one of them should be leaving soon without me on it.

Sundance removed the flashing light from the dashboard. We were heading south towards the Elephant and Castle and, no doubt, into a world of s.h.i.t.

I looked at Sundance's face in the wing mirror. He didn't return eye contact or acknowledge me in any way. Behind the stony face he was probably working out what he had to do next.

So was I, and started to work on him straight away. This isn't going to work.

I've got on tape the orders you drove for and I-' There was an explosion of pain as Trainers put all his force behind his elbow and rammed it into my thigh, dead legging me.

Sundance turned in his seat.

"Don't wind me up, boy."

I took a deep, deep breath and kept going for it.

"I've got proof of everything that's happened. Everything."

He didn't even bother to look round this time.

"Shut it."

Trainers' hand chopped down on the s.p.a.cer bar between the cuffs. The metal jarred agonizingly on my wrists, but I knew it was nothing compared with what would happen if I didn't buy myself some time.

"Look!" I gasped, 'it's me st.i.tched today, it could be you lot next. No one gives a f.u.c.k about people like us. That's why I keep records. For my own security."

We were approaching the Elephant and Castle roundabout, pa.s.sing the pink shopping centre. I nodded to give Trainers the message that I was going to shut up. I wasn't a fool, I knew when to shut up or talk. I wanted to make the little I knew go a long way. I wanted them to feel I was confident and secure, and that they would be making a big mistake if they didn't pay attention. I just hoped it wasn't me making the mistake.

I looked in the mirror again. It was impossible to tell whether this was having any effect on Sundance. I was just feeling that maybe I should get in another instalment when he sparked up.

"What do you know, then, boy?"

I shrugged.