House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(4)
The nightmarish screams were growing louder. Isherwood dug his mobile phone from his pocket, dialed 999, and reported that St. Martin’s Theatre was under terrorist attack. Then he spun round and stared at the landmark restaurant he had just departed. Its well-heeled customers appeared oblivious to the carnage taking place a few paces away. Surely, he thought, the terrorists would not be content with a single massacre. The iconic Ivy would be their next stop.
Isherwood considered his options. Again he had two. He could make his escape or he could try to save as many lives as possible. The decision was the easiest of his life. As he staggered across the street, he heard an explosion from the direction of Charing Cross Road. Then another. Then a third. He was not a hero, he thought as he careened through the door of the Ivy, waving his arms like a madman, but he could act like one, if only for a moment or two. Perhaps Gabriel had been right. Perhaps it was not too late for him after all.
3
Vauxhall Cross, London
They were twelve in number, Arabs and Africans by ethnicity, Europeans by passport. All had spent time in the caliphate of ISIS—including a training camp, now destroyed, near the ancient Syrian city of Palmyra—and all had returned to Western Europe undetected. Later, it would be established they had received their orders via Telegram, the free cloud-based instant-messaging service utilizing end-to-end encryption. They were given only an address and the date and time they were to appear. They did not know that others had received similar instructions; they did not know they were part of a larger plot. Indeed, they did not know they were part of a plot at all.
They trickled into the United Kingdom one by one, by train and by ferry. Two or three had to undergo a bit of questioning at the border; the rest were welcomed with open arms. Four made their way to the town of Luton, four to Harlow, and four to Gravesend. At each address a British-based operative of the network was waiting. So, too, were their weapons—explosive vests, combat assault rifles. The vests each contained a kilogram of TATP, a highly volatile crystalline explosive manufactured from nail polish remover and hydrogen peroxide. The assault rifles were AK-47s of Belarusan manufacture.
The British-based operatives quickly briefed the attack cells on their targets and the objectives of the mission. They were not suicide bombers but suicide warriors. They were to kill as many infidels as possible with their assault rifles, and only when cornered by police were they to detonate their explosive vests. The goal of the operation was not the destruction of buildings or landmarks, it was blood. No distinction was to be made between man or woman, adult or child. They were to show no mercy.
In late afternoon—in Luton, in Harlow, and in Gravesend—the members of the three cells shared a final meal. Afterward, they ritually prepared their bodies for death. Finally, at seven that evening, they climbed into three identical white Ford Transit vans. The British-based operatives handled the driving, the suicide warriors sat in back, with their vests and their guns. None of the cells knew of the existence of the others, but all were headed toward the West End of London and were scheduled to strike at the same time. The clock was Saladin’s trademark. He believed that in terror, as in life, timing was everything.
The venerable Garrick Theatre had seen world wars, a cold war, a depression, and the abdication of a king. But never had it witnessed anything like what occurred at 8:20 that evening, when five ISIS terrorists burst into the theater and began firing into the crowd. More than a hundred would perish during the first thirty seconds of the assault, and another hundred would die in the terrible five minutes that followed, as the terrorists moved methodically through the theater, row by row, seat by seat. Some two hundred fortunate souls managed to escape through the side and rear exits, along with the entire cast of the production and the stagehands. Many would never work in the theater again.
The terrorists emerged from the Garrick seven minutes after entering it. Outside, they encountered two unarmed Metropolitan Police officers. After killing both, they headed to Irving Street and slaughtered their way from restaurant to restaurant, until finally, at the fringes of Leicester Square, they were confronted by a pair of Met special firearms officers. The officers were armed only with 9mm Glock 17 pistols. Even so, they managed to kill two of the terrorists before they were able to detonate their explosive vests. Two of the surviving terrorists set off their bombs in the lobby of the cavernous Odeon Cinema; the third, in a busy Italian restaurant. In all, nearly four hundred would perish in that portion of the attack alone, making it the deadliest in British history—worse, even, than the 1988 bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland.
But unfortunately the five-member cell was not acting alone. A second cell—the Luton cell, as it would become known—attacked the Prince Edward Theatre, also at twenty minutes past eight precisely, during a performance of Miss Saigon. The Prince Edward was far larger than the Garrick, 1,600 seats instead of 656, and so the death toll inside the theater was considerably higher. What’s more, all five of the terrorists detonated their suicide vests in bars and restaurants along Old Compton Street. More than five hundred lives were lost in the span of just six minutes.
The third target was St. Martin’s: five terrorists, twenty minutes past eight precisely. This time, however, a team of special firearms officers intervened. Later, it would be revealed that a passerby, a man identified only as a prominent London art dealer, had reported the attack to authorities seconds after the terrorists entered the theater. The same London art dealer had then helped to evacuate the dining room of the Ivy restaurant. As a result, only eighty-four would die in that portion of the attack. On any other night, in any other city, the number would have been unthinkable. Now it was a reason to give thanks. Saladin had struck terror into the heart of London. And London would never be the same.