Scorpia

have stopped in the middle of nowhere. Powerful spotlights had been trained on it, as if pinning it down. There was no tunnel connecting the door with the terminal. A vehicle edged slowly forward, bringing with it a flight of steps. Armed soldiers in khaki uniforms with helmets and visors crept along beside it. Whatever window the passengers looked out of, they could see armed forces totally surrounding the plane.
    The captain spoke again, his voice deliberately calm and matter-of-fact.
    “Well, ladies and gentlemen, it seems we have a situation here at Heathrow, but the control tower assures me that it’s all routine … there’s nothing to worry about. We’re going to be opening the main door in a moment, but I must ask you to remain in your seats until you’re given instructions to leave. We’re going to be disembarking our passengers in business class first, starting with those in rows seven to nine. The rest of you will be allowed to leave very shortly. Please can I ask for your patience for just a few minutes more.”
    Rows seven to nine. The captain had already been told. These were the rows occupied by the football squad.
    None of the players had been informed of what was happening.
    There were four minutes left.
    The players stood up and began to collect their hand luggage, a variety of sports bags and souvenirs: brightly coloured clothes and wooden carvings. They were glad they had been chosen to leave first. Some of them were thinking that it was all quite fun.

    The steps connected with the side of the plane and Blunt watched as a man in orange overalls ran up to stand next to the door. The man looked like an airport technician but in fact he worked for MI6. A dozen soldiers sprinted forward and formed a circle around the steps, their guns pointing outwards so that they resembled a human porcupine. Every angle was covered. The nearest building was more than fifty metres away.
    At the same time, a bus appeared. The bus was one of two kept at Heathrow for exceptional circumstances such as this. It looked ordinary but its shell was made of reinforced steel and its windows were bulletproof. Blunt had been in charge of all these preparations, working with the police and airport authorities. As soon as all the players were on board, it would leave the airport, not bothering with customs or passport control. Fast cars were waiting on the other side of the perimeter fence. The players, two or three in each, would be whisked to a secret location in London. By then they would be safe.
    Or so everyone hoped. Blunt alone was less sure.
    “There’s nothing,” Sir Graham murmured. “There’s nobody even close.”
    It was true. The area surrounding the plane was empty. There were maybe fifty soldiers and policemen in view.
    But nobody else.
    “Scorpia will have been expecting this.”
    “Maybe one of the soldiers…” Sir Graham hadn’t thought of this until now—when it was too late.
    “They’ve all been checked,” Blunt said. “I went through the list personally.”
    “Then for heaven’s sake—”
    The door of the plane opened.
    A stewardess appeared at the top of the steps, blinking nervously in the glare of the spotlights. Only now could she fully appreciate how serious the situation must be. It was as if the plane had landed in a battlefield. It was totally surrounded. There were men with guns everywhere.
    The MI6 agent in the orange overalls spoke briefly with her and she went back inside. Then the first of the players appeared, a sports bag slung over his shoulder.
    “That’s Hill-Smith,” Sir Graham said. “He’s the team captain.”
    Blunt looked at his watch. It was fourteen minutes past seven.
    Edmund Hill-Smith was dark-haired, a well-built man. He looked around him, obviously puzzled. He was followed by the other squad members. A black player in sunglasses. His name was Jackson Burke; he was the goalie. Then one of the strikers, a man with blond hair. He was holding a straw hat, something he must have bought in a Nigerian market. One by one they appeared in the doorway and began to walk down the stairs to the waiting bus.
    Blunt said nothing. A tiny pulse was beating in his temple. All eighteen men were out in the open now. Sir Graham looked left and right. Where was the attack going to come from? There was nothing anybody could do.
    Hill-Smith and Burke had already reached the bus. They were safely inside.
    Blunt twisted his wrist. The seconds hand on his watch passed the