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his gum noisily as he waited for Bradshaw to reply.
    Bradshaw smiled. ‘We scared them, brother,’ he said. ‘We made their hearts beat a little faster, but that is all. Do you think the brothers who died on July the seventh achieved anything other than their own glorious deaths? Do the dogs stay off the Tube? No. It’s as if it never happened.’
    Kundi blew a plume of smoke, taking care to keep it away from the others. ‘So, what do you want to do, brother?’ he asked. ‘Do we join the ranks of the shahid ? Do we give our lives for jihad and take our places in Heaven?’
    Bradshaw snorted. ‘We’re in this world to fight for Islam, not to die for it,’ he said. ‘A suicide-bomber makes his point just once, like a comet burning up in the night sky. A true fighter burns for years. That’s what we are, brothers. We’re true fighters for Islam.’
    ‘So I ask you again, brother, what is it you want us to do?’ said al-Sayed.
    Bradshaw stretched out his long legs and looked up at the cloudless blue sky. In the sky to the north three airliners were making their approach to Heathrow airport in the west. A fourth plane was just visible as a small dot. They were two miles apart, descending on the flight path to the airport, one of the world’s busiest. The nearest were close enough for Bradshaw to see the markings on their tails. The second was a Boeing 747, with the red, white and blue stripes of British Airways, the country’s flag-carrier. Bradshaw pointed up at the plane and his four companions followed his gaze. ‘That is what we do, my brothers. That is how we strike terror into their hearts.’
    Dan Shepherd caught a westbound Circle Line train at Paddington, got off at Bayswater, crossed to the eastbound platform and waited ten minutes before boarding another back to Paddington. He had no reason to think he was being followed but checking for tails had become second nature, especially when he was on his way to visit Charlotte Button. She was the head of SOCA’s undercover unit and had been his boss for two years.
    He bought a Starbucks coffee at the station and a cup of English Breakfast tea. The road leading to the station concourse was packed with commuters having a last cigarette before their journey home, and he threaded his way through them, trying not to breathe in their smoke. The address she had given him was a flat above a travel agent in Praed Street, not far away. There were eight buttons on a panel by the entrance and he pressed number five. He grinned up at the CCTV camera covering the door and the lock clicked open. There was a small hallway, a stack of junk mail and a notice stuck to the wall saying that Rentokil would be around to deal with a rodent infestation next week. As Shepherd climbed the stairs, he heard a door open above him. Button was on the landing, wearing a dark blue blazer over faded jeans. ‘You are a sweetie,’ she said, taking the cup from him and sniffing it.
    ‘Anything but Earl Grey. I know,’ he said.
    She led him into a small flat. There was a black vinyl sofa under the window, which overlooked the street, a circular table with three chairs, a small kitchen area, with a sink, a microwave and a fridge, and a door that led to a small bedroom. Shepherd saw a single bed with the duvet turned down as he went to the table. ‘This is a new one on me,’ he said, handing her the tea.
    ‘It’s a hop, skip and jump from Paddington Green, and I’ve got a briefing there later with Special Branch,’ she said. Paddington Green was the high-security police station on Edgware Road, possibly the most secure police station in the UK outside Northern Ireland. It was where most terrorist suspects were questioned before they were transferred to Belmarsh Prison.
    ‘Anything interesting?’
    Button sipped her tea. ‘It’s always interesting with Special Branch,’ she said. ‘They want to talk about penetrating some Muslim cells in the Midlands.’
    ‘Using SOCA? I didn’t