He had returned to Paddington Station just after 15.00 hours to pick up his rucksack from the left-luggage locker. His plan had been to travel to the West End by underground, but when he got to the Tube station he saw that it was being patrolled by armed police — the unmistakable signs of a city on high terrorist alert. He couldn't risk trying to get into the underground with a rucksack full of weaponry on his back — chances were that he'd be stopped and searched and all hell would break loose.
Instead he hailed a black cab, which took him to Covent Garden. It was early evening by the time he arrived in the West End. He approached Trafalgar Square from the north, down Charing Cross Road and into St Martin's Place, grateful for the swarming crowds into which it was possible to melt anonymously. Approaching from this direction meant that he didn't have to cross Trafalgar Square in order to reach his destination, an advantage because he couldn't be sure how early any surveillance would be set up and it was essential that he wasn't spotted.
There was building work in progress at the church of St Martin-in-the-Fields, which meant there was scaffolding outside it, all the way up to the clock tower. He hadn't counted on that, but it was going to help. The five-thirty evensong service was in progress and the church was nearly half full. As Will slipped inside, he hoped his casual clothes and rucksack made him look like an aimless tourist there to see the sights and for a good ten minutes he stood at the back of that impressive church, listening to the monotone voice of the priest intoning a sermon. It was nearly dark outside and the huge chandeliers cast a warm yellow glow over the heavy wooden pews, illuminating the intricate patterning of the ceiling.
Will wasn't interested in the church's decorative qualities, however, nor the priest's no doubt well-meaning message. He could pray to his God for peace to all men as much as he liked, but Will knew that sometimes peace came at a greater price. That price was war and just at the moment he felt like a one-man army fighting a battle with an enemy he could never defeat through strength alone. He continued to stand at the back, looking around. Anyone who saw him would think he was just taking in the surroundings, but in fact he was searching for something quite specific.
There were two ornate balconies along the length of each side of the church and at the altar end there was a door, which he presumed led up to them. As the service came to a close and the disparate congregation rose to their collective feet and started milling about the aisle, Will edged around the side of the pews and headed for the door that he hoped would take him upwards. He opened it confidently, as if he had every right to do so and, sure enough, behind it was a flight of stone steps. He hurried up them, two at a time.
He reached the top of the stairs and looked around. There was a door leading to the balcony, but a second flight of steps headed upwards. Will was just about to climb them when he heard a voice.
'May I help you?'
He turned round to see a black-robed priest smiling blandly at him.
Will blinked. 'I was just coming up to the balcony,' he replied, instinctively. 'I just wanted somewhere quiet to sit and—'
'Reflect?' the priest completed his sentence for him. He stepped to one side and indicated the balcony door. For the first time since he had put it on, Will felt the rucksack full of military equipment digging into his back. 'You should find it more peaceful up here than downstairs on the dance floor. 'The priest's smile grew broader at his own little joke.
'Thank you,' Will murmured. He stepped on to the balcony and took a seat at the end of the pew. He'd give it a couple of minutes before he made his way up the stairs again. He bowed his head in an expression of mock piety and waited.
Two minutes passed and when Will checked, the priest had left. He silently slipped up the stairs which wound upwards in a circular fashion. The sound of the congregation's hubbub down below faded away, as did the light. By the time Will had navigated his way up into the bell tower he was practically engulfed in darkness. And that suited him just fine.
The four sides of the bell tower were open to the elements and from this vantage point — beyond the scaffolding — Will had a reasonable view of Trafalgar Square and the crowds and traffic that thronged around it. But more importantly, he looked down on to the roof of the National Gallery. From here, he would be able to see everything he needed.
He glanced at his watch. Ten past six. Just under an hour until the meeting time. From his rucksack he removed the small NV binoculars he had taken from the stake-out and put them to his eye. A flick of the switch and the roof of the National Gallery was instantly illuminated in a dull green glow. He zoomed in closer and examined the area.
No one. Not yet.
Switching off the power, he sat down behind the wall of the bell tower. Out of sight, just where he needed to be.
Every fifteen minutes, he checked. He felt comfortable that no one would see him up here — they would be doing surveillance for a civilian on the ground. But at half past six there was still no one. At quarter to seven, no one. Will began to feel on edge. What if Ahmed had been stringing him a lie? What if Operation Firefight was no more than a creation of the Afghan's warped imagination?
Will looked at his watch. Five to seven. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then switched on his NV binoculars for another look over the rooftops.
He didn't see them at first, as they seemed somehow to blend into their surroundings. But after a few seconds of looking, a figure suddenly jumped out at him. He zoomed in closer. The man was wearing a helmet and some sort of flak jacket. But he wasn't carrying a gun, as Will might have expected. He was carrying a camera with a telescopic lens and it was pointed out towards Trafalgar Square.
And then, as soon as one of them had caught his eye, he saw the rest. There were maybe five or six in total — two of them with cameras, the others with sniper guns, trained and waiting, ready for anything suspicious.
It was all he needed to see. Confirmation. Now he could leave and implement the next part of his plan.
But then, curiosity got the better of him. He turned his binoculars away from the surveillance team on top of the National Gallery, aiming it instead towards the throng of Trafalgar Square. There were hundreds of people there, milling around, gazing up at Nelson's Column or sitting on the vast stone lions that kept guard. Hundreds of them. But at the foot of the enormous plinth, standing still and in clear view of the surveillance team, was a man. Will had to concentrate on steadying his hands so that he could get the figure in view and as he did so he zoomed in closely on his face.
Donald Priestley stood alone, his hands plunged firmly into his pockets to ward off the cold. Even at this distance Will could see that his jaw was set, his face grim. Every now and then his eyes would flicker upwards and it was clear to Will that the CIA man was aware of the surveillance team high above him.
Will switched off the binoculars and stowed them safely in his rucksack. For some reason the sight of Priestley had both shocked and exhilarated him. The CIA man had taken the bait; all he had to do now was reel him in. However, Priestley would be on high alert and it would take all of Will's powers of deception and persuasion to implement the next stage of his plan.
But I've got you running scared now, you bastard, he thought to himself as he hurried down the stairs to the main body of the church.