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merely concealed a bank of SAD illumination units.
    A huge rectangular table filled most of the available floor space, the leather seats surrounding it occupied by ministers and civil servants from the Home and Foreign Offices and the MoD, together with the DSF (director of UKSF, United Kingdom Special Forces), and an assistant commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, who was in constant telephone contact with Woolf.
    Many of them had just walked to the fortified cellar beneath Whitehall. Sited between the Houses of Parliament and Trafalgar Square, COBRA was linked by corridor to Downing Street, the Foreign and Commonwealth Office and the Cabinet Office.
    The murmur of conversation was barely audible above the hum of the air-conditioning as they waited for the home secretary, chairing the meeting as usual, to finish consulting with the senior civil servant at her elbow and call them back to order. Her grey hair testified to her long experience, but herporcelain features and impeccable diction still led some people to make the mistake of underrating her. They were the same people who also mistook her kindness for weakness. It was a serious error. She was as tough as an old squaddie’s boot, with the language to match, and could be as ruthless with her subordinates as she was with her political adversaries. She was used to junior ministers jockeying for position and squabbling over their places at the table.
    ‘Shall we stop pissing about, then?’ she said at last, and though her voice was low, it cut through every other conver sation and focused attention on her. ‘Control will be handed over to the SAS for a hard arrest of Laszlo Antonov.’
    There was a series of nods and murmurs of assent. But Edward Clements, a career FCO man in his mid-fifties, wearing the civil servant’s uniform of pinstriped suit, crisp white shirt and tie – no hot colours or strong patterns, of course – raised his hand. ‘Let’s just take a deep breath here, shall we, Minister?’ His voice was as smooth and mellow as the malt whisky he liked to drink in his London club. ‘That suicide vest won’t be the only weapon Antonov has procured.’
    The home secretary gave him one of her steeliest glares. ‘Do I take it, then, that the Foreign Office has specific intelligence on that front?’
    Clements gave a brisk nod. ‘Yes, Home Secretary.’
    ‘So we should proceed with extreme caution.’
    He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t disagree more. There’s all the more reason to authorize immediate military action rather than a non-lethal arrest.’
    ‘If you want to achieve a bloodbath, perhaps,’ she said acidly. ‘The military and the police always tell us, “We can do it” – but why wouldn’t they? It’s money on their budgets, and a poke in the eye for their rivals in the Security Service and the SIS. But we can – and should – be rather more objective and measured in our response.
    ‘It’s very easy to be an armchair warrior, but which of you . . .’ she glanced around the room, making sure she still had everyone’s full attention ‘. . . is prepared to takeresponsibility for that decision? Which of you would be willing to shoulder the blame if it all goes pear-shaped?’ She gave the DSF a look that left him in no doubt that she spoke his language. There would be no bullshit getting past her .
    She glanced around the table once more. Most of the assembled officials and all of the politicians avoided her eye. ‘Precisely,’ she said. ‘Nobody. I’ll be the one in the firing line.’
    Clements leaned forward. ‘Be that as it may, Home Secretary . . .’ He cleared his throat and waited until everyone was listening. ‘Make no mistake. If he’s cornered, Antonov has the commitment – and the full intention – to use his weapons.’
    ‘Which is precisely why there’s a Red Notice on this animal.’ The home secretary gave him another glare. She had no time for civil-service theatrics.
    Laszlo Antonov had been