He smiled, thinking of what was to come. He wanted to whistle, but couldn’t, not as he presented himself today. Their lovely wedding would begin soon in St. Paul’s. The Strategist had expected as many as five hundred bejeweled and well-dressed nobs would be inside to witness the Christian union of these two old prestigious families. Bahar joined a crowd of sixty-odd wedding guests as they queued at the church entrance, past dark-suited men he thought now were added security. The Brits had moved fast since the attempted bombing of St. Patrick’s in New York less than a week before. He imagined they’d added other security measures he didn’t know about, and couldn’t see. He would if he were in their shoes. What had they done? Sadly for them, it wouldn’t matter. He held up his invitation to the security guard, who merely nodded at him as he passed into the church.

He walked slowly, regally, as he’d practiced it, into the vast nave and down the aisle toward the magnificent altar. The couple would be joined there with great pomp beneath the magnificent dome, guests on three sides. The lovely dome would come down; the Strategist had calculated where to place the explosive to ensure it. Bahar split from the herd of guests to pay a visit to the chapels of St. Michael and St. George, blending in easily with a dozen other guests. He moved to the Wellington Monument and stood for a respectful thirty seconds before walking as stately as the queen toward the south transept. He stepped into the stairwell that led to the Whispering Gallery, the library, and the two hundred and seventy steps to the Dome. There were half a dozen people coming down the steps, another three waiting to go up, speaking, admiring. He’d been inside several times before, knew where the cameras were positioned. He dropped his ancient Chanel bag, shook his head at the two helpful gentlemen, and leaned down slowly and carefully to retrieve his belongings. He slid a packet of C-4 and its detonator beneath the stairs with his foot as he rose. He made two other stops before he moved back into the nave and turned toward the south transept, stopping beside the Nelson Monument. He leaned against it, looking at the rows of chairs being filled by wedding guests. He chanced to catch the eye of a pretty young woman with a young child sleeping in her arms. She looked all milk-and-white English, stylish in her pale blue dress. He saw a slash of dark hair on the babe. She was smiling at him, beckoning him to sit in the empty chair beside her.

He found himself smiling back. He checked his watch, not wanting to draw attention to himself as the remaining seats filled, and he would join her. He would say little, perhaps compliment her child and wish her a fond farewell when he left her in a few minutes. When he was clear of St. Paul’s he would set off the detonators and enjoy the earsplitting explosions and the chaos and the screams that would follow. A pity the Strategist wouldn’t see the falling stone, the crumbling edifice, but he would see the flames and black smoke shooting above the skyline.

The young woman leaned close. “Aren’t all the roses beautiful? I think the family must have emptied out all the florists’ shops in London. You’re a friend of the bride’s family?”

The bride’s family—the Colstraps, an ancient barony bestowed upon the family hundreds of years ago, later an earldom, still rich despite all the heavy taxes because they’d turned to banking and succeeded. He didn’t know them personally. It was enough for him to know who and what they were.

He nodded and smiled at the young mother. She was pretty, a pity that in another twelve minutes she and the babe would be dead. From the blasts, or crushed beneath the tons of falling cement, flying glass from the smashed dome. All the cascading white roses wouldn’t be very pretty then.

Mary Ann Eiserly was tired. Ceci hadn’t slept more than three hours the night before, napped for only an hour this morning. She was thankful that now was the time she’d picked to pass out. It meant Mary Ann wouldn’t have to worry about her fussing in the middle of Ellie and Ryan’s exchange of vows. Yes, Ceci was down for the count. She lightly kissed her child’s head. Poor John was in worse shape, what with the terrorist red alert at MI5. She hadn’t seen him in twelve hours. She smiled again at the proud old woman beside her, who smiled back but remained silent. Her clothes were antiques, at least fifteen years out of date, but they were designer and expensive. Mary Ann saw the old lady had an odd profile, a pronounced hawk nose, not uncommon, she supposed, among the old aristocracy, and she was wearing a heavy layer of powder. There was something off with this old matriarch, but in truth, Mary Ann was too tired to care. She would ask Ellie who the old lady was when she returned from her honeymoon on Crete—if she remembered, that is. She felt brain-dead at the moment from lack of sleep. She would witness Ellie take her vows to a man Mary Ann wasn’t especially fond of, a gambler, she’d heard, then she’d haul Ceci home and pray John would drag himself in before midnight. She looked at her watch, wished they would get on with it. She wanted nothing more than to curl up next to her daughter and sleep the sleep of the dead.