As though impatient, the horse scraped its burnished hoof on the cobbles. Its immaculate white plumes quivered, the gleaming brasses jingled, the leather strained and creaked. Its partner and equal in the harnesses had just produced a steaming pile of manure, the rich scent of which wafted up to the nostrils of the coachman and his young assistant, Marcie. Oh, that’s just great, she thought.
Neville gave her one of his ‘You’re-the-apprentice; see-to-it’ looks. She unwrapped the blanket from her legs and folded it neatly before climbing down.
This was her first wedding and her job was (apart from shovelling manure on any and all occasions) to hold the door open for the bride and either her father or her new husband. It made a change from funerals, when her job was to walk, mute and slow, in front of the horses. She hoped one day that she would be the coachman, but the training was long and Neville was reluctant to let go of the reins. He was not convinced that it was a job for a woman, much less a slip of a girl like Marcie. Waiting in the shade of the lime trees, with a keen breeze whistling through the churchyard, she had been glad of the rug across her knees, her gloves and the thick, high-buttoned coaching jacket. Reflecting that the breeze would play havoc with the bride's long, almost floor-length veil as well as the ladies' hats and that the confetti throwers would have to stand well upwind in order to reach their target, she bent to reach under the coach for the broom and shovel.
Three middle-aged men and two young women strolled through the lych-gate and around to the huge wooden door at the base of the tower. The bell ringers, thought Marcie. Another fifteen or so minutes and this part of the show's almost over.
Having cleared the dung and stowed the broom and shovel, she used her phone to check that her hair was tucked up and that her hat was on straight; it was likely that she would appear in some of the photos and she wanted to look her best. After all, it was a wedding. From its place under the coach, she took the extra step, and then unfolded the double steps up into the carriage. She checked the door, keeping a firm grip on the handle in case the wind caught it, then tidied it all away before the carriage moved into position for the photos and the trip back to the reception at Nether Grillinge Manor.
And then, there they all were, spilling out of the church, smiling and laughing and hugging and cheek kissing. Marcie was spot on about the veil and the hats but no one seemed bothered; after all, it was a wedding. New frocks and hats and those absurd fascinators on their first and, perhaps only, outings; uncomfortable high heels struggling with soft turf; freshly shaved heads catching the late spring sun and small, well-scrubbed children on the move or straining at the leash. Hired morning suits stood out amongst the crisp, smart lounge suits. Cameras and smartphones jockeyed for position as the happy couple circulated, the veil enveloping either or both of them. The official photographer was setting up his kit in front of the tower doors, a little out of the breeze.
Marcie had moved to the other side of the coach to check the door, so she heard the scream but she didn't see the large red patch appear on the veil as it flapped across the groom's chest. She didn't see him flipped backwards off the path or the bride kneeling over her husband, desperately tugging at the tangled veil. She didn't see the bride's young cousin, Alfie, bleeding out against the porch wall. In fact, she saw nothing of the carnage outside the church porch because, from his high seat, Neville shouted, "Marcie! Get in and stay down!"
Marcie had been brought up to do as she was told. She was smart enough to realise that something was wrong so she did as she was told. Above the peeling of the bells and the coach clattering over the cobbles, she could hear more screaming. She risked a quick look through the small rear window and could see wedding guests running, hiding, crouching, standing still and screaming. Then, as Neville steered the coach out of the churchyard, down the narrow lane to the village green, she saw nothing more. This was no longer a wedding!
The Reverend Rosie Nicholson who, in an earlier life had served as a frontline medic in Helmand province as Lieutenant Nicholson, rapidly assessed the situation and grabbed two nearby children, flinging them bodily into the safety of the church. The bullet that had killed the bridegroom had also ripped open Alfie's neck. One look told Rosie he was beyond help as was Dragan, despite his widow's pleadings. She'd estimated the direction of fire and, competing with the bells, shouted, "Get down behind the wall - over there!" pointing to the brick wall surrounding the churchyard. "Get under cover!"
As she sprinted towards the tangled and bloody mess that had been the happy couple, her right leg crumpled agonisingly beneath her. She was the second recipient of the bullet that blew apart the head of Vasiliji, the best man.
"Sara! Lose the bloody veil and get under cover!" There was no time to appreciate the irony.
Sara looked up towards Rosie as she dragged herself into the relative safety of the wall. She looked around and saw Alfie and Vasiliji. Looking down at herself, she saw her blood-covered hands and wedding dress and started screaming again. Two pairs of hands - her sister, Flora and partner, Henry - were gripping her arms and dragging her backwards towards the church and safety. As she tied a makeshift bandage around the flesh wound in her leg, Rosie thought, that really was some heavy-duty ordnance! He was taking no chances.
Oblivious to the events in the churchyard below, the bell ringers continued their peal. The photographer, ignoring the risk, was snapping furiously at the chaos. People were stirring in their hiding places.
"Stay down!" Rosie ordered. They stayed down. She recognised the work of a sniper and reckoned the job was done, but there was no point in taking chances. The exception was Nicco, Dragan and Vasiliji’s cousin, who was kneeling, weeping beside the lifeless bridegroom. You can take the girl out of the army but you can't take the army out of the girl, her father, Colonel Nicholson would later proudly say, knowing it to be a hackneyed cliché.
Neville steered the coach around the perimeter of the green then out through the village, past the schools, the college and the ubiquitous social housing estate towards the country hotel and spa that had been the old manor house. Like the old vicarage and its smart, new apartments, it had also been given a new lease of life, particularly as the wedding industry had taken off over the last few decades. The lorry for the horses and the trailer for the coach were parked around the back.
Nev couldn't get there quick enough. It took all his strength and willpower to control the rising panic gripping him, not to mention the two horses that were not used to any sort of speed. He had seen more than his fair share of shooting and death on peacekeeping duties in Africa and the Balkans. The events in the churchyard brought back the agony and helplessness at the hands of a sniper he’d suffered serving with the UN. In Bosnia, Serbian snipers hadn’t been fussy about their blue helmets. With blast compensators fitted to their weapons, it was almost impossible to tell where the shots were coming from.
Back at the church, he’d seen Dragan flip backwards and then the lad fall against the porch wall. Like the vicar, he’d worked out the rough direction but unlike her, he wanted to be as far away as quickly as possible. He’d seen her fling the kids into the church and run towards the bride and groom. Concentrating on getting himself, Marcie and the horses to safety, he hadn’t seen the results of the second shot.
***
Van der Pol considered it a good day’s work. By the time the local police arrived followed by the armed response boys and girls and, after them, no doubt, the spooks, he’d be on his boat and on his way back to Rotterdam and the European inland waterways where he lived. And there would €250,000 in his bank account in Gibraltar. Eventually, the spooks would trace the job back to this apartment on the second floor of the old vicarage and would there draw a blank. The retired couple who owned the flat would be found dead in their bed where they were sleeping when he shot them in the early hours. Because of his scrupulous preparations and attention to detail, there would be none of his DNA or fingerprints to be found.
On the burner phone, he sent the coded text to his clients that would activate payment before tossing it onto the front seat of the old Citroen van he’d picked up from the wreckers yard in Barking the day before. A lighted match followed it. By the time he was in his hire car and away, the kerosene-soaked wreck parked along the farm track was well alight, along with the phone and the protective gear he’d worn. He dropped the car in London, and public transport got him back to the small town marina on the east coast where his cruiser was moored. An excellent fish supper at the Queen’s Head and an early night left him ready for the tide at 0400.
***
The huge explosion and destruction in the marina headlined all the early news bulletins and some of the late print editions. At various locations around the world, five similar events took place.
The three men watching the news feeds in the study of the president’s dacha outside Sochi looked at each other, nodding in satisfaction.
“Thank you, Don Carlo,” said the Russian.
“No more loose ends,” said the American.
“None. A pleasure doing business with you,” said the Don.
Neville gave her one of his ‘You’re-the-apprentice; see-to-it’ looks. She unwrapped the blanket from her legs and folded it neatly before climbing down.
This was her first wedding and her job was (apart from shovelling manure on any and all occasions) to hold the door open for the bride and either her father or her new husband. It made a change from funerals, when her job was to walk, mute and slow, in front of the horses. She hoped one day that she would be the coachman, but the training was long and Neville was reluctant to let go of the reins. He was not convinced that it was a job for a woman, much less a slip of a girl like Marcie. Waiting in the shade of the lime trees, with a keen breeze whistling through the churchyard, she had been glad of the rug across her knees, her gloves and the thick, high-buttoned coaching jacket. Reflecting that the breeze would play havoc with the bride's long, almost floor-length veil as well as the ladies' hats and that the confetti throwers would have to stand well upwind in order to reach their target, she bent to reach under the coach for the broom and shovel.
Three middle-aged men and two young women strolled through the lych-gate and around to the huge wooden door at the base of the tower. The bell ringers, thought Marcie. Another fifteen or so minutes and this part of the show's almost over.
Having cleared the dung and stowed the broom and shovel, she used her phone to check that her hair was tucked up and that her hat was on straight; it was likely that she would appear in some of the photos and she wanted to look her best. After all, it was a wedding. From its place under the coach, she took the extra step, and then unfolded the double steps up into the carriage. She checked the door, keeping a firm grip on the handle in case the wind caught it, then tidied it all away before the carriage moved into position for the photos and the trip back to the reception at Nether Grillinge Manor.
And then, there they all were, spilling out of the church, smiling and laughing and hugging and cheek kissing. Marcie was spot on about the veil and the hats but no one seemed bothered; after all, it was a wedding. New frocks and hats and those absurd fascinators on their first and, perhaps only, outings; uncomfortable high heels struggling with soft turf; freshly shaved heads catching the late spring sun and small, well-scrubbed children on the move or straining at the leash. Hired morning suits stood out amongst the crisp, smart lounge suits. Cameras and smartphones jockeyed for position as the happy couple circulated, the veil enveloping either or both of them. The official photographer was setting up his kit in front of the tower doors, a little out of the breeze.
Marcie had moved to the other side of the coach to check the door, so she heard the scream but she didn't see the large red patch appear on the veil as it flapped across the groom's chest. She didn't see him flipped backwards off the path or the bride kneeling over her husband, desperately tugging at the tangled veil. She didn't see the bride's young cousin, Alfie, bleeding out against the porch wall. In fact, she saw nothing of the carnage outside the church porch because, from his high seat, Neville shouted, "Marcie! Get in and stay down!"
Marcie had been brought up to do as she was told. She was smart enough to realise that something was wrong so she did as she was told. Above the peeling of the bells and the coach clattering over the cobbles, she could hear more screaming. She risked a quick look through the small rear window and could see wedding guests running, hiding, crouching, standing still and screaming. Then, as Neville steered the coach out of the churchyard, down the narrow lane to the village green, she saw nothing more. This was no longer a wedding!
The Reverend Rosie Nicholson who, in an earlier life had served as a frontline medic in Helmand province as Lieutenant Nicholson, rapidly assessed the situation and grabbed two nearby children, flinging them bodily into the safety of the church. The bullet that had killed the bridegroom had also ripped open Alfie's neck. One look told Rosie he was beyond help as was Dragan, despite his widow's pleadings. She'd estimated the direction of fire and, competing with the bells, shouted, "Get down behind the wall - over there!" pointing to the brick wall surrounding the churchyard. "Get under cover!"
As she sprinted towards the tangled and bloody mess that had been the happy couple, her right leg crumpled agonisingly beneath her. She was the second recipient of the bullet that blew apart the head of Vasiliji, the best man.
"Sara! Lose the bloody veil and get under cover!" There was no time to appreciate the irony.
Sara looked up towards Rosie as she dragged herself into the relative safety of the wall. She looked around and saw Alfie and Vasiliji. Looking down at herself, she saw her blood-covered hands and wedding dress and started screaming again. Two pairs of hands - her sister, Flora and partner, Henry - were gripping her arms and dragging her backwards towards the church and safety. As she tied a makeshift bandage around the flesh wound in her leg, Rosie thought, that really was some heavy-duty ordnance! He was taking no chances.
Oblivious to the events in the churchyard below, the bell ringers continued their peal. The photographer, ignoring the risk, was snapping furiously at the chaos. People were stirring in their hiding places.
"Stay down!" Rosie ordered. They stayed down. She recognised the work of a sniper and reckoned the job was done, but there was no point in taking chances. The exception was Nicco, Dragan and Vasiliji’s cousin, who was kneeling, weeping beside the lifeless bridegroom. You can take the girl out of the army but you can't take the army out of the girl, her father, Colonel Nicholson would later proudly say, knowing it to be a hackneyed cliché.
Neville steered the coach around the perimeter of the green then out through the village, past the schools, the college and the ubiquitous social housing estate towards the country hotel and spa that had been the old manor house. Like the old vicarage and its smart, new apartments, it had also been given a new lease of life, particularly as the wedding industry had taken off over the last few decades. The lorry for the horses and the trailer for the coach were parked around the back.
Nev couldn't get there quick enough. It took all his strength and willpower to control the rising panic gripping him, not to mention the two horses that were not used to any sort of speed. He had seen more than his fair share of shooting and death on peacekeeping duties in Africa and the Balkans. The events in the churchyard brought back the agony and helplessness at the hands of a sniper he’d suffered serving with the UN. In Bosnia, Serbian snipers hadn’t been fussy about their blue helmets. With blast compensators fitted to their weapons, it was almost impossible to tell where the shots were coming from.
Back at the church, he’d seen Dragan flip backwards and then the lad fall against the porch wall. Like the vicar, he’d worked out the rough direction but unlike her, he wanted to be as far away as quickly as possible. He’d seen her fling the kids into the church and run towards the bride and groom. Concentrating on getting himself, Marcie and the horses to safety, he hadn’t seen the results of the second shot.
***
Van der Pol considered it a good day’s work. By the time the local police arrived followed by the armed response boys and girls and, after them, no doubt, the spooks, he’d be on his boat and on his way back to Rotterdam and the European inland waterways where he lived. And there would €250,000 in his bank account in Gibraltar. Eventually, the spooks would trace the job back to this apartment on the second floor of the old vicarage and would there draw a blank. The retired couple who owned the flat would be found dead in their bed where they were sleeping when he shot them in the early hours. Because of his scrupulous preparations and attention to detail, there would be none of his DNA or fingerprints to be found.
On the burner phone, he sent the coded text to his clients that would activate payment before tossing it onto the front seat of the old Citroen van he’d picked up from the wreckers yard in Barking the day before. A lighted match followed it. By the time he was in his hire car and away, the kerosene-soaked wreck parked along the farm track was well alight, along with the phone and the protective gear he’d worn. He dropped the car in London, and public transport got him back to the small town marina on the east coast where his cruiser was moored. An excellent fish supper at the Queen’s Head and an early night left him ready for the tide at 0400.
***
The huge explosion and destruction in the marina headlined all the early news bulletins and some of the late print editions. At various locations around the world, five similar events took place.
The three men watching the news feeds in the study of the president’s dacha outside Sochi looked at each other, nodding in satisfaction.
“Thank you, Don Carlo,” said the Russian.
“No more loose ends,” said the American.
“None. A pleasure doing business with you,” said the Don.