Evensong

The next prearranged time came round. From the North door, the South door, and the West door, the figures stepped simultaneously into the light. They took up positions at the front of the Nave, to either side of the altar, and at the rear, to either side of the West door, now showing their weapons openly, just as the choir stopped singing.

“Dean Taber, ladies and gentlemen: We have control of the Cathedral. You are hostages. We’ve rigged the entrances and exits: There are explosive devices with motion sensors at every door. In a moment my colleagues will rig more of them at every window. The Cathedral will be irreparably damaged if anyone tries to enter or leave. So will you.”

There were shouts and a few screams from some members of the congregation. Michael Taber stepped forward, arms raised, to calm them. There was something about his bearing that actually did calm them, and most of them fell silent.

Michael Taber looked like a caricature of a patrician: tall, handsome,well-groomed, with grey hair brushed back from a high forehead, and with a natural courtesy towards everyone, even intruders. “You are welcome here,” he said, “but your weapons aren’t.”

There was a brief nod from the one standing closest to him at the altar, who appeared to be their leader. His identity badge said, in large letters, Jones. He was dark-haired and heavily built, perhaps running to fat. Taber didn’t remember the events of ten years ago clearly enough, but if he had, he might have thought the man looked a bit like Parvin Marek. But Marek, if he was still alive, would have been slightly older. And Marek’s face had had a deadness about it which this man’s didn’t, somehow.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“We’ll come to that. For now, some housekeeping matters. We know your congregation is elderly. We expect that what we’ve come here to do will take all night.” (More shouts.) “So we’ve brought chemical toilets. We’ll set them up in the

Lady Chapel, where people can use them in privacy. And one of us is a qualified doctor, and carries a field medical kit.

“As to who we are: Smith, Jones, Brown, Patel, and Khan.” Addressing the congregation, he added “See? We have name-badges. Mine says Jones. Not our real names, of course. One of us really is called Jones, but it isn’t me. And the two called Patel and Khan aren’t Asian, as you can see…”

His mouth turned down at the corners, and there were fixed frown-lines where his eyebrows met. It was the face of someone who didn’t really want to be doing this; someone who felt out of his depth. But he still brandished a gun, levelly and with precision. They all did.

He turned back to Taber. “We’re mercenaries. We were handpicked for this. Our employers wanted us for a particular reason: we all have terminal illnesses. So we’ll carry this through to the death.”

Taber was horrified, but somehow managed to conceal it. They probably didn’t expect to live beyond the morning, but until then they were invulnerable.

“Why are you doing this?” Taber asked. He thought he already knew the answer but he was playing for time, while he sought a way to establish some rapport.

“To provide for our families. We all have wives and families.Including—” pointing to Patel, “—her. She has a wife. And adopted children. And only the New Anglicans would give her and her partner a proper Church wedding.”

“We would, too,” Taber said. “Since 2035.”

“Yes,but not willingly. Your Church held out against it for years. The New Anglicans embraced it without being asked.”

Taber didn’t press the point. “So what happens next?”

“I’m going to call the authorities and describe to them what we’re going to do here. When you hear what it is, remember this: We’ll kill people if necessary, but if we get what we want there’s a high chance that your congregation will all leave here alive.”

“You’re not wearing masks. That means that you don’t expect to leave here alive.”

“Not at all,” he answered, a little too quickly. “When this is all concluded satisfactorily, we’ll surrender.”

Taber didn’t believe him. Taber wasn’t as easy to convince as his appearance might have suggested. He was a good Dean, but many other things besides. Those who knew him well, knew that he possessed a set of sharp perceptions which he usually kept sheathed like claws.

Jones flipped open his wristcom and told it a number. His call went through to Rani Desai, Director of Counter-Terrorism at the Home Office. She listened without interruption or comment, and without asking how he’d got her direct number, and promised to call back in five minutes with confirmation that she had the Home Secretary’s authority to deal with them.

By the time she did so—in four minutes, not five—more packages had been lugged in and fixed underneath the stained-glass windows of the Nave.

“I’m now authorized to negotiate with you,” Rani Desai said. “So what do we have to do to make you stop?”