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urban areas the wind can move in different directions, at different levels, and in different strengths, depending on the buildings it has to get around.
    Sometimes streets become wind tunnels, redirecting and momentarily strengthening the gusts. Indicators were therefore needed at different levels round the killing area, so the snipers could compensate by adjusting their sights. The wind can make an immense difference to where a round hits because it simply blows it off course.
    Flags are really useful, and there were more around here than at a UN summit. On the water there were plenty of boats moored with pennants at the stern. Higher up, on both ends of Westminster Bridge, there were the tourist stalls, selling plastic Union Jacks and Man United streamers. The snipers would use all of these, and they would know where to look because I'd keyed them on to the maps supplied in the DLB. The wind condition at river level was good, just a hint of a breeze.
    My eyes caught movement in the killing ground. I felt my face flush and my heart rate quicken. Shit, this shouldn't be kicking off yet.
    I had a grandstand view of the terrace, and the times-twelve magnification of the binos made me feel as if I was almost standing on it. I checked it out with one eye on the binos, the other ready to pick up any flashes from the torch bulbs.
    A feeling of relief flooded through me. Catering staff. They were streaming in and out of the covered pavilions to the left of the killing ground, busy in their black and white uniforms, laying out ashtrays and placing bowls of nuts and nibbles on square wooden tables. A stressed-looking older guy in a grey, double-breasted suit stalked around behind them, waving his arms like a conductor at the Last Night of the Proms.
    I followed the line of the terrace and spotted a photographer on one of the wooden benches. He had two cameras by his side and smoked contentedly as he watched the commotion, a big smile on his face.
    I went back to the conductor. He looked up at Big Ben, checked his watch, then clapped his hands. He was as worried about the deadline as I was. At least the weather was on our side. Taking the shot through one of the pavilion windows would have made things even more difficult than they already were.
    The three sniper positions were all on my side of the river; three Portakabins in the grounds of St. Thomas's Hospital, directly opposite the killing ground.
    Three different positions gave three different angles of fire, and therefore three different chances of getting a round into the target.
    The distance between the first and third sniper was about ninety metres, and they'd be shooting over a distance of between 330 and 380 metres, depending on their position in the line-up. Being one floor up, the killing ground was below them, at an angle of about forty-five degrees. It would be just good enough to see the target from the stomach up if it was sitting down, and from about thigh up when standing, since a stone wall about a metre high ran the length of the terrace to stop MPs and peers falling into the Thames when they'd had a drink or two.
    The riverbank in front of their positions was tree-lined, which provided some cover, but also obstructed their line of sight into the killing ground. These things are nearly always a matter of compromise; there is rarely a perfect option.
    This would be the first time the snipers had ever been to the fire position, and it would also be the last. Soon after the shoot they'd be heading for Paris, Lille or Brussels on Eurostar trains, which left from Waterloo Station just ten minutes' walk away. They'd be knocking back a celebratory glass of wine in the Channel tunnel well before the full extent of what they'd done had dawned on Special Branch and the news networks.
    TWO
    Once I'd satisfied myself that the only activity in the killing ground came from harassed catering staff, I got back to watching the three bulbs. Snipers One and Three should have signed on