F Squad stood in the lobby. The main stairwell was circular and rose out from the chessboard floor. From the ground, they could look directly up the atrium to the ceiling six storeys above them.
‘Silly string.’
Myers’ voice floated through the speakers.
One of the assault team pulled a canister from his backpack and walked towards the stairs. Using a technique the British army had perfected in Iraq, the soldier sprayed the foam threads at the bottom of the stairs from a position ten feet away. Cam Three stepped forwards, looking closely at where the foam landed, seeing if it had been snagged by any invisible tripwires.
‘Clear,’ whispered another voice, and the team moved slowly up the stairs.
The assault officer repeated the exercise, firing the canister at the stairway every few yards and then examining the debris.
‘Halt,’ hissed Myers.
The team froze, twisting their heads in his direction in unison. On Cam Four, Myers could be seen pointing a gloved finger.
Cams Three and Four craned upwards.
Above them, fluorescent paint had been daubed on to the wall, covering it in a message that ran all the way down, from the first-floor landing down the corkscrew staircase, a garish graffiti in letters ten feet high.
YOU WILL DIE HERE
No one moved.
Then above them, a sound could distinctly be heard slicing through the silence.
A tearing sound.
Like scissors slicing through a thick cloth fabric.
Myers cocked two fingers towards the stairs, and the team continued moving, silently on their toes, spraying foam ahead of them as they went.
As they ascended, the sound became louder and began to take shape.
It was the sound of something, or someone, coming down the stairs.
Slowly.
Cam Three ran around the stairwell, on to the first-floor landing and then up the second tier of stairs.
Halfway up the second flight the cam suddenly halted, poised at a point where the stairs shielded him from being seen by whoever was descending.
The muzzle of the machine gun swung into view as it took aim at a space in the centre of the stairs.
The feet kept scuffing their way down, like an insolent metronome.
They were on the point of coming around the corner of the stairs now.
In the Arena, Waterman approached the wall, moving now to the vertically aligned cam monitors. He stepped up close, until he had an intimate view of each of the four cams. At this distance, he could see Cams Three and Four were shaking slightly. Minute vibrations that could hardly be noticed: the result of a heart pounding like a trip hammer inside a bulletproof vest.
On Cam Three, a gloved hand came into view, gently taking hold of the safety catch of the machine gun and releasing it.
The sounds were almost on top of them now.
‘Steady,’ muttered Waterman to himself.
The hand clasping the gun on Cam Three moved from the safety catch to the trigger.
As it did so, a metal slinky appeared around the corner, furling and unfurling itself in a caterpillar curl as it hit each step and then descended to the next.
No one moved as the slinky slithered down the steps, under the bridges formed by their legs, and around the corner.
Waterman looked around to the others in the Arena, who were staring at him in confusion.
‘Keep going,’ urged Myers’ voice.
Cam Three and Cam Four resumed their creeping ascent of the stairs. Past the second floor and on to the third. Then the fourth, until they were moving faster and faster, building a rhythm, closing the gap between them and the looming ceiling.
They reached the final landing. A single door lay at the end of a short stone corridor. Inside was the light room.
A hand reached out on Cam Three and tested the door. It was unlocked.
They were in the two-storey lens room of the lighthouse. Above them, a rotunda wrapped itself around the building and in the centre of the room, a huge mechanism rose from the floor, like the inside of a clock laid bare. On the top sat the dormant lens of the lighthouse, sitting on a rotational axis.
Cam One showed the lens room from the perspective of the fire escape. The assault officer wearing the camera levered up the window from the outside, and Cam One and Cam Two slipped inside.
All four of the cams now fed images from different perspectives of the vaulted room.
The interior was large enough that the walls were cloaked in shadow, refusing to yield their secrets, even to the night vision. The cams rotated their views around the room, searching.
A voice came over the loudspeakers.
‘All clear …’
And then Myers was screaming.
‘On your right, on your right!’
Waterman tried to follow the cams as they veered wildly from side to side.
And then, for a fraction of a second, he saw what Myers saw: a group of masked men standing in the shadows, aiming their weapons right at F Squad.
Gunfire erupted in the enclosed space, a deafening clatter that rained down glass fragments with such force it was as if the roof was collapsing.
‘Ceasefire! Ceasefire!’ screamed Myers.
The din ratcheted down immediately, save for a final errant burst of fire that ended with a crash at the other side of the room.
‘Enough!’ shouted Myers.
Something had caught his eye, and he walked slowly from the centre of the room to the outer perimeter, directly towards where the armed men were lying in wait.
Waterman watched through shuddering cams, still agitated from the firing frenzy. He fought back the urge to scream into the microphone and call off the mission. His role was purely intel and support, but he had never felt so helpless as he did now.
Myers disappeared into the shadows, where the overhang of the roof above cut off any light. An aching silence extended in the room. Over the speakers, those in the Arena could hear the collective breathing of the unit, as deep and regular as a tidal flow, as they worked to regulate their emotions.
‘Cam One and Two, on my side.’
Waterman breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Myers’ voice.
Both cams walked towards him, their night vision flickering to brilliant green to accommodate the movement into darkness.
The first thing that Waterman saw blindsided him.
Myers was standing in front of an armed man, less than a foot away.
Waterman’s every muscle clenched and he struggled to find his own breath.
And then he looked closer.
It wasn’t an armed man at all, but a reflection: of Myers.
The cams twisted, taking in the walls for the first time.
‘Mirrors,’ breathed Myers. ‘There are mirrors everywhere.’