Guy Fawkes Day

by KJ Griffin

  Chapter 47: Guildhall, 8:30 p.m.

  Dinsdale and MacSween caught Clayton fiddling with his mobile phone in the corner of the makeshift communications centre. The incessant calls from Sophie he had found easy enough to ignore; in response, she had started to barrage him with texts.

  Loquart had joined the two policemen by the time he had switched off and pocketed his phone. He guessed there was news.

  ‘We've been given the green light,’ Loquart announced tersely. ‘But the PM wants you to go in first and have one last go at persuading your old pal to see some sense. You'll be the golden boy if you can pull that one off!’

  ‘Frankly, I'd sooner you shot the bastard,’ Clayton scoffed. ‘But if it makes the PM feel better…’

  Loquart's face was blank.

  ‘I've told my men that zero hour will be 3:30 a.m. tomorrow morning. That should give you long enough to get in and out before the bullets fly, Max.’

  ‘More than enough,’ Clayton sighed. ‘OK, then I'll give Robbie another try, but I doubt if he'll want to see me any more than I do him.’

  Clayton was about to make for the doorway, but just then it hit him.

  ‘Shit, I've just had a thought! I think I know who he might listen to. I'll need some of your men to rush her down from Oxford, though, Inspector,’ he said looking at Dinsdale.

  ‘The girl?’ Dinsdale asked.

  ‘Yes, Sophie Palmer.’

  Commons, 9:55 p.m.

  Al-Ajnabi recognised Clayton's number on his mobile's display and accepted the call. Max Clayton sounded sulky and subdued.

  ‘Marcus Easterby is ready to come over; you can take it out on the son now, if you want, Robbie! We want you to send out Topacio and de Cazes to begin with, then Driscoll and Ferris once you've got the leg irons and thumbscrews on young Marcus.’

  Max's sarcasm was more clumsy than irritating. Al-Ajnabi clicked the phone shut on him and looked straight ahead at the green leather of the Speaker's Chair where Magdalena Ortiz was slumped, probably asleep, cradling her weapon in her lap.

  It was not a reassuring sight. Al-Ajnabi knew that if he were the SAS commander, this would be just the sort of opportunity he would exploit to launch a raid. Time for action.

  He left his lonely vigil at the barricade which Khalid and Neil had set up in the Commons Lobby and stepped inside the Chamber. Neil Smedley was slumped on the opposition front bench, listening disinterestedly to the babble from the TV.

  Al-Ajnabi patted Neil on the shoulder, getting a grunt for his troubles, then took out the two-way radio and summoned Hasan.

  Hasan was still impeccably dressed when he arrived, his black designer suit unsoiled, offset by a yellow silk tie criss-crossed with blue symmetrical motifs.

  ‘Are McLaughlin and Abu Fawaz still outside on the roofing above us?’

  Hasan nodded.

  ‘They have made an another firing position,’ Hasan continued in Arabic, ‘in the stonework overlooking the north side of the building.’

  Al-Ajnabi laid his map on the bench and Hasan pointed to a small tower jutting out of the roof above the Chamber, facing Big Ben. It provided commanding views of the roofs of the Chamber, Star Chamber Court and the Ministers Rooms.

  Al-Ajnabi scratched his chin. At least the SAS would not be able to use the rooftops without a fight.

  ‘Are both of them there now?’ Al-Ajnabi asked Hasan.

  The Somali shook his head.

  ‘They are changing locations all the time,’ he whispered, pointing at the map. ‘They are moving between the inside of the Chamber here and the rooftop.’

  Al-Ajnabi frowned and switched back to Arabic.

  ‘Hasan,’ he whispered softly, gripping the Somali's arm, ‘when the shooting starts, I want you to find Abu Fawaz and put a bullet in him. Can I trust you to do that?’

  Hasan pulled his arm away but his stare was inscrutable; his prolonged silence served to amplify the chatter from the television.

  ‘Hasan, I must know,’ Al-Ajnabi persisted. ‘Can I count on you when the time comes?’

  But Hasan shook his head. ‘This I will not do, Hadratak. Whatever else I must do to repay my debt to you I will do. But not this.’

  Al-Ajnabi scowled and his voice turned gruffer.

  ‘Hasan, since I spared you from the sword, I have always asked, never ordered you. But now I am ordering. You will save lives. My life. All our lives, maybe.’

  ‘What you are asking is very difficult, Hadratak. Abu Fawaz is not the enemy. He is one of us.’

  ‘OK, xalas, Hasan,’ Al-Ajnabi snorted in frustration. ‘But promise me one thing: that you will stay close to Abu Fawaz. And when the attack comes, if you see him with a detonator in his hand you will have to choose between Abu Fawaz and me. So which will it be?’

  Hasan looked away.

  ‘What's all that about, Omar?’ Smedley interrupted.

  ‘Just some old unfinished business between us,’ Al-Ajnabi sighed, returning to Smedley and the map. Neil's interruption made him look at his watch. There wasn't time for this with Hasan. He would have to get on with the rest regardless.

  ‘Neil, I want you to go to the Tea Room now and wake those who are resting. Get everyone into position immediately, then go with Hasan to St Stephen's Entrance and supervise the transfer of hostages?’

  ‘OK,’ said the Yorkshireman lifting himself tiredly from the bench and grabbing the MP5K lying on the bench next to him. He walked past the Table and woke Magdalena Ortiz, whispering instructions in her ear.

  Next he whistled up to the Public Gallery, from where Maria Vasquez waved back.

  Hasan shouted in Arabic up to the Press Gallery and was rewarded with an ‘Alhamdulillah’ from Khalid Chentouf.

  Al-Ajnabi's eyes moved to the government backbenches, where the sudden spurt of activity had roused some of the hostages. Paul Driscoll and Ed Topacio's heads popping above the green leather looked almost comical. Soon Claire Ferris and Herve de Cazes were looking on, too. Only McPherson kept down.

  ‘That just leaves Amy in the Tea Room, Neil,’ Al-Ajnabi called out.

  Smedley nodded and walked out of the Chamber, patting Magdalena Ortiz on the shoulder as he passed the Speaker's Chair.

  Al-Ajnabi took a couple of paces across the floor and rested his weapon on the Table, before seating himself irreverently on its edge and picking up the Mace while he looked over towards the hostages.

  ‘Paul Driscoll, Claire Ferris, Ed Topacio and Herve de Cazes,’ he called out, tossing the Mace back onto the Table where it clattered unceremoniously. ‘Start getting your things together; you're about to be released.’

  Al-Ajnabi could not restrain a smile as he watched Driscoll clenching his fists in triumph; Ferris slumped back against the bench in relief; the two bankers shook each other's hand.

  ‘Paul Driscoll and Claire Ferris, you can follow Hasan right away, but Ed Topacio and Herve de Cazes, you will have to wait till your replacement arrives, I'm afraid.’

  Despite the mounting tension he felt from his increasing certainty that the SAS were probably going to come swarming in the minute the last of the bankers arrived in the Guildhall, Al-Ajnabi could not suppress an additional modicum of amusement at the emotional scenes being played out in front of him. It was like the cast party at the end of the final performance: Driscoll was walking here and there, shaking hands with his captors and with the two remaining bankers, while Claire Ferris fell upon Amy Weatherington, just returned from the Tea Room, and held her in a long, tight hug. For different reasons only he and McPherson kept aloof from the emotion; even Khalid Chentouf managed a wistful wave from the Press Gallery.

  When the MPs were finally done, Hasan led the way out with Neil bringing up the rear, just behind Driscoll. Al-Ajnabi followed them as far as the Central Lobby then stopped at the makeshift barricade there, watching their progress past the tableaux lining St Stephen's Hall.

  He crouched down in the Central Lobby, listening out for any tell-tale sounds of covert movem
ent from the Lords or from the rooftops above. Nothing. A couple of moments later, Neil's voice came over the radio.

  ‘Ferris and Driscoll have arrived at the police lines. There's some movement there and some bugger's flashing a torch at us.’

  But Al-Ajnabi didn't have to wait for Neil Smedley's explanation. The mobile in his pocket rang and it was Clayton on the line.

  "’K, Robbie, you've played fair so far, so I'm sending over young Marcus Easterby here. Be gentle with him. It's not his fault what his father did.’

  ‘Thanks for the lecture, Max,’ Al-Ajnabi cut in sharply. ‘There's nobody better qualified than you to lecture about what's just or unjust. Just direct Marcus over and I'll send you your precious bankers in return. The world will be a far better place with them back at their desks generating wealth for the starving!’

  He shut Clayton off before he got a smart-arsed answer and waited. It wasn't long before Smedley rang from St Stephen's porch.

  ‘There's someone coming across, Omar.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Good. Have Hasan escort him into the Chamber.’

  Al-Ajnabi spent the intervening minutes waiting for Marcus's arrival practising controlled breathing exercises and focusing his mind, the way he hand done so often before in the run-up to battle in Angola, Ramliyya and Eritrea. By the time Hasan's measured stride came echoing down St Stephen's Hall back towards him, with Marcus Easterby following on close behind, Al-Ajnabi had honed his concentration, ready for what he felt must be coming upon them very, very soon.

  The penetrating glare thrust out by the chandeliers of the Central Lobby revealed the havoc which the last couple of weeks had wrought on Marcus Easterby's face. A large red pimple sat disfiguring one cheek, while the blond thatch above looked as tired and listless as Marcus’s eyes. Al-Ajnabi almost felt sorry for him and he spoke softly.

  ‘Hello Marcus. I must say, you've almost earned my admiration. I mean it.’

  At first, Marcus Easterby tried to follow Hasan through towards the Commons Chamber, but then his self-composure snapped and he swung round angrily towards Al-Ajnabi.

  ‘Listen, Mr Bailey – I might as well call you that as we all know now who you really are by now. My father might have made some mistakes, and now thanks to you, the whole world knows about them. But when this siege is all over and you're either dead or locked up for life, who will care about what my father did? He may have done wrong, but no one will ever accuse him of being a terrorist and a traitor to his country. Think about that!’

  Al-Ajnabi was surprised how hard he found it to control his irritation, being lectured by Douglas Easterby's haughty son. The compassion vanished instantly and he took a couple of steps closer, staring straight into those cool blue eyes.

  ‘You've got a lot of learning to do about the real world, young man,’ he answered through clenched teeth. ‘The first step towards real knowledge is to cast off all the false ideas and brainwashing you've been exposed to since birth. Try doing that, Marcus. Try wiping away the filter of your narrow, privileged-elite worldview and look at the world again through the eyes of the majority of its citizens, then ask yourself who the real terrorists and the traitors are. And if that doesn't work, ask yourself whose side you think Sophie is on? Whose life do you think Sophie will mourn most when Big Ben chimes in November 5th or before that even when the SAS come storming in and the most powerful Semtex bomb this country has ever seen sends the whole Palace of Westminster cascading down on our heads?’

  Al-Ajnabi could see his words had hit home and he growled at Hasan in Arabic to take Marcus into the Chamber. There was too little time to waste on that little shit.

  It did not take Hasan long to reappear with Ed Topacio and Herve de Cazes. The balding American banker stopped in front of Al-Ajnabi and offered his hand. Instinctively, Al-Ajnabi was set to refuse, but then something more humane overcame him and he smiled.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Topacio and goodbye to you, too, Mr de Cazes,’ he smiled at the Swiss banker. ‘Perhaps when you are both safely back with your families in the comfort of your fine homes you will be able to reflect dispassionately on what we set out to achieve and will ask yourselves in all honesty if ours isn't the more viable vision for the future of this planet.’

  Topacio smiled and scratched the large bald patch on his head.

  ‘You've acted honourably towards us, Mr Bailey. No one will complain about the treatment we received and there is due cause for your personal grievances, if what we heard on the television is borne out. But this was never going to be the best way to settle your scores. I just hope you don't pay for that mistake with your life. Truly, I do.’

  Al-Ajnabi shook Topacio's hand again and waved Hasan on. De Cazes' sentiments were evidently not so benevolent, for he merely frowned at Al-Ajnabi and looked unsympathetically at the firing position they had set up in the middle of the Central Lobby, strewn together out of statues, benches and a hotchpotch of furnishings.

  Al-Ajnabi watched their passage to safety for a brief moment then checked his watch: 10:27. Any time now. He took out his radio and switched the frequency to address the entire team.

  ‘Let's be on maximum alert now, ladies and gentlemen. Amy, you keep an eye on the hostages. The rest of us will have to stay sharp and alert for as long as we can. Something tells me we won't have too long to wait.’

  Canon Row, Westminster Tube Station, 10:30

  Major Loquart put down the field phone and addressed the remaining five of his eight-man team.

  ‘OK, lads. Gladstone team is in position outside the Lords, and Disraeli is on the Thames under the bridge. We've just been told to hang on fifteen minutes, though, while that hostage negotiator fellow gives it a final go.’

  The men were too professional to show their frustration openly but Loquart could feel it all the same. He had been there before and he knew the signs. They took to rechecking their equipment silently, fiddling meticulously with sights and magazines while he radioed across the road to the three men from Churchill platoon already in position in the Ministers' Rooms.

  ‘In your own time, Ian,’ he whispered, ‘you can move onto the roofing into position. Won't be much longer now.’

  ‘OK, boss,’ Corporal Ian McEvoy replied in his thick Glaswegian voice. ‘We're moving up now.’