by Ali Vali
The Hotstream task force fluctuated in numbers depending on intelligence. When the terror alert was categorised as low or moderate, officer numbers were reduced to a minimum, a fact that certainly wasn’t shared with the public for obvious reasons. The categories of substantial and severe threat saw more officers deployed underground, and when the status reached critical, intelligence suggested that a terror attack was imminent. In the case of a critical status, the unit usually knew names and places. For the officers working in Hotstream, when intelligence suggested an attack on the underground was likely and the terrorists hadn’t been thwarted before they reached their domain, it was a race against time and a shoot-to-kill situation. Hotstream were the last line of defence and all the officers took the responsibility seriously.
Bel was no fool. Monitoring the underground on a daily basis when the alert was low or moderate would reap little, if any, rewards. The chances of one of her team being near a bomber at any given time were slim at best. However, since the July bombings in 2005, the British government had made promises to the people, and an effective terrorist-response team had to know its battleground inside out. The Hotstream team knew its stuff.
Bel exited the train at Marylebone station and pushed her way through the commuters to stand with her back to the station wall. She automatically scanned the area for unattended bags and for the final telltale sign of a suicide bomber, a robotic walk. Unless she was off the train or it wasn’t busy, it was near impossible to tell if someone was struggling with an extra twenty kilograms of weighty explosives attached to their torso.
A normal police vest, carrying radio, baton, etc., weighed approximately five kilograms, and although it didn’t affect your gait, Bel’s first few weeks on the job saw her return home after shift to a hot bath and a heat pack on her back. During training, they were all strapped into various replica explosive vests and homemade devices. Some of them were filled with nuts, bolts, screws, and nails to cause maximum damage upon detonation, and these alone could be weighty. The training officers had analysed each other’s gaits, and it was true that an average-framed person walked differently with explosive strapped around their middle. Of course there was always an exception to the rule. One of the tutors was a strapping six feet six inches tall, and his gait didn’t alter at all wearing the fake bombs. However, had he been staring into space and chanting, wearing an oversized jacket while sweating profusely, he’d have gained Bel’s attention. Detecting a suicide bomber was like constructing a jigsaw puzzle; all the pieces had to fit together in the right place to form the correct picture.
Click! Bel watched the hordes of people struggle through the crowds to board the train. Everyone walked swiftly, even the elderly couple dressed up for a day out in London.
“Control, this is 5709, I’m at Marylebone. I’ll perform a sweep of the bathrooms on ground level.” Bel spoke casually and softly into her microphone. She needed a pee.
Every moment in the station or on the train required complete concentration. The only time Bel could relax was the moment she closed and locked the cubicle door behind her.
She took the opportunity to check her phone. One message from Esther.
Last night was amazing, unforgettable. I’ll dream about you forever xx.
Bel smiled. She was wearing Esther down—in a good way—and hopefully soon they would formalise their relationship somehow. It was probably too soon to move in together; Bel hated the reputation of lesbians who shacked up on date number two, but she would at least attempt a conversation and suggest a city break when she next had a few days off. Somewhere like Amsterdam or Paris or even Prague might be nice. Upon reflection, Bel dismissed Paris. She didn’t want to go anywhere with an underground rail system.
Bel had often imagined what it was like to become “one” during lovemaking. Until last night she thought that feeling must happen only to other people. Experiencing it for herself certainly reaffirmed her feelings for Esther.
She checked her watch. She’d been in the toilet one minute and thirteen seconds.
Esther was like a force field of energy, and no matter how tiring Bel’s day or how disturbing her tutorials had been, Esther had an uncanny knack of drawing every bubble of energy from her and bringing them together. It was a beautiful thing and something Bel wasn’t willing to give up.
When she first met Esther, she knew they shared something special. She fell in love faster than ever before, and even when she tried to fight the feeling or at least approach the issue with a level head, she found it was utterly useless. Bel knew what love was at seventeen, then again at twenty-three, twenty-five, and twenty-nine. The concept was nothing new to her, but the instantaneousness of love, and in truth passion, with Esther was what astounded her. After that first night in the laundrette she couldn’t shake her from her mind, and after last night, thoughts of Esther remained at the forefront of her brain.
She looked at her watch. Two minutes, six seconds.
Bel finished in the toilet and stepped out into her office. “Back on, Control.”
“Copy that, 5709.”
Chapter Four
The underground was heaving with people and it was noisy, but the voice in her ear was silent, just the way Bel liked it. She had just departed the Whitechapel station, westbound, when her earpiece cracked into action.
“All officers on platform. I repeat, all officers on platform.”
It had been too good to last.
Automatically, Bel stood, ready to disembark at the next station, Aldgate East. Her pulse quickened, and she instinctively opened her mouth to inhale more oxygen while at the same time slowing her breathing. She hadn’t forgotten any of the basics learnt in the twelve-week induction training.
“Platform” was the order to disembark at the next available station. It could be nothing or it could be everything. The platform order had been given just last week, and it had been a drill. You didn’t know until it was over. Other officers spoke of a recent platform order when a suspicious package was found in South Kensington station. All Hotstream officers were to make their way to South Kensington while Transport staff performed a sweep of all other stations in the event that the parcel was a decoy for a different device in a different location.
You had to be fit to work in Hotstream. At first glance it hardly appeared that way: sitting on a train half the day watching people and then attending training of some description during the other half. On the surface it appeared barely enough to raise a sweat, but when there was a bomb threat you had to be able to rush to the right place at the right time, to climb stairs, to run through stations and into the daylight, knowing exactly where you were and how to find your next destination. An intimate knowledge of London was essential.
As the train pulled into the station, Bel caught sight of a familiar face standing motionless on the platform. Although obscured by passengers after that fleeting first glance, she was sure it had been Esther. But what was Esther doing in Aldgate East station? That morning, after a passionate kiss good-bye, she’d told Bel she was going home to sleep for another few hours. Besides the kiss, she’d touched Bel’s cheek and whispered, “Good-bye, my love,” before disappearing into the dusky morning light.
During training, the officers were advised not to actively seek out people they knew whilst on duty, but if you knew someone and they sat next to you, or began talking to you, it was preferable to be polite, find out where they intended to disembark, and rearrange your travel. If they were travelling more than one stop, it was best to make up an excuse why you had to get off at the next stop. It was easy when you knew the underground system as intricately as they did.
At this time of day, work was Bel’s priority, but if she could squeeze in just one stop with Esther, or chat for a moment or two on the platform, surely Control wouldn’t detect her. What a pity they were under a platform order. If Esther remained in sight she would wait for the platform order to end before making a move toward her. Seeing Esther, although only fleeti
ngly, sent her spirits soaring.
A platform order simultaneously scared the hell out of Bel and left her exhilarated. It could be seen as a chance to put into practice everything you’d learned, and it could also be the prelude to the most frightening and career-defining day of your life. Bel relished the sensations it sparked within her. Every police officer wanted to be a hero on some level.
The doors opened and she disembarked the train to stand amongst the hordes of people already assembled in chaotic order on the platform. She announced her location to Control. “This is 5709. I’m at Aldgate East.”
She waited at least ten seconds before she heard a reply. “Copy that, 5709.”
Everything was running as per procedure. Bel’s heart raced as she began to check the platform, all the while trying to see if Esther remained at the station. It was likely Esther had jumped on the train she had just left. She shook her head and refocused on her training.
“Officers remain on standby.” Charlie was loud and clear in her earpiece.
The platform order remained in place. She was half hoping Charlie might have been delivering a message to stand down but apparently not. Bel concentrated on slowly pushing the air from her lungs before deeply drawing it back in. She feared this might not be a drill. She remained calm and kept her movements to a steady pace as she checked the platform. She was careful not to do anything that could draw attention or create panic amongst passengers.
Aldgate East was an average-sized platform, and another train was due within the minute. Bel needed to catch a visual of as many passengers as she could before they jumped on the incoming train. To visually sweep so many people, she focused on the three standout traits: hefty jacket, unnatural gait, and hands in bag. Her eyes darted back and forth as she weaved in and out of people, trying to take in as much as she could in the little time she had. Not by coincidence, she was moving in the direction she’d seen Esther.
A solid tap on her shoulder caused her to swing round.
“Are you all right, madam? Can I help you with any trains?”
She stopped and turned.
The metropolitan transport employee appeared nervous. He was nervous because she had appeared abnormal.
She had failed.
She hadn’t been subtle enough. She’d appeared like she was looking for something and caught his attention immediately. If a bomber had been on the platform and saw her behaving like that, he’d be long gone. A brief memory flashed in her mind of a time she’d been running late for a flight at Heathrow Airport. She’d reached the end of the substantial queue looking agitated, out of breath, and clearly sweating. Within seconds after she joined the queue, a security officer asked would she be willing to be x-rayed. The officer explained that her selection had been random, and the plus side of this security measure was that she would advance to the front of the queue. At the time, she saw it as a blessing; queue-jumping at least fifty people was a great result. Of course, the X-ray was clear. She wasn’t a drug smuggler, just an idiot who’d misjudged traffic. It wasn’t until she relayed the story to a friend that she realised why she’d been selected. Nervous, sweaty, and agitated people are at the top of airport security personnel lists. They are at the top of Metropolitan Transport employees’ lists too.
She smiled at the man. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you. I’m running late for a doctor’s appointment. I usually avoid the underground at this hour of the morning. It’s so busy.”
The man nodded and rolled his eyes knowingly. “I just thought I’d check. You looked a little lost.”
“Thank you, but I’m okay. Twelve-week scan and I’m as anxious as hell.”
In a gesture that left her feeling guilty that it was a lie, the man briefly touched her arm. “I’m sure you’ll do great.” He moved on down the platform.
Bel’s earpiece hissed briefly before Charlie’s voice came through, clear, slow, and deliberate. “We have a cleaner. I repeat, we have a cleaner. All officers remain on standby and remain on platform until further instructions.”
Bel’s legs began to shake.
Cleaner was the code word for suicide bomber. Stupidly, Bel had only really thought this was a drill. She felt far from on her game.
Hotstream officers were trained to respond identically regardless of a real or manufactured situation, but when the radio crackled into action again and Charlie announced firmly that it wasn’t a drill, Bel momentarily forgot to breathe.
She reminded herself to calm down and then thought of Esther. If there was danger on the underground, she had to warn her.
Bel advanced toward the area of the platform where Esther had been standing. The silence in her earpiece was uncomfortable. When it was necessary, Control would provide her with audio of operational orders, some of which might be directed at her, but regardless, everyone in Hotstream would hear the operation unfold. Anything was better than the silence.
Bel clicked through her traits: hefty jacket, unusual gait, and hands in bag. As she weaved in and out of unsuspecting commuters, she silently repeated those words.
While all Hotstream officers remained on the platforms, or were at least on their way to the platforms, the activity in the control room would be frantic. Control would have received intelligence that suggested a suicide bomber was possibly already in the underground network or en route.
The code for a package bomb or a planted bomb was “cat in the cradle.” History suggested that the police, or in some cases the head office of Transport for London, would likely receive a tip-off when a bomb was planted, but history was changing. In the past, bombs were planted to make a point, to have the government of the day stand up and listen, and to demonstrate that some organisations could bring the underground, and London, to a standstill after one simple phone call. Nowadays, a bomb threat usually had a very different motive. A bomb was set, not to gain attention and never go off, but to explode and kill and maim as many innocent people as possible. The world had certainly changed, and this was no planted-bomb scenario.
Finding a suicide bomber was like finding a needle in a haystack without reliable intelligence. The task for Control now was to locate the bomber if the undercovers didn’t already have him in their sights. Given the lack of communication between the call of cleaner until now, Bel concluded they’d lost their target and were frantically searching the monitors to find him or at least provide a helpful description to the Hotstream team so they could begin their search also.
A train arrived at the platform. Bel continued her search for the hefty jacket, the unusual walking gait, and hands in bags, all the while trying to make her way to Esther to warn her.
“Officer 5709. Board that train.”
Bel automatically diverted and leapt through the closing door of the carriage just seconds before it began to move. A few passengers took offence at her abrupt arrival, glaring at her disdainfully—she’d knocked into them to clear the closing doors—but other than an apologetic grin, she had nothing to offer. She was on one of the newer trains with walk-through carriages. She liked these because she could see better, but she found she drew attention to herself walking through for no obvious reason, and when the train was near capacity, pushing your way through was the quickest way to an ear full of frustrated abuse.
Adrenaline surged through her. She had to be on the train with the bomber, or at least be the closest officer to them; otherwise, why was she there? She reminded herself repeatedly to remain calm and to act cool. Her intense training flooded back. “You don’t want to alert a potential bomber that you’re after them,” her instructor had said. “One look at you, and if they know you’re trying to stop them, they’ll detonate.” She focused on looking nonchalant, but the fact that she’d only managed to appear flustered on the platform just now didn’t fill her with any real confidence.
She spotted Esther two carriages away as the train took a wide bend coming into Liverpool Street station. She pulled out her mobile and began to dial Esther’s number but stopped. She had a mi
crophone on her that went directly to the control room, and she was being recorded. She knew full well she wasn’t permitted to make that call, or any call, during a cleaner-coded operation unless it was fake or unless it was the only means of communication. Calling her lover to warn her would not make the grade. She pushed the phone back in her pocket.
Esther was now out of sight due to the train straightening. There was nothing she could do.
“Bel, is everything okay?”
She was being watched.
“All good.” Her voice was quiet.
“Stand by for further details.”
Suddenly her earpiece filled her ears with information. “Jason, confirm you’re at Liverpool?”
So sophisticated was the communication hardware, Jason sounded like he was in the next carriage when he replied. “Confirm that.”
“Hammersmith westbound incoming less than one minute. That’s your train.” Charlie spoke quickly but concisely.
“Copy that,” replied Jason.
“Moorgate, stand by,” said Charlie.
“This is Sean at Moorgate. Confirm standby.”
“Piccadilly and Northern, are you near King’s Cross?”
“Control, this is Max on Piccadilly, currently at Leicester Square, train to Cockfosters inbound in one minute.”
“Negative, Max, you won’t make it in time. Stand by.”
Bel immediately registered that Covent Garden, Holborn, and Russell Square stations were between Leicester Square and King’s Cross. Max was too far away.
“Copy that.”
“Control, this is Jean on Northern at Euston, train on platform.”
“Take it,” Charlie rushed to say.
Less than ten seconds later Jean replied, “Made it.”
Bel knew what she was listening to was Charlie coordinating those nearest to the Hammersmith line to be in a position to jump on her train or be in the vicinity if the bomber either remained on that line or jumped ship.