“Over two and a half hours ago now,” said Anna Mackenzie.
“So what do we know? If you don’t mind ...”
Monty put his hand into his pocket and, taking out his phone, flipped it open, leaving the room as he did so.
“What about his car?”
“We haven’t got it yet,” one of the policemen said.
“And you would be?”
“Sorry sir. I was asked to come. I have been heading up the ANPR search.”
“And?”
“There is no problem with the system. It’s functioning fine. And we have every mobile ANPR patrol we have out on the streets. Most of them have been out all day. If he had driven in central London, on any motorway and most A roads we would have found him. He didn’t.”
“Could he have carried the bomb on public transport?”
“I guess so,” he said.
“I have been looking after the CCTV sir. It’s coming in. Buses and tubes included.”
“But so far ...”
“... nothing.”
“Mobile phones in the area around the pub. What’s that telling us? You can’t just bloody blow up London without leaving a trace. We put his picture out. What about sightings?”
The officer who spoke about the CCTV raised a hand. “I can deal with that too. We have had over a hundred reported sightings. Most in London, but some in Birmingham. So far none have worked out. Nothing near Waterloo.”
Slightly irritated that all her lines were being spoken for her, Anna Mackenzie broke in. “Perhaps it would help if I summarised what we’ve done.” She was reading off a piece of paper. “We have a forensics response team at the pub in Dagenham and another on standby here in New Scotland Yard in case this is just Act One and there’s more to come. The Dagenham team are due to ring in any moment now.” She held up her phone. “We asked the press office to put out an appeal for any mobile images from in or around the pub. We have firearms units on standby.”
“What about the girl?” the Assistant Commissioner asked.
“Aysha Hussein. She is in her flat just now. We can bring her in but we are not convinced she’ll cooperate and think it best to see where she leads us. She must know something. He texted her a couple of months ago.” She looked at Monty. “She is overdue on her visa.”
Silence. The assistant commissioner looked at Anderson from GCHQ. The CTC’s own GCHQ liaison was already away for Christmas so he was covering.
“Nothing unusual. No chatter before, during or after.”
“Anyone from the Foreign Office?” The assistant commissioner looked round the table. “All at receptions no doubt.”
“Perhaps I could deal with that side of it,” said Keane.
“Yes. Perhaps you could. Tell them we need to organise with relevant foreign embassies. To inform them about what’s happened and to see if they have anything. You never know.”
Anna Mackenzie’s phone rang and she left the room passing Monty who was coming back in.
“Progress,” he said taking advantage of the silence. “He is using a bike.”
“Who says?” asked the officer who had said he was coordinating the CCTV search.
“Natasha Knight. From SIS. She’s looking at the CCTV from Dagenham now.”
It was news to Keane. He thought she was still in hospital. He didn’t look pleased.
“She thinks it’s all about dodging our technology. Anyway she has images of a bike outside a newsagent in Dagenham at about six this morning. He picked something up from outside the shop. Couldn’t see his face but she thinks it’s him,” Monty said.
“But how could he plant a bomb in a pub at that time in the morning?” asked one of the policemen.
The assistant commissioner looked at a police officer sitting beside him. “Talk to Ms Knight. Search the shop. Bring in the owner.” The officer stood up and before leaving the room he went over to Monty and, whispering, asked him how to reach Natasha.
Anna Mackenzie was walking back in now. “Two things from forensics. The bomb was left outside the pub in a cardboard box. The staff thought it was a legitimate delivery and carried it in. Secondly,” she hesitated. “And before I say this, yes, I have asked them to check. It appears sir that there is an unaccounted for finger at the scene. I mean in the pub.”
She had everyone’s attention now.
“All the victims dead and alive have been taken to hospital. But they have found remains of an extra finger.”
“Do you mean it’s a suicide bomber?” the assistant commissioner asked, sitting back in his chair and looking at the ceiling.
“Maybe. It’s not really clear. It’s just a finger.”
“Great,” he sighed. “I’ll tell the prime minister at COBRA.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Many Intelligence reports in war are contradictory; even more are false and most are uncertain.” -- Karl von Clausewitz
20:39, 24 December, Westminster, London
Jaz cycled into Westminster Square and wondered just how much security there would be there. Shining brightly above parliament the white dial of Big Ben showed it was just short of twenty to nine. The timing was tighter than he would have liked but cycling such long distances and carrying such heavy weights was beginning to take its toll. Whenever the chance had come to free wheel he had taken it.
Outside Westminster tube station a man was still handing out free copies of the Evening Standard. Jaz slowed the bike, lifted it onto the pavement and reached out as the man handed one over. Under TERROR ALERT he read the first paragraph of the story in bold type: “Londoners are preparing for a violent Christmas as the government has put the country on severe alert meaning an attack is highly likely.”
He wondered how much more detail they had and, folding the paper, put it in his pocket. He could read it later.
He pedalled the bike over Westminster Bridge. Couples, many arm-in-arm, were strolling down the pavement. Other people had stopped and were leaning against the bridge’s balustrade looking at the river. Seeing the London Eye ahead and to the left Jaz cycled to a relatively clear bit of pavement, stopped and, leaning against the green metal railings, thought about the best approach. A row of ornate streetlights, too dull to be of much practical use and with parts of the paintwork in gold, stretched out in front of him. And he scanned the riverbank between the end of Westminster Bridge and the Eye he saw so many people that he pondered if it would be possible to conceal himself anywhere. He considered the stalls – most of them closed, but a couple still open - selling plastic policemen’s helmets and scarves with union jacks on. And then he saw what he was looking for. Beneath the sheer granite walls that ran alongside the River Thames itself there was a small patch of grey shingly beach. If he kept tight to the wall no one above would be able to see him.
The first thing was to park the bike. He mounted it again and started freewheeling on the short stretch of cycle lane down that led to the South Bank. As he approached the end of the bridge Jaz saw an outsized white stone lion that seemed to be guarding the approach to parliament. There were other bikes locked to some railings. Putting his in the middle so that the panniers were largely concealed Jaz found his lock, secured the bike and letting his hand slip along a cold, stainless steel handrail started down the stone steps that led from the bridge towards the Zen café and, beyond it, a McDonald’s.
He could see signs for a river sightseeing tour beyond an aquarium with large panes of glass held together by thick white tubes of steel. With no lights on inside the building, he guessed it must be closed. Moving in the shadow of the building Jaz made his way to the place where more stone steps led down to the small beach. It was even darker there and as he descended he picked up an empty lager can and holding it in his right hand as if he were drinking, he didn’t bother to go all the way down the gravel beach but instead shrunk into corner on the staircase so that he could watch the people passing.
*****
When Aysha Hussein left her flat in the Oval at
eight thirty-five a team of four men and one woman were on hand to follow her movements. The operation began badly because the former soldier who freelanced doing police surveillance work, and who was placed nearest her front door was, at the crucial moment, urinating against a garden wall. He had his back to the road and consequently missed her leaving the flat. She might have slipped away unnoticed had not the Gold Command decreed that there should also be plain clothes officers parked at either end of Aysha’s street.
“Here. Look. That’s her isn’t it?” It was Frank, a 22-year-old constable fresh into the force, who was sitting in the passenger seat of a brown Rover. Aysha had just walked past his window and all he could see now was her arse swaying slightly from side to side.
“Nah. George would have told us wouldn’t he?”
As Frank consulted the sheet of A4 on a clipboard which contained Aysha’s description, she stopped between two parked cars and looked from side-to-side checking for traffic before crossing the road.
“Mind you, she does look about right,” Alan conceded as he focused on her face for the two or three seconds it was pointed in his direction. “Middle eastern, early 20s, short dark hair, tight clothes.”
“Says here, Arab female, five foot eight to five ten, blue jeans, tight brown leather jacket, carrying a newspaper. Slim build.”
“She’s slim alright. No paper but she could have left that in the flat,” said John. As he did so he reached past the steering wheel and picked up the small black radio mouthpiece that was hidden by the side the car’s heating unit.
“Echo three zero. All units. Think we may have our Arab beauty in our sights. Did she leave the flat George?”
The radio hissed as George paused, wondering what to say. The military training won out over the embarrassment.
“Echo three one to echo three zero. Sorry mate. Just been having a slash.”
“What the … Echo three zero to all units. Subject is on the move. On Kennington Road heading north. West side.” Now she was out of the flat he could call on more help from others in the area but he was nervous that someone would put on their sirens. Instead he radioed through to the Gold Commander, updated her and asked the second vehicle to get ahead of her, further along Kennington Road. As he did so Frank got out of the car and followed her on foot in case she went down a one-way side street.
Although he had followed someone as part of his 28-week basic training course in Hendon, it was the first time Frank had done it for real. He felt his breathing become more rapid as he tried to remember the distance he should let her get ahead. He could hear Alan trying to reach him on the radio and despite the fact he had a microphone in his cuff he was afraid that the woman would turn and see him or maybe even hear the characteristic hiss. So he reached inside his jacket, turned the radio down until it was inaudible and concentrated on her instead. Then forgetting everything he had been taught he quickly looked back towards the Rover and gave Alan a thumbs up sign.
“Bloody amateur hour.” Alan muttered to himself. Then, afraid Frank would lose her, he was back on the radio.
“Echo three zero to Echo three two. Subject still heading north on Kennington Road. We have one on her but I want two. Blue jeans, brown leather top, black hair. Frank’s 20 yards behind her.”
“Echo three two to Echo three zero. Received. Over.”
*****
There she was. From his vantage point Jaz could see Aysha walking along the riverbank approaching the Eye and heading towards him. She looked tired and Jaz wondered how much she knew about him. She could hardly have missed the media. But still she had come.
She was just 60 feet away now and, stretching himself to full height, Jaz stepped out.
He raised a hand. “Ay…”
It was then he saw a man behind Aysha, leaning on the riverbank wall talking into his cuff. Jaz lowered his hand and looked away. But Aysha smiled, waved and then realising something was wrong tried to look normal and to carrying on walking. Jaz could see the police had picked up on her unusual movements and from different angles men and women were closing in on her, some talking into their cuffs and one pressing on his ear presumably so that he could hear the concealed earpiece he must have been wearing.
Catching her eye Jaz lifted his hand and made a rapid flicking movement to show her to move away. She veered off towards the Eye, the police behind her keeping up a brisk pace and closing the gap.
The Eye was closed to the public and a notice by the ropes that led to the pods said PRIVATE PARTIES ONLY. Groups of five and ten people were waiting at the bottom ready to climb on board. Jaz thought they looked like tourists and his assessment was confirmed when he saw a man in a suit holding a red and yellow striped umbrella in the air and shouting out: “London Christmas. This way please.” Only one group looked like locals: they were in dinner jackets and evening dresses holding open bottles of champagne, talking loudly and laughing.
Suddenly Aysha was running towards one of the pods which was disgorging a group who had just completed the trip. She screamed as she ran and, as a path opened up before her, thrust herself into the pod yelling at everyone else to keep back. Rather too late he understood her purpose. It was a diversion.
The police had worked it out too and were scanning the crowds looking for sudden movement. As they did so the doors closed and the pod started its ascent. Moving slowly so as not to attract attention Jaz went back to his hiding place and watched as Aysha, her silhouette clear against the dark sky, was lifted above London.
He wanted to move but there were more police arriving and as their sirens wailed Jaz slumped to the ground. She had come for him and she would pay a price. He pictured her back in Gaza gazing at the sea. And then he thought of Mahmud and urged himself to concentrate. He wondered what she would tell the police. She knew so little it would not really make any difference.
She had reached the top now and Jaz did not want to look knowing that as she looked down, Aysha could see the police gathering below her. With remarkable speed some journalists had arrived and, unsure which pod to film, were letting the cameras roll, taking pictures of each one as its doors opened. Then it was her turn. Jaz could not see much: just that she was not struggling as she was led away in handcuffs.
Jaz let the crowds thin and was suddenly reminded of another trick the major had taught him in Dera Chamak. Best to wait and to make sure the police really had gone. All of them. The Eye was still now - all trips cancelled for the night and the pavements were emptying as, with Christmas Day now close, people headed back to their families. But still Jaz held on waiting, watching. And then as the Big Ben across the river struck ten, his patience was rewarded. From behind the Eye’s ticket booth he saw two policemen emerge from the shadows holding radios to their mouths. “All clear!” one of them said. “Nothing.”
“OK. Over,” came the reply. “Come back to the station.” The policeman walked upriver towards Westminster Bridge.
Jaz gave it another half hour and, eventually satisfied that it was safe, headed for his bike and Victoria coach station’s waiting room.
*****
It was midnight and although he’d had to doze on an upright plastic chair Jaz at least felt warm. It was time to go and as he started to move he lowered the peak of his baseball cap over his face and pulled his collar up around his neck.
He walked through the station looking for the screens with arrivals and departures. Most were blank and Jaz saw the words “reduced service” at the top. But Ravi had checked the Christmas timetable and, soon enough, he saw what he was looking for.
Bradford. 561 National Express. 00:30 Gate 18.
As he followed the signs towards the gate he had to swerve to avoid a large grey mop being wiped across the floor. The smell of its disinfectant mixed with the aroma of coffee being made in a shop to one side. The ticket booths had short queues of Londoners trying to leave the city.
Jaz reached Gate 18 and saw the passengers waiting for the door to the concourse to be opened. He fo
und a spare seat and joined them. He could see only one white family and all their cases had wheels. Many of the Asians, he noticed, had rucksacks. A girl, probably Pakistani Jaz thought, who was waiting with a man – presumably her father - caught his eye and ran away holding her arms out wide as if she were an airplane banking around a corner. Jaz thought of Aysha and wondered what she was doing now. What was being done to her? He looked at the girl’s square pink case and made a note to avoid it. For Aysha’s sake. Then, subconsciously aware that such thoughts might divert him, he concentrated on Mahmud and deliberately summoned the filmed images of his death and mutilation. Don’t give up. Finish the job. As he scanned the travellers Jaz heard the father of the girl talking to a Pakistani man sitting next to him.
“… a right handful yeah!” The girl, energised by a chocolate bar her father had given her, hurtled towards them, veering away at the last moment.
“Always have been haven’t you, Nosheen. Doobloodylally! She’s been staying with me in London. My name’s Tariq by the way.”
They shook hands. “Mohammed. Home for Christmas?”
“Yeah. She was just with me for the school holidays.” He paused and then explained:
“We live in Bradford, but I just managed to get a job with London Underground.”
“Your missus up there?”
“That’s it.”
“Good job that innit? London Underground.”
“Not bad yeah. Pays pretty well.”
“How d’you get it?”
Tariq hesitated and smiled.
“Don’t tell me. You knew someone.”
“Yeah. Me cousin. He’s been there for years,” Tariq said.
“Well good luck to you.”
“Yeah I’d been on the dole for over three years. Just getting odd jobs. You know.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Bradford home for you then?”
“My parents live there. My father’s with the council.”
The two men fell into silence until Nosheen, ran towards them careering into her father’s knees.
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