The mayor chuckled without warmth. ‘Well good luck with that, Superintendent,’ he said. ‘Without a focus group to guide him, decision-making doesn’t come easy to our beloved prime minister. You’ll need to watch your back because if this ends badly he’ll be looking for someone to blame. Anyway, I’ll be in my office until this is resolved. Call me as and when you think appropriate.’
‘I will, sir.’
‘And good luck. I rather think you’ll need it.’
The line went dead and Kamran put down the receiver.
Waterman looked up from her screens. ‘Mo, we’ve got IDs for two of the men now.’
Kamran hurried over to stand behind the MI5 officer. ‘What’s the story?’ he asked.
On her right screen were two photographs, one taken from the CCTV camera within the Southside centre boutique, featuring a bearded Asian man in a long coat. Next to it was a photograph taken from a passport application. ‘Mohammed Malik,’ she said. ‘We’ve managed to get CCTV from inside the shop via the centre’s security system, so the quality’s good. Facial recognition says it’s a hundred per cent match. He’s a second-generation Pakistani Brit. Parents run a curry house in Southall. He went fundamentalist when he was sixteen, just after Nine/Eleven. Went to Pakistan three years ago for six months. Told his parents he wanted to learn something about his culture but we believe he spent half his trip in a training camp on the Afghan border. Since then he’s been quiet. That happens to a lot of these kids who go over thinking that jihad is action and adventure. They realise that it’s not a game and they come back with their tails between their legs. He works in Halfords, has a clean record and wasn’t regarded as a serious threat.’
‘And the fact that he was at an Al-Qaeda training camp wasn’t considered serious enough to have him watched?’
‘If we watched every British Asian who went to Pakistan we’d be overwhelmed. Close to three hundred thousand British Pakistanis go to Pakistan each year. Border Force doesn’t check passports on the way out and we don’t ask them where they’ve been or what they were doing when they return, unless they’re on a watch list. And Malik wasn’t considered a serious threat. As I said, we have no direct proof that he went to a training camp. He was vocal for a while at his local mosque and used to send letters to his local paper accusing the West of wanting to exterminate Muslims, but he’s stopped all that.’
On her right-hand screen there were two more photographs, one from the CCTV camera within the Fulham post office showing a second bearded Asian handcuffed to a young woman. The man’s suicide vest was clearly visible under his coat, as was the trigger in his right hand. He could have been the twin of the Asian in the shopping centre – dark-skinned, bearded, average height, average build. Nothing out of the ordinary, other than that they were both wearing suicide vests and threatening to blow themselves up. Next to the CCTV picture was another passport photograph. ‘This is another hundred per cent match. We’re getting a direct feed from the post office and the images are first class,’ said Waterman. ‘Ismail Hussain. He’s more an anti-war demonstrator than a fundamentalist. Was photographed on a few poppy-burning demonstrations and is a member of a group called Muslims Against Crusades. He was one of the guys screaming at soldiers from the 2nd Battalion Royal Anglian Regiment when they arrived back in Luton after their Iraq tour. He’s got one conviction for assault after he attacked an off-duty soldier with a bottle. That was well before the killing of Lee Rigby in Woolwich so he only got community service.’
Lee Rigby was a British soldier who had been stabbed to death in Woolwich, south London, in May 2013, not far from his barracks. His attackers waited for the police to arrive and said that they had murdered him to avenge the killings of Muslims by British soldiers. Both killers were British-born Nigerians who had been raised as Christians but then converted to Islam.
‘No overseas training?’ asked Kamran.
Waterman shook her head. ‘None that we know of,’ she said. ‘He’s a cleanskin. We’re aware of him but he’s never been on a watch list.’
‘So what’s happened to trigger him?’ asked Kamran. ‘How’s he gone from burning poppies and shouting to threatening to blow himself up? That’s one hell of a jump.’
‘We’re looking into his background now,’ said Waterman. ‘Maybe we missed something.’
Kamran peered at the video of the man in the post office, then turned to Sergeant Lumley, who had the same photographs on his screens. ‘Hey, Joe. Can you get me a close-up of the trigger?’
‘Will do,’ said Lumley. He began tapping on his keyboard.
The SAS captain walked into the suite. ‘What’s happening?’
‘We’ve got IDs on two of the bombers,’ said Kamran. ‘Joe’s just getting me a close-up.’
Murray walked over to watch what Lumley was doing. He bent down and squinted at Lumley’s screen. The image focused on the right hand of the man in the post office. ‘It’s not a dead man’s trigger,’ said Murray.
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Kamran. ‘Joe, check the guy in the boutique. Get a shot of his trigger and see if they’re all the same.’
Murray straightened up. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said. ‘I would have expected the trigger to operate when it was released. That depends on active pressing. The way things are, we have a chance of taking them out without the vests going off.’
‘That’s not a risk we can take,’ said Kamran. ‘Not at this stage, anyway.’
‘Sure. I’m not suggesting we go in with guns blazing,’ said Murray. ‘But the lack of a dead man’s switch means a head shot could well neutralise the threat.’
‘Unless there’s another trigger in place,’ said Kamran.
Murray tugged at his ear. ‘True. If there’s some sort of remote trigger, then all bets are off,’ he said. ‘What about jamming mobile-phone cells in the area? We’ve got the gear to do it, and I’m sure Five has, too.’
‘That would kill the texting and social media that’s going on, and that’s obviously a big part of their strategy,’ said Kamran. ‘Blocking all cell phone activity might provoke a negative reaction.’
Murray shrugged. ‘Your call, obviously.’
Kamran nodded. It was his call, and his responsibility, so any decision he made had to be the right one.
‘I’ve got a view of the shop guy’s trigger,’ said Lumley.
The image flashed up on Kamran’s centre screen. The trigger was identical to the first. There was a Velcro strap holding it in the man’s hand. The trigger itself was a simple metal button with a small protective plastic cage over the top. The cage had to be flipped back so that the trigger could be depressed with the thumb.
‘A head shot while the cage is in place would be safe,’ said Murray. ‘Death would be instantaneous and there would be no chance for the trigger to be pressed.’
‘You would need to be able to guarantee a kill, and while they’re inside that’s not possible,’ said Kamran.
‘A double shot, one to smash the window followed by a kill shot would do it.’
‘Too much of a risk,’ Kamran said.
‘There is another possibility. If we can get close, a machete would take off the lower arm like slicing a carrot. No arm, no trigger.’
Kamran shook his head. ‘If we can get close. There’s been no indication that’s going to happen. They’re not allowing anyone in or out.’
‘I’m just giving you your options,’ said Murray. ‘The sooner we end this, the better.’
‘I’d already come to that conclusion,’ said Kamran, frostily.
‘I wasn’t stating the obvious,’ Murray said. ‘The point I’m trying to make is that these guys have just two options: to talk or to blow themselves and their hostages up. The fact that they have no weapons other than the vests is telling. With a knife or a gun they can increase the threat level bit by bit. Hurt a hostage or single one out to kill. But our guys don’t have that option. They talk or they detonate. There’s no midway stage. It’s
all or nothing.’
Kamran exhaled through pursed lips as he realised what the SAS officer was getting at. None of the men were carrying guns or knives. And they didn’t appear to be in contact with anyone. That meant there could be only two possible resolutions. Either the jihadists got what they wanted. Or they and their hostages died. There was no middle ground.
TAVISTOCK SQUARE (12.13 p.m.)
Kashif Talpur joined the queue to get onto the bus. He took a quick look over his shoulder. Two police officers were walking along Tavistock Square, deep in conversation. The man in front of him was having trouble with his Oyster card. He kept tapping it against the reader but it didn’t seem to work.
‘You’ll have to get off,’ said the West Indian driver.
‘It’s got ten quid on it, for sure,’ said the man. He was in his forties with greasy, matted hair, wearing a green jacket that had once belonged to an East European soldier.
‘If it doesn’t work you’ll have to get off.’
‘There’s nowt wrong with it,’ said the man, and slapped the card against the reader so hard that everyone on the bus heard the thwack. The reader beeped and the man waved his card in triumph.
He moved down the bus and Talpur stepped forward. The driver glared at him from behind his vandal screens. ‘Come on, I haven’t got all day,’ he snapped.
Talpur turned away and looked down the bus. The passengers reflected the multi-ethnicity of London. Twelve men and women. Half were Asian, four were black, one was Middle Eastern and one was white. The nearest was an Asian woman in a black headscarf holding two carrier bags of groceries. He was supposed to choose the passenger closest to the driver but he knew that she was going to panic and probably scream blue murder. The passenger next to her, closest to the window, was a young black man with headphones, eyes closed, head bobbing back and forth in time to a tune that only he could hear. Talpur would have preferred to use the man but his instructions were clear and he had been told not to deviate from them.
‘Oy, are you going to tap your card or not?’ said the driver, impatiently.
Talpur grabbed the woman’s right hand and handcuffed himself to her. For a few seconds she sat stunned, then screamed at him in Urdu. She let go of her bags and her groceries spilled onto the floor. Apples, oranges, naan bread, a box of eggs. Talpur stepped back and pulled the chain tight. The woman continued to scream at him, peppering his face with spittle. He slapped her, hard, and she immediately went quiet. With his right hand he undid his coat and opened it so that everyone could see the suicide vest. ‘Allahu Akbar!’ he shouted. ‘You must all do as I say or we will all die here!’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out the trigger, slipping the Velcro strap over his palm.
He turned to the driver, who was staring at him open-mouthed. ‘Close the door, now!’ Talpur shouted. The man did as he was told. Talpur stared at him through the protective glass. ‘If you make any attempt to leave the cab, you will be responsible for the death of every single person on this bus. Just stay where you are.’
The driver nodded, wide-eyed.
The woman was sobbing quietly now, her hands covering her face. ‘You all need to listen to me!’ shouted Talpur.
The man sitting by the window noticed what was happening and took off his headphones. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he asked.
There were footsteps on the stairs and a middle-aged black man peered from the stairwell.
‘You have to do exactly as you are told or everybody dies. You are all prisoners of ISIS, the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria. We are demanding the release of six prisoners who are being held in Belmarsh Prison. Anyone who has a phone must start tweeting now. If you can’t tweet, send text messages to your friends. Tell everyone that ISIS demands the release of its six brothers in Belmarsh. Do it now. Use hashtag ISIS6.’
No one moved. The only sound was the sobbing of the woman next to him.
Talpur raised his right hand so that they could all see the trigger. ‘Start sending the messages now. The ISIS Six must be released by six tonight or everyone dies!’ he shouted.
One by one the passengers took out their phones and started tapping away, except for the sobbing woman he was handcuffed to. She continued to bury her face in her hands and cry.
LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (12.15 p.m.)
‘I’ve got the details of the six ISIS guys in Belmarsh,’ said Sergeant Lumley. Kamran pushed himself out of his chair and walked around to the sergeant’s station. Lynne Waterman joined him. There were six photographs on Lumley’s left-hand screen, each made of three images – left side, right side and straight ahead. They were all Asian, dark-skinned, with straggly beards and contemptuous eyes. There were differences between them but they were clearly all cut from the same cloth. ‘What’s the story?’ asked Kamran.
‘They’ve all returned from Syria in the past two months,’ said the sergeant. ‘The top three are all members of the North London Boys. They signed up with ISIS, probably even before they left the country.’
Kamran nodded. The North London Boys was a network of Muslim fundamentalists, mainly of African and Arab heritage, who funnelled jihadists from London, first to Somalia and latterly to Syria. It was this network that had helped create Jihadi John, the ISIS figurehead who had appeared in numerous videos of savage beheadings.
‘The three at the top flew in together from Turkey and were arrested when they arrived at Heathrow,’ continued Lumley. ‘They’d been in Syria for five months and are known associates of Jihadi John.’
‘Known how?’ asked Kamran. ‘They’re always wearing ski masks.’
‘They were at school with him,’ said Lumley. ‘They went to the same mosque, and posted pictures on Facebook while they were in Syria. One of them posted a selfie he’d taken with Jihadi John. They were both wearing masks, but there’s no reason to doubt it was him. In another picture he was holding a human head.’
The young men who went out to fight for terrorist organisations like ISIS often behaved as if they were in some crazed video game, Kamran thought. He could barely comprehend how someone born and brought up in Britain could end up hacking off the head of a fellow human being and boasting about it.
‘The three at the bottom have been picked up separately over the past month. One came in through Northern Ireland, two on the Eurostar. Again they were on our watch list and were picked up as soon as they entered the country.’
‘All British Pakistanis?’ asked Kamran.
Lumley shook his head. ‘The three at the bottom are Bangladeshis. At least, their parents are. All three were born in Britain and are from the Portsmouth area. They were members of a group called the Britani Brigade Bangladeshi Bad Boys. Dozens of them went out to Syria via Turkey last year. Most are still out there, dead or still fighting. These three came back after a few months. It probably wasn’t as much fun as they thought it would be.’
‘And what’s the story charge-wise?’ asked Kamran.
‘They’ve all been charged under section five of the Terrorism Act 2006,’ said the sergeant, ‘and they’re all being held on remand. The CPS is working with the Ministry of Justice to see whether they can be charged with treason.’
Waterman nodded. ‘They’ll be able to throw away the key if they can do that,’ she said.
‘Best way forward,’ said Murray. ‘It’s crazy putting these radicalised kids in prison for a few years, then letting them out again. Prison just toughens them up and makes them even angrier. But put them away for twenty or thirty years and they might just calm down.’
‘In addition to these six, there are more than two dozen family members also facing charges, though not all of them are in Belmarsh,’ said Lumley.
‘What charges?’ asked Kamran.
‘Engaging in conduct in preparation of terrorist acts, arranging availability of money and property for use in terrorism, failing to disclose information about acts of terrorism.’
‘And what about connections between the thr
ee from north London and the three from Portsmouth?’
‘Nothing obvious,’ said Lumley. ‘Other than the fact that they all went to fight for ISIS in Syria.’
‘If there is a link between them, that might lead us to whoever is organising this,’ said Kamran.
‘It could just be that they’re members of ISIS,’ said Waterman. ‘That might be the only connection.’
‘But what about the family members?’ asked Kamran. ‘Why not ask for everyone to be released? Why just these six?’
‘Because the families are collateral damage, not jihadists,’ said Waterman. ‘But let me get our people looking for links.’
‘And we need to see if there are any connections between these six and the jihadists out there now.’
‘I’m on it,’ said Waterman, heading back to her workstation.
WANDSWORTH (12.16 p.m.)
Malik peered out of the store, looking left and right. The mall was deserted and had been for the best part of fifteen minutes.
‘I need to go to the toilet,’ said Zoe. The sales assistant was standing as far away from him as she could get without putting tension on the chain. Each time the chain tightened, Malik would snap it towards him and tell her to stay close. The other sales assistant and the four shoppers who had been there when Malik arrived were now huddled in one of the changing rooms. Malik had told them to stay there and to tell everyone on social media what had happened.
‘You will have to wait,’ said Malik, moving back into the chair.
‘I can’t wait.’
‘Then you will just have to do it here.’
‘You could undo the handcuff. I’ll let you put it back on afterwards.’
‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ snapped Malik. ‘If I take that off I’ll never see you again.’
‘But I have to pee!’
‘There’s nothing I can do,’ he said. ‘Now shut up. I need to think.’
Malik wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He was uncomfortably hot but there was no way he could remove the coat while he was handcuffed to the girl. Taking the cuff off wasn’t an option because he didn’t have the key, but he didn’t want to admit that to her.
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