‘What do you mean you’re reasonably sure about Bhashir?’
‘Facial recognition isn’t an exact science,’ said Waterman. ‘A lot depends on the material we’re working with. One of the hostages posted a picture of him on Twitter but it was a side-on view. But even so we’re looking at an accuracy prediction of eighty per cent. We’re more sure about Chaudhry.’
‘And are either of them known?’
‘They’re both known, both on our watch lists, but at a low level.’
‘Then how could this happen?’ asked Kamran. ‘If they were being watched, how did they get suicide vests?’
‘There’s a difference between being watched and being on a watch list. They were considered possible threats, not direct threats.’
‘I’d say this was a pretty direct threat, wouldn’t you?’ asked Kamran. Captain Murray joined them, holding a cup of black coffee.
Waterman held up her hands. ‘Please, Superintendent, don’t go shooting the messenger here. At any one time we have literally thousands of British Asians on our watch lists. Just visiting a relative in Pakistan is enough to get them red-flagged, or posting on a jihadist website or tweeting in support of ISIS. But we don’t have the resources to put every one of them under full-time surveillance.’
‘So they were known to be potential problems, but not considered a serious threat?’
‘That’s the situation, yes.’
‘So what can you tell me about the latest two? What are we dealing with?’
The MI5 officer gestured at the bottom left photograph. ‘Rabeel Bhashir. He’s the oldest of the group by far. Forty-six next month. He came to the UK with his wife and two young daughters about twelve years ago. They claimed to be Afghan refugees but they are almost certainly Pakistanis. Arrived on a BA flight having burned their passports on the plane and flushed the ashes down the toilet. They were granted refugee status and five years later they all became citizens.’
‘You mean we can’t even tell what country they’re from?’ asked Kamran.
‘The border area between Pakistan and Afghanistan is porous at best,’ said Waterman. ‘You get a family saying they’re Afghans fleeing the Taliban and it’s hard to prove otherwise. They’ve destroyed their passports so where do you send them back to?’
‘Presumably they showed their passports to get onto the plane,’ said Captain Murray. ‘If they showed Pakistani passports, ship them back to Pakistan.’
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ said Waterman. ‘There’s a whole industry geared to getting asylum-seekers accepted and settled. Anyway, Mr Bhashir was in the news last year when his daughters ran off to become jihadi brides in Syria. One was sixteen, the other fifteen.’
‘I remember that,’ said Kamran. ‘He blamed MI5 and the cops for not tipping him off that his daughters were leaving the country. Blamed the school for not keeping track of them. Then it turned out he was at a few flag-burning protests with one of the men who murdered Lee Rigby. One was outside the Israeli embassy and there’s a video of Bhashir screaming that all Jews should be killed.’
‘Was he arrested for that?’ asked Murray.
‘Not that I recall,’ said Kamran.
‘There were a lot of protesters and it would have been seen as inflammatory to start making arrests,’ said Waterman.
‘And what was the Lee Rigby connection?’ asked Murray.
‘One of Rigby’s killers, Michael Adebowale, was at one of the demonstrations with Bhashir, as was Anjem Choudary, the hate preacher.’
‘And despite that he wasn’t considered a threat?’ asked Murray, in disbelief.
‘They were at the same demonstration, so it’s only guilt by association,’ said Waterman.
‘But the fact that his daughters went to join ISIS should have been a red flag, surely,’ said the SAS captain.
‘As I said, he played the injured father perfectly. Blaming everyone else but himself. It was several months later that he was identified in the flag-burning episodes. I think it was the Mail that broke the story.’ Waterman pointed at the final photograph. ‘Mohammed Faisal Chaudhry. British born. Spent three months in Pakistan in 2014, we think for Al-Qaeda training but unfortunately we have no evidence. He returned to London at the end of the year and has been quiet since. He was a minicab driver before he went to Pakistan but has been on benefits since he got back. Runs a fundamentalist website but he’s careful to stay within the law.’
Kamran folded his arms and stared at the four photographs. ‘So we’ve got four men, none of whom was considered a direct threat. On the same day they all decide to put on suicide vests and take hostages. Someone is running them, right? Someone is pulling their strings.’
‘No question of that,’ said Waterman. ‘But so far we haven’t found anything that connects them personally. They are all Muslim men, all physically fit, three of them youngish and one middle-aged, all under fifty anyway, but other than that and the fact they live in London there doesn’t seem to be anything that ties them together.’
‘Except they’re all wearing explosive vests and seem prepared to blow themselves to kingdom come,’ said Murray, sourly.
CAMBERWELL (12.35 p.m.)
Roger Metcalfe, OBE, really didn’t enjoy meeting the great unwashed, but his majority was under threat from a growing switch of his electorate to the United Kingdom Independence Party, which meant that his biweekly MP’s surgeries were more important than ever. If he could help a constituent with a planning application or write a letter in support of a visa application for a family member, hopefully that constituent would vote for him and, even more importantly, spread the word. The problem was, he wasn’t sure that he could help most of the people who came to the surgeries, and when he did help, he never seemed to get the credit. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times a constituent he’d helped had written to thank him.
He sipped his coffee and waited for his assistant to bring in the next contestant, as he liked to think of them, because, more often than not, the consultation would turn into a battle. It always started the same way, with a smile and a handshake, but once they had outlined their problem and grasped that there wasn’t much Metcalfe could do to help them, their true natures were revealed. Metcalfe had been sworn at, slapped, spat at and had his life threatened more times than he could count. It was the sense of entitlement that he found so worrying. Men who had never worked a day in their lives felt they were entitled to a larger house for their families. Parents who spoke next to no English themselves, despite having lived in the UK for years, felt their children were entitled to teaching staff who spoke their home language. Obese women in disgustingly short skirts would bang on his desk and demand that the NHS pay for their gastric bands or boob jobs. Former asylum-seekers who had only just been granted citizenship would jab their fingers at him and demand that their newly discovered wives and children be allowed to join them in the UK. Metcalfe always promised to do what he could but there wasn’t much that was within his gift, these days. He’d been an MP for the best part of twenty years and had never felt so powerless. He was giving serious consideration to packing it in at the next election. The pay was bad and the public scrutiny was soul-destroying; he was treated as a punch-bag by his constituents and as voting fodder by the leaders of his party. He’d earn more money and have more respect if he went back to his former career – accountancy.
The door opened and his assistant, a recent political science graduate called Molly, who was prepared to work for a pittance to gain experience at the cutting edge of politics, opened the door and ushered in an elderly woman with white permed hair and skin the texture of parchment. The constituents who wanted to see him waited in an outside room until it was their turn to be brought in. Metcalfe had tried meetings where he addressed groups but they never went well and it didn’t take much to turn an unhappy bunch into a lynch mob. At least one at a time they could be controlled. She was wearing a cheap wool coat and had a black plastic handbag claspe
d to her chest. She sat down and perched the bag on her lap. ‘This is Mrs Ellis,’ said Molly. ‘She’s having problems with the council with regard to her spare bedroom.’
‘Bedrooms,’ said Mrs Ellis, primly. ‘They say I have two spare bedrooms even though one of them is a sewing room.’
‘It’s a council house, is it, Mrs Ellis?’ asked Metcalfe, his heart sinking as he anticipated exactly how the conversation would go. Thousands of council tenants had been hit by changes to housing benefit introduced in the Welfare Reform Act of 2012, which basically reduced the amount of money given to those who lived in homes larger than they actually needed.
She nodded and tightened her grip on the handles of her bag. ‘They want to cut my housing benefit,’ she said. ‘By twenty-five per cent. If they do that, I can’t live there any more. I just can’t afford it.’
‘Well, as I’m sure you know, the councils are trying to get the maximum use from their housing stock.’
‘But this is my house. I moved in there with my husband forty years ago, God rest his soul. Forty years, Mr Metcalfe, and now I’ll have to move out.’
‘No one is saying you have to move out, Mrs Ellis. The council is just asking you to pay for the rooms you don’t need.’
‘But that doesn’t make any sense. Why should I pay for something I don’t need?’ Metcalfe was struggling for an answer when the door burst open. A young, bearded Asian man stood there, with a look of confusion on his face, as if he wasn’t quite sure where he was.
Molly jerked out of her iPhone reverie but he had walked in before she had even got to her feet.
‘I’m sorry, there’s a queuing system,’ said Metcalfe. ‘We deal with people one at a time. You talk to Molly here and she’ll take your details.’ He smiled but the man didn’t appear to be listening. He walked up to the table and Metcalfe caught a whiff of stale sweat. There were flecks of white lint in the man’s straggly beard and hair and the whites of his eyes were threaded with tiny burst veins. Metcalfe wondered if he might be high on drugs. He stood and held up his hands defensively as the man continued to swivel his head from side to side. ‘Look, please, you really need to wait outside in the other room. I will get to you eventually.’
The man mumbled something and spittle peppered the table. Metcalfe caught a strong whiff of garlic. He looked at Molly and started to tell her to call the police but the man grabbed him by the wrist, his nails digging into the MP’s skin. Then something metallic flashed and Metcalfe yelped, fearing a knife. He ducked away but the man’s grip held firm and something fastened around Metcalfe’s wrist. The garlic smell was almost overpowering now.
‘Allahu Akbar!’ the man shouted. ‘Everyone do exactly as I say or we will all die here today!’
Metcalfe began to tremble. His face reddened with embarrassment as he felt the warm liquid around his groin and realised that he’d wet himself.
LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (12.40 p.m.)
‘Bad news on the white-van front,’ said Sergeant Lumley. ‘The Birmingham police have spoken to the owner. In fact, they’ve seen the van. It’s still up in Birmingham, complete with the name of the plumbing firm on the sides.’
Kamran grimaced. ‘So they cloned the number?’
Lumley nodded. ‘Looks like it. And the even worse news is that number-plate recognition hasn’t turned it up. But the van is still out there.’ He pointed to his left-hand screen. Where there had been three CCTV shots of the white van, now there were four. The registration number of the fourth was different. ‘This van dropped off the bomber who is now holed up in the coffee shop near Marble Arch. According to the DVLA, this belongs to another firm up in Birmingham.’
‘They changed plates? Terrific.’
‘I’ve got both numbers flagged on number-plate recognition, but if they switched twice they can switch again.’
‘Which means we’re looking for a white van in London,’ said Kamran. ‘Needle in a haystack doesn’t even come close.’
Lumley’s phone rang and he answered it. He stiffened noticeably, then put his hand over the receiver. ‘It’s Downing Street,’ he said. ‘The prime minister.’
Kamran frowned. ‘What?’
‘The PM wants to talk to you.’
Kamran held up his hands. ‘He needs to talk to the commissioner. Or the deputy commissioner.’
‘No, he wants you. Asked for you by name.’
Kamran pointed at the receiver in Lumley’s hands. ‘Is that him? Actually on the line?’
Lumley smiled tightly.
Kamran sighed. ‘Better put him through, then.’ He took a deep breath to steady himself. His phone buzzed.
‘Line one,’ said Lumley.
Kamran took another deep breath and picked up the phone. ‘Superintendent Kamran,’ he said.
‘What’s the state of play, Superintendent?’ asked the prime minister. ‘Where do we stand?’
‘We have seven incidents now, sir,’ said Kamran. ‘The latest is a bus in Tavistock Square.’
‘I heard,’ said the prime minister. ‘That has echoes of Seven/Seven, doesn’t it?’
‘That may well be why that particular bus was targeted,’ said Kamran.
‘This is a nightmare,’ said the prime minister. ‘And getting worse by the minute.’
Kamran said nothing.
‘Their demands haven’t changed?’ asked the prime minister, eventually.
‘No, sir. They want the six prisoners released from Belmarsh and an aircraft fuelled and ready at Biggin Hill.’
‘That’s out of the question, obviously,’ said the prime minister.
‘The problem is there doesn’t appear to be any negotiating,’ said Kamran. ‘It’s take it or leave it. We accept their demands by six p.m. or they will all detonate their vests.’
‘Presumably you have snipers in position?’
‘All the bombers are inside, sir. I can’t guarantee that shooting will end the sieges without casualties.’
‘So what do you suggest, Superintendent?’
Kamran gritted his teeth. He had no suggestions to make. He was all out of ideas. ‘We have to start talking to them,’ he said. ‘Face to face.’
Waterman began to wave excitedly at Kamran. ‘We’ve identified the guy on the bus,’ she said. ‘You’re not going to believe this!’
‘I have to go, sir,’ said Kamran. ‘It’s a bit hectic here, as you can imagine.’
‘I’m heading into an emergency meeting of the Joint Intelligence Committee, Superintendent. I shall be in touch once we’re done.’ The JIC was composed of the country’s top intelligence experts, including the directors of MI5, MI6, GCHQ, plus the chief of the Defence Intelligence Staff, with representatives from the Ministry of Defence and the Foreign Office. Kamran figured the PM could probably do with all the advice he could get.
The prime minister ended the call and Kamran went over to Waterman’s workstation. Murray was already peering over the MI5 officer’s shoulder. ‘What’s the story?’ asked Kamran. ‘He’s known?’
‘He’s known all right,’ said Waterman, sitting back. ‘He’s one of yours.’
‘One of mine?’
‘Kashif Talpur. He works for the National Crime Agency’s undercover unit.’
Kamran’s jaw dropped. ‘What are you telling me?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think I can be any clearer,’ said Waterman. ‘He’s a cop.’ She pressed a button and a picture flashed up on her screen. A caption gave his name as Kashif Talpur and he was wearing the uniform of a Metropolitan Police officer.
For only the second time that day Kamran cursed. He looked at Lumley. ‘Joe, find out who Talpur’s governor is and get him in here right away,’ he said. ‘He needs to see what’s going on.’
SOUTHWARK (12.50 p.m.)
The lunchtime rush was in full swing and Calum Wade was worked off his feet. To be honest, he preferred it that way. Working in a restaurant that wasn’t busy could be soul-destroying: the minutes ticked slowl
y by and you were always looking for things to do. But the hours between twelve and two always seemed to whizz by, taking orders, filling glasses, carrying food from the kitchen and empty plates back to be washed. Wade always thought of himself as a people person, which was the main reason he had chosen to work in the restaurant business. And it had been a deliberate choice, too. Most of his fellow waiters were doing it as a fill-in before they found the job they really wanted, but it had long been his first choice as a career. Wade loved restaurants, and had done since his parents had first taken him into Harry Ramsden’s fish and chips emporium in Blackpool. It had been the first time he had been served food by a waiter and he’d never forgotten the man who had put down the plate of fish, chips and mushy peas in front of him, with a sly wink.
Wade had studied computing at university, more to satisfy his parents than from any interest in the subject, and during all his holidays he had worked as a waiter. When he’d finally graduated – with a decent degree because, despite his lack of interest, he was actually quite good at the keyboard – he’d gone straight to London and found a job in a bistro in Southwark.
Wade loved the front-of-house part, the bit where he got to deal with customers. He didn’t enjoy cooking, and could think of nothing worse than standing in front of a stove all day. He enjoyed the company of chefs, especially drinking with them after hours or tasting something they had created, but he’d never had any desire to work alongside them. Chefs never really got to see the customers enjoying the fruits of their labour: full plates went out and, hopefully, empty ones came back, but they missed the whole process in between. That was the part Wade liked – watching people enjoy themselves, and sharing in the experience. He didn’t plan to stay a waiter for ever, though. His ambition was to be a maître d’ in one of the capital’s best restaurants. The Ivy, maybe, or Scott’s, but that was for the future. Today he was just happy to be busy.
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