First Response

by Stephen Leather

  ‘And you might very well ask the same question of Mohammed Tariq Masood, the man in the restaurant in Southwark,’ said Waterman, turning her attention to the centre screen on her desk. There were another two photographs there. One was a CCTV shot of a bearded Asian man walking along the pavement, the other a police mugshot. ‘He’s another cleanskin. No terrorist involvement, isn’t a regular at a mosque and actually applied to join the army when he was eighteen. He was turned down on medical grounds. He had a detached retina, which was fixed when he was twelve but that’s a barrier to joining the forces. He got a job in the family business, importing rugs and textiles, and was a model citizen until last year. He was in a car with three Asian friends and they got into an argument with a couple of Romanian women in west London. The women were gypsies selling the Big Issue, words were exchanged and the four guys beat the women senseless. They were arrested and charged and they’re due in court next month. The case has taken time because after they left hospital the women went back to Romania. But they’ve been interviewed and will come back to give evidence.’

  ‘So yet again no terrorist involvement. But known to the police.’ Gillard rubbed the back of his neck ‘What the hell is going on here?’

  ‘They’re cleanskins, but they’re not innocents,’ said Kamran. ‘Is that what’s happening? Someone has recruited them because they’re not on MI5’s radar?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Waterman. ‘But how do you persuade someone with no history of fundamentalism to become a suicide bomber?’

  MARBLE ARCH (3.45 p.m.)

  El-Sayed’s heart was pounding. His head was moving constantly, his attention switching between the television on the wall and the pack around the man’s waist. According to Al Jazeera there were now nine suicide bombers spread around London. Most of the attention seemed to be devoted to a bus in Tavistock Square and an MP who was being held hostage in Camberwell. There was the occasional shot of the coffee shop but there wasn’t much to be seen now that the windows had been covered with newspaper. From the little El-Sayed did see, the street had been closed off and the only people moving around were armed police officers. They had shown the ISIS propaganda video twice, so at least now El-Sayed had some idea of who Shahid was. Asian, for sure, probably London born, like many of the fighters he had sent to Syria and Somalia.

  He looked at his watch. It was worth more than fifty thousand pounds but he would happily have given away a hundred of them to get his son released. He could always make money, he could always replace things, but he had only one son.

  The phone buzzed in the man’s waistpack and El-Sayed flinched. The man fumbled for the phone, answered it, then handed the phone to El-Sayed. ‘You are a man of your word,’ said Shahid.

  ‘That is how hawala works,’ said El-Sayed. ‘Your word means everything. All transfers are done on trust.’

  ‘We have the money. We thank you for that.’

  ‘And you will release my son?’

  ‘Like you, we keep our word. But my man will need a hostage. You must find someone there to take his place.’

  ‘And when that is done, my son can leave?’

  ‘No one can leave until it is over,’ said Shahid. ‘But I will tell my man to allow you and him to go upstairs, out of the way. You can both stay there.’

  ‘I appreciate this, my brother. You have done a good thing today.’

  ‘I will have done a good thing when the brothers are released from Belmarsh,’ said Shahid. ‘Inshallah. Now pass the phone back to my man.’

  El-Sayed did as he was told and reached over to pat his son’s arm. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ he said. ‘You are to be freed.’ He looked at a group of four men sitting at a nearby table, staring up at the television screen. A senior uniformed police officer was being interviewed by a reporter, saying that negotiations were continuing. El-Sayed suspected that was a lie. No one had even tried to negotiate with the man who was chained to his son.

  ‘My friends,’ El-Sayed said to the men, ‘I have a favour to ask of you. Is there one of you who would be willing to help me in my time of need? For a price, of course?’

  LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (3.50 p.m.)

  Kamran’s mobile phone rang. He hurried over to his desk and checked the screen. It was showing number withheld. ‘I think this is him,’ he said to Gillard.

  The chief superintendent went over to Chris Thatcher’s workstation. Thatcher had run a wire from the earphone socket of Kamran’s phone to a grey metal box with a line of small lights on the top and sockets on the side, from which ran leads to four sets of headphones. Thatcher had already put on one set and Gillard, Waterman and Murray followed his example. The grey box contained a hard drive that would record both sides of the conversation, and the headsets would allow them to listen in without Shahid knowing.

  ‘Remember, take it slowly,’ said Thatcher. ‘There’s always a tendency to rush. Big breaths every time you speak.’ He had a small whiteboard in front of him and a black marker so that he could write messages for Kamran if necessary.

  Kamran looked at Sergeant Lumley, who was already working to trace the incoming call. Lumley flashed him a thumbs-up and Kamran pressed the green button to accept the call. ‘Superintendent Kamran,’ he said.

  ‘You took your time, Mo,’ said Shahid. ‘Are you trying to make me sweat?’

  Kamran took a breath and exhaled. ‘It’s hectic here, Shahid, as you can imagine. And you’re the one who’s been keeping us waiting. It’s more than an hour and a half since we last spoke. The ball’s in your court. Has been from the start.’

  ‘I’ve got a lot on my plate too,’ said Shahid. ‘Time is running out, Mo. Just a little over two hours to go.’

  ‘I know, I know. You need to give us more time. There’s a lot to arrange.’

  ‘Are the prisoners being prepared for release?’

  ‘It’s under consideration.’

  Thatcher held up his whiteboard. He’d written two words in block capitals. DON’T LIE.

  ‘By who?’

  ‘The prime minister. He’s discussing it with the Joint Intelligence Committee as we speak.’

  ‘He does realise that the clock is ticking? If those six men are not released by six p.m., all the brothers will detonate their bombs.’

  ‘He understands that, Shahid. We all do.’

  ‘Then you need to hurry him up, Mo. Or you’ll have blood on your hands. A lot of blood.’

  ‘Once the prisoners have been released, what then?’ asked Kamran.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What happens to your people? With the bombs?’

  ‘They are to be taken to the airport, of course. I told you that last time. They are to fly out with the brothers from Belmarsh.’

  ‘You want me to arrange that?’

  ‘No, they can call cabs. Are you fucking with me, Mo? Of course you need to arrange that.’

  Thatcher held up his board again. SLOW DOWN. BREATHE.

  Kamran realised he had speeded up and took a deep breath.

  ‘Did you hear me, Mo?’

  ‘Yes, I heard you. I’ll arrange it. But, Shahid, we need a gesture of good faith from you.’

  ‘I have already released the children. You can take the credit for that. You don’t need more.’

  ‘It’s not about taking credit, Shahid. As you said, this isn’t about hurting innocents. And there are children on the bus. A baby and two schoolchildren. Can you let them off?’

  ‘Are you fucking with me, Mo?’

  ‘I just want the children out of there. Men don’t kill children, Shahid. You know that.’

  ‘When the prime minister announces that the brothers are being released, I will release the children on the bus. But your time is running out, Mo. At six o’clock, my people will sacrifice themselves and their hostages.’

  ‘And there are two children at the shopping centre in Wandsworth. Two toddlers. Can you let them go, too?’

  ‘How do you kno
w there are kids in there? The centre was evacuated.’

  ‘We sent in food for the kids. They were crying.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘The kids were crying, we sent in food …’ began Kamran, but Shahid had already cut the connection.

  MARBLE ARCH (3.51 p.m.)

  The man’s name was Mohammed. That was all El-Sayed knew, though, to be honest, he cared nothing for the man or what he was called. All El-Sayed cared about was that the man was prepared to take the place of his son. The agreed price had been a hundred thousand pounds, which El-Sayed had arranged for the man’s daughter to collect from a hawala agent in Shepherd’s Bush, and the watch, which was now on Mohammed’s wrist. The man was nervous, but committed. It hadn’t taken much convincing to persuade Mohammed to take Hassan’s place – he was clearly in need of money and, as El-Sayed had explained, if the suicide vest were to go up then it wouldn’t matter if he was sitting at the next table or was chained to the bomber: the result would be the same. ‘At least by helping me, you will be helping your family. I truly believe that this situation will be resolved without bloodshed, but if not …’ El-Sayed had shrugged. ‘Well, at least you will have provided for your family.’

  Mohammed had originally asked for a million pounds but had settled for a hundred thousand and the watch. He stared at the glittering gold and diamond timepiece on his wrist as the man unlocked the handcuff that was attaching him to Hassan. Hassan scurried over to his father as if he was scared the man would have a change of heart. Mohammed held out his right hand, still staring at the watch on his left wrist, though he flinched as the handcuff snapped shut.

  ‘Thank you,’ El-Sayed said to Mohammed. Then he nodded at the man wearing the suicide vest. ‘And thank you for giving me back my son.’

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ said the man sourly. ‘This is nothing to do with me. Just go. Get the hell away from me.’

  El-Sayed stood up. ‘This way,’ he said to his son, and ushered the boy up the stairs, which led to an office overlooking an alley at the back of the building. There was a desk and two metal filing cabinets, boxes of coffee and a couple of chairs.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Hassan.

  ‘Now we wait,’ said El-Sayed. ‘We wait for this to be over.’ He looked out of the window and saw two armed police crouched in the alley. They were dressed all in black with military-style helmets and bulletproof vests, and the guns they were holding looked like something that belonged in the hands of a soldier. One of them glanced up at the window and El-Sayed stepped back. He twisted his wrist to look at his watch, then smiled ruefully when he remembered he had given it to Mohammed. ‘What time is it?’ he asked his son.

  ‘Almost four,’ said Hassan. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the deadline is six p.m. What happens then is the will of Allah. But at least you are safe, my son, and that is all that matters.’

  LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (3.52 p.m.)

  Chris Thatcher took off his headphones. ‘Well, that was interesting,’ he said to Sergeant Lumley. ‘I’m thinking he ended the call before we could get any meaningful trace.’

  ‘He knows how long it takes to get a fix on a mobile.’

  ‘That’s not why he ended the call, though.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Gillard, taking off his headphones and putting them on the desk.

  ‘It threw him that we’d made contact with his man in Wandsworth. He didn’t know that had happened. Hardly surprising because there are no TV cameras in the shopping centre. You told him something he didn’t know and that unsettled him.’

  He stood and began to pace slowly up and down as he gathered his thoughts. ‘You see, up until then he was totally in control. You could hear it in his voice. Some tension, yes, but not fear. He sounded like a man in control. We heard it all the time when we were dealing with the Somalian pirates. They know the score, they know that the ships are insured, so it’s almost as if they’re following a script. They play their part and we play ours. The money is handed over and the ship and the crew are released. The pirates would sound angry but it was an act. They knew how it would end. They were never scared because they knew that no one would be attacking them.’

  ‘So Shahid knows he’s going to win? Is that what you mean?’ said Gillard. ‘He’s confident?’

  Thatcher stopped pacing. ‘He’s calm, as if he knows how this is going to end.’

  ‘Well, I wish I did,’ said Gillard. ‘Because the way things stand, I’ve no idea how it’ll pan out.’

  ‘Perhaps I should rephrase that. He thinks he knows how it will end. Everything is going to plan. At least, it was until he discovered that you had spoken to his man in the shopping centre.’ He went over to his desk, picked up his cup of camomile tea and discovered it was empty. He put it down. ‘Shahid clearly knows what he’s doing. Everything has been planned down to the smallest detail, which is why that small deviation from his plan threw him. The question is, what is he working towards? What is he so confident will happen?’

  ‘Presumably that the prisoners will be released and his men fly off to who knows where,’ said Gillard.

  ‘So why is he concerned about you making direct contact with the bombers?’ said Thatcher. ‘We saw that, too, when Inspector Biddulph tried to make contact with his man on the bus. There was real fear, then, remember? And the man in the coffee shop in Marble Arch, papering the window so that he can’t be seen. This has all been about isolating the bombers so that we have to negotiate with Shahid.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Maybe Shahid is the only one who knows what’s happening. It’s completely his show. The bombers are the chess pieces and he’s masterminding the game.’

  ‘You mean he hasn’t told the bombers the full story?’ said Kamran.

  ‘It’s possible they don’t know what he’s planned, yes.’ He took off his spectacles, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and began to polish the lenses. ‘This is what concerns me,’ he said. ‘Shahid is confident that everything is going exactly as he planned. You can hear that in his voice. My worry is that what he’s planned isn’t the release of the prisoners, but that right from the start his aim has been to kill as many people as possible.’ He finished polishing his glasses and put them back on before forcing a smile. ‘I just hope I’m wrong,’ he said.

  WANDSWORTH (3.53 p.m.)

  The pack around Malik’s waist vibrated and he jumped. ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Zoe, as he groped for the zip.

  ‘It’s okay, it’s the phone.’ He took it out and pressed the red button to accept the call. ‘Brother, what the fuck did I tell you?’ It was Shahid.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were talking to the police. I told you, you talk to no one.’

  ‘I didn’t talk to him. He walked up to the shop. I couldn’t shut him up.’

  ‘He sent in food?’

  ‘There are two kids here and they were playing up. And one of the shopgirls needed to go to the toilet.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She was close to pissing herself. So they sent in a bucket.’

  ‘A bucket?’

  ‘To piss in. And a couple of pizzas.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Sami, what part of “don’t talk to anyone” didn’t you understand? Do you want me to detonate that vest now? Because I fucking will. Do you want to fuck off and lie with the seventy-two virgins, is that it? You’re not getting laid on earth so you’re in a rush to do it in Heaven?’

  ‘Bruv, no, I wasn’t—’

  ‘I told you, no talking to anyone. I do the fucking talking.’

  ‘I know, bruv—’

  ‘You know what’s sitting on the table in front of me? It’s a phone, mate. And there’s a number on speed dial. I call that number and five seconds later – bang! It’s so long and good night for Mohammed Sami Malik and anyone within fifty feet of him.’

  ‘Bruv, I was doing what you said—’

  ‘I said no talking to anyone. To anyone, Sami. You want me to press this b
utton, Sami? Do you? You want it to end now? Just say the word, Sami, and I’ll do it. It means fuck all to me. I press a button and it’s over for you.’

  ‘No, bruv, please! Please, bruv! It was a mistake, okay? I know it, and I won’t do it again, I swear! I swear on my mother’s life! Please!’

  Shahid stayed quiet for several seconds.

  ‘You still there, bruv?’ asked Malik, eventually.

  ‘Yeah. I’m here. Okay, look, let the woman with the kids go. But you don’t talk to anyone, do you hear? Just tell her to take the kids and get the fuck out of there. But you remember what I said, Sami. You so much as open your mouth to the cops one more time and you and everyone there will be blown to bits.’

  ‘I won’t talk to anyone, I swear.’

  ‘Just do as you’re told, and this will soon be over and everyone can go home,’ said Shahid. ‘Inshallah.’

  ‘Inshallah,’ repeated Malik. If Allah wills.

  The line went dead. ‘What’s happening?’ asked Zoe, fearfully.

  ‘He’s mad at me for the bucket and the pizzas,’ said Malik. ‘But he says we can let the kids go.’

  ‘Who is he? Who were you talking to?’

  ‘The man who’s organising all this. His name’s Shahid.’

  ‘But who is he?’

  Malik shook his head. ‘You ask too many questions,’ he said.

  LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (3.54 p.m.)

  Kamran stared at the digital clock on the wall. It clicked over to 3:55. In a few minutes there would be just two hours left before the deadline expired. ‘He’ll call back,’ said Gillard.

  ‘But when he does, we’ve nothing to tell him,’ said Kamran. They were sitting at Gillard’s workstation. Lumley had gone off to the canteen with Thatcher. On the right-hand screen were photographs of the six men the bombers wanted released from Belmarsh. On the left-hand screen were the photographs of the bombers. Peas in a pod, thought Kamran. All were young, bearded Asians with the exception of Osman, the Somalian, and Bhashir, the forty-six-year-old father.

  ‘We play for time,’ said Gillard.

  ‘We don’t have time, that’s the problem,’ said Kamran. ‘Two hours and that’s it. And what Alex said earlier was bang on – no pun intended. There’s no way we can put nine bombers on a plane. And sooner or later Shahid is going to realise that.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Maybe he knows that already. Maybe he’s just waiting for the deadline, knowing that the whole world is watching. That way he gets the maximum exposure.’