‘What are you thinking?’
‘I don’t know, but as the clock hits six we want as few people near that coach as possible.’
KENSINGTON (5.35 p.m.)
‘I’m hungry,’ said Sally. ‘I haven’t eaten since this morning. Nobody has.’ She was sitting with her back to the wall, her legs drawn up to her chest. Osman was standing next to her, his left hand at his side to keep the tension off the chain that linked them.
‘There’s nothing I can do about that, madam,’ said Osman. ‘I’m hungry too. I haven’t had food since last night.’
‘There’s stuff in the kitchen. We give the children lunch so there are sandwiches and fruit.’
‘Everyone has to stay here,’ said Osman.
Sally pointed with her left hand. ‘That’s the kitchen there. Just open the door and there’s food.’
Osman’s stomach growled. He looked at the five hostages sitting by the wall at the far end of the room. ‘Is everyone hungry?’
They all nodded. ‘I’d like a drink,’ said a middle-aged woman. ‘I have to take my cholesterol tablets and I need water for that.’
‘You can stand up and go into the kitchen,’ Osman said to her. ‘Leave the door open and stay where I can see you. Bring out some food and water.’ The woman pushed herself up and went to the door. As she reached for the handle, the mobile phone buzzed in Osman’s waistpack. ‘Wait!’ shouted Osman. She froze. He used his left hand to take out the phone and put it to his ear.
‘We have won, brother,’ said Shahid. ‘The ISIS prisoners are being taken to the airport as we speak.’
‘It’s over?’ asked Osman. He grinned, bobbing up and down excitedly.
‘Almost, brother. A coach is pulling up outside. You are to take your hostage out with you. It will take you to the airport.’
‘I don’t want to go to the airport,’ said Osman. ‘I want to go home.’
‘Once the prisoners are on the plane, you can go home,’ said Shahid. ‘Go outside now. Speak to no one. Just get onto the coach.’
Osman opened his mouth to say something but the line went dead. He fumbled the phone back into the waistpack. ‘We are to go outside,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘You and I.’
‘You’re letting us go?’ asked Sally.
‘Not yet,’ said Osman. ‘We have to get on a coach.’
‘A coach? Why?’
‘We have to go to the airport.’
She frowned. ‘Why?’
‘We just do.’ He gestured at the door. ‘Come on, please, madam. We have to go.’
‘I don’t want to. You go. You’ve got what you wanted. You don’t need me any more.’
‘Madam, even if I wanted to let you go, I couldn’t. I don’t have the key.’
‘How can you not have the key?’
Osman smiled thinly. ‘You have many questions, madam, but I’m afraid I have very few answers.’ He tugged at the chain that connected them. ‘Please come with me. At least then the others can go home.’
She looked at him earnestly. ‘Are you going to kill me?’ she asked.
He smiled. ‘No, madam. I am most definitely not. You have my word on that. Like you, I just want to go home to my loved ones.’
She stared at him for several seconds. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
He took her over to the door that led to the corridor and pushed it open. The corridor was empty but through the glass doors to his left he could see the street. There was a coach parked there, its windows blacked out, police motorcycles in front of it, blue lights flashing. The door was already open and the driver was looking down at them, his hands on the steering-wheel.
‘I really don’t want to get on the coach,’ she said.
‘There’s no choice,’ said Osman. He went up the steps first. The driver flashed him a smile and Osman smiled back. ‘Don’t sit in the front row,’ said the driver.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Osman.
Six of the seats were occupied. There were four sitting to his left and two to his right. Three Asians and three hostages. A priest, a young woman and an older woman, who was dabbing at her eyes with a red handkerchief. The men and their hostages stared at Osman. The fact that they were on the coach meant that it would soon be over. Shahid had won. The ISIS prisoners had been released and were on the way to the airport. Once the prisoners were on their plane, Osman would be free. He smiled but no one smiled back. He moved down the middle of the coach and moved to sit on the right-hand side, then realised that Sally would have to go in first. ‘I’m sorry, madam, after you,’ he said, nodding for her to take the window seat.
She slid along and he sat next to her. ‘Why have they covered the windows?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Osman.
The Asian man sitting in front of Osman twisted around in his seat. ‘It’s so they can’t shoot us,’ he said. ‘If they can’t see us, they can’t shoot us. Inshallah.’
‘Inshallah,’ repeated Osman. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Where are you from, brother?’ asked the man.
‘I’m Somalian.’
‘You’re a long way from home, brother.’
‘No, sir, England is my home.’
The door closed and the coach pulled away from the kerb.
LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (5.45 p.m.)
Kamran contemplated his mobile phone. ‘You’re wondering why he hasn’t called,’ said Chris Thatcher. The negotiator was standing at the door to the Gold Command suite, looking at the main screen in the special operations room, which was showing the view from the Met’s helicopter, looking down on the coach containing the bombers.
‘The ISIS prisoners are already at the airport, I would have thought he’d be asking about a plane by now.’
Thatcher nodded. ‘Everything else has been planned to perfection, hasn’t it?’
‘He’s either assuming the plane is in place or he doesn’t care either way. And, frankly, it’s a big assumption to make. You’d expect him at least to want to know what sort of plane it is.’
Chief Superintendent Gillard stood up at his desk and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Anyone got any ibuprofen or paracetamol?’ he asked. ‘My head’s throbbing.’
‘I’ve got ibuprofen, sir,’ said Sergeant Lumley, handing him a strip of tablets.
Gillard swallowed two and washed them down with water. ‘You have to wonder why he hasn’t asked about the plane, don’t you?’ he said.
‘It could also be that the plane was never an issue,’ said Kamran. ‘My worry is that he intends that coach to blow up in London with the world watching.’ The clock on the wall was showing just after a quarter to six. ‘I suppose we’ll know soon enough.’
MARBLE ARCH (5.50 p.m.)
The Al Jazeera newsreader said that they were going live to a reporter outside Biggin Hill airport. It was a middle-aged man with a Welsh accent, explaining that the airport had now been closed and that the six ISIS prisoners were awaiting the arrival of the bombers and their hostages.
Mohammed nodded enthusiastically. ‘You have won, brother. They have given in. The British always do. They talk tough but they are weak. They ran away from Afghanistan and they ran away from Iraq.’ He slapped a hand on the table. ‘This is going exactly as you planned, isn’t it?’
The man shrugged.
‘What is your name, brother?’ asked Mohammed.
‘Zach,’ said the man. ‘Zach Ahmed. You?’
‘Mohammed.’
‘A good name,’ said Ahmed. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Sudan. I am claiming asylum.’
‘Good luck with that,’ said Ahmed.
‘And you, brother? Where are you from?’
‘London, mate. I was born here.’
‘You are lucky. You are a citizen from birth. That is worth more than gold.’
Ahmed nodded at the chain linking them. ‘That why you wanted that man’s money?’
‘I hav
e none,’ said Mohammed. ‘They give me a little but it’s not enough to live on. They won’t let me work. But being poor here is still better than being rich in Sudan.’ He held out his left hand and showed Ahmed the glittering watch on his wrist. ‘How much do you think I can sell this for?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s expensive, I’m sure.’
Mohammed nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’
‘How did you get to London?’ asked Ahmed.
‘I crossed the border into Libya. I reached Italy on a small boat and travelled overland to Calais. After three months there I hid in the back of a lorry and got to England.’
‘When was that?’
‘Four years ago. I claimed asylum on the first day I got here but it takes time. The money El-Sayed gave me will help my family.’
‘Your family are still in Sudan?’
Mohammed nodded. ‘I have two wives and six children,’ he said. ‘I had to tell the authorities here that they were killed in the fighting, but they are alive and well, and once I am a citizen I will bring them to join me. They already have the money that El-Sayed sent. That will help.’
‘Sounds like you have it all worked out,’ said Ahmed.
‘Everybody knows what you have to do and say to get asylum in England,’ said Mohammed. ‘It is a game that everyone plays.’
‘And how do you know El-Sayed?’
‘Everyone here knows him. He is a big man and a good man. A true Muslim. True to his faith and true to his friends. As he said to you, he is on your side.’
‘My side?’
Mohammed leant closer and lowered his voice. ‘He is a money man for Al-Qaeda. He sends funds to them and helps pay their people here. Everyone knows.’
‘I didn’t.’
Mohammed nodded enthusiastically. ‘He is a good man. And he loves his son.’
Ahmed smiled. ‘That was clear,’ he said.
‘I have often used him to send money back to my family,’ said Mohammed. ‘Small amounts, not like today. Sometimes he would not even charge me for the transaction. He said that he understands how difficult it is for new arrivals.’ He took a sip from a bottle of water. ‘Can I ask you a question, brother?’
‘I can’t promise to answer it, but go ahead.’
‘Why did you choose this place? This coffee shop?’
‘I’m not sure.’
He waved his left hand. ‘There are so many Muslims here. Why not choose a place with more kafirs? Look around you, brother. Most of the customers are Muslim, like you. And most of them support ISIS.’
‘You think so?’
Mohammed smiled. ‘I know so. I come here often, I listen, I talk. The brothers in Syria and Iraq are fighting the good fight. If I was younger I would be there myself. And one day, inshallah, they will bring the fight to this country.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Ahmed. ‘This country is offering you asylum. Why would you want to change it?’
‘I’m here because getting asylum is easy. And because I have many friends here. A Sudanese lawyer helps me and a Sudanese landlord rents me a room. I can talk my own language and eat my own food. But I am a Muslim and I want this country to be a Muslim country. ISIS can bring that about and, inshallah, they will, one day. Maybe not in my lifetime but in the lifetime of my children, I hope it will come true.’
Ahmed’s waistpack buzzed and he took out his phone. It was Shahid. ‘The coach is outside. Good luck, brother.’
Ahmed put the phone away and stood up. ‘It’s time,’ he said.
He took Mohammed over to the window and pulled away one of the sheets of newspaper. Outside there was a white coach with blacked-out windows. The driver had already opened the door and was staring straight ahead, his face blue from the flashing lights of the half-dozen motorcycles parked ahead of him. To their left was a black BMW SUV, and two police marksmen dressed all in black were sighting their weapons along the bonnet.
‘Do you think they will kill us?’ asked Mohammed.
‘They will be too scared that the vest will explode,’ said Ahmed.
‘They could shoot you in the head.’
‘Let’s try and look on the bright side, shall we?’ said Ahmed. He opened the door. Edgware Road had been cleared of traffic, other than police and emergency vehicles, but there seemed to be a lot of onlookers standing behind yellow and black police tape, many of them holding up mobile phones. Ahmed kept his head down and his right hand above his head as he and Mohammed walked to the coach. Ahmed went up the steps first. The windows were blacked out and it was only when he reached the top of the steps that he saw who was inside. There were eight passengers, four sitting behind the driver and four on the other side.
Ahmed walked down the aisle, Mohammed staying close behind him. He went right to the back of the coach and sat on the driver’s side, close to the emergency exit. Mohammed sat next to him. ‘Do you think we will go on the plane?’ Mohammed asked Ahmed.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Ahmed.
‘I’ve never been on a plane.’
‘It’s no big deal,’ said Ahmed.
The coach door closed and they drove off, following the six police motorcyclists.
‘I can’t leave England,’ said Mohammed, suddenly worried. ‘They said I’ll lose my asylum appeal if I leave the country.’
‘I’m sure if you just explain that, they’ll let you stay.’
‘Do you think so?’
Ahmed shook his head contemptuously. ‘Mate, I really don’t give a fuck.’
LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (5.55 p.m.)
Kamran looked over at the clock on the wall. Six o’clock was fast approaching and there had been no call from Shahid. The coach had left the coffee shop in Marble Arch and was on its way to the Marylebone pub, less than a mile away.
The main screen in the special operations room was showing the feed from the Met helicopter that was tracking the coach and its convoy. The road ahead was clear of traffic but there were still onlookers at most of the intersections.
‘If they detonate now, they’re going to kill a lot of people,’ said Kamran.
‘We’re doing our best to keep the rubberneckers away but the TV isn’t doing us any favours,’ said Gillard. ‘They keep showing the route the coach will likely take and everyone wants their own video to put on Facebook or YouTube.’
‘That might be Shahid’s plan. He lets the great British public do all the publicity work.’
‘I hope you’re wrong, Mo,’ said Gillard.
‘You and me both,’ said Kamran.
Captain Murray came into the Gold Command suite, putting away his mobile phone. ‘They’ve got the timing down to two and a half seconds but that’s about it,’ he said.
‘What do you think?’ asked Gillard. ‘Is that enough?’
‘I wish I could say it was, but two and a half seconds is still a long time when all they have to do is press a button,’ said the SAS captain.
‘What about stun grenades?’ asked Kamran.
‘They’re a double-edged sword,’ said Murray. ‘They’ll likely stun all the occupants but it will increase the time it takes to clear the vehicle. Our driver will be affected, also. The question is whether we can stun them quickly enough and long enough to take them out before they get a chance to detonate. The problem is that flash-bangs don’t detonate instantly. The bad guys will see the canisters a fraction of a second before they go off and, unfortunately, a fraction of a second is more than enough time to press a trigger.’
‘Just a thought,’ said Chris Thatcher. ‘Do you have a negotiating team at the airport?’
‘I had assumed we’d be talking to Shahid,’ said Gillard.
‘That’s been the way it’s gone so far, but once we have the bombers isolated in the hangar there’d be an opportunity to talk to them direct.’
‘Shahid has gone out of his way to make sure that we only talk to him,’ said Kamran. ‘I don’t think he’s going to change his SOP.’
<
br /> ‘I was thinking of not giving him the choice,’ said Thatcher. ‘They’ll be isolated, Shahid won’t be able to see them. It might be an opportunity to make direct contact.’
Gillard looked at Kamran. ‘What do you think, Mo?’
‘When they’ve had the opportunity to negotiate, they haven’t taken it. In fact, other than at Wandsworth, they’ve gone out of their way to avoid it. Having said that, we should be covering all bases. It wouldn’t hurt to have a team there.’
‘What about you, Chris? Do you want to go? We could bike you there.’
‘I think I’m probably most useful here,’ said Thatcher. ‘Mo’s right. Shahid is the main point of contact. I just think it might be helpful to have someone on the ground with negotiating skills.’
‘We have half an hour,’ said Kamran. ‘I could talk to Bromley, see if they have any negotiators on call.’
‘Go for it,’ said Gillard.
Kamran looked up at the clock again.
‘That six o’clock deadline’s worrying you, isn’t it?’ said Gillard.
‘That was his deadline from the start,’ said Kamran. There was just a minute to go. He went to the door and looked at the main screen in the special operations room, which was showing the feed from the Met helicopter. The coach was approaching the Grapes pub in Marylebone.
Murray had followed him and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It wouldn’t make sense to detonate before they’re all on board.’
‘I hope so,’ said Kamran. He found himself holding his breath as the seconds ticked off. The second hand reached twelve, then ticked past. On the big screen, the coach continued to power along the road, flanked by police motorcycles, their blue lights flashing. Kamran sighed with relief.
‘Don’t relax yet, Mo,’ said the SAS captain. ‘The crunch is half an hour away, when Shahid realises his people aren’t getting on a plane. That’s when the shit is going to be heading fan-wards.’
MARYLEBONE (6.02 p.m.)
The Asian Sky News presenter with too much make-up was describing the police van that was driving towards Biggin Hill airport at the centre of a convoy of police vehicles and motorcycles. She seemed to be struggling for words and was constantly correcting herself, so Chaudhry figured she wasn’t reading from a script.
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