Bombproof

by Michael Robotham

  Piper hates sieges. In the old days they were easy. You gave the guy a few hours to cool down (or sober up) and then issued a final warning. If he didn’t surrender you went in. Breaking down doors. Firing teargas. Shooting the bad guys. Restoring order.

  But ever since the Jean de Menezes debacle at Stockwell Tube, procedures have been changed. Not so much procedures as public sentiment. Two firearms officers put seven bullets into the head of a Brazilian electrician they mistook for a suicide bomber. Who knew that people would take it so badly? Turned out that shoot to kill is only acceptable if you smoke the right suspect.

  There were public inquiries, internal reviews, an inquest and calls for the Commissioner’s head on a spike. De Menezes became a poster boy for the civil liberties whingers and bleeding hearts who delight in portraying law enforcement agencies as totalitarian secret police.

  After the war on terror and the war on drugs there should be a war on irritating people, thinks Piper, on the Marxists, the moaners and the greenies.

  Last year a siege in North London went six days. Everyone praised the police for their patience and tolerance - except for local residents, unable to sleep in their own beds or get a change of clothes.

  This one can’t go on for six days. Tomorrow morning a million people are going to be catching trains and buses into Central London. What then? Chaos.

  Piper glances at a TV monitor. The front of the Red Emperor is bathed in light that reflects off the silver and gold letters painted above the main window.

  A dozen firearms officers are positioned on the rooftops around the restaurant. Sharpshooters. Trained professionals. One clear shot and they can all go home. In the meantime Piper is supposed to negotiate. Confer. Reach a deal.

  That’s his dilemma. Piper is a conservative and a believer in law and order, but not in lawyers or judges or in a judicial system which has too many flaws; too many gaps for criminals to slip through.

  Piper is also a realist, who has accepted the fact that in all probability his decisions will cause irreparable harm to innocent individuals. That’s the nature of policing. No matter how much training you do or how sharp your skills or how modern your armoury, sometimes the most efficient weapon is a broad axe.

  The Commissioner has called a media conference. He wants Piper by his side. He will doubtless express full faith in his Commander, thereby ensuring that if the operation goes south, he can blame someone else for the debacle.

  28

  Tony Murphy is being ‘schmeissed’. A giant-sized loofah slaps against his naked body, smearing soap over his large expanse of skin while geysers of steam billowing from pipes condenses on the marble walls and ceiling.

  He over-imbibed at the garden party and now he’s sweating out the toxins in a Russian steam room at Porchester Spa, an art deco building on Queensway.

  The giant loofah smears across his shoulders and down his back. Peter, his masseur, offers him a cold towel.

  Normally being ‘schmeissed’ relaxes Murphy - refreshes the parts other saunas don’t reach. Not today. Sami Macbeth is on his mind.

  Leaving the steam room, he takes a breathtaking dip in the plunge pool, shrinking his testicles to marbles. Peter is waiting for him at the slab. Lying face down, Murphy closes his eyes and feels the perspiration prickling on his flesh again as strong fingers go to work, breaking down knots of tension in his shoulders and neck.

  Peter’s hands leave his skin. Maybe he’s getting more oil. The door opens. Cool air brushes his flesh.

  A moment later comes a different sensation. Murphy rears up, roaring, naked as the day as he was born, only bigger, fatter and whiter. A scalding hot towel drops from his back, leaving an angry red burn.

  ‘Hello, fat man, how’s the restaurant business. You look like you’ve been eating all the fookin’ profits.’

  Murphy is looking at a familiar face in unfamiliar surroundings - Jimmy Ferris, better known as Ferret.

  Irish, Catholic and Scouse, Jimmy has a chip on both shoulders and a nest of angry bees buzzing in his head. Rumour has it he once trained to be a priest. He spent three years in a seminary: up before dawn, mass every morning, vows of silence. Then one day he had a religious epiphany in reverse. He stopped believing in God. This had nothing to do with atheism or humanism or moral relativism. Ferret still believed in a higher divine, supernatural power but it wasn’t Jesus or Mohammed or Buddha. The power lay within him. Behold, a nihilist was born.

  Ferret approached his new career with the same single-minded fervour that he once gave to God and the Catholic Church. He became an IRA fixer. Nobody ever discovered the exact role he played in the organisation, but his phone number kept appearing on the call sheets whenever they picked up a terror suspect.

  Murphy wraps a blue gingham towel around his body, tucking it under his armpits. Ferret is also wearing a towel, but his body is lean and sinewy, covered in tattoos. He has a gold crown on one of his front teeth, making him appear even more rat-like.

  ‘I always wondered if fat men are fat all over, you know, but you must have trouble finding that thing to piss. Now fat chicks are different. Everyone knows they got tight pussies.’

  ‘What are you doing here, Jimmy?’ asks Murphy.

  ‘I’ve come to check on my supply chain. I hear from our buyer that one of the samples I sent him didn’t arrive.’

  ‘There’s been a delay.’

  ‘Nobody told me about any fookin’ delay.’

  ‘Unforseen circumstances.’

  ‘Do I look like a fookin’ eejit, Murphy? You had one fookin’ job. You had to take the fookin’ guns, retool the fookin’ barrels and transport the fookin’ things. Now I have buyers questioning my fookin’ ability to deliver on my promises. ’ Ferret brings a whole new meaning to expletive-laden conversation. ‘Why was the consignment short?’

  ‘I kept one of the guns.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I took a liking to it.’

  ‘That wasn’t the fookin’ deal. The fookin’ guns are supposed to be in fookin’ Africa.’

  Murphy gets defensive. ‘Don’t try to heavy me, Jimmy. I was doing you a favour.’

  ‘No,’ says Ferret shaking his head. ‘You were repaying a favour. That’s a very fookin’ different thing. You owe fookin’ people and those fookin’ people owe me. That’s how the fookin’ system works.’

  Murphy’s throat has gone dry. He can’t tell him about Ray Jnr taking the Beretta and getting arrested, or Sami Macbeth stealing it back. Macbeth should have destroyed it by now. What if he hasn’t? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

  Ferret wets one end of a towel and twirls it into a cord, flicking it like a whip. It snaps against Murphy’s thigh and he dances away. Ferret moves him around the marble slab, laughing. Then he tosses the towel into the plunge pool and pushes through the misted doors to the changing rooms.

  Murphy is panting and pink, but not because of the steam. He gets himself a drink of water from a fountain and spills some of it down his chest.

  Maybe it’s time to walk away, he thinks. Sail into the sunset or at least fly there first class. Bermuda is nice this time of year. The condo is waiting. But first he has to do something about Sami Macbeth.

  29

  It should be getting dark outside, but the colour of the light is unnatural. Spotlights are bathing the cobblestones in a brightness that makes them look like the centre of a stage. We’re in the right place for drama - the West End. This one is unfolding in three acts.

  The front door of the Red Emperor is barricaded with tables turned on their sides and stacked on top of each other. The kitchen door is also sealed and Sami has locked everyone in the storeroom where they’re sitting on sacks of rice and cans of cooking oil.

  Sami takes the semi-automatic from the plastic evidence bag. Weighs it in his hand. Marvels at the raw power it seems to hold. He likes the way it fits into his hand and the delicate lines his fingertips leave when he strokes the freshly oiled metal.

  Taking out
the ammunition clip, he counts eighteen slug-like bullets. Hollow points. The magazine takes twenty. Two bullets are missing. Dessie said Ray Garza’s boy fired on a rozzer.

  A chopper sounds overhead. The whump, whump of the blades seems to shake the air. Sami heads upstairs. Walks through the flat. It has a small kitchen, a bathroom, two bedrooms and a lounge.

  Lucy’s room has a desk tucked under the window and books piled on either side of her chair. She’s studying business or management. Her handwriting is neat and precise.

  From the third floor window he can see more police cars and ambulances, parked in Wardour Street. A truck is unloading barricades, lifting them with a portable crane and dropping them across the road. Police in black body armour are crouching behind vehicles.

  Sami opens a window. Leans out. He’s looking for external stairs or a fire escape. Nothing. The uppermost window leads to a small flat roof overlooking Horse and Dolphin Yard. It’s about fourteen foot across to another flat roof on the far side. Even with a run-up he’d struggle to make a jump like that. And even if he could get to the other side, where would he go?

  A dark shadow moves at the very edge of his vision. He turns. Someone is watching him. They’re crouched behind a brick wall on the opposite side of the yard. A policeman? A sniper?

  Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

  Sami pulls back from the window and presses his body against the wall, fear sucking at his chest. Tugging a cord he lowers the blind and turns off the lamp on Lucy’s desk. Staying low, he moves through the flat, locking windows. Lowering blinds. In darkness, he searches the drawers and cupboards for anything that might be useful - masking tape, a ski mask, scissors, pliers and a pocket knife.

  He can hear someone beating on the storeroom door downstairs. Sami takes the shooter from the waistband of his jeans. Unlocks the door.

  ‘It’s about fucking time,’ says the van driver. ‘There ain’t enough air. We’re suffocating in here.’

  ‘There’s plenty of air.’

  ‘And the place is filthy.’

  ‘What are you, the food inspector?’

  Lucy protests. ‘It’s not dirty. I clean it every week.’

  Lucy’s mother and father are sitting on rice sacks, arm in arm. The girl in the wheelchair and her mother are at the centre of the storeroom. The wheelchair is barely wide enough for the space. Her mother is soft spoken. Modestly dressed.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. It’s very dark in here and I get quite claustrophobic. ’

  ‘You can come out now,’ says Sami. ‘Stay away from the windows.’ He directs them to sit at tables closest to the kitchen. The van driver sits alone, tilting back his chair and propping his feet on the wall.

  Lucy is translating Sami’s instructions to her parents. Her mother doesn’t understand what’s happening.

  Lucy turns to Sami. ‘Are you still hungry?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You ordered food. Do you still want it?’

  ‘I can pay,’ says Sami, peeling a fifty-pound note from the bundle in the rucksack.

  ‘Is it stolen money?’ she asks.

  ‘Would it matter?’

  Lucy folds the note three times and puts it into a jar above the sink next to a picture of her grandparents in a formal pose dressed in their finest clothes.

  Sami watches her prepare, a knife blade blurring with speed as she dices celery, bamboo shoots and broccoli. She heats a wok and the kitchen fills with the hissing of vegetables hitting hot oil.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asks.

  Sami can’t answer her.

  ‘Do you really have a bomb?’

  Her eyes look incredibly wise yet she doesn’t look older than fourteen.

  ‘Why?’ Lucy asks.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Why do you have a bomb?’

  It’s an obvious question. Sami doesn’t have an answer.

  ‘What are you fighting for? What are you protesting against? What do you hate - Western imperialism, decadent bourgeois attitudes? Do you want independence or freedom? Are you an anarchist? Has Britain betrayed the Arab world?’

  Sami just wants her to shut up.

  ‘What do you hate about us?’ asks Lucy.

  ‘I don’t know who “us” is.’

  ‘Western civilisation,’ says Lucy. ‘Do you know what Gandhi said when he was asked about Western civilisation? He said he thought it was a good idea.’

  ‘He was a lot cleverer than me,’ replies Sami.

  ‘I don’t think you do have a bomb.’ She makes him sound like a failure.

  ‘I have a gun,’ he says defensively.

  A mobile phone is ringing on the counter beside the cash register. Lucy’s phone. She stares at it as though expecting it to do something else, like answer itself.

  Lucy picks it up. Presses green. Listens. Hands the phone to Sami.

  A deep resonant male voice booms down the line: ‘This is London News Radio. Am I speaking to a terrorist?’

  Sami doesn’t answer.

  ‘Are you a hostage?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you talk? Are you being held at gunpoint?’

  ‘Sorry, who are you?’

  ‘London News Radio.’

  ‘Who did you want to speak to?’

  ‘A terrorist or a hostage.’

  Sami looks around the restaurant.

  ‘I’m not a terrorist.’

  ‘So what do you call yourself - a freedom fighter, a martyr, an insurgent? What group do you represent? Are you affiliated with Osama Bin Laden? We’re live to air. Do you have a message for the British people?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The police are saying you might be Algerian or Moroccan.’

  ‘I was born in Croydon.’

  ‘But you’re Moslem, right?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you explain why you’re doing this?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Holding people hostage. Why didn’t you detonate your bomb?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Your colleague blew himself up. Were you meant to die together?’

  He’s talking about Dessie.

  ‘Have you harmed any of the hostages? How many are there? What are your demands?’

  Sami hangs up. Looks at Lucy, who shrugs.

  The van driver has turned on the TV. A policeman is being interviewed. Top brass. Chin out, shoulders back, he’s facing a firing squad of cameras and microphones.

  ‘This was a brutal, callous and horrifying act,’ he says. ‘One of the worst atrocities I have witnessed in my twenty-three years as a police officer …’

  Sounding more righteous by the sentence, he bristles with intent and stresses his determination to bring the perpetrators to justice … no stone unturned … all available resources brought to bear … blah, blah, blah.

  Reporters are shouting questions. They want to know about the second bomber, ‘the one who ran away’.

  The policeman avoids answering the question. Tries to move on. The reporters won’t let him go.

  ‘Why have police evacuated parts of Soho?’

  ‘For operational reasons.’

  ‘Is it true you’ve cornered a suicide bomber?’

  ‘We hope to arrest a suspect shortly.’

  ‘Does the suspect have a bomb?’

  ‘We have no intelligence to confirm the existence of more devices.’

  ‘Or rule it out?’

  ‘By their very nature people callous enough to kill innocent civilians are hard to stop, but our services and police are doing a heroic job.’

  ‘Is the suspect holding hostages?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Have you made contact with him? What are his demands?’

  Sami blinks at the screen. His stomach spasms like he’s going to be sick. The brass is asking for public patience and co-operation. Central London will be locked down for a while longer.

  The media conference ends. Next they interview the cabbie that kicked Sami out
of his cab. He’s talking about how he came face to face with the devil.

  ‘’He had this crazed look in his eyes, like he was obsessed, you know, and I thought I could hear the bag ticking. He could have blown me up but I kept my cool, know what I’m sayin’? I saved myself and other people.’

  Hold the phones, thinks Sami. Get this guy an agent and put him on Oprah.

  Next comes the woman from the Crooked Surgeon who let Sami use the phone.

  ‘He had these cold blue piercing eyes. They were looking right through me. It was like he was undressing me, you know, like he wanted to do things to me, obscene things. Clearly he has a very twisted misogynistic view of Western women.’

  Everyone is getting their fifteen minutes of fame, thinks Sami, except in the new digital age fifteen minutes is condensed into a sound-bite and should come with an extra large coke and fries.

  They’re calling it a siege. Nobody ever gets away from a siege. Look what happened at Waco and that school in Russia where all those kids died.

  Sami lets his forehead drop onto his forearms and closes his eyes, listening to his heart thudding and smelling sweat rising from his armpits. Even if he destroys the shooter and flushes the drugs, he’s guilty of tampering with evidence, perverting the course of justice, breaking and entering, blowing up a train and holding people hostage.

  How many years do you get for robbing the Old Bailey or for taking hostages in a restaurant? Fifteen years? Twenty? They’re calling him a terrorist. It’ll be high security, category A, Parkhurst or Belmarsh.

  Twenty years. That’s seven thousand and something days. Nadia won’t be waiting when he gets out. Neither will Kate Tierney. She’ll be long gone, twice married with three kids and thunderous thighs.

  They say you only think about escaping for the first five years. After ten you stop thinking about women and by fifteen you’re looking forward to a hot cocoa and lights out at ten.

  Maybe they won’t even bother arresting him. They’ll shoot him Butch and Sundance style the moment he sets foot outside. Exclamate him. Full stop. End of story.