He tapped the Bakerloo Line map. ‘This is Oxford Circus. You’re going south. Baker Street is here. You need to go north.’
The man’s frown deepened and he spoke to his wife in rapid Japanese. More faces were turning to watch.
‘You need to get off at the next station,’ added Malik. ‘Piccadilly Circus. Then find the platform for northbound trains. Bakerloo Line. North. Okay?’
‘North. Thank you.’
A couple of teenagers in combat trousers and camouflage-patterned coats were whispering and smirking. Malik fought to keep calm. It didn’t matter who saw him. At precisely five o’clock he would press the button that would activate the bomb that would send him to heaven and take with him dozens if not hundreds of infidels. He looked across at the teenagers. Maybe they would get off at Charing Cross. Maybe they would be on the platform at five o’clock. He hoped so. Malik smiled. It was all going to be just fine.
It was, thought Major Gannon, like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. There were some six thousand CCTV cameras covering the tube system. In any one hour a hundred and fifty thousand people were heading underground, more at rush-hour – and it was rush-hour now. There were too many cameras to monitor. With twenty workstations in the control room, even a ten-second look at each camera would take fifty minutes. And there were no cameras on any of the trains criss-crossing the system. The bomber in Brixton had been on his way to King’s Cross on the Victoria Line. If others were en route, they would probably be travelling by train too, so they wouldn’t be visible until they stepped out on to a platform. The cameras would have to be checked every time a train pulled in. It was an impossible task. Even if they had a face recognition system they could run in conjunction with the CCTV cameras, they didn’t know who they were looking for. And there was a good chance that whoever had planned the operation had recruited Invisibles, men or women who held British citizenship in their own right and who were able to move around under the intelligence service’s radar.
A phone rang and the inspector answered it, then handed the receiver to Gannon. It was Commander Matt Richards, who was running the GT Ops room at New Scotland Yard, the main control room in the event of a major terrorist incident. Richards was in direct communication with COBRA, the Cabinet Office briefing room, and the prime minister.
‘How’s it going there, Major?’
‘Ronnie Roberts and I are checking the CCTV cameras but there are too many people down there. Can we evacuate?’
‘Sorry, Major, that’s not an option. Every scenario we’ve ever run shows that evacuation causes more problems than it solves. Crowds form outside the stations and if a bomb goes off there we have more casualties than if the explosion takes place below ground.’
‘The good of the many outweighs the good of the few?’
‘We’ve run the numbers, Major. Evacuation of the system doesn’t save lives. If we have a specific threat, place and time, we can shut down a section of line or run trains through a station without stopping. But shutting the whole system is just not on.’
‘No clues on the Brixton bomber?’
‘Just the Underground map. Only King’s Cross was circled, so there’s a possibility that he was a lone wolf,’ said Richards.
‘If it’s al-Qaeda, multiple targets are more likely,’ said Gannon.
‘God be with us,’ said Richards, and cut the connection.
The commander was a regular churchgoer and fond of quoting from the Bible. Gannon doubted that God would be of much help over the next half an hour. He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. King’s Cross was an obvious target because so many tube lines intersected at the station. But Victoria was the busiest station on the system. Gannon wondered why the man was travelling from Brixton to King’s Cross when Victoria was only four stops away. King’s Cross was four stops further on. Why risk travelling the extra distance? Because someone else was going to Victoria. Someone who would be using a different tube line.
Gannon jumped to his feet. He pointed at the sergeant. ‘I want Victoria station evacuated,’ he said.
Shepherd’s earpiece crackled. ‘Spider, you there?’ It was Gannon.
‘Receiving,’ said Shepherd.
‘Victoria station, how quickly can you get there?’
‘It’ll have to be on foot, there’s no direct line.’
‘There’s going to be a bomber at Victoria. I’ve got guys heading over from the barracks but you might get there first.’
‘On my way,’ said Shepherd.
Shepherd saw Nick Wright at the far end of the platform and jogged over to him. ‘Nick, I’ve got to get to Victoria now.’
‘You’ll have to go through Green Park. Piccadilly Line to Green Park, then Victoria Line south.’
‘I don’t have time, what about running through the tunnels?’
‘Other than that it’s pitch black and there’s a live rail that’ll fry you if you touch it, it sounds like a plan. Over ground is the only way.’
‘Cheers,’ said Shepherd. He rushed for the escalator and ran up the moving stairs two at a time.
Gannon put his hand on the shoulder of the young WPC and peered at her screen. On the display was a view of the southbound Victoria Line platform at Victoria station and a map of its CCTV cameras.
The platform was deserted except for a uniformed member of staff who was pacing up and down with a radio pressed to his ear.
‘How’s the evacuation going?’ he asked.
The WPC was wearing a lightweight headset. She reached for her computer mouse and clicked on to a CCTV camera in the main ticket hall. The screen showed four staff members holding back a crowd of frustrated passengers.
She clicked to another view, this time of the escalators, both running upwards. Then a passenger walkway, which was deserted. She flicked from camera to camera. Other than a few stragglers the station was empty. ‘So far, so good,’ said the WPC. ‘As each train comes in the passengers are shunted upstairs.’ She looked up at the major. ‘I know it’s none of my business, but why don’t you just close the station and not allow the trains to stop?’
‘Because if I’m right, there’s a bomber on one of those trains. We need him out in the open.’
‘And then what?’ asked the WPC.
‘We just hope we can take him out before he blows himself to kingdom come.’
The tube train slowed to a halt. Malik wondered what was happening. Several passengers swore. Malik glanced at his wristwatch. It was a quarter to five. The Saudi had said that Malik should be on a platform when the bomb went off. Malik wondered what he should do if the train remained in the tunnel. Should he press the button at five o’clock, or wait until the train got to the station? He counted the people in the carriage. Twenty-six. Not enough. There would be hundreds on the platform. He would wait until the train reached the station, even if it meant going over the deadline by a few minutes. The Saudi had insisted that Malik pressed the button at exactly five p.m., but he hadn’t known that the train would be stuck in a tunnel. Malik was the man on the spot, and he would decide when to activate the bomb. Why kill only twenty-six when he could kill hundreds?
His pulse raced at the thought of the explosion. The Saudi had said it would happen so quickly that there would be no sensation, just the bright light, and then he would be with Allah, one of the revered shahids, and he would receive all the rewards that were the right of those who gave their lives for Islam. Those closest to him would feel no pain. They probably wouldn’t be aware of the explosion: their lives would just wink out. There would be no place in heaven for the unbelievers. But that wasn’t Malik’s problem. They were infidels, no better than animals.
The train lurched and started moving again.
‘Thank God,’ murmured a middle-aged man, cradling a briefcase.
Malik wondered if the man really believed in God. And if he did, would that God save him from what was about to happen?
The train arrived at Charing Cross
. The two Japanese pushed in front of him, eager to get off. The man with the briefcase also pushed ahead. Malik let them go, then stepped slowly off the train. A housewife knocked his shoulder as she got on to the train. She gave him a bright smile and apologised. Malik watched her as the doors closed and she mouthed, ‘Sorry,’ again.
The train pulled out of the station. There were only a dozen people waiting for the next, but more were arriving. At the far end of the platform a CCTV camera seemed to look accusingly at him, but he knew he was just one of millions of passengers passing through the station every day. No one was looking for him. He had nothing to fear from the surveillance, but he didn’t want to stand on the platform for too long: someone might wonder why he didn’t board a train. He started to walk, following signs for the Northern Line.
Shepherd’s jacket flapped behind him as he ran and he kept his arm pressed to his left side so that no one would see the Glock in its holster. His feet pounded on the pavement and he breathed deeply and evenly. Ahead of him the Mall separated Green Park from St James’s Park. Shepherd upped the pace. It was virtually a mile from Piccadilly Circus to Victoria as the crow flew but Shepherd wasn’t a bird and he wasn’t flying. He’d run along Piccadilly, which was crowded with shoppers and office-workers heading home, then turned down St James’s Street. It was no distance, compared with his normal running schedule, but he was sweating in his pullover, jeans and jacket.
He ran past St James’s Palace and turned on to the Mall. In the distance he could see Buckingham Palace. The Royal Standard was flying, indicating that the Queen was in residence. A girl was throwing a Frisbee for a barking cocker spaniel. Two teenagers were kissing on a bench. A crocodile of Chinese tourists was walking down the Mall towards the palace, their faces impassive. Two policemen looked over at Shepherd, but dismissed him as just a man late for an appointment. Shepherd ran on. He was halfway there.
Malik walked on to the Northern Line platform. It was crowded and he smiled inwardly. Perfect. He looked up at the electronic board and saw that a train was due in four minutes, then another five minutes after that. Malik looked at his wristwatch. It was four fifty-one. Passengers were piling on to the platform, their faces falling when they saw how long they had to wait. Malik walked slowly to the middle, his hands in his pockets. The button was still tucked into the vest so that it could not be pressed accidentally. He wouldn’t hold it until the last minute.
He moved back to stand by the wall. There was a chocolate machine to his left. Malik looked at it, his mouth watering. It would be good to taste chocolate one last time. Maybe even to have a piece in his mouth as he pressed the button. He had some coins in his pocket and ran them through his fingers. He felt the milled edges of a pound, and took that as a sign that Allah meant him to have the taste of chocolate in his mouth when he went to heaven.
He went to the machine and slotted in the coin. He chose a bar of mint chocolate, then went back to the wall. He unwrapped it and popped a piece into his mouth. There were over a hundred people along the platform.
Malik let the chocolate melt in his mouth. It reminded him of the mint tea his mother had made for him. Would there be chocolate in heaven? Yes. All his needs would be taken care of. Malik hadn’t seen his mother and father since he returned to England, but when it was over and the media reported what had happened, they would realise where he had been and what he had done. Whether or not they understood why he had given his life for the jihad, they would know that he had earned them a place in heaven and they would thank him for all eternity.
Malik felt a tug at his coat and he flinched. Then he saw it was a little girl of five or six and smiled. Blonde curly hair, blue eyes, wearing a grey overcoat with toggles and bright pink wellington boots. ‘Can I have some?’ she asked.
‘Go away, little girl,’ he whispered.
‘I want some chocolate.’
‘Didn’t your mother tell you not to talk to strangers?’
The child nodded solemnly.
‘Well, go away.’
‘I just want some chocolate.’
A young woman rushed up to him. Her hair was the same colour as the child’s and she had the same big blue eyes. She grabbed the child’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
‘She wanted some chocolate,’ said Malik. ‘Is it okay if I give her a piece?’
‘I don’t like her to eat chocolate,’ she said. ‘It’s bad for her teeth.’ She looked down at her daughter. ‘What have I told you about bothering people?’
‘Really, it’s no bother,’ said Malik.
The woman’s brow creased as she looked at Malik. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You look hot. Like you might be ill. I have a flu powder, the sort you can take without water.’ She fumbled in her handbag.
‘I’m not sick, but thank you,’ said Malik. ‘It’s the air down here. It’s always so stuffy.’
‘I know what you mean,’ she said. ‘I hate it but it’s the easiest way to travel around, especially when you have children. So much safer than the roads.’
‘Yes,’ said Malik, quietly. ‘So much safer.’
He felt a breeze on his cheek, heralding the arrival of the train. The lines vibrated and then he heard the train powering through the tunnel. Several passengers moved back but most stayed close to the edge, not wanting to lose their place. The little girl reached up for her mother’s hand and Malik felt a surge of relief that they were getting on to the train.
‘No, pet, it’s too crowded,’ said the woman. ‘Let’s wait for the next one.’ She smiled at Malik. ‘We’re going to see my parents. It’s my father’s birthday.’ Malik saw she had a prettily wrapped package in a carrier-bag, tied with a gold bow.
The train roared into the station and its brakes squealed. Malik kept his back to the wall as the door opened and passengers flooded out. Many stayed on, though, heading south to Waterloo, and the train was still too full for those on the platform to get on. Some tried, but the carriages were filled to capacity. Malik looked up at the electronic display. Five minutes until the next train.
The little girl waved at Malik but he turned his back on her and walked away,holding the chocolate. He passed two Canadians, their rucksacks emblazoned with red and white maple-leaf logos. They were holding hands and whispering to each other. An Indian woman was sitting with three young children, her arms around them protectively. She smiled at him and looked into his eyes. For a second Malik felt as if she could see right into his mind. He averted his eyes and hurried past.
He could barely breathe. His way was blocked by a group of students standing guard over a line of suitcases. They were talking excitedly in Italian. Malik tried to get through them, apologising. One, a teenage boy, put his hand on Malik’s back. Malik twisted away. More passengers were pushing their way on to the platform. Malik saw a gap by the wall and moved into it. There were hundreds of people on the platform with more arriving all the time, parents with children, businessmen carrying briefcases, couples holding hands.
He couldn’t see the little blonde girl now, but he knew she was there, and that she was still holding her mother’s hand. Malik’s mind was racing. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. They were the enemy. The infidel. They weren’t people – they were targets. But now he couldn’t stop seeing them as people. Men, women and children who would soon be lying broken and bleeding on the platform. Dead and dying. Those still alive crying out for their loved ones. Begging their gods to save them.
Malik’s hands were soaked with sweat and he wiped them on his raincoat. He felt the bulky packages of explosive. Three Arab women moved down the platform, clothed from head to foot in the traditional black jibab, only their eyes visible. They were all carrying bulging Marks & Spencer carrier-bags. Malik stared at them in horror. Muslim women. He looked around frantically. There were two Pakistani women to his left. It wasn’t how he’d pictured it when he’d lain on his back in the graveyard. In his dreams he
’d been surrounded by men when he’d pressed the button. Evil men, who hated Islam and everything it stood for, who murdered innocent Muslims, slaughtered women and children. But as Malik stood on the station platform he realised that he was the one who’d be killing innocents. He would be as bad as the infidels he hated. And how could he live in heaven for eternity knowing he had earned his place with Allah by killing women and children? The three Muslim women stopped next to Malik. He rubbed a hand over his face. This wasn’t right, he thought. What he was doing wasn’t right.
The ARV pulled up in front of Victoria station. BTP officers had drawn up a cordon and were preventing passengers entering the station. A manager was using a megaphone to tell the crowds that the station was closed until further notice. Rose radioed in that they had arrived. They were told to wait for further instructions.
‘What’s the story?’ Rose asked the controller.
‘When we know, you’ll know,’ said the controller. ‘All we’re being told is that it’s a possible Operation Rolvenden.’
‘If it’s those Fathers for Children nutters again, I’ll shoot them myself this time,’ said Sutherland.
Suddenly Rose saw a man running at full pelt towards the station. He frowned. It was Stu Marsden.
‘What’s he doing?’ asked Sutherland.
‘Who is it?’ asked Bamber.
‘Stu, our observer,’ said Sutherland. ‘He’s on attachment with BTP today. Undercover.’
Rose climbed out of the ARV. ‘I’ll have a word with him,’ said Rose. ‘Maybe he knows what’s going on.’
Shepherd saw the crowds at Victoria station long before he reached the tube entrance. He forced his way through, holding up his warrant card and identifying himself as a policeman. There was a uniformed BTP officer at the entrance. He checked Shepherd’s ID and waved him through.
Shepherd headed for the turnstiles. A tube employee in a blue uniform and peaked cap opened a gate to let him through. He ran for the escalator. Three tube lines operated through the station: the District, Circle and Victoria lines. As he reached the top, he heard the sound of boots behind him. Shepherd looked over his shoulder. It was Rose. ‘What’s up, Sarge?’ he asked.
Soft Target: The Second Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery) Page 39