by Max Kinnings
He might have come across as something of a weird fish but Ed was grateful for Moorcroft’s clarity and focus. What he said next was confirmation of Ed’s fears that Tommy Denning was a fierce adversary.
“The trouble you’ve got at that specific location is that there’s a section of tunnel at a particularly low elevation with respect to the stations on either side of it and, to make matters worse, the ground is very unporous. The tunnel will fill in no time. I’d say these people knew exactly what they were doing when they chose the location for their, er . . . attack.”
“When you say it’ll fill in no time, what are we talking?”
“Well, I’d have to put together some figures, which I’m happy to do if someone can let me have access to a computer.”
“Absolutely, of course, but in the meantime, can you give me a ballpark? Will the tunnel fill in a day? Half a day? An hour?”
“Oh gosh, I really couldn’t hypothesize to that sort of degree . . .”
“Nearer to which?”
Ed suspected that Moorcroft was shaking his head, not realizing that he was blind.
“I really need to press you on this,” said Ed. “It really is very important.” He couldn’t hide the desperation and urgency in his voice.
“Well, one would have to say that in the worst-case scenario you’re looking at maybe two hours from the start of the flooding. In the best case, I don’t know, three or four?”
Ed felt strangely light-headed as Professor Moorcroft said this. It was as though the sheer enormity of what they faced had finally been confirmed. In a typical hostage negotiation, Ed was comforted by the knowledge that he could settle in and wait, allowing the minutes and hours to tick by, knowing that with every moment that passed, the perpetrator’s resolve would be weakening and the balance of power inexorably tipped in the direction of the negotiators. He had felt that same comfort earlier in the day. It had been something to cling to when there was no other information coming through from the command center. But now it was gone, snatched away by the realization that they were faced with a situation that was going to worsen rapidly. When Denning had advised George, the driver, over the radio link to “think of it as an egg timer,” he knew exactly what he was saying.
“Okay, we need to stay completely focused now,” said Hooper stating the obvious. He sounded anything but focused. His voice was imbued with a shrill note that whispered fear to Ed.
“This guy’s clever,” said Calvert. “He certainly knows how to pile on the pressure. He’s got over three hundred people down there with a train that’s wired with explosives and a tunnel that’s filling up with water. He sure as hell wants to ensure that we give him what he wants.”
“Professor Moorcroft, how long do you think it might be until the power to the train goes down?” asked Ed.
“Again, it’s a question that’s almost impossible to answer with any degree of accuracy,” said Moorcroft.
“Try,” said Ed.
“Well, what you have to consider is that just because there’s water on the track doesn’t mean that the power won’t continue to function for some time. And once the power does indeed fail, the trains that are used on the Northern Line also have a battery that may keep the lights on for anything up to an hour longer. It really depends in what state the battery’s in.”
“Ed,” said Laura, “I’m going to have to butt in at this point. Commander Boise wants you to take part in a conference call with COBRA. As the only person who has spoken to the perpetrator of the hostage-taking at this time—and as lead negotiator—she wants you to discuss the situation with the committee.”
Ed was about to express his immediate thoughts and say that it was crazy that he should have to be taken away from the front line of the negotiation with Denning so close to issuing his demands, even if it was only for a moment, but he decided against it and said, “Sure.” He stood up and Laura took him by the arm and led him from the room.
They walked along the corridor—the same corridor he’d walked along earlier that morning with Hooper when he had arrived at the Network Control center—and Laura said, “They don’t know about the water in the tunnel.”
“So I guess I’m the messenger? Let’s hope they don’t shoot me.”
Laura emitted a humorless chuckle as she led Ed into another office and placed a telephone receiver in his hand.
“Hi, this is Ed Mallory, lead negotiator.”
“Ed, this is Malcolm Walker. I’m chairing this meeting of the COBRA committee. Can you please give us an update of where we are with this situation? Our last piece of news was about the Internet broadcast.”
There was no point considering that this was the highest level briefing that he had ever been party to; no point even considering the deeper significance of his inclusion in this discussion.
“We’re obviously treating this as a major terrorist incident due to the sheer scale of the hostage-taking, the possible death of the two CO19 officers, and the claim that the train is wired with explosives. We’ve also had some alarming news in the past few minutes. The train driver managed to keep the radio channel open so we heard some extraneous conversation between him and the main hijacker, Tommy Denning. This has led us to believe that there is some sort of flooding taking place in the tunnel which might be coming from a water source, namely the River Lime, which is an underground river that was boxed in adjacent to the Northern Line tunnel during the construction of the Underground rail network. We’re worried that the intention is to flood the tunnel, thereby placing the passengers in further jeopardy, by way of a bargaining tactic.”
Ed felt relieved; he sounded like a man in control even if he didn’t feel like one. The members of COBRA were clearly stunned by the audacity of Denning’s attack and, for a moment, there was silence on the line as they all hid behind the faint hiss of the multiple connection on the conference call. When they had turned up for work that morning, they could never have imagined they would be faced with an attack from such an unlikely source, and one that would gain such overwhelming media attention. Because despite the scene of the hostage-taking being hundreds of feet underground, the grainy, almost ghostly, video feed from Denning’s webcam was replete with all the iconography of the World Trade Center as it had billowed smoke in the sunshine of that September morning.
The voices that filled the silence were imbued with palpable tension. In the absence of any coherent plan to counter the threat, talk in newsrooms throughout the world had already turned to intelligence failings and the apportioning of blame.
Taking advantage of a break in the chatter, Ed said, “From what we have gleaned so far from intelligence relating to Denning and his sect, it would appear that we are faced with religious psychopathy here. Despite his accomplices, I’d say this is very much of Denning’s own devising and, let’s face it, he’s not come all this way to go away again. I can hear it in his voice; he’s going all the way. In that respect, he’s very much like a classic spree killer and once a spree killer has started his killing spree it’s almost impossible to talk him down, even if a dialogue can be established. In the space of a couple of hours Tommy Denning has gone from being a nobody to being the most talked-about person on the planet. He has created his own myth. Nothing I can say is going to compete with that.”
“So where does that leave us?” Head of MI5 Howard Berriman’s booming upper-crust voice on the conference call was unmistakable. It was less than an hour since Ed had last spoken to him, after all.
“As lead negotiator in the cell, it’s not really my place to offer thoughts on that.”
“I’m just asking your opinion as someone who has much experience in this area,” said Berriman.
“Well, we have a few options open to us. We can send in special forces to storm the train. We can inject gas into the tunnel that will overcome the hijackers and hostages alike. We can send in special forces under cover of a simultaneous gas dispersal. We can even drive another train into the tunnel and possibly tow o
r push the train into a station where it can be stormed more easily. Lack of options is not the problem. Clearly the most efficient option in bringing this scenario to a close is also the most difficult.”
“And that is?” asked Berriman.
“Killing the hijackers simultaneously before they can set off any explosives. We could put snipers in the tunnel at either end of the train but what we don’t know is whether there are further accomplices along the body of the train who might have the capability to detonate the explosives.”
“And you really think there are explosives?” asked Berriman.
“We have to believe that there are.”
“How long until the tunnel fills?”
“It could be no more than two hours.”
Another unmistakable voice Ed had heard numerous times on radio and television news programs, that of the home secretary, chipped in with, “Do you think there might be someone down there on the train, like a policeman or a member of the armed forces, who might be able to try and take action?”
“It would be great if there was,” said Ed, “but it’s unlikely.”
“Are you sure that it’s wise to allow the hijackers the publicity they want?”
Ed understood the protocol well enough to know that he would need to show deference to those higher up the chain of command, police being thought of as lower than spies and politicians.
“This is not really my call as lead negotiator and I know this is being discussed in detail between the incident commander and the relevant coordinators, but my thinking on it is that the Internet access provides us with valuable intelligence from the passengers on the train. It is possible that there is someone who could intervene, someone who we may be able to mobilize. Denning has ensured that it’s the only way we can find out his demands, and we need to know what they are in order to tailor our negotiation accordingly.”
There was silence on the line. He didn’t have much firsthand experience of politics but he knew enough to know that the fear of doing the wrong thing was all-pervasive. He could feel that fear emanating down the wire. But it was three minutes to twelve by his tactile watch and he needed to be elsewhere.
“I’m afraid I need to get back to the negotiating cell because Denning is due to issue his demands at twelve.” Ed didn’t wait to hear confirmation from his superiors, just passed the phone back to Laura and said, “We’d better go.”
11:54 AM
Northern Line Train 037, driver’s cab
George watched him as he prayed. Denning’s eyes were shut tight as he concentrated on the words—lots of Dear Lords and Our Heavenly Fathers, lots of requests for blessings for the “dangerous task ahead.” They were facing each other, kneeling in the cab, knees tacky against the treacly blood on the floor. George didn’t rate his chances. He had never been in a fight before. The only punch he had ever thrown was at a school bully when he was twelve years old. When the taunting had got too much, he had snapped. He’d broken the bastard’s nose, which had got him into lots of trouble and nearly led to expulsion from the school. It had, however, made him feel a whole lot better. The difference between that moment and this one was that, when he punched the bully at school, he was driven by pure rage. He felt rage now but it was twisted and neutered by the ever-present fear that sapped his strength, leaving his muscles soft and trembling. Denning was young and athletic. A halfhearted attack could be fatal both for George and his family.
“And Dear Lord Our Father, bless my sister, your humble servant, Belle. Her heart is pure and her will is strong.” It sounded as though the prayer was coming to an end. If George were going to hit him, it would have to be right now. Denning’s eyes remained closed as George pulled his fist back and lashed out, punching him in the middle of the face. It wasn’t a bad punch but it wasn’t enough. Momentarily shocked and blinded by pain, Denning slumped backward. George was torn between hitting him again and making a grab for the gun. He decided on the former and took another swing but this time, he missed and his fist crashed into the side of the driver’s seat. Denning was regaining his composure. George aimed another punch and managed to connect but it was a glancing blow against Denning’s jaw and had little effect. In a last desperate attempt to land a knockout blow, George started to rain punches down on Denning but his mad flailings came to an abrupt end as Denning pulled his left knee hard up against his chest and kicked his foot out, his boot connecting with George’s throat.
George felt as though he had been hung. He fell back against the train wall. It was as though something in his neck that had resided there quite happily for the past forty years had been permanently dislocated. Breathing was an impossibility as he clutched his throat and coughed and gagged. Denning was on his feet, picking up the gun, and spinning around. He aimed it at George’s face and pulled the trigger. As the shot was fired, George’s existence was reduced to pain and darkness and the metallic stench of smoke. If he was dying, however, he was oblivious to the wound that was about to kill him. The pain remained located solely in his throat and his senses were otherwise unimpaired. As he opened his eyes, he could see through the watery blur of his tears that Denning remained standing over him. Scrambling to his feet, George turned and looked at the bullet hole in the train wall, inches from where his head had been moments before.
Instead of the fury that he expected, Denning looked sad and troubled. The gun remained pointed at George but his anger of earlier was absent.
“You lied to me.”
George tried to speak but his trampled voice box would make no sound.
“You lied to me. You said that you were ready. You made me think that you had accepted your destiny and you were happy to come with me. George, we were praying . . .”
George tried again and this time managed to get out a whispered groan: “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? What do you mean, you’re sorry?”
“I was confused.” His throat was throbbing and every syllable ached but his voice was gaining in strength. “Maybe I’m not ready yet. But I’m trying. It’s hard for me. I can’t stop thinking about my family. I’m afraid. I want to do the right thing but I don’t know what the right thing is.”
Denning must have realized that he was lying. The gun was raised once again and this time the end of the still-hot barrel was pressed against his forehead. This really was the end.
“Dear Lord, bless George”—George didn’t want to be blessed; this bastard could stuff his blessing—“a good man, confused by the journey on which he has embarked yet still worthy of your grace. This your humble servant Thomas commends his soul to your mercy.”
George shut his eyes waiting for the bullet.
“Let me be strong during these difficult and testing times, let me be strong enough to carry out your will as you see fit. Amen.”
George opened his eyes to see that Denning was staring straight at him with an expectant expression on his face. Was George meant to say something? And then it occurred to him and he said it: “Amen.” Ironic if this was to be the last word he ever uttered that it should be a word born of religion, a form of salutation to a God in whom he did not believe.
But the bullet didn’t come and George knew that he was going to live for a few more minutes at least when Denning lowered the gun. The look that he gave George was one of affection, warmth even.
“You’ve made a terrible mistake. I think you know that.”
“I do. I’m sorry, Tommy.”
“You’re my disciple.”
“I know.”
“Promise me you won’t betray me again.”
“I won’t, I promise. Thank you, Tommy.”
Denning stepped back and George glanced across at the chewing gum still throbbing, singing, screaming out to be noticed on the radio handset. Should he attempt to ride the wave of Denning’s forgiveness and own up to what he had done? Before he could come to a decision, Tommy folded up his dog-eared pieces of paper, turned to him, and said, “Come on, I’ve got a speech t
o make and I want you by my side.”
He opened the door and George followed him, relieved to be out of the cab and on the move, even if it was only to enter the first carriage and sit, as instructed, on the row of seats by the laptop hanging in its hammock swung between the handrails. Denning approached it as though he was approaching a pulpit in church, about to read the lesson and, in his own mind at least, that’s exactly what he was doing.
11:59 AM
Network Control center, St. James’s
As he reentered the negotiating cell, Ed took advantage of the silence to ask: “Do we have a list of passengers yet?”
“It’s not definitive,” said White. “Those passengers whose identities we have been able to confirm appear to be drawn from a typical London cross-section. Professionals, clerical and admin staff, students, academics, tourists, schoolchildren unfortunately; no one who looks like they might be able to intervene.”
“Here he comes,” said Calvert as Tommy Denning emerged from the driver’s cab on the video feed. Ed could only take a seat and listen as the other members of the negotiating cell watched the images from the train.
“That must be George Wakeham following him,” said Calvert. “Do you think he might be involved? Like he might be on the inside?”
“No,” said Ed. “You’ve only got to listen to his voice to know that he’s shitting himself. He’s doing whatever he can to stay alive.”
“He also appears to have blood all over his clothes,” said White.
“Tell me what’s happening,” said Ed, failing to disguise the impatience in his voice.
“Denning is gesturing for the driver to sit down,” said Calvert. “He’s sitting down and staring at the floor of the carriage. He looks pretty freaked out.”
“Well, I think you would be,” said White.
“Denning’s looking into the webcam,” continued Calvert. “He’s looking at his watch.”