Salman sat down and Kevin pointed discreetly at his nose. Salman wiped the residue of cocaine from his nostrils.
‘Amirah?’ Kevin said.
Amirah stood up and headed to the ladies’ toilet.
Kevin waited a moment and then he made his way to the men’s. With his colourful‚ drug-fuelled past‚ he knew how much he should take to keep him alert and focused. Unlike Salman‚ who seemed agitated and excited‚ with crazy eyes darting all over the place.
Kevin did what he had to do. As he sat in the cubicle‚ those familiar feelings started to return and he remembered why he had easily become addicted to it. He relaxed his breathing and felt his heart rate slow down. The toilet door flew open and he could hear heavy breathing and the scrambling of feet. He wiped his nose‚ got up and walked out of the cubicle‚ not expecting to see a female in the men’s toilet. Especially one waving around a Glock 19.
‘It’s Salman. He’s freaking out. He’s freaking the fuck out‚’ Amirah blurted.
‘Sister‚ slow down. Breathe.’ He recognised the effects of the cocaine.
‘Fuck breathing‚ Kevin.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I don’t know‚ I… I…’ She rubbed her head with the same hand that was holding the Glock. ‘Just come with me.’
Kevin nodded‚ and they walked out. Kevin led and Amirah walked too close behind him‚ clipping the back of his heels.
Cocaine was a bad idea.
Kevin entered the restaurant floor and stopped in his tracks. Amirah bumped into his back. He evenly took in the scene before he could make a considered decision.
The two waiters and a very distraught and tearful chef were lined up against the counter‚ hands clasped atop of their heads. Salman was standing in front of them‚ his long coat in a puddle on the floor at his feet‚ as he brandished his AK47. The Glock was tucked into his jeans in the small of his back.
Kevin looked out of the large window. Thankfully no passers-by had yet clocked the fact that there was a gun-wielding lunatic inside. But it was only a matter of time.
‘What shall we do?’ Amirah asked‚ her hot breath in his ear‚ annoying him.
‘Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t do anything.’ Kevin walked calmly towards the door and turned the sign so it read Closed for Business‚ and then locked the door from inside.
‘Salman‚’ Kevin said‚ walking carefully towards him.
‘We got a problem‚ Brother‚’ Salman said.
‘I can see that.’ Kevin tried so hard to keep his cool when all he wanted to do was snatch the gun away and beat Salman around the head with it. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘The chef‚ he… he… he was on the phone. To the police—’
‘I swear‚’ the chef blubbed. ‘I wasn’t calling the police. I was on the phone to our supplier. Why… Why would I call the police?’
‘He kept taking sneaky looks at me‚ Kevin‚’ Salman countered. ‘He was talking in hushed tones. The bastard is lying to us. He’s called the police. I know he has.’
‘No… Please. I—’
‘Shut up.’ Salman held the AK47 up‚ his finger flirting with the trigger. The chef flinched and wet himself. The waiters took a small step away from him in disgust.
‘Wait. Just wait. Let me think for a second.’ Kevin was fast losing his cool. But he kept it together. Somebody had to. He looked around the restaurant‚ at the table where an elderly couple had been sitting. ‘Where did the customers go?’
‘They left‚’ Salman said.
‘When?’
‘When what?’
‘When did they leave? Did they leave before you decided to sabotage the mission or after?’
‘I don’t know‚ I… I don’t know. Maybe before.’
‘They left before.’ Amirah was back at his shoulder. ‘When I came out of the toilet they were gone and Salman is right‚ that chef was on the phone.’ She started to again rub her head anxiously with the cold barrel of the Glock. ‘That’s when Salman lost the plot.’
‘Amirah. Will you please put that gun away? I beg you‚’ Kevin pleaded.
Yes‚ cocaine was a really bad fucking idea.
87
12.46 p.m.
Lawrence sat slumped in an uncomfortable plastic chair in the makeshift conference room watching live CCTV footage from various different vantage points on Oxford Street. There were desks set up around him‚ the heavy clacking of fingers on laptops‚ a variety of ringtones blaring around him. He was satisfied with his part‚ at least‚ in gathering the troops and starting the evacuation. He had his iPad in front of him and he had it on Sky News. The press had been quick to report the shooting on the Central Line with a high level of accurate detail.
A heavyset policewoman walked into the conference room. Lawrence had not been introduced to her and frowned that she should walk in without challenge.
He looked her up and down. ‘Excuse me‚ lady. You can’t be in here. It’s packed enough as it is.’
She either ignored or didn’t understand the cutting remark.
‘Special Constable Cooper‚’ she announced. ‘I need to speak to somebody in charge.’
They both looked around the packed room‚ everyone looked to be equally in charge and equally in need of direction.
‘What is it? I can help‚’ he said‚ ushering her out of the room and the noise.
‘An emergency call has just come in. It was from a Lebanese Restaurant in Soho Square. The head chef‚ a Siddiqui Raheem‚ reported suspicious behaviour from three of their customers.’
‘Go on.’
‘He’d been watching the news‚ and he knew about the shoot-out on the Tube. He knew that the shooter was dressed in a long coat‚ and that he was concealing a gun and a small bag of cocaine.’
‘The bloody press. How did they get that information?’ Lawrence shook his head ruefully. ‘And?’
‘According to Raheem‚ the three customers in the restaurant are all wearing long coats‚ still buttoned up‚ even though the heat is on inside. He also saw one walk out of the toilet with white powder on his nostrils and upper lip.’
‘How far is Soho Square to Poland Street?’ Lawrence said‚ as he unlocked the screen on his mobile phone.
‘About a seven-minute walk.’
Lawrence put the phone to his ear. ‘Take two four-man teams out of Poland Street and send them to Soho Square. Three possible targets sighted.’ He covered the mouthpiece of the phone and asked Special Constable Cooper‚ ‘What’s the name of that restaurant?’
88
12.50 p.m.
Amirah sat back at the table‚ chewing slowly on her sandwich. The food helped with the effects of the cocaine and it slowly started to wear off. She glanced at her watch and realised that they were going to be late if they didn’t leave in the next few minutes‚ and even then they would have to run to their location.
Kevin was still trying to pacify a very agitated Salman. Amirah watched impatiently‚ deciding that if these two could not come to a resolution then she is walking out regardless‚ with or without them.
‘This is not our jihad‚ Brother‚’ Kevin said. Amirah was impressed at the level of calm that he exhibited; she would have shot Salman in the head if it meant that she could carry out her God-given mission. Yes‚ she had also seen the chef making a phone call‚ but she now conceded that really it could have been to anyone. The coke was making everybody paranoid‚ and now that she was coming down off it‚ she could see that all they were doing was wasting time. ‘Please put down the gun‚’ Kevin continued. ‘If you shoot them‚ this place will be crawling with police and our jihad will be over. Is that what you want‚ Brother? All our hard work going to waste? Please‚ think with a clear mind.’
Amirah saw Salman’s gun waiver‚ the craziness in his eyes seemed to dissipate as the effects of the drugs started to wear off and realisation hit him.
‘We have to go‚ Brother‚’ Kevin said‚ putting his hand on the gun
and slowly lowering it. ‘We have to be quick‚ let’s tie them up and secure them in the back room.’
Amirah stood up and buttoned up her coat. This was it‚ it was all that she had wanted since her husband who she no longer spoke about had perished‚ along with her brother‚ in a mindless act of violence in her village in Kashmir‚ carried out by British soldiers. It boiled inside her‚ every day.
‘I’m sorry‚ Kevin‚’ Salman said‚ as he straightened up. ‘I lost my mind‚ I don’t know what I was thinking.’
Idiot.
Once this was over‚ Amirah would have some severe words with Salman‚ but at this moment her head was back in the game. She reached into her coat pocket and enjoyed the cold feel of the Glock. She tightened the belt around her coat and placed the rucksack on her back. She looked over at Kevin and smiled internally that she had a brother in him that her own brother would have been proud to stand with. She peered through the window‚ mentally trying to figure out the quickest way to Poland Street. A rain drop appeared at the window and she lifted her head towards the heavens.
Before her eyes could reach the sky‚ they stopped halfway up the building across the road. Fourth floor‚ open window‚ her eyes locked on a figure dressed in black‚ elbows on the window frame‚ pointing a rifle at her.
Salman was right.
‘Kevin‚’ she said calmly. ‘There’s a sniper up on—’
A muffled shot slammed into her chest and dropped her where she stood. Kevin turned towards her and watched helplessly as her dull beige mac started to turn a beautiful‚ deep red. He reached into his coat pocket and in a smooth motion flicked off the safety and shot the chef in the head.
A second shot made its way into the back of Kevin’s shoulder‚ the impact spinning him around so that he was facing the window as the third shot found his heart. He fell at Salman’s feet‚ his dead eyes open‚ staring up at him. Both waiters climbed up and dropped behind the counter‚ until Salman was the only one standing on the restaurant floor.
He had a fraction of a second to decide his next move. Any moment now‚ some pretty pissed-off-looking armed Kafir cops were going to come in looking for any excuse to rip him in half with bullets. He could take down as many pigs as he could and go out in a blaze of glory. Like a Martyr.
The trouble was‚ he wasn’t ready to die.
He was scared.
Salman lifted his arms above his head and dropped to his knees in surrender.
89
12.55 p.m.
Parker had never been comfortable in his role at MI5. He could not get his head around the constant battle; factions that should have shared the same objectives but were too busy furthering their own agendas and careers. Back on tour of duty he had been in charge of millions of pounds worth of equipment‚ but here he had trouble sending out a fucking attachment on a fucking smart phone. Hated it. He fucking hated it. Having to dress a certain way in an office environment. He missed the uniform‚ the weight of it‚ the blandness working around him like a second skin. Most of all he missed one thing‚ the one thing that brought so much misery to others but made him carry out his job with ruthless efficiency. It made him feel whole‚ it made him despise himself. But it made him feel like a soldier again.
He felt the weight of the Browning strapped to his thigh and another strapped to his back. For one day only he had to become that man again‚ that killer. Coldblooded and merciless.
He would become Chalk.
*
Regular updates were being fed to him through his ear piece. The reports he was receiving were positive. The planned attack looked to be coming apart at the seams. Two of the four teams were now out of play‚ two terrorists dead‚ one female critically injured‚ and two captured alive.
Word had spread quickly to the public that there had been a shooting at Oxford Circus station‚ but that it had ended quickly and that the evacuation was just a precaution. The shoppers were being directed into the middle of Oxford Street and in batches down the side roads. Some impatiently‚ of their own accord‚ found sanctuary in large retailers and shopping malls. The large stores were starting to become packed with bodies‚ so all fire exits and back doors had to be opened allowing them to spill out into the safety of the back streets.
Parker could see worry and excitement on their faces. Joking‚ laughing nervously‚ filming the organised pandemonium on their handheld devices. Savouring every moment for the stories they would be recounting for the rest of their lives. The police were doing a good job. The public too. Information had not reached them yet on the second shooting at a nearby Lebanese Restaurant. It was only a matter of time until it did‚ and that’s when‚ inevitably‚ they would lose the plot.
The ear piece vibrated and Lawrence’s voice came through.
‘Parker. We’re doing well.’
‘We’re not there yet‚’ Parker said.
‘No‚ no‚ we’re not. But signs are looking promising. South side of Oxford Street has been cleared. I can’t see shooters turning up there without a target. If they do‚ they’ll be dropped.’ Lawrence sighed. ‘The problem is this end. We have a huge amount of civilians gathered outside Oxford Circus station. They’re calm at the moment but I can’t see them getting clear in the next eight minutes… hang on‚ Parker‚ I’ve got something coming through.’
Lawrence was right‚ they were doing well. Of the nine attackers‚ five had been nullified.
Which left four.
One of the four was Jay.
Which left three.
Of the three‚ two were heading to a redundant location; it had been evacuated apart from a strong police presence.
Which left the lone gunman.
Parvez Ahmed.
Parker looked up towards the apartment above Tezenis. The grand French doors leading to the balcony just above Oxford Street. Below the balcony there were masses of bodies stuck in a human traffic jam‚ not quite knowing which direction to move in. He pushed through the bodies‚ gently at first‚ mumbling his apologies. Any force in his movement would only serve to panic the public.
‘Parker‚’ Lawrence was back in his ear‚ voice higher‚ on edge. ‘Somebody matching Parvez’s description has been spotted. He was seen letting himself into a narrow walkway next to Tezenis. He’s heading into the apartment above.’
Parker moved quickly towards the apartment‚ more forceful now‚ his body abruptly shouldering shoppers out of the way.
‘If he does make it out onto that balcony‚ he’ll be taken out by snipers‚’ Lawrence said.
‘We cannot let it get to that stage. As soon as a shot is fired‚ it’s going to cause a mass stampede. We’ll lose lives from that alone. Tell them to hold fire. I’m going in‚ I won’t let Parvez step on that balcony.’
90
12.56 p.m.
Irfan needed his elder brother more than he ever had before. Even more than when his teacher at high school‚ Mr Miller‚ had stood back and watched young Irfan have the shit kicked out of him by a group of bullies. When he had got home that day and told his brother‚ it was the teacher that took the brunt of Yasir’s violent revenge‚ not the bullies. Mr Miller had never again returned to the school. Mr Miller had never again walked without aid of a walking stick.
Irfan was hidden inside an abandoned Royal Mail truck. On his knees amongst the mail sacks on the cold floor‚ praying that he could make the right decision‚ a decision worthy of a jihadi. He could not fathom what had happened; the streets should have been packed full of Kafirs‚ but they had disappeared before his very eyes only to be replaced with more cops than he could count. He had to adapt to his surroundings. Improvise. He thought hard about an alternative target. Centre Point‚ a thirty-three-storey office block‚ was an option. A central London landmark. He could easily walk in‚ guns blazing‚ taking out whoever he set his sights on. He pushed the rear door of the truck open slightly and peeked towards the structure. He couldn’t see from his vantage point‚ but he picture
d the faces of hundreds of office workers staring curiously out of the windows. His mind was made up.
Irfan stepped out of the truck‚ his target was no more than sixty metres away. If he could make that distance without getting shot then his jihad was still very much on. He moved slowly‚ bent at the waist‚ using cars as cover‚ fifty metres away‚ forty. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his coat and picked up the pace. One more car to get past and then he would have a ten-metre clear run into the building. He crouched low behind the last car‚ breathing hard‚ and undid the last few buttons. He rested his head on the number plate and willed his breathing to slow. He dismissed the idea of consuming cocaine‚ as he was already buzzing with anticipation.
Irfan stood up and faced his target and whispered ‘Allah hu Akbar.’ He took a step forward. A hand grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him back down onto the ground.
‘Stay down‚’ Yasir hissed.
‘Yasir?’ The words soundlessly rushed from his lips as a tear escaped from his eye.
‘Just stay down‚ all right?’
‘I don’t know what happened. They knew… they knew we were coming‚’ Irfan said‚ tears freely running down his face.
‘I know‚’ Yasir nodded‚ solemnly.
‘I have an idea‚ Brother.’ Irfan wiped the tears from his eyes. ‘We hit Centre Point. There must be a thousand Kafirs in there.’ ‘Centre Point is a shell. It’s empty. Has been for the last two years.’
Irfan leaned his head against the back of the car and closed his eyes tightly. Yasir opend his mouth to speak but Irfan’s eyes shot open. They were alive with hope.
East of Hounslow Page 31