by Matt Johnson
As we came to a halt and I stepped out onto the street, two senior officers in yellow reflective jackets approached me. I recognised both and remembered the name of the most senior, John Southern.
Their greeting was friendly – I might even describe it as warm – but there was no denying the sombreness of the moment and the looks of concern on both men’s faces. I followed them through the foyer of the section house and into the lift.
My briefing started as soon as the door closed.
‘Local uniform inspector has established dialogue and is still talking to the PC,’ said Southern. He asked if I recalled much about him. I said that I did, everything, including his name – Doug Powell.
‘Good. He’s out on the ledge which is concrete and about eight inches in depth. There’s a breeze but, at the moment, it’s not so bad that we fear him being blown off. But he’s very distressed and, from what we’ve managed to glean so far, this is not a cry for help.’
‘Did he ask for me again?’ I asked.
‘No, not this time. He actually asked for Superintendent Mellor from the Complaints Unit.’
‘Did you contact Mr Mellor?’
‘We didn’t. Mike Rogers is leading the negotiation again and he was of the opinion that PC Powell might hold Superintendent Mellor responsible and be intending to commit suicide in a way that shows him he is the cause.’
‘I think I agree with him.’
As the lift doors opened at the top floor, we were met by Peter Hesp, the technician from the negotiation team who I’d first shown the listening device Kevin had found in his home.
‘We meet again, Inspector,’ he whispered as he continued to roll out a length of cable along the corridor. ‘Third door on the left for Mike. Radios off please gents, and no talking in the corridor.’
As we moved silently to the small room where Mike, the Negotiation Coordinator would be waiting for us, I realised I could actually feel my heart beating in my chest. I clenched my fists, stroking my palms with the tips of my fingers. My hands were damp with sweat. I felt completely out of my depth and afraid. Somewhere near me, a young man was standing outside with the serious intention of ending his life. And I was going to be expected to talk to him and to try and persuade him not to.
And I didn’t have the first idea how I was going to do that.
Chapter 43
‘When someone jumps from a high building, it’s very public. We find that most times we get a trained negotiator to them before they decide to leap, we get them down safely.’
I knew Mike Rogers was doing his level best to reassure me, but the very moment he used the word ‘trained’ he may as well not have bothered.
‘So why not use someone more experienced?’ I demanded, as the harness Mike was attaching to my waist was pulled tight.
‘Feel OK?’ he asked. I nodded, and he continued. ‘We are. The Inspector out there at this very moment did his training course a couple of years ago. But you’ll maybe remember that we use every tool in our armoury to bring about a successful resolution. And my call is that Doug Powell will respond well to your appearance.’
‘He asked for Mellor though, not me.’
‘Like I said a moment ago, Mellor is the person he holds responsible for the fact that he wants to end it. Getting Mellor here is intended to punish him, to make him watch the result.’
‘So, what do I say if he gets angry because you’ve sent me instead?’
‘I don’t think he will. And, if he does, remember what you were taught…’
‘I can’t remember any of it just now. My mind is a blank.’
‘Trust me, that’s very normal. These things aren’t scripted so you just have to play it by ear. Just remember – dignity and respect. Doug doesn’t want to die, he wants to end the pain that his life is currently causing him. Your job is to persuade him there’s an alternative to death as a way of doing that.’
‘Talk as if it were your life depending on it, Finlay,’ said Southern.
I turned to him, but the best I could manage in response to the helpful suggestion was a half-smile that wouldn’t have filled anyone with confidence.
‘What Mike says is right,’ he added. ‘If Doug Powell was set on killing himself, all he would have needed to do was jump off. He’s up here because he wants to be talked out of it, I believe. And, for what it’s worth, I completely agree with the decision to call you in to help.’
I thought back to both courses I’d attended. In over twenty years I’d only ever been present at two negotiations – the previous one with Doug Powell and as an observer with Max Vernon – the lead police negotiator at the Iranian Embassy siege in 1980. I’d learned more from watching Vernon in real life than I’d taken in during any of the mock-ups the training staff on the course had prepared for us. And even now, I had serious doubts as to whether I would have been able to have done what he did.
But, despite those thoughts, I knew my two colleagues were right. And ten minutes later I found myself standing just behind the local Inspector Mike had referred to, as he pulled away from a large sliding window to allow me access to the ledge. I’d waited as he spoke to Doug Powell, informed him of my presence and sought agreement for me to enter the conversation. The last thing he would want to do was to surprise Doug when he was in such a precarious place, both physically and emotionally. In my right ear, discreetly hidden from Doug Powell, nestled my communication link to the negotiation room, where I knew they would be listening to every word Doug and I were about to say to each other. Around my chest I now wore an abseiling harness with a strong rope that had been secured to a form of brace which sat nestled in the hands of two burly SO19 firearms officers at the back of the room. Their job was to make sure I didn’t fall. I lifted the rope, pulled on it gently and was about to step outside onto the ledge when I saw one of the SO19 lads wink.
Bastard, I thought, easy for you.
Don’t look down, I told myself as I called out through the open window. ‘Doug, it’s Bob Finlay. I’m here to help.’
I’d given a lot of thought as to what my first words were going to be, my opening gambit, the fail-safe, guaranteed conversation-instigator that would persuade a man on the verge of suicide that I was worth spending his last moments on earth talking to.
Nature took over. I looked down, felt giddy and reached out quickly to hold onto the window frame.
‘Sorry, mate,’ I said. ‘I’ve never been much good with heights.’
Doug laughed. ‘Jesus. I would have thought you the last person to suffer vertigo.’
I grinned, doing my best to mask the sense of panic I was experiencing and the almost irresistible urge to step back into the room, to terra firma, to safety.
And then it sank in, Doug had laughed. And if he could laugh, he could live.
Chapter 44
John Southern offered to arrange a lift back to the Yard for me, but I declined. I needed a walk. The Chief Superintendent didn’t press me. I had a feeling, a sense that everyone present was aware of how it felt, that first time you fear a momentary error in something you do or say is going to rob a family of their father.
Mike Rogers, of course, had been through it many times. And, although we’d secured the result we wanted, as Doug Powell was led away to safety, he’d suggested I take a few minutes to myself.
I did as he suggested. An adjacent room was open. I closed the door behind me and, as my legs seemed incapable of supporting me for much longer, I sat down on the edge of the bed. Only then did the emotion of the previous hour begin to hit me. Fortunately, as I stared through the window at the cloudless sky, the door opened behind me and someone shoved a tea into my hand. I took just one sip, and then gripped the mug between my hands in a vain attempt to stop my hands from trembling.
‘It’s the adrenalin, Bob,’ came a voice from behind me. It was Mike.
I went to reply, but stopped myself as tears welled up in my eyes.
‘I hope you like sugar in your tea,’ he continued
. ‘Just take your time and when you’re ready we’ll need to do a post-incident chat.’
A hand rested on my shoulder, reassuring, comforting. ‘Just remember … any job that gets them down alive is a success.’
I nodded, and, as the emotions began to ease off, I continued to stare at the sky.
Mike was right, and by the time I had finished the tea, the strength was returning to my limbs. But time had pressed on, and by the time we finished the debrief it was the late-afternoon rush hour and I knew the tube system was going to be experiencing the daily commuter crush.
Before leaving the police station, I rang Jenny. I needed to hear the reassuring comfort of her voice.
‘Is he going to be OK?’ she asked, after I’d explained what had happened.
‘I think so. I promised to speak to the Complaints Unit Commander to see what can be done to help him. He needs help rather than having to face a disciplinary board.’
‘You don’t think the police will prosecute him then?’
‘I would hope not. He’s ill, and he needs help.’
It was time to head back to the Yard to see what Grahamslaw wanted and after that, home. I promised Jenny I’d be on my way as soon as the rush hour period had died down. That would give me time to get back to New Scotland Yard, pick up my stuff and then catch a quieter train. She said dinner and a beer would be waiting for me. She reckoned I deserved it.
As I’d been talking to Doug, I’d spent some time looking out across the London skyline. I’d remembered the back streets of Kentish Town and the walk through Chalk Farm and Camden through to Regent’s Park. I’d not done it in a very long time, since the days when, as a uniform PC, I’d patrolled those streets on foot and then in a panda car.
Now seemed like a good time to walk that route again. I sought out John Southern, found him in his office, said my farewells and then headed west along Holmes Road. Soon the hum of traffic began to fade into the distance. Just the once I stopped and glanced back, to look at the section house, high above the police station, now deserted and showing no sign at all of what had been happening that afternoon. I wondered where Doug Powell was now. I hoped, prayed, that he was being treated sympathetically. If it was left to John Southern, I had every confidence that would be the case. But sometimes, even the powers of a Divisional Commander were limited. A sense of foreboding took hold of me as I remembered my final words to Doug – ‘That’s a promise, mate, whatever it takes’ – and I repeated them under my breath as a reminder to keep my word. But I also remembered Mike’s words as I’d first stepped out onto the ledge – ‘Just get him down’ – I wondered if I’d just achieved a temporary fix, a life saved but a man still with his future uncertain. And, I wondered if I truly had the power to deliver on my promise.
Avoiding the main roads, I made steady progress and was soon at the north-east entrance to Regent’s Park near London Zoo. Commuters in their hundreds were heading towards the Camden tube stations and waiting for buses held up in the traffic. One or two looked at me, but only in passing. None would have even the vaguest concept of what I had been doing less than an hour previously.
As the park opened out before me, I saw fewer people. I walked briskly, enjoying the sensation of freedom and the opportunity to be alone with my thoughts. Worries about Doug Powell were soon displaced by recent memories and more pressing needs. It was here, near the wolf enclosure, that I’d last seen Nial Monaghan, my former Commanding Officer in the SAS. Monaghan was a man I had once called ‘friend’ and yet he had turned out to be an instrument of the chaos, death and destruction that had so unexpectedly come back to wreck any hope I’d had of a simple life with my family.
Howard Green had been behind that murderous campaign. Howard Green had tasked Monaghan with making sure nobody talked about the highly secretive Al Anfal organisation, about the coordinated and very long-term plan to infiltrate and undermine governments throughout Europe, the Middle East and Africa. I had no doubt that Kevin and I were only alive as Green had believed us both to be in ignorance of Al Anfal. And now, I wondered if that had changed.
I sat down on a bench and stared back in the direction from whence I had walked. A tall man in a dark wind-cheater caught my eye and, for a moment, I felt a hollow sensation of fear. But then he turned off without so much as a sideways glance and headed south along the tarmac path towards Euston Road and the exit from the park. I watched him go, and I smiled to myself at the reason for my insecurity. It was the way he walked, the steady, rhythmic movement of his legs that was more akin to a march than an amble. He moved like a soldier, or more likely a former soldier, long since retired, but still retaining that walk, the way ex-soldiers often do, just like the men I’d seen at the Armstrong home.
That reminder sent my thoughts back to what I had seen in Wales just the previous day. Julian Armstrong, weapons specialist and member of the Defence Intelligence Staff was dead, apparently at his own hand. To some extent, I understood why Armstrong may have wanted his life to end. I recalled with sadness the day I’d visited him and the way he had talked so lovingly of his late wife, and I recalled seeing the plethora of photographs of her he kept in his home, a number that had greatly increased by the time of my second visit. And I wondered if the document I had found was what the others I’d seen had actually been looking for.
None of which was going to help my most pressing problem. Finding and helping Kevin.
Chapter 45
‘Nell?’ Toni called across the office.
Her researcher rolled her chair away from her work station, stood and arched her back. It had been a long afternoon.
‘Are you quite sure this can’t be monitored?’ Toni asked, the scepticism in her voice clear.
Nell smiled nonchalantly. ‘Only if things have moved on considerably since I last checked … about an hour ago. So long as we stay on the dark web and keep off the intranet, we’ll be below the Service radar.’
Toni nodded. ‘So, how exactly does this “dark web” stop us from being caught Googling the name of the document?’
Nell laughed. ‘Mostly because you don’t use Google. You get to the dark web by using one of the web browsers that can access it. I’m using one called TOR. The original one was called the Onion Router but TOR, the third-generation Onion Router came out last month.’
‘It’s something hackers use then?’
‘I guess they might, but they didn’t design it. It was created during the nineties by the US Naval Research Laboratory to protect their online intelligence communication.’
‘It’s a US government programme?’
‘It was. It leaked out into the cyber world, got adapted and improved, and now virtually anyone can use it.’
‘How does it work?’
‘It encrypts and then randomly transmits a signal through a network of relays around the world. These are called onion routers and they employ further encryption in a multi-layered…’
Toni instantly regretted asking the question as Nell launched in to the technical detail of what she knew. Interruption seemed the best option to stop her in full flight.
‘Hence the name Onion Router,’ Toni said. ‘I get the picture. Did you get any further with identifying where that bug came from?’
‘The Complaints Branch store isn’t computerised, but I’m on it, trust me. And the dark web isn’t just emailing and chat rooms, you know. You can buy virtually anything on the auction sites.’
‘Anything?’
‘You name it. You can buy drugs, stolen property, sex … whatever you want.’
‘And what about the sellers? Surely they’re exposing themselves?’
‘That’s the beauty of it. As a seller you’re completely anonymous.’
‘A pity the Increment soldiers didn’t know about it then. They could have sold the documents without anyone ever knowing it was them.’
‘I’ve finished reading Finlay’s translation of the document,’ Nell said.
‘Already? So, what do you thi
nk?’
‘I think it’s the real deal. Do you recall the Europol raid a little while ago on Yousef Nada’s villa – the banker Swiss police were targeting for money-laundering? That seems to have only produced a strategy document. This Al Anfal thing is far more comprehensive.’
Toni did remember what Nell was referring to. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘The document they found was called “The Project”, wasn’t it?’
‘Correct.’
‘So do you think this might also be a Muslim Brotherhood document?’
‘It might be,’ said Nell. ‘And, if it’s genuine, we have in our possession the detailed plans and objectives of Al Q’aeda, Hamas, the Muslim Brotherhood and any number of other extremist groups. We know their leaders, their operators, how to identify their agents. Perhaps even more important than that, we know their goals, their strategies and have a better understanding of their timelines.’
‘So, it is the kind of thing that would be kept very secret indeed?’
‘Golly, yes, and to be honest, it reads something like the old IRA Green Book, only in much more depth.’
‘Their volunteer instruction manual?’
‘Yes. But the Green Book was much more than just a manual. It was a philosophy … a plan. This Al Anfal document is the same kind of thing, and it’s the first indication we’ve seen that there is now an organisation in the background effectively coordinating many of the extremist groups in the Middle East.’
‘A frightening possibility.’
‘Indeed,’ said Nell. ‘Is this what Stuart is looking into as well?’
Toni paused before replying. ‘Sort of,’ she replied, finally. ‘I’m having him follow up on something that might be relevant.’
