Soft Target ss-2

by Stephen Leather

  Shepherd followed him to the group. The constable lowered the megaphone and looked at Owen for further instructions. The workmen jeered at the officers.

  Rose nodded at Owen. ‘Trojan unit, sir. We need authorisation from you to fire.’

  Owen seemed stunned by his request. ‘Hold on, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘All we have at the moment is three guys climbing Big Ben.’

  ‘It’s down as a possible terrorist incident, sir,’ said Rose, ‘and I don’t want to start telling anyone their job but we should be getting civilians out of the immediate area.’

  ‘But we don’t know that there’s a threat,’ said Owen.

  ‘Three men with backpacks climbing one of the nation’s monuments, I think it’s safe to assume the worst, sir,’ said Rose, with emphasis on the ‘sir’.

  ‘Could be base jumpers,’ said the chief inspector.

  ‘Base jumpers?’

  ‘The guys who parachute off tall buildings,’ said Owen.

  ‘I know what base jumpers are, sir, but at least one of them’s an Arab and those aren’t parachutes on their backs. MI5 has said there are specific al-Qaeda threats against the House of Commons. If we don’t react decisively it’ll be down to us.’

  ‘It’s not a question of being decisive, Sergeant. It’s about making the right decision.’

  Owen beckoned to the constable with the megaphone. ‘Start moving people back. Establish a perimeter a hundred and fifty yards from the base of the tower. And be tactful, man, we don’t want a bloody stampede.’

  Shepherd was looking at the three climbers through the binoculars. One was only feet from the top of the tower.

  ‘Sir, we have to take action now,’ said Rose.

  ‘I’m not sure, Sergeant.’

  Two police cars arrived, lights flashing but sirens off.

  ‘If they’re carrying high-explosive charges they could demolish the tower. If there’s shrapnel, people could be killed, even with a cordon.’

  Owen wiped his forehead on his sleeve. ‘Where’s the god-damned AC?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s your call, sir.’

  ‘You’re sure you can reach them?’

  ‘No question,’ said Rose.

  Indecision was etched into Owen’s face. A sergeant and three constables jogged over from the newly arrived vehicles. Over the megaphone, the constable was asking for people to move away, but no one paid him any attention. All eyes were on the men on the clock tower.

  ‘If they destroy Big Ben, we’ll look bloody stupid standing here letting them do it,’ said Rose. ‘Sir,’ he added, as an afterthought.

  ‘And if they’re thrill-seekers, we’ll have shot three innocent men,’ said Owen.

  Shepherd focused on the second figure on the tower. The man was looking over his shoulder and smiling. He was to the bottom right of the clock face, close to the V numeral.

  ‘Sir,’ said Rose, ‘we need a green light from you.’

  Owen glanced up and down the Embankment. Two ambulances had arrived and parked close to the police cars. Owen took a deep breath. He clicked his radio mike. ‘MP, this is Chief Inspector Owen, can you patch me through to AC Hannant.’

  His radio buzzed. ‘I’ll try, sir.’

  Rose sighed with exasperation.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Shepherd. ‘I think I know him.’

  Owen turned towards him. ‘What?’

  ‘I think I know him,’ repeated Shepherd. He pointed up at the figure by the V. ‘I don’t remember his name but he’s a British citizen, Pakistani descent. His wife did a runner with his two sons and he’s been fighting for custody. He was in the papers last year,did the protest on Blackpool Tower with a couple of other guys.’ In fact, Shepherd had recalled his name – Kashif Jakhrani – but he didn’t want it generally known that he had an almost perfect memory. It was best kept secret so that he could use it to his advantage.

  ‘What protest?’ asked Rose impatiently.

  ‘Fathers for Children,’ said Shepherd. ‘Divorced dads who’ve been refused access to their kids. They draped the banner over the tower.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Owen.

  ‘That’s him. I read about it in the papers.’

  ‘So on the basis of a newspaper photograph that you may or may not have seen last year, you’re saying that man’s an angry father and not a terrorist?’ said Rose.

  Shepherd put the binoculars to his eyes and focused on the man’s face again. He flicked through his mental filing system and found the newspaper article he’d scanned the previous year. In the photograph, Jakhrani was wearing a Superman costume. ‘It’s him,’ said Shepherd. ‘No question. He married an English girl and she refused him access to their two kids after they divorced. He’s no terrorist.’

  Owen’s radio crackled. ‘AC Hannant here. Everything okay, Paul?’

  Owen clicked his mike. ‘Fine, sir. Just wanted to see what your ETA is. Seems to be a protest. We’re keeping a watching brief and we’ll pick them up when they climb down.’ He looked at Shepherd. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘God help us if you’re wrong.’

  Again Hannant’s voice crackled over Owen’s transceiver: ‘Are the TV people there yet?’

  ‘No, but they’ll probably be here soon, sir,’ said Owen.

  ‘You handle the press, Paul. You’ll know what to say. Public protests are a right, but public safety is paramount, we don’t want to be heavy-handed, blah-blah-blah. The usual waffle.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  Owen waved at Rose’s MP5. ‘The guns can go back in the car, Sergeant.’

  ‘I’d be happier if we remain armed,’ said Rose.

  ‘Sarge,’ said Shepherd. Rose followed his gaze. Two of the three men had reached the top of the tower and had taken off their backpacks. As the third joined them they unfurled a huge banner. It billowed in the wind. ‘FATHERS HAVE RIGHTS, TOO!’

  ‘Stupid bastards,’ Rose muttered.

  Shepherd headed back to the car. Rose went after him and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Nice call.’

  ‘Just lucky.’

  ‘It was more than that. To remember something you saw in the paper a year ago! I’d have slotted them without a second thought.’

  ‘And you would have been right,’ said Shepherd. ‘They could just as easily have been al-Qaeda. If I hadn’t recognised the guy and we’d been ordered to shoot, I’d have done it.’

  ‘And the media would have crucified us,’ said Rose.

  ‘Yeah, well, they want it both ways, don’t they? They want the UK safe from terrorists yet they accuse us of being heavy-handed when we do what’s necessary. Can’t bloody win. Journalists and politicians– don’t know which are worse.’

  ‘Throw in senior police officers and I’ll agree with you.’

  They got into the car and stowed the MP5s. Rose picked up the radio and called in that they were back on watch.

  Sutherland was peering up at the tower. A second banner had been dropped so that it covered the north face of the clock. ‘KIDS NEED THEIR DADS.’ ‘Do you think they know how close they came to getting shot?’ he mused.

  ‘They just want to make their point,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘They were lucky,’ said Rose. ‘And you must have one hell of a memory.’

  ‘Nah, story just interested me.’

  ‘You’ve got kids?’

  ‘Not that I know about,’ Shepherd joked. He hated denying Liam’s existence but Stuart Marsden didn’t have a family. ‘These guys get a raw deal. Most of them pay child support and want to be good fathers, but their wives get vindictive. What about you? Have you got kids?’

  Sutherland flashed Shepherd a warning look, but Rose didn’t seem perturbed. ‘A daughter. But if my missus ever tried to take her away from me, you wouldn’t find me climbing Big Ben with a banner.’ He stretched and sighed. ‘I hate false alarms,’ he said. ‘All foreplay and no orgasm.’

  ‘Can’t help you there I’m afraid, Sarg
e,’ said Sutherland. He looked over his shoulder at Shepherd. ‘Besides, that’s up to the new guy.’

  ‘Didn’t see that in the job description,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Don’t worry, Stu,’ said Rose. ‘You’re not my type.’

  The car radio crackled. ‘Trojan Five Six Nine, armed robbery in progress at Speedy Pizzas in Battersea high street.’

  Sutherland put the car into gear and switched on the siren and flashing lights.

  Rose picked up the mike. ‘MP, Trojan Five Six Nine en route,’ he said.

  Cars were pulling to the side of the road to let the Vauxhall through. ‘Hopefully we’ll get you an orgasm this time, Sarge.’ Sutherland laughed as he stamped on the accelerator and tore past an open-topped tour bus. There was still a roadblock leading to Westminster Bridge but the uniformed police waved them through. They sped across the empty bridge and through the road block on the south side.

  The controller filled Rose in on what was happening. Two IC3s, black males, had gone into the pizza shop and produced sawn-off shotguns. A customer had decided to have a go and grabbed for one of the guns. It had gone off and the noise had alerted passers-by. Three had phoned 999 on their mobiles, and within two minutes a local ARV had been on the scene with two area cars. They had contained the situation but the two robbers were now holding the customers and staff hostage.

  ‘Why the hell would anyone stick up a pizza place?’ asked Sutherland. ‘How much cash would they have at this time of day?’

  ‘Could be druggies,’ said Rose.

  ‘Druggies with shotguns? They’re more at home with blood-filled hypodermics or knives,’ said Sutherland.

  Shepherd felt the blood pounding through his veins and the elation that came from the body’s release of adrenaline. This was no false alarm: there were men with guns and they were prepared to use them. And it was up to him and his colleagues to stop them. He focused on his immediate task, of finding the most efficient route to the crime scene, but his mind was already whirling through the ramifications of a hostage situation. There would be no gunfight while the men were inside the building with hostages. The officer in charge would play it by the book and negotiate for as long as he could. The SO19 officers would be there to contain and control, but to shoot only as a last resort. The hostage-takers would be hoping for safe passage, but Shepherd knew that wouldn’t happen. The police would keep a dialogue going until the robbers realised that the siege would end only one way – with them in custody.

  Sutherland cut through the south London streets. A second local ARV called up that it was on its way to the scene, and the officer in charge called in to request a hostage negotiator, then an ambulance. A customer had been hit by the shotgun blast and was bleeding heavily. That changed the situation, Shepherd knew: if the life of a hostage was in immediate danger, there was a chance that the armed police would be ordered in.

  Trojan Five Eight One called in that it was en route with an ETA of six minutes. It was one of SO19’s black vans with trained snipers among its eight-man crew. It added to the likelihood that the building would be stormed. Shepherd’s pulse raced. He remembered Major Gannon’s briefing in Hereford. The way armed police took a building was a complete contrast to the SAS method. The SAS went in hard, thunderflash grenades to stun, multiple shots to make sure that the targets went down and stayed down. They stopped only when the object was secured. When the SAS did their business there were usually no cameras around, no witnesses to scream about overkill and human-rights violations. But the police had to follow procedures, many of which had been drawn up by men who had never seen a gun fired in anger, never had cordite sting their eyes, never felt the paralysing punch of a bullet hitting home.

  The officer in charge was a chief inspector from Battersea. Sutherland and Rose said they didn’t know him but his voice was calm. He confirmed that the street had been cordoned off and that offices and apartments were being cleared. He suggested that vehicles enter the high street from the east. Shepherd’s eyes flicked over the map and he called out an alternative route to Sutherland.

  They powered past an ambulance that was also Battersea-bound, siren wailing. Shepherd wondered how badly hurt the customer was. Sawn-off shotguns were lethal at close range but the shot dispersed so much once it left the barrel that the damage could be superficial beyond fifty feet or so. Shepherd had taken a bullet once and almost died, but he had been a soldier fighting a war. The customer had expected no more than a boring wait in a queue and now he was a victim in an armed robbery. There was an unfairness about crime, the way it struck without warning. If you were in the wrong place at the wrong time you became a victim. At least in a war you knew what to expect.

  ‘Here we go,’ said Sutherland. Two area cars were ahead of them, their bumpers together across the road. A single uniformed constable in a yellow fluorescent jacket pointed to the left and Sutherland parked. Shepherd was already unlocking the gun-holder.

  Rose took one of the MP5s and Shepherd followed him to the uniformed constable. At the far end of the road there were two more police cars, blue lights flashing. One had saucer-sized yellow stickers in the corner of the windows, which showed it was an ARV. Half a dozen uniformed policemen were kneeling behind the cars, watching the front of the building. Two had MP5s aimed at it.

  ‘Where’s the OIC?’ asked Rose.

  The uniformed constable indicated an estate agent’s office. ‘Chief Inspector Cockburn,’ he said.

  Shepherd looked up at the rooftops as he followed Rose across the road. The street had shops on both sides, with two floors of brick-built apartments above them. On the roof of the apartments opposite two policemen were scrutinising the pizza place, one through high-powered binoculars. Rose and Shepherd went into the estate agent’s. A uniformed sergeant and two constables were standing by the window. Chief Inspector Cockburn was sitting at a desk, a transceiver in front of him next to his cap. His right hand was drumming on the desk and sweat glistened across his bald scalp.

  ‘Keith Rose, sir. SO19. This is Stuart Marsden.’

  ‘Any sign of the Specialist Firearms team?’

  ‘On its way from Leman Street, sir. What’s the story?’

  ‘We’ve a customer bleeding to death on the floor and two nervous young men with shooters. They were on their way out when they saw the local ARV. They took a couple of shots at it, then ran back in. I’ve two men on the roof opposite who can see inside. Someone’s trying to stem the bleeding but it doesn’t look good.’

  ‘Where do you want us, sir?’

  ‘We’re going to have to move quickly, Sergeant. I know I’m supposed to wait for a negotiator, but if we do, that customer could die. Do you have any suggestions?’

  ‘Is there a back entrance?’

  ‘There’s a fire exit that leads into the kitchen and we have two armed officers outside. I doubt you could get in without the robbers hearing you, though.’

  ‘Have you spoken to them?’

  ‘The negotiator’s on his way. We’re just keeping a lid on it until then.’

  It was the right thing to do, Shepherd thought. Hostage situations could easily go wrong and had to be handled by experts.

  ‘I could get two of my men above the shop,’ Rose said.‘They could drop down outside, on ropes. They wouldn’t see them coming. Your men on the roof opposite can tell us when we’ve a clear run.’

  ‘Okay, Sergeant. Get them in position, but wait for my say-so.’

  A constable had pinned a large sheet of paper to one wall and a young man in a grey suit was helping him draw a ground plan of the pizza place. There was a large kitchen at the back, with a counter in front of it. There was a toilet and washroom to the side, but it was for staff only and was reached from behind the counter. There were a few stools and a shelf where customers could eat but it was more of a home-delivery operation than a restaurant.

  Rose turned to Shepherd. ‘How are you at abseiling, Stu?’

  ‘It’s been a while but I can handle i
t.’

  ‘You and Mike see if you can gain access to the roof across the way.’

  Shepherd hurried over to the car, opened the boot and took out two nylon ropes, karabiners and nylon harnesses. ‘Sarge wants us up top,’ he said. He slung the carbine over his shoulder and jogged to a door between a chemist and a travel agency. Sutherland followed him.

  ‘They should try Kylie,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Kylie?’ said Sutherland, frowning.

  ‘There were these drugs guys holed up with hostages in South America, I forget where, and the local cops got them out by playing Kylie Minogue singing “I Should Be So Lucky” non-stop for three days.’

  Sutherland chuckled. ‘Urban myth, right?’

  ‘True as I’m standing here, Mike.’

  ‘I’ll let you pitch it to the sarge.’

  To the right of the door there was a rusting intercom with two buttons and Shepherd pressed both. There was no reply. ‘I’ll get the Enforcer.’ He went back to the Vauxhall and opened the boot. It was packed with equipment, including a first-aid kit, Kevlar ballistic blanket, ballistic shield, a firearms make-safe kit, to preserve weapons for forensic analysis, a ballistic bag for safely unloading weapons, and the red hammer-like ram nicknamed the Enforcer. Shepherd grabbed it and returned to the door.

  ‘I’ll do the honours,’ said Sutherland. ‘The paperwork’s a bitch but I’ve got the forms in my desk.’ He took the ram from Shepherd and slammed it into the door by the lock. The wooden frame splintered and Shepherd finished the job with a hard kick.

  Beyond the doorway was a narrow staircase. On the first floor a door led to a flat and the stairs twisted to the left up to the second floor. Sutherland was about to use the ram on the second-floor flat when Shepherd pointed to a hatch in the ceiling.

  Sutherland propped the Enforcer against the wall and nodded at Shepherd to give him a leg up. Shepherd grinned. ‘Mike, I’m ten kilos lighter than you and about six inches narrower around the waist. If you get stuck in that hatch we’ll be all day getting you out. I’ll go first.’ He put the ropes and his carbine on the floor. Sutherland made a step with his hands and pushed Shepherd up to the ceiling. The hatch was just a piece of plywood painted the same colour as the ceiling and lifted easily. Shepherd wriggled through. The walls were bare brick covered with cobwebs, there were dusty wooden beams supporting tiles, and thick layers of yellow fibreglass insulation padding between the floor beams.