‘Yes, sir!’ the answer rang out, the enthusiasm, the anticipation of the adrenaline rush to come, filling every man in the room.
‘Very well, let’s get on with it, dismissed.’
11:00 hours
‘So,’ Keane said, ‘are you proud of yourself now? Have you gained enough notoriety?’
‘Well, the news was getting a bit stale, so I thought I’d give the media something to report, instead of just saying that we are at deadlock.’
Kourash’s humour was distasteful to Keane and he gave vent to his anger.
‘What the bloody hell was the point of killing David? You’d already got what you wanted.’
‘Got what I wanted? Got what I wanted? Of course I haven’t. I want my brother released from Bagram now! That’s what I want, you imbecile.’
‘Well, that’s out of my hands, Kourash. I can only ask. If the people in power keep saying no, what am I to do?’
‘You weak, ineffectual man, call yourself a negotiator? You couldn’t negotiate your way out of a paper bag,’ Kourash’s voice dripped with disdain. He continued in the same vein, ‘How many people have you gotten killed? Have you ever talked anyone out of a hostage situation without casualties?’
Each drip was a further blow on Keane’s already battered and bruised psyche, leaving him unable to speak. Gathering what little fight he had left, Keane said, ‘Look Kourash, the best offer I can make is that if you let the hostages go, we’ll get as many as we can out of prison.’
‘No.’
‘Come on, Kourash, you know how it works, you give me something and I’ll give you something.’
‘Yes, well, your record on that score isn’t very good is it? So far you’ve managed to get a delivery man shot, a helicopter shot down, a carriage blown up and a hostage thrown off the viaduct. Strangely enough, I just don’t believe you anymore. Every time you’ve promised something you’ve failed to deliver.’
‘Come on, Kourash, be sensible, how about letting the pregnant woman go? Hazel isn’t it?’ Keane’s hands were shaking, but he was determined not to allow that shake to be heard in his voice. ‘Think how much good publicity you’d get from that simple act.’
‘In the name of Allah, Keane, I said no and I mean no. Anyway you lot aren’t the only ones who can change public opinion.’
‘What are you talking about, Kourash? What do you mean?’ but Keane was talking into a dead instrument. Kourash had terminated the phone call.
Keane slumped over the desk in the shop, his head in his hands and wondered how he’d get through the next 17 hours until the raid. Trying to contain Kourash was a virtually impossible task.
The door opened and Crane walked in. ‘You alright?’ he asked.
Keane huffed, ‘I don’t think I know what alright is anymore, Crane,’ he admitted. ‘My emotional reserves are running low. I’m going to struggle to get through this. I don’t know what to do next.’
‘I agree with you there, not knowing what move to make next,’ Crane said. ‘How do you placate a madman?’
Keane thought back over his training and his experience. ‘One train of thought is to appease him by agreeing to whatever he wants. Agreeing with his demands would diffuse the situation to some extent. Buy us a bit more time.’
‘Until he realises you’re lying again.’
‘Yes, there’s the rub. I can’t give him what he really wants. His brother released from Bagram Detention Centre.’
‘So he still doesn’t know his brother’s dead?’
‘No and I can only hope he doesn’t find out before 4am tomorrow morning. If he does...’
‘He’ll kill them all,’ Crane finished the sentence for him.
12:00 hours
Constance Thornton sat in front of the television in her home in Birmingham. Two other women alternated wandering around the house with her or sitting down with her, her sister Brenda and her mother. But Constance didn’t want to talk to either of them, she just wanted to watch the television. The endless cycle that was the 24-hour news programmes. When one started reporting a different story, she would change channels to get the picture of the train back up on the screen. The train from which her husband had been thrown to his death. The train her son was still on.
Her mother tried to prise the remote control from her hands, saying, ‘Come on, love, turn that off for a while, you need a rest.’
But Constance didn’t need a rest. Wouldn’t, couldn’t, not until her son was returned safely to her. So she sat in the clothes she had worn for the third day now, in front of the never ending stream of pictures from the Ribblehead Viaduct. Occasionally her lank black hair fell into her eyes and she pushed it away subconsciously. She could smell the sweat emanating from her. She needed a shower, but didn’t have the time to take one. She might miss something on the news.
Her sister walked into the room with a mug a tea. ‘Hey, honey,’ she said, fake gaiety in her voice. ‘Here’s a nice cup of tea, with lots of sugar in it.’ When Constance didn’t take her eyes from the television set, Brenda tried again. ‘Constance, here,’ she said and pushed the mug into Constance’s hands.
Looking down at the mug, Constance frowned in disgust and put it on the low table in front of her, to join several other mugs of tea that she hadn’t drunk. Tea wouldn’t make her feel better. The only thing that would was Charlie’s safe return. She’d prayed and prayed for it.
‘Oh, Constance,’ Brenda started to say, but she was cut short by a whistling tune from the mobile phone that Constance had dropped and left, ignored, on the floor. ‘Here, love,’ Brenda said, retrieving it. ‘You better see who that is.’
Constance shook her head. ‘No, I’m watching the television, get out of the way. I might miss something.’
With a sigh, Brenda opened the protective mobile phone wallet and pressed the message button. Frowning, Brenda’s mouth moved as she silently read the text.
‘What is it? Is it about Charlie?’ Constance asked as Brenda held out the phone to her.
‘Here, I think you better read this yourself.’
As Constance read the beginning of the text, she fell off the settee and onto her knees, as if continuing her constant prayers. The prayers that might just have been answered.
If you don’t want Charlie to go the same way as David, this is what you have to do...
***
Joyce Harrison was also glued to the television. Still clad in crumpled, dirty, pyjamas at mid-day, she had ignored the earlier pleas from her husband to go and have a nice shower or bath. He said it would make her feel better. Joyce knew that the only thing that would make her feel better was the safe return of Emma.
He’d just left the house and gone off to work. Enraged, Joyce had turned on him before he left, screaming out her fear and pain, ‘You heartless bastard, don’t you care about Emma?’
‘Of course I do, you stupid woman,’ he’d retorted. ‘It’s just that I refuse to fall to pieces and sit had home moaning and crying. Just look at yourself,’ he sneered. ‘You disgust me. I can’t wait to get away from you. If there’s any news of Emma, the police know how to contact me.’
The last thing she’d heard was the slamming of the front door, as he’d gone off to his precious office, all dressed up in his best suit. Gone off to his precious mistress, more like, Joyce thought, which made her feel just as bad as she felt about Emma.
It was an hour later that she was roused out of her trance-like state by the message notification on her mobile phone. Grasping for it, like a hardened smoker would grab at a pack of cigarettes after not having had a nicotine fix for many hours, Joyce pulled the message up on the screen of her phone.
If you want to see your daughter alive again, follow these instructions...
Anything, she thought, I’ll do anything to see Emma alive and read the rest of the message.
***
Mark Richards was in the garden, digging frantically, trying to dislodge an old tree he’d meant to get rid of ages ago. Peg
gy had mentioned it a few times, but he’d always put the job off. So he’d decided to do it now. Do it for Peggy, so she’d see what he’d done for her when she got home. He should have put some shoes on, he realised. His slippers were useless when it came to putting his foot on the spade, to provide extra force. All they were achieving was making the bottom of his feet sore and bruised.
The worst part of all this was the waiting, waiting, waiting. He’d never before felt so helpless, he realised, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead, smearing it with dirt as he did so. All he wanted was for Peggy to come home. Was that too much to ask for?
Their two children, even though they were now teenagers, needed their mother, just as much as he needed his wife. They were handling this remarkably well, but Mark was afraid that once this was all over, they’d fall apart. He’d practically pushed them out of the door that morning, insisting they go to college. They’d be better off with their friends than with their distant, distraught father.
He had to stay strong for his family. He dug his spade savagely into the hard earth. He really should have left this until tomorrow. Rain was forecast for tonight, which would soften the ground, making the job easier. But Mark didn’t want the job made easier. The harder the better. He had to gain control over the resistant earth, as there was nothing else that he could control in his life at the moment.
As he stepped back from the flower bed for a breather, his mobile phone rang. Hoping the kids were alright, he eagerly pulled it out of his pocket and nearly fell over when he read the message. Holding onto the spade with one hand and his phone with the other, Mark read over and over:
Do you love Peggy? To get her back you have to...
David Mountford was at work, staring at his computer screen. Seeing not the information contained on it, but a picture of his wife, heavily pregnant, trapped on a train, terrified, alone. He hoped to God the baby wouldn’t be born early.
He got up and left his cubicle, walking to the gent’s toilets. Once there, he looked at himself in the mirror. Not usually known for his dapper attire, crisp white shirts and well pressed suits, what he was wearing that day was particularly bad, even for him. His suit was crumpled. Well, it wasn’t really a suit, as David realised he’d put on mismatched trousers and jacket. He hadn’t changed his socks and he’d had the same shirt on for two days now. Two days of insane fear, unable to concentrate on anything but Hazel.
He’d gone into work because he couldn’t stand the empty house anymore. In the nursery they’d just finished, the empty cot mocked him so much that he’d not been upstairs for the last 48 hours. But work offered no respite either. His boss generously accepted that he was completely unfit for work, but was there because David needed the familiarity of the surroundings.
David was just about to leave the toilets and go and get his fifth coffee of the day, when his mobile buzzed. There was a message. Trying to open his phone with fumbling fingers, all he managed to do was to drop it.
He sat down heavily on the floor and retrieved it. With a shaking finger, he pressed the button to read the message.
If you want Hazel back and your baby delivered safely you will need to...
Rita Smith was talking to her neighbour from her back step, having opened the front door a couple of minutes ago, to peer down the street, to see if any police cars were coming with a message for her. A message that would tell her that Mick was alright and he was coming home. She didn’t dare to think about that too much, but it was what she was hoping for. Sleep had been impossible for the last two nights and she’d paced her way around the house, watched the television news, read every newspaper she could find and cleaned the house to gleaming perfection. After all she didn’t want Mick coming back to a dirty house.
‘I never thought driving a train could be so dangerous,’ she confided over the back fence to Joan, her neighbour for the past 20 years. Pulling off her rubber gloves she said, ‘I know he gets things like trees on the track and he once had someone jump in front of his train. That shook him, I can tell you. But it was only the once. And he handled it well. My Mick’s a strong ‘un that’s for sure.’
‘Isn’t he due to retire soon?’ Joan asked.
‘Yes, he’s only got another couple of years. Don’t know what he’s going to do then, though. Not one for keeping still is my Mick.’
‘Have the kids been in touch?’
‘Oh yes, phone me all the time they do.’
‘They haven’t come up then?’
‘Well, you know how it is,’ Rita replied, studying the tiny back garden. ‘They’ve got their families, jobs, you know... really busy they all are... but they’re ringing me. Can’t expect more than that, can I?’
Rita was perilously close to tears, for the umpteenth time that morning. A buzzing sound cut through her distress and she put her hands in the pocket of the apron she was wearing.
‘Expect that’s one of them now,’ she said proudly to Joan as she opened the message box.
‘Rita? Are you alright?’ Joan leaned over the waist high fence grabbing Rita as she swayed on her feet.
‘What? Yes, yes I am. Look at this. Mick’s going to be okay!’
Mick will be allowed to leave the train if you do as I say...
14:00 hours
The latest background on the hijackers made uncomfortable reading. Crane had taken the paperwork outside into the blustery afternoon to read it, feeling the need of a nicotine crutch.
Dudley-Jones’ notes were concise and succinct. It appeared that the Islamic State of Iraq and al-Sham (Isis or just IS as they were becoming known) wasn’t just battling its way into the cities of Iraq, it was also fighting for global support and action via a major social media campaign, backed up by slick videos, which were being used to call for support from abroad. This is how Kourash had been seduced into their ranks and no doubt how many more like him would be in the future.
In the videos, the Isis leader, al-Baghdadi called for ‘Sunni youths’ to join the Isis jihad. ‘I appeal to the youths and men of Islam around the globe and invoke them to mobilise and join us to consolidate the pillar of the state of Islam and wage jihad against the rafidhas (Shia), the safadis of Shi'ites. Proudly support the Muslim cause and fully support Isis,’ he’d said.
Supporting this video were hosts of others in different languages. And it wasn’t just French and Arabic languages that were being used to recruit support for the Isis campaign - videos were appearing with English translations as well.
According to the officials and security experts, there was a growing danger that Islamists would look to radicalising more recruits from Britain. It was what might happen when they returned to Britain that mostly worried the security services. MI5 estimated that there were potentially hundreds of young men due to return to the UK from the jihad, who could have been sufficiently radicalised to consider bringing the fight to their homeland. Clearly Kourash belonged to this new breed of terrorist, Crane realised. God help us if there are more like him, he thought.
Folding up the paperwork and taking a turn along the platform, Crane knew that this information only served to strengthen the Government’s resolve that they mustn’t give in. The Prime Minister had stressed time and time again during this siege, that he must show the hijackers that the British won’t negotiate with terrorists. Crane had asked Hardwick if that meant even at the expense of the hostages. If necessary, had been the reply. He’d said it was better for the common good. Better to lose a few now than many more in the future. But would that strong stance against negotiations stop the terrorists trying again in the future? No one seemed to have an answer to that question. Crane pondered that it didn’t seem to have stopped anyone trying so far. If it had made any difference to the fanatics planning their campaigns of terror, it just meant that they used suicide bombers instead.
So the British people were behind the Prime Minister and the prayers of a nation were being offered up, asking for a quick end to the siege, praying for the safe return
of the hostages. But would they all be returned safely? Crane hoped so, but was pragmatic enough to accept that there may well be casualties on both sides. Everyone on that train was a human being. It was as though they were praying for one set of human beings to die, so that another group could live and Crane didn’t feel comfortable with that, not at all. So he let others do the praying.
His head was starting to spin with all the introspection, so he was relieved when a shout rang out, calling him back into the waiting room. As he walked back in, everyone was once again glued to the television screens. Which were full of images of the hostage’s families, begging, pleading, crying, and entreating. Wanting the Government to give in to the demands of Kourash and let the prisoners in Bagram go free, so that their son, husband, father, mother, or daughter, would be released. Over and over looped the insistent voices, filling the airwaves with their distress.
Dudley-Jones replaced the telephone he had been talking into and gave a strangled cough, which Crane took as an attempt to get their attention.
‘Yes, DJ?’
‘Sir, I’ve just spoken to the team. It seems the hostage’s families started bombarding the news broadcasting companies about an hour ago. Demanding to be heard, wanting to appear on television. It appears they’ve decided not to comply with our request to keep themselves out of the media as much as possible.’
‘Or been persuaded not to comply,’ growled Crane.
‘Exactly, sir.’
‘What do you make of this, Keane?’
‘Doesn’t surprise me. Kourash has the hostage’s mobile phones. It wouldn’t take a genius to come up with an idea to make full use of them.’
‘I expect this will make the Prime Minister feel rather uncomfortable,’ said the civil servant.
‘Best you get on the phone then, pull in a few more favours from the media and stop this poisonous rubbish. The SAS lads are going in tonight,’ said Booth ‘and I’ll not have them made scapegoats. The Prime Minister wants cheers for them, not criticism. And what the Prime Minister wants, the Prime Minister gets, don’t forget.’
A Soldier's Honour Box Set 2 (Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers Box Set) Page 57
