‘This isn’t personal,’ said the man.
‘You came here deliberately, though. You chose me. You could have gone anywhere but you came to my surgery and handcuffed yourself to me, so it is personal. It’s very personal. You know I have a lot of Muslim constituents, don’t you? I’ve visited all the mosques here and have always been welcomed.’
‘You talk too much, mate,’ said the man.
‘I’m just saying, you’re attacking the wrong person here. I do a lot of work on behalf of Muslim constituents.’
‘What’s done is done,’ said the man. ‘You’ve got a phone, right?’
Metcalfe nodded.
‘Then start tweeting. Hashtag ISIS6. Tell your government to release the prisoners and you’ll be released too.’
‘The government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists,’ said Metcalfe.
‘You’d better pray that they do, because otherwise we’ll all die today.’
Metcalfe rubbed his face with his free hand. He was sweating profusely and his hand came away wet. ‘And what are you? Al-Qaeda? ISIS? Who do you represent?’
‘I don’t represent anyone, mate.’
‘But you want the ISIS prisoners released, right? That’s what you told everyone?’
The man nodded. ‘If the prisoners are released, we all get to go home,’ he said. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his right arm.
‘Do you want some water?’ asked Metcalfe. ‘We’ve got bottled water in the fridge.’
The man nodded again. ‘Yeah. Okay. Thanks.’
Metcalfe gestured at his assistant and she got up off the floor and went over to the fridge. She took out a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap and gave it to the man, then sat down again with the rest of the hostages. The man released his grip on the trigger, though the Velcro strap kept it in place in his palm as he drank greedily. He put the bottle down and thanked her again.
‘My name is Roger,’ said Metcalfe.
‘Ali,’ said the man. He forced a smile. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Metcalfe smiled despite himself. ‘I’d say I was pleased to meet you, and under other circumstances that might well be true, but …’ he gestured at the vest ‘… that scares me, you know that?’
‘You and me both, mate.’
‘You know who I am? I’m the local MP.’
‘Yeah. I know.’
‘So the thing is, Ali, I’m a pretty valuable hostage. You’ll get a lot of media attention because of me. I’m in the government.’
‘You’re a very important man, I get it,’ said Ali, his voice loaded with sarcasm.
‘No, I meant that you need to be talking to the police. You need to start negotiating.’
Ali nodded at the dozen or so constituents, who were now sitting on the floor with their backs to the wall, tapping away on their phones. ‘That’s what they’re doing. They’re putting the word out.’
‘You want those men in Belmarsh released?’
‘That’s what this is about. If they’re released, we can all go home.’
Metcalfe frowned. ‘We?’
‘I don’t want to die today.’
‘Then you need to talk. You need to negotiate. You need to show them that you’ve got me as a hostage. I’m an MP. I know the prime minister. They won’t want anything to happen to me.’
Ali said nothing.
‘You heard what I said? They need to know that I’m handcuffed to you.’
Ali gestured at the constituents. ‘They’ll explain what’s happened. I don’t need to talk to anyone.’
Metcalfe winced as his soaked trousers scraped across his flesh. ‘I need to change my trousers,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘I wet myself.’
‘You what?’
‘I wet myself when you started shouting.’ The MP pointed with his left hand at the door to the office. ‘I’ve an overnight bag in there,’ he said. ‘There’s a change of clothes.’
‘I have to stay here. By the door.’
‘My assistant can get the bag.’
Ali shook his head. ‘Everyone has to stay here.’
‘She can leave the door open. You can see everything she does.’ Metcalfe waved at the damp patch at the front of his trousers. ‘You can’t leave me like this. It’s disgusting.’
‘You’re the one who pissed himself,’ said Ali.
‘Yes, because I was scared. Now, please, I’m begging you, let Molly get me my trousers.’
Ali stared at him for several seconds, then gestured with his chin at Molly. ‘Go in there and get his bag. Come straight back.’
Molly did as she was told and returned a few seconds later with Metcalfe’s overnight bag. ‘There’s a clean pair of trousers in there, and underwear,’ said Metcalfe.
She took them out and handed them to him. Metcalfe looked at Ali. ‘Can you do me a favour and ask everyone to turn around while I change?’ he asked.
‘Just fucking do it,’ snarled Ali. ‘No one gives a fuck about the colour of your underpants.’
‘I’ll stand in front of you, if that’ll help,’ said Molly.
LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (12.56 p.m.)
Kashif Talpur’s boss was a thirty-five-year-old inspector with the National Crime Agency. His name was Mark Biddulph and he arrived at the communications command centre in a leather jacket and jeans. ‘Day off,’ he explained. ‘I was at the dentist’s about to have a tooth drilled.’
‘Sorry to drag you away but we’re in the middle of a shit-storm,’ said Kamran. ‘We’ve got eight would-be suicide bombers at various locations around London.’
‘I saw it on the TV at the surgery,’ said Biddulph. ‘But what do you need me for? I’m not in anti-terrorism.’
‘One of the bombers seems to be your man – Kashif Talpur.’
Biddulph’s jaw dropped. ‘No fucking way,’ he said. ‘Excuse my French, sir, but Kash is one of my best men.’
‘There’s no way he could have fundamentalist leanings?’
‘He’s third-generation British,’ said Biddulph. ‘Grandparents came over just after the Second World War. His dad’s a teacher, mum’s a nurse. He supports West Ham, for God’s sake.’
Kamran tapped on his keyboard and Talpur’s face filled one of his screens. ‘Is that him?’
Biddulph stared at the picture taken from the CCTV camera on the bus.
‘Mark?’ prompted Kamran.
Biddulph stammered for a second or two, then shook his head fiercely. ‘Yes, that’s him. At least, it looks like him. But it can’t be.’
‘Can you call him?’
‘Sure.’ Biddulph took out a mobile and called a number. ‘Straight to voicemail,’ he said. He put the phone away. ‘Where is he?’
‘On a bus in Tavistock Square, threatening to blow himself to kingdom come if we don’t release six ISIS fighters from Belmarsh.’
‘That’s impossible,’ said Biddulph. ‘I don’t mean unlikely, I don’t mean out of character, I mean one thousand per cent impossible.’
‘Where is he supposed to be today?’
‘Brentford. That’s where the gang operates, mainly,’ said Biddulph. ‘He’s been doing a great job. There’s a group of two dozen Asians, minicab drivers most of them, that have been seducing the girls, passing them around and prostituting them. He infiltrated the gang but it soon became clear they were also involved in big-time drugs smuggling. The investigation has grown and grown but we’re almost ready to move in.’
‘And what does he do when he’s undercover?’
‘Hangs out with the Asian gang. Works part-time in a kebab house in Brentford. Almost four months now.’
‘So what’s he up to? Could this in any way be part of the case he’s on?’
Biddulph shook his head. ‘These Asians are Muslim, but in name only. They drink, they smoke dope and they screw underage girls. They go to mosques but maybe once a week, if that.’
‘But Talpur is a Muslim?’
; ‘Well, again, yes, but you don’t see him in the office face down on a prayer mat. And he drinks. Always buys his round. He can handle his booze, too.’
‘Could he have been hiding all this time?’ asked Biddulph.
‘What – you mean concealing fundamentalist leanings so that he could penetrate the Met?’ He shrugged and sighed. ‘Look, he’s a bloody good undercover cop so, yes, I suppose that’s possible. But if he was involved in some long-term penetration of the Met, why throw it all away to lay siege to a bus? Surely there’d be better ways of sticking it to us.’ He held up his hands. ‘But that’s just crazy talk. As I said, Kash is a bloody good officer, one of my best men.’
‘So what’s he doing on that bus?’ asked Kamran.
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ said Biddulph. ‘All I can think of is that he’s had some sort of breakdown.’
‘At the moment he’s got a trigger in his hand and he’s refusing to let anyone off the bus,’ said Kamran. He thought for a few seconds, then reached a decision. ‘You need to get out there and see if you can talk to him.’
Biddulph nodded. ‘No problem.’
Kamran turned to Lumley. ‘Joe, arrange a car for Inspector Biddulph. We need to get him out to Tavistock Square ASAP. Blues and twos.’ He looked back at Biddulph. ‘Is he married? Kids?’
Biddulph shook his head. ‘Three siblings. You’re thinking a tiger kidnapping?’ It was a common tactic used in robberies where a family member was kidnapped to force the relative to co-operate with the robbers. But the technique had been refined by the IRA, who had used tiger kidnappings to force civilians to plant car bombs, sometimes losing their lives in the process.
‘If you’re sure he’s not turned fundamentalist, maybe he’s being pressured,’ said Kamran. ‘Give me a list of family members before you go and I’ll get someone to check that no one has gone missing.’
MARBLE ARCH (1.05 p.m.)
The helmet weighed just three and a half kilos but it absorbed outside sounds so all Charlie Kawczynski could hear was her own soft breathing. Her heart was pounding but she was able to control her breathing, slow and even. She hadn’t bothered to use the optional cooling system that came with the suit. It had a network of capillaries sewn into it and connected to a four-pint reservoir but it wasn’t usually needed for short periods and Kawczynski figured she’d be done in less than half an hour. There was a microphone and ventilation system built into the helmet, along with a battery pack using standard nine-volt batteries that would run for five hours. All the wiring was built into the fabric of the suit so that it couldn’t be snagged. Walking wasn’t easy but she’d been in the Bomb Squad going on three years so she’d had plenty of practice. It was looking down that was the problem. The ballistic panel that covered the neck and the lower part of the helmet meant that she couldn’t see her feet so the trick was always to know what was on the ground ahead of her.
She looked up to her left and saw a sniper at the window of an office overlooking the coffee shop. And in the far distance two police cars were blocking off the road. Beyond them was a fire engine and beyond that a van belonging to Sky News with a large white satellite dish on the roof.
She walked down the middle of the road. The suit wasn’t designed for concealment and it certainly didn’t allow for running. ‘Slowly but surely’: that was the Bomb Squad’s mantra. Bomb disposal was all about technique, about working out the safest method of making a device safe. And that was what made suicide bombers so difficult to deal with – the human element made them unpredictable. She was always much happier looking down at an IED or approaching a car bomb than a human being.
She reached the coffee shop, paused, then turned to face it. Newspapers had been plastered across the glass but there were gaps between the individual sheets. In her right hand she was holding a small digital camera.
She looked back at the van, raised her hand and waved to Peter. He waved back. The suit’s wireless system used a very low level of RF radiation to minimise the risk of activating IEDs, but they had decided against using it to be on the safe side.
She walked towards the shop, calculating how many steps she had to take before she reached the pavement. She stepped up, steadied her breathing, and walked towards the window. The largest gaps were at the edge closest to the door and she moved towards it, holding up the camera. She squinted at the small screen on the back. She could just about make out figures so she pressed the button several times. Then she moved to the right to another gap and fired off a few more shots.
She saw movement and put her helmet closer to the window. Somebody was moving around but she couldn’t make out what was happening. She put the camera up to the gap between the sheets of newspapers and took more photographs.
Something slammed against the window and she flinched. An eye pressed itself to the glass and she took a step back. A hand ripped away part of the newspaper and then reappeared. It was holding a trigger. Kawczynski raised her hands and stepped away. ‘I’m going, I’m going!’ she shouted, even though she knew that the suicide bomber couldn’t hear her. She stepped off the pavement and walked back to the van, slowly but surely.
LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (1.30 p.m.)
Sergeant Lumley’s phone rang and he picked up the receiver. It was Inspector Richard Horton, Silver Commander at the Marble Arch scene. ‘We have some pictures of the inside of the coffee shop,’ said the inspector. ‘I can download them now if you want.’
‘Ready when you are, sir,’ said Lumley.
‘Let me have your email address and I’ll send you the link.’
The inspector stayed on the line until Lumley had the photographs on his left-hand screen. ‘The quality isn’t great, I know,’ said the inspector. ‘There’s glare off the window and everyone was standing well back.’
‘I can get our tech boys to tinker with them,’ said Lumley, but he knew that the inspector was right. The pictures were blurry and even the best of the bunch were half obscured by the newspaper.
The final photograph of the series was a close-up of an Asian face, bearded with glaring eyes, partly obscured by a hand holding a metal trigger. A piece of newspaper had been torn away, just enough to reveal part of the face.
‘This last one, the guy saw what was happening?’ asked the sergeant.
‘He went to the window and the Explosive Ordnance Disposal officer backed off immediately,’ said Inspector Horton. ‘How are things there?’
‘Hectic,’ said Lumley.
‘We’re still waiting for a negotiating team here,’ said Horton. ‘Can you tell Gold?’
‘He knows,’ said Lumley. ‘The problem is, even where we have negotiating teams on site, the bombers are refusing to talk to them. All communication is through social media at the moment.’
‘Four and a half hours left until their deadline,’ said the inspector. ‘Has a decision been taken on the Belmarsh prisoners yet?’
‘That’s all well above my pay grade, sir.’
‘Mine too, thankfully,’ said the inspector. ‘It’s not a decision I’d want to make. That guy in there looks perfectly prepared to blow himself up and take everyone in the shop with him, if he and the other bombers don’t get what they want.’
TAVISTOCK SQUARE (1.35 p.m.)
Two uniformed constables held up their hands to stop Mark Biddulph’s car at the outer cordon around Tavistock Square. Biddulph climbed out and showed them his warrant card. ‘Where is Silver Commander?’ he asked.
The older of the two, a man in his forties with a beer gut the size of a late pregnancy, nodded towards the BMA headquarters. ‘They’ve taken an office on the ground floor, sir.’
Biddulph thanked the man and headed over to the BMA building. There was another uniformed constable outside and Biddulph flashed his warrant card as he walked by. The office was to the side of Reception. A uniformed inspector was talking into a mobile phone and frowned at him until Biddulph held out his warrant card. He ended the call and looked at Biddulph
expectantly.
‘Silver Commander?’ asked Biddulph.
‘That would be me,’ said a uniformed inspector.
Biddulph flashed his warrant card again. ‘Mark Biddulph, National Crime Agency. Gold Commander has sent me along.’
‘Alistair McNeil, good to meet you.’ They shook hands. ‘What’s the NCA’s involvement?’ he asked.
‘The man in there is one of mine,’ said Biddulph.
‘A CI?’
‘Unfortunately he’s not a confidential informant, no. He’s a detective. Undercover.’
McNeil’s jaw dropped. ‘Run that by me again.’
‘He’s supposed to be undercover penetrating an Asian drugs gang. Where do we stand?’
‘I’ve an inner cordon and an outer cordon set up, there’s an ambulance and a fire appliance on standby. One ARV here and I’m told there’s another on the way. I’ve put in a call for a negotiating team and the Bomb Squad but resources are obviously stretched pretty thin. This is number seven, right?’
Biddulph nodded. ‘One every twenty minutes or so. Things are getting a bit frantic in GT Ops.’
‘Yeah, they said they can’t guarantee I’ll be getting a negotiator.’
‘That’s why Gold wants me here.’
‘You think he’ll talk to you?’
‘I’ve known him for the best part of two years, so I don’t see why not.’
‘If you know him, do you think he’ll blow himself up? Do you think he’ll press that trigger?’
‘The Kash I know wouldn’t be there in the first place. He’s not your typical Muslim. He’s one of the guys. He stands his round in the pub, eats bacon sarnies with the lads. Sure he looks the part but he’s what the fundamentalists call a coconut.’ The inspector frowned, not getting the reference. ‘Brown on the outside, white on the inside. I know, it’s the sort of talk that’d get you turfed out of the Met, but that’s what he was called at school, to his face and behind his back. Kash is as British as you or me. He’s not the sort to go fundamentalist. Not without there being warning signs first. I saw him for a debrief three days ago and he was as right as rain then.’
‘Well, something’s happened, because he’s on that bus threatening to blow it up with everybody on it.’
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