First Response

by Stephen Leather

  Lumley relayed Kamran’s instructions over the phone.

  ‘So who’s still inside?’ asked Kamran.

  ‘Two teachers, two office staff. Everyone else got out.’

  ‘So four hostages. That’s an improvement anyway.’ Kamran’s mobile rang. He rushed over to his desk. The caller was withholding his number but he answered. ‘So you have your children, Mo.’ It was Shahid. Kamran waved at Lumley and mimed for the sergeant to trace the call. On the screen the police were ushering the parents and their children away from the building. Armed police were still covering the main entrance.

  ‘Do you know what Shahid means, Mo?’

  ‘“Martyr”, I think.’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that. It’s an Arabic word that means “witness”. But you are correct. In recent times it has become the word that describes someone who dies for their faith. So today I am Shahid and my nine fellow warriors are also Shahids. But whether or not they become martyrs depends on you. You have seen our demands.’

  ‘We need to talk to you, Shahid. We need to discuss this.’

  ‘There is to be no discussion. You have the names of the six warriors we want released. They are to be taken to Biggin Hill airport. There is to be a jet there, fuelled and waiting. The warrior brothers will leave the country with the nine Shahids. And then it will be over.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that, Shahid.’

  ‘It is very simple, Mo. It is either-or. Either the warriors are released or the suicide bombers become martyrs. It is now ten past two. You have less than four hours to release the warriors and get them to the airport. The plane must leave at six o’clock this evening.’

  ‘There isn’t enough time,’ said Kamran.

  ‘There is all the time you need,’ said Shahid. ‘You call the prime minister. You tell him that, if he does not agree to our terms, the bombers and their hostages will meet their maker in four hours. It will be on his head. Call him now, and I will call you back.’

  The line went dead. Kamran looked at Lumley. He could see from the sergeant’s face that he’d had no luck in tracing the call.

  ‘Nowhere near enough time,’ said Lumley. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Looks like he’s serious about using me as the sole point of contact,’ said Kamran. He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Thing is, I’m not trained for negotiation.’

  ‘You’re doing fine, so far as I can see,’ said Waterman. ‘But I might know someone who can help.’

  ‘Any assistance gratefully received,’ said Kamran.

  ‘We have a guy over at Thames House at the moment. He’s running a few training courses for us. Former cop but for the last ten years he’s been working as a private-sector hostage negotiator. He did a lot of work in the Horn of Africa when the Somalian pirates were at their peak. Chris Thatcher. He’s one of the best negotiators around.’

  ‘Get him here as soon as you can,’ said Kamran. ‘I’m starting to feel out of my depth.’

  ‘Something else I might be able to help you with,’ said the MI5 officer. ‘Twitter has gone into overdrive on this, as you know. Sergeant Lumley’s got a team combing through social media for intel, but I think it’s fair to say they’re overwhelmed at the moment. Hundreds of ISIS, Al-Qaeda and assorted jihadist accounts are retweeting everything and a big chunk of them are claiming responsibility for what’s happening. On the other side of the fence we have hundreds of anti-Islamic sites pouring out their bile, all with the hashtag ISIS6. We’ve got to the stage where we can’t see the wood for the trees.’

  ‘So how can you help?’

  ‘What I’d like to suggest is that we handle all social media through Thames House. We’ve got the manpower and the technology.’

  ‘Sounds good, and can someone there liaise with Sergeant Lumley? Make sure that I’m kept in the loop?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Waterman. ‘And if it’s all right with you, I think we should go more pro-active.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Kamran.

  ‘We can make direct contact with the hostages who are online,’ she said. ‘We can talk to them directly and ask them for intel and photographs. It would help us immensely.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want the hostages put at risk,’ said Kamran.

  ‘To be frank, they’re already at risk,’ said the MI5 officer. ‘And they have been encouraged to use social media. This would be an extension of that.’

  ‘I worry that if they got caught talking directly to MI5 or the police there might be repercussions.’

  ‘Not a problem. We’ll use dummy accounts. We have people who are experts at this sort of thing.’

  Kamran nodded. ‘Okay, run with it. But at the first sign of trouble, shut it down.’

  TAVISTOCK SQUARE (2.15 p.m.)

  Mark Biddulph patted the ballistic panel that would protect his chest and groin from any explosion – hopefully. ‘It’s bloody heavy,’ he said.

  Robin Greene grinned over at him. ‘I’d like to say you get used to it, but that’d be a lie. It’s almost forty kilos and the longer you wear it the heavier it gets.’

  Biddulph held up his hands. ‘It seems so wrong that the hands aren’t protected,’ he said.

  ‘We need the flexibility,’ Greene said. ‘But it’s not like the movies. We’re not in there deciding which wire to cut while the clock ticks away.’

  Biddulph had arrived with a Bomb Squad team at just before two o’clock. The van had POLICE on the side but there was no indication that it was involved in bomb disposal. Inspector McNeil had given Greene a briefing in the Silver Command office, which was when Biddulph had asked if he could go on the recce. McNeil hadn’t been happy but Greene had said that, providing Biddulph wore a suit and didn’t get any closer than twenty feet to the bus, the risk of injury was minimal.

  The recce was to establish contact with the bomber and to get a close-up view of the inside of the bus, and after confirming with Gold Command at Lambeth that the risk was acceptable, Inspector McNeil reluctantly gave the go-ahead.

  Two other members of the Bomb Squad helped Greene and Biddulph suit up while another technician prepared a field phone that they would try to persuade the bomber to use.

  ‘So this guy, he’s been working undercover?’

  Biddulph nodded. ‘For the NCA. It started as a sexual-predator case with Asians grooming underage white girls, then it became obvious they were big-time drug importers.’

  ‘But there was no terrorism involvement?’

  ‘None that Kash reported.’

  ‘Kash?’

  ‘That’s his name. Kash, with a K. Well, his nickname, I guess. Kashif Talpur. He joined three years ago, did a couple of years pounding a beat in Wandsworth, and then we co-opted him into the NCA. Bright lad.’

  ‘Lad?’

  ‘He’s only twenty-three but looks younger.’

  ‘And no one suspected he’d turned fundamentalist?’

  ‘I still can’t believe it’s him,’ said Biddulph. ‘I’m hoping that when I get up close I’ll realise that it just looks like him and that the facial-recognition system has screwed up.’

  ‘People change.’

  ‘Yeah, but not that quickly. I saw him just three days ago and he was as right as rain. Had a couple of pints and a curry, chatted about the football more than the case.’

  ‘Pints? He drinks?’

  ‘Likes his beer. Was going out with a very pretty blonde girl before she got fed up with his hours. I’ve even seen him buy pork scratchings in the pub.’

  ‘But he’s a Muslim, right?’

  ‘Same way that I’m a Christian. I’m in church for funerals and weddings and I’ve broken most of the Ten Commandments. Kash is third-generation British. He can speak Urdu but that’s because his mum and dad insist on it at home. But Kash is …’ He shrugged, lost for words.

  ‘Well, let’s see what he has to say for himself,’ said Greene. He indicated a metal box with a phone handset on the top and a coil of wire clipped to the side. ‘Yo
u’ll be carrying the field phone. We’ll try to persuade him to take it onto the bus so that we can get negotiations started.’ He gestured at a small video camera that had been clipped to his protective jacket, just under his chin. ‘I’ll be recording everything and the video will be uploaded to Gold Commander in GT Ops so if there’s anything you’d rather keep private …’ He tapped the side of his nose with his finger.

  ‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ said Biddulph. The man who was helping him dress began adjusting the collar that would protect his neck. ‘You do this a lot?’

  ‘Suicide bombers? Nope, this is a first for me. To be honest, most of what we do involves old war munitions. Unexploded bombs and the like. And meth labs, we do a lot of them. But since the IRA went quiet we don’t have many terrorist-related bombs. We were there on Seven/Seven, but after the event, obviously.’

  ‘And these suits will protect us, one hundred per cent?’

  ‘There’s always a chance that a piece of shrapnel might hit you, but it won’t be anywhere vital. You’d be bloody unlucky to get a scratch.’

  Biddulph grinned. ‘Good to know.’

  ‘It’d be a different story for anyone on the lower level of the bus, though,’ said Greene. ‘What they usually do with those suicide vests is wrap wire and nails and bolts around the explosive. The actual bang isn’t what does the damage, it’s the shrapnel. Now you and me, outside the bus, wearing these suits, we’ll be fine and dandy. And the passengers on the upper level, they’ll mostly be okay. But everyone else – they’ll be ripped to shreds.’

  Biddulph nodded. ‘Got it,’ he said.

  ‘So we go in slowly, try to keep him calm. If there’s any sense that we’re making him agitated, we back away. We don’t want to be the trigger for anything happening. If he wants to talk, we tell him to use the phone. We give him the phone, gather intel, then leave.’

  ‘All good,’ said Biddulph.

  ‘We won’t be using the radios in the suits to talk until we’re sure what detonating system he’s using, but providing we’re close together we should be able to hear each other.’

  Biddulph’s heart was racing and he took several deep breaths to calm himself down.

  Greene grinned and patted him on the shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘That Kevlar will stop most things.’

  ‘It’s not me I’m worried about,’ said Biddulph. ‘It’s Kash.’

  MARBLE ARCH (2.20 p.m.)

  The waitress who had been sticking more sheets of newspaper over the window looked at the man in the suicide vest. ‘Is that enough?’ she asked. ‘I can’t see any gaps.’

  The man peered at the sheets and nodded. ‘Get back behind the counter,’ he said. ‘And, everyone, you need to keep texting. Hashtag ISIS6.’

  ‘Do you want me to text, too?’ asked Hassan.

  ‘Sure,’ said the man. ‘The more the merrier.’

  ‘And what do you expect this texting to do?’ asked El-Sayed. ‘You think the government cares about texts?’

  The man glared at him. ‘If there are enough of them, yes.’

  ‘So why do you cover the windows? Isn’t it better publicity for the outside world to see what’s going on here?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ snarled the man.

  El-Sayed held up his hands. ‘Brother, I am merely curious,’ he said. ‘You want publicity, you want the world to know what is happening, but you hide behind newspapers.’

  ‘Because there are snipers out there,’ said the man. ‘And they might be stupid enough to think that if they shoot me in the head the bomb won’t go off.’

  Something buzzed at the man’s stomach and he flinched. El-Sayed’s eyes widened in horror, but then he realised it wasn’t the vest: it was something in the pack he had around his waist. The man unzipped it and took out a cheap mobile phone. He held it to his ear with his left hand, which meant Hassan had to stand closer to him. Hassan glanced fearfully at his father and El-Sayed smiled, willing the boy to stay calm.

  ‘I don’t know. I saw movement at the window, pulled back some of the paper and there was a bomb-disposal woman there. She backed off and now I’m covering the window again.’

  There was a pause as the man listened. ‘I think she was taking photographs,’ he said eventually. ‘She had a camera in her hand.’

  Another pause, longer this time. ‘Okay, okay, I understand.’

  A short pause. ‘Yes. I understand.’

  He put away the phone and looked up at the television screen. It was showing a view of Edgware Road from a helicopter overhead.

  ‘What is the problem?’ asked El-Sayed.

  ‘Shahid saw the bomb-disposal woman on TV,’ said the man, quietly. ‘He wanted to know what was going on.’

  ‘Shahid? Who is Shahid?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ said the man, glaring at him again. ‘You need to shut the fuck up.’

  ‘Brother, if someone is organising this, if there is a man in charge, then maybe I should talk to him.’

  ‘Maybe you should shut the fuck up. Maybe that’s what you should do.’

  ‘Brother, please, stay calm. We have never met before, we are strangers, we don’t know each other, but there is a very good chance that I might be able to help you. But for that to happen, I need to talk with the man in charge. This Shahid. Can you call him back?’

  The man shook his head. ‘I can’t call out on this phone. He can only call me.’

  El-Sayed nodded thoughtfully. ‘Then we must wait for him to call you again. But when he does, I beg you, let me speak with him.’

  LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (2.30 p.m.)

  ‘We have a match on the man in the Kensington childcare centre,’ said Waterman. ‘Not one hundred per cent but it looks good to me.’

  Kamran walked over to the MI5 officer and stood behind her. On the middle screen there were two photographs, one taken from outside the nursery as the children were being released, the other a full-face picture taken from either a driving licence or a passport. The man was black, his head shaved. In the CCTV image he was tall and thin, probably over six feet, his runner’s physique covered with a parka. In the head-and-shoulders shot he had a gaunt face with dark patches under his eyes.

  ‘Mohamed Osman, born in Somalia, came over with his parents nine years ago. They were all granted British citizenship in 2011. Osman is Muslim but relaxed about it. Doesn’t attend a mosque that we know of, no fundamentalist leanings that we know of, has a job as a courier. Never been abroad.’

  ‘So why is he known to you?’ asked Kamran.

  ‘He isn’t,’ said Waterman. ‘He’s on the Police National Computer. He was accused of rape two years ago. An underage Somalian girl claimed he’d raped her in the back of his van. There was no physical evidence, he had an alibi, and eventually the girl dropped the charges.’

  ‘But nothing terrorism-related?’ asked Kamran.

  ‘Definitely not,’ said Waterman. ‘A true cleanskin. He’s come out of nowhere.’

  Kamran rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘So we’ve got four Pakistani Brits and one Somalian Brit. No connections between them, except that today they’ve decided to become suicide bombers.’

  Murray smiled thinly. ‘Strictly speaking, they only become suicide bombers when they press the trigger. Until then they’re just terrorists.’

  ‘We can’t link Osman to any Pakistanis, never mind the ones wearing suicide vests today,’ said Waterman. ‘He’s always stayed within his own community, so far as we know.’

  ‘So who the hell has put this together?’ asked Kamran. ‘Why would a Somalian with no apparent interest in fundamentalism be willing to kill himself to get ISIS terrorists released?’

  Waterman and Murray shrugged. Kamran sighed in exasperation. Asking the questions was easy. It was getting answers that was driving him to distraction.

  ‘This is probably a dumb thing to say, but is there any significance that so many of them are called Mohammed?’ asked Murray.

&nb
sp; ‘It’s the most common name in the UK for male newborns,’ said Waterman. ‘Has been for some time. There are various ways to spell it, but put them all together and it’s the most popular name by far.’

  ‘It’s the tradition for Muslim families to name their boys Mohammed,’ said Kamran. ‘The vast majority don’t use it in everyday life, but it’s on all their official documents. I’m quite unusual in that my parents always used it. They still do. I got called Mo at school but at home I’m still Mohammed and always will be to my mum. But the answer to your question, Alex, is no. It’s just an indication that they’re Muslim, nothing more.’

  Waterman transferred the picture of Osman to the screen where she had lined up the photographs of the six bombers they had already identified. Kamran stared at the faces on his screen. Mohammed Malik. Ismail Hussain. Mohamed Osman. Rabeel Bhashir. Mohammed Faisal Chaudhry. Four British Pakistanis. One Somalian. And Kashif Talpur, an undercover cop. One middle-aged, the rest relatively young. Six men with no obvious link between them, other than that they had chosen that day to put on suicide vests and hold the city to ransom. There had to be a connection, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was. Someone had brought the six of them together, trained them, equipped them, and dropped them off at their present locations. There had to be a link between the men, and that link would lead to whoever was behind it.

  Sergeant Lumley’s phone rang and he answered it. ‘Your negotiator is here,’ he said to Waterman.

  ‘I’ll go and get him,’ said the MI5 officer. She left the Gold Command suite and returned a few minutes later with a man in his mid-sixties with a close-cropped grey beard. He was wearing an expensive suit with a sombre tie and a perfectly starched white shirt, though his hair was in disarray and he was patting it down with his left hand. In his right he was carrying a slim leather briefcase. ‘This is Chris Thatcher,’ said Waterman, and Kamran shook his hand, catching a glimpse of gold cufflinks.

  ‘Sorry if I seem a bit flustered,’ said Thatcher. ‘They put me on the back of a high-powered motorbike and whizzed me through the streets at something like a hundred miles an hour.’ He grinned. ‘That’s what it felt like, anyhow.’