First Response

by Stephen Leather

  ‘It’s ready when you are,’ said Kamran.

  ‘I need the windows to be blacked out.’

  ‘Blacked out? We never discussed that.’

  ‘I’m discussing it now. I need the windows blacked out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So that no one can see inside. I don’t want one of your armed cops shooting one of my people.’

  ‘They won’t do that, Shahid. I swear,’ said Kamran. ‘We don’t want anyone getting hurt. We just want this to be over.’

  ‘It will be,’ said Shahid. ‘Soon. Is the coach ready?’

  Kamran looked at Drury, who nodded.

  ‘It’s ready,’ said Kamran.

  ‘Then start to pick up the warriors,’ said Shahid. ‘Pick them up in the order they went out. Brixton. Wandsworth. Fulham. Kensington. Marble Arch. Marylebone. Tavistock Square. Camberwell. Southwark. Then drive south to the airport.’

  ‘It will be quicker if we collect the warriors individually and take them to the coach,’ said Kamran.

  ‘You will do as you are told, Mo. Do you understand me? If you deviate one iota from your instructions, everyone will die.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Kamran, quickly. ‘I just wanted to make things easier.’

  ‘All the warriors will be taken in the same coach, along with their hostages. The windows will be blacked out. I will be watching, and if at any point during the journey to the airport you try to gain access to the coach or hinder its progress in any way, it will be destroyed. Are we clear?’

  ‘Yes, Shahid. We are clear.’

  ‘Then send the coach to Brixton. The clock is ticking, Mo. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.’ The line went dead.

  BIGGIN HILL AIRPORT (4.43 p.m.)

  Pete Hawkins’s mobile buzzed and he took it out of his pocket. It was Alex Murray. ‘How’s it going, Jim?’ asked Murray. Hawkins had been given the nickname ‘Jim’ on his first day at SAS Selection by a grizzled sergeant major who had recently reread Treasure Island.

  ‘The coach is here and we’re running through as many scenarios as we can. Is there any way we can make that emergency door at the back easier to open?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Murray. ‘What about a video feed?’

  ‘A couple of the airport’s technical guys are rigging something up as we speak. They’ve already spoken to a guy called Lumley in the SOR.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Murray. ‘In the meantime, here’s another wrinkle for you. They’re insisting on the windows being blacked out. On the positive side, that means they won’t know they’re in the hangar until it’s too late.’

  ‘And on the downside, we’ll be shooting blind,’ said Hawkins. ‘Shit.’

  ‘I know. The thing to remember is that in all cases the hostage is on the left side of the bomber. So on the port side the hostage will be next to the window. On the starboard side, the hostage will be on the inside.’

  ‘I’m not sure that helps if the windows are blacked out,’ said Hawkins. ‘I was never happy at shooting through the windows anyway.’

  ‘How are you getting on there?’ asked Murray.

  ‘The bottleneck is the door, obviously,’ said Hawkins. ‘If the door is open we can get a man in straight away but he then blocks the men behind him. He can take out the first two targets immediately but it’s at least a second before he can get to the next row. Flash-bangs might slow things down but that slows us getting in, too. If we can get in through the back emergency exit, we can have a man there take out the rear two. But we haven’t been able to get through that door in less than three seconds. Best will in the world, at the moment we’re looking at four seconds to neutralise all nine targets and we both know that’s not good enough.’

  ‘Keep at it, Jim. See if you can shave off a second or two. At the moment the hope here is that, once they see there’s no way out, they’ll surrender.’

  ‘They’re fucking jihadists, Captain. It doesn’t work like that. These idiots want to die. And the more they take with them, the more credit they get.’

  ‘I hear you, Jim. But let’s stay optimistic, shall we?’

  ‘The lads had a couple of thoughts, boss. Any way we could rig up some knock-out gas, pump it into the coach and put everyone to sleep?’

  ‘It was discussed but there isn’t enough time and even if there was we’d be putting the driver to sleep, too.’

  ‘It could be activated once they’d parked in the hangar,’ said Hawkins.

  ‘But nothing works instantaneously and if they realised what was happening they’d probably detonate.’

  ‘Okay. What about arming the driver? We’re using one of our guys, right? Give him a gun, he could take out the bad guys on the starboard side as we move down the aisle shooting port. It might shave some time off.’

  ‘My worry would be that if one of the bombers searched the driver and found a gun that could create its own set of problems.’

  ‘To be honest, without that extra gun I think we’re screwed.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll get that sorted,’ said the captain. ‘Start rehearsing with an armed driver and see how it works out.’

  Hawkins put the phone away. Arming the driver would give them an edge, but he knew that, no matter how often they rehearsed the scenario, there was no way they could take out all the suicide bombers before at least one would have the opportunity to press the trigger. And if that happened, everyone on the bus would die, including the SAS troopers. All the men in the hangar knew the risks, but if they were given the order to storm the coach with guns blazing, that was what they would do.

  TAVISTOCK SQUARE (4.44 p.m.)

  Alistair McNeil, Silver Commander at Tavistock Square, agreed to allow Biddulph to sit in while he interviewed the three hostages who had been released from the bus. They were being kept in rooms on the second floor of the British Medical Association building. The woman, Christine Melby, was feeding her baby with a bottle while a female officer looked on. The two schoolboys were being cared for in an adjoining room.

  McNeil went to see the woman first. He introduced himself and told her that Biddulph was a sergeant with the National Crime Squad.

  ‘Why can’t I go home?’ she asked.

  ‘You can, absolutely you can,’ said Inspector McNeil. ‘We’d just like to ask you a few questions first, if that’s okay?’

  ‘I’ve had one hell of a day,’ she said. ‘And my husband’s going to be wanting his tea.’

  ‘I’ve asked for a car to run you home,’ said McNeil. ‘In the meantime, how did he seem, the man with the bomb?’

  She frowned, not understanding the question.

  ‘Was he tense?’ asked McNeil. ‘Did he seem preoccupied? Focused?’

  ‘He was angry. He kept shouting at us. Why don’t you just shoot him? He’s going to kill all the people on the bus if you don’t.’

  ‘We’re trying to resolve this so no one gets hurts, Mrs Melby.’

  ‘He’s a nutter,’ said the woman. ‘Threatening innocent people like that. You need to throw away the key.’

  ‘I’m sure they will do,’ said McNeil. ‘Did he say anything about ISIS?’

  ‘ISIS?’ she repeated.

  ‘The group the terrorists belong to. Did he talk about them? What they wanted? What they planned to do?’

  ‘He didn’t say much. Just kept saying that so long as we all did as we were told, no one would get hurt.’

  ‘Did he sound scared?’ asked Biddulph. ‘Or scary?’

  The woman tilted her head to one side as she studied his face. ‘He was scared,’ she said eventually. ‘I think he was more scared than the woman he was handcuffed to.’

  McNeil and Biddulph moved to the room next door where the two schoolboys were being given soft drinks and crisps by a female officer. The two boys seemed nervous and uncomfortable, which wasn’t surprising under the circumstances. Their names were Luke Young and Peter Okonkwo. Their parents had already been contacted and were on their way.

  ‘Are you two l
ads okay?’ asked McNeil.

  ‘I just want to go home,’ said Luke. ‘I’ve got five-a-side tonight.’

  ‘Your mum’s coming to pick you up,’ said McNeil.

  ‘I don’t need my mum,’ said the boy. ‘I’m twelve.’

  ‘We’d just be happier if she was here to take care of you,’ said McNeil. ‘You’ve both been through a very trying experience.’

  ‘Do you think he’s going to blow up the bus?’ asked Luke.

  ‘We hope not,’ said McNeil. ‘Now, the man, did he say anything to you, anything at all?’

  Luke shook his head. ‘He just said we were to do as we were told. We were on the top deck so we didn’t see much. He’s a Muslim, right? He wants to kill anyone who isn’t. That’s what this is about, right?’

  ‘It might be,’ said McNeil. ‘Did he say anything about that? Did he talk about Islam?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything, really. Not to us, anyway. Like I said, we were upstairs.’

  ‘What about when he let you off?’ asked McNeil. ‘Did he say anything then?’

  Luke shook his head again.

  Biddulph noticed that the other boy seemed uncomfortable, staring at the floor and fidgeting. ‘What about you, Peter?’ asked Biddulph. ‘Did he say anything to you?’

  ‘Not really,’ said the boy.

  ‘Are you sure? Nothing at all?’

  ‘I don’t want to say.’

  Biddulph frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  The boy shrugged. ‘He’s a pervert,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper.

  ‘A pervert?’

  ‘He was asking me about condoms.’

  Biddulph and McNeil stared at each other in astonishment.

  EUSTON (4.45 p.m.)

  The police sergeant put his phone away and went over to the man who was going to be driving the coach. ‘Gold Command says it’s time to go,’ said the sergeant.

  The SAS man had given his name only as Terry. He was in his thirties and, to the sergeant, he didn’t look much. He was about five-eight with close-cropped greying hair, wiry rather than muscled, and had a chewing-gum habit that saw him popping a fresh piece between his lips every ten minutes or so. He wore a light brown leather jacket over brown cargo pants and a handgun in a nylon holster under his right arm. The sergeant had seen much tougher men in his twenty years in the police but there was a quiet confidence to Terry that he had rarely come across.

  Terry nodded. There was a group of technicians in the coach inserting Kevlar plates in the driver’s seat and in the backs of the first few rows of the passenger seats. Two more had just finished putting black film over the side windows.

  ‘Guys, you’re going to have to stop now,’ shouted the sergeant. ‘We need to get this show on the road.’

  The technicians filed off the coach. The senior man, a former army bomb-disposal officer, went up to Terry. ‘I’m not sure how much good it’ll do if nine bombs go off in a confined space,’ he said. ‘There’ll be some protection for your back but your neck and your head are going to be exposed.’

  ‘Hopefully it won’t come to that,’ said Terry. ‘Anyway, I brought a protective helmet with me.’ He pulled a flat cap from his pocket and placed it on his head. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’ve got one hell of a set of balls on you, lad,’ said the technician. ‘Good luck.’

  As he walked away, Terry climbed into the driving seat, took a quick look at the controls and turned on the engine.

  ‘Just follow the bikes,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘How far is it to Brixton?’ asked Terry.

  ‘Six miles, give or take. Normally it would take half an hour to drive but the roads have been cleared so you’ll be able to keep your foot down. Should be there in less than ten minutes. The bikes know the route so just follow them.’

  Terry nodded. ‘Thanks for your help, Sergeant. Now please get the fuck off my coach.’

  BRIXTON (5.00 p.m.)

  The pack around Bhashir’s waist vibrated and Father Morrison gasped. ‘It’s a phone,’ Bhashir said to the priest. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Did I look worried?’ said the priest. He took out his handkerchief, mopped his brow, then put it away.

  Bhashir used his left hand to unzip the waistpack and take out the phone. ‘It is time to go, brother,’ said Shahid. ‘The brothers have been released from Belmarsh. In five minutes there will be a coach outside to take you to the airport. You are to take only the hostage you are handcuffed to. The rest can stay behind.’

  ‘It’s over?’ asked Bhashir.

  ‘It soon will be,’ said Shahid. ‘They have agreed to our demands. There is a plane waiting at Biggin Hill airport.’

  ‘To take us where?’ asked Bhashir.

  ‘Away from this country. To a place of safety.’

  ‘But this is my country,’ said Bhashir.

  ‘Then you can stay. But first you must go to the airport. The coach will be outside in five minutes. In five minutes’ time you are to open the main door and walk out of the church with your hostage. You are to get into the coach. But be vigilant. I will be watching. If I think that the police are up to anything, all the vests will detonate.’

  ‘Please do not do that, brother. I do not want to die, not like this.’

  ‘Providing everyone does as they are told, no one will die,’ said Shahid. He ended the call and Bhashir put the phone back in his waistpack, then zipped it up.

  ‘We are to leave in five minutes,’ said Bhashir. ‘The government has released the prisoners.’

  ‘So you got what you wanted?’ asked the priest. ‘You can release us?’

  ‘Your parishioners will be freed when we go. But you have to come with me to the airport.’ He raised his left hand and jiggled the chain that connected them. ‘I don’t have the key for this.’

  ‘What will happen when we get onto the plane?’ asked Morrison. ‘Will you let me go?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Bhashir.

  The priest frowned. ‘How can you not know?’

  ‘It’s not my decision.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Morrison. ‘Surely once you have the plane and the prisoners, you just let us go, right? And you fly off to where you’re going.’ He took out his red handkerchief again to mop his brow. ‘And where is it you’re going?’

  Bhashir shrugged but didn’t reply.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Priest, you ask far too many questions,’ said Bhashir. He sighed. ‘I want a cigarette so badly.’

  The priest grinned. His hand disappeared into his vestments and reappeared with a pack of Benson & Hedges and a cheap disposable lighter. Bhashir stared at the cigarette greedily. ‘I told you it was one of the only vices I’m allowed,’ said Father Morrison. ‘But I suppose the question is, how safe are we smoking while you’re wearing that bloody thing?’

  ‘I don’t think a cigarette will set it off,’ said Bhashir.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said the priest. He flicked open the pack and offered a cigarette to Bhashir. He took it and smelt it as Father Morrison took one for himself and slid it between his lips. The priest lit Bhashir’s cigarette, then his own, and the two men contentedly blew smoke up at the ceiling. ‘This is against the law, you know,’ said Father Morrison. ‘The church is classed as a place of work so smoking is forbidden.’

  ‘With all that has happened today, no one is going to be charging us with smoking,’ said Bhashir.

  The two men chuckled. Father Morrison noticed that one of the parishioners, a black man in his seventies, was looking at them longingly and he waved his cigarette. ‘Do you want one, Mr Donaldson?’ The man nodded. ‘Mr Donaldson is a three-pack-a-day man,’ the priest said to Bhashir. ‘Do you mind if he lights up? We often have a cigarette together outside after the service.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Bhashir.

  ‘You’re a good man, Rabeel,’ said the priest. He held his cigarette above his head. ‘Mr Bhashir has kindly agreed
that the smokers among you may light up,’ he called. ‘If you do light a cigarette, please respect those who do not smoke and move away from them.’

  Three of the men, including Mr Donaldson, and one of the women took out their cigarettes and shuffled along the pews to the far side of the church before lighting up.

  The priest tried to blow a smokering but failed. He smiled. ‘Just a thought, Rabeel. If that does go off, do you think I will go to my heaven or yours?’

  ‘That’s a good question, Father Sean. There are supposed to be seventy-two virgins waiting for me.’

  ‘You see now, that’s my problem, Rabeel. Most of the virgins I come across are nuns and, truth be told, you wouldn’t want to be spending eternity with them.’ He took a last drag on his cigarette and flicked it away. ‘Okay, let’s get this show on the road.’

  ‘What show?’

  ‘It’s an expression.’ He crossed himself and took a last look around his church, wondering if he would ever see it again.

  The two men walked to the door. Bhashir undid the bolts and pushed the large oak doors open. There was a white coach parked in the road, the engine running. The front door was open. All the side windows had been blacked out. Just in front of the coach were six white police motorcycles and another four behind it.

  To the left, crouched behind a police car, two armed officers were sighting down rifles at them. Beyond them were more vehicles and a cluster of policemen in fluorescent jackets. One was holding a megaphone. ‘Please move to the coach,’ boomed an electronic voice. ‘You are in no danger.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered the priest.

  To their right, close to a large white van, there were two men in bomb suits. They both pointed at the coach.

  Bhashir headed for it, the priest following. The driver looked down at them. ‘We’re on a tight deadline so if you could hurry up I’d appreciate it,’ he said. Bhashir nodded and went up the stairs, his left hand behind him. The priest followed. ‘Come on, come on,’ said the driver.

  Bhashir went to sit on the seat behind the driver but he shook his head. ‘Not that close. Move down. And get a move on.’ Bhashir walked down the coach and sat on the right-hand side, next to the window, the priest beside him. The driver closed the door. The motorcycles switched on their flashing lights, giving everyone on the coach a bluish tinge. The coach lurched forward as if the driver wasn’t used to the controls. They quickly reached forty miles an hour. Traffic had been diverted from the route and they sailed through any red traffic lights as they headed north to Wandsworth.