First Response

by Stephen Leather

  Hussain turned to the rest of his hostages, sitting up against the far wall. ‘It’s over, you can go back to your families!’ he shouted. ‘Allahu Akbar, Allah be praised!’

  The hostages started whispering to each other. One woman began to cry. Hussain opened the door. There were six police motorcyclists in front of the coach, more behind. The coach door hissed open and the driver, a man in his thirties wearing a bomber jacket and a flat cap, waved at him to get on board. The windows had been blacked out and all Hussain could see was his own reflection. He pulled the chain to get Rebecca to follow him, but she wouldn’t move. ‘Come on, come on,’ he said. ‘The sooner we get to the airport, the sooner this will be over.’

  Rebecca ignored him and turned to look at the armed police. ‘Just shoot the Paki bastard!’ she screamed. ‘Come on, I don’t care. Just put a bullet in the bastard’s face!’

  ‘Madam, please get onto the coach!’ shouted the armed cop nearest the post office. ‘Everything is under control!’

  ‘Like fuck it is!’ she shouted. ‘He’s got a fucking bomb under his coat and he was threatening to kill us all. Shoot him now and I’m the only one who gets killed and I don’t give a fuck. So shut the fuck up and shoot him. Now, while he’s out in the open! I don’t even think he’ll press the trigger – he’s more scared than I am. Shoot him in the fucking head and he’ll drop like a stone. Do it!’

  ‘What is your problem, lady?’ hissed Hussain.

  She whirled around. ‘My problem? My fucking problem? You handcuff yourself to me and threaten to blow me to bits and you ask me what my problem is? Fuck you, Call-Me-Ismail. Fuck you and fuck all Pakis like you.’

  ‘Why are you saying this? Why are you being so aggressive?’

  ‘Madam, please board the coach!’ shouted the armed cop. ‘You’re putting everyone’s lives at risk here.’

  Rebecca ignored him and stared at Hussain. ‘You want to know why, Call-Me-Ismail? You want to know why I hate Pakis like you? Because it was one of you that killed my family. A Paki bastard just like you, beard and all, slammed his car into my husband’s and killed him and killed my little girl. Was he insured? Was he fuck. Did he have a driving licence? Did he fuck. Did he stay and face the music? Did he fuck. According to the cops he was out of the country the next day and is now probably living it large in Paki-fucking-stan. He killed my William and he killed my Ruth and the one thing I want right now is to be with them and if I can do that and kill you at the same time then I’ll be one very happy woman.’ She glared at him and he could see the madness in her eyes. ‘I want you dead, Call-Me-Ismail. I can’t get the Paki bastard who took my family from me but I can sure as hell take you with me.’ She grabbed at his right hand, trying to get at the detonator.

  He held it away from her and pushed her with his left hand. ‘You’re fucking crazy!’

  ‘Madam, please, will you stop resisting!’ shouted the armed cop. ‘Just get on the coach!’

  Rebecca turned to him. ‘Do your fucking job, why don’t you? Shoot the fucker. He’s a fucking terrorist and he deserves to die so do your fucking job and shoot him.’

  ‘Lady, please stop this,’ said Hussain. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to your family. But it wasn’t my fault.’

  Rebecca spat at him. ‘No, but this is your fucking fault. You handcuffed yourself to me, you chose me, so fuck you.’ She grinned. ‘Maybe your God is fucking with you the way my God fucked with me. Do you get that, Call-Me-Ismail? Maybe your God wanted you to choose me. He does move in fucking mysterious ways, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Lady, please stop this,’ said Hussain. She lunged at his right hand again and he kept it well away from her. ‘If we don’t get on the coach, everyone will die,’ he pleaded.

  ‘Don’t care,’ she said.

  ‘Everyone on the coach will die, too. And there are hostages on it. And a driver. They’ll have families, too. Do you want to hurt their families the way you’ve been hurt?’

  ‘Don’t care,’ she said again, but less vehemently this time.

  ‘Lady, really, I’m sorry,’ said Hussain. ‘I’m so, so sorry about what happened to your family. The bastard who did it should burn in Hell. And shame on him for running away. But that has nothing to do with what’s happening here.’

  ‘Madam, please get on the coach now!’ shouted the armed cop.

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ screamed Hussain. ‘Can’t you see she’s in pain?’ He put his face closer to the woman, but kept the trigger behind his back. ‘Lady, please, just help me do this. I don’t want to be here any more than you do. I just want to go home.’

  Tears were running down the woman’s face. ‘I miss them.’

  ‘I know you do,’ said Hussain. ‘And I’m sorry.’

  Rebecca began to howl and before he knew what he was doing, Hussain had stepped forward and embraced her. He felt her press against the explosives strapped to his chest, and gently patted her on the back. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

  ‘I want my husband and my daughter back,’ she sobbed.

  The armed police officers looked at each other, not sure what to do.

  ‘You have to get on the coach with me,’ he said. ‘Nothing bad is going to happen. I promise you.’

  ‘It’s already happened,’ she said. ‘I want to die. Just press the fucking button and end it for me. Please.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘It’s not up to me. And if we do what we’re supposed to do, then everyone goes home.’

  ‘I don’t want to go home,’ she said. ‘Please, please, please, end it for me now.’

  ‘You have to be strong for your husband and daughter,’ he said. ‘You have to keep their memories alive. Do you think they would want you to die? Of course they wouldn’t. They’d want you to enjoy every minute of your life here. And then, when it’s your time, you can join them in Heaven. But now’s not the time. You don’t have to die and I don’t have to die, and the people on that coach don’t have to die.’ He patted her on the back again. ‘Now come on, walk with me. One step at a time.’ He put his left hand around her waist and guided her towards the coach, keeping his right hand held high so that the police could see it.

  He got her to the coach door, then went up the stairs backwards so that he could lead her up. She kept her head down as she sobbed.

  ‘Come on, we haven’t got all day,’ snapped the driver.

  Hussain stared at him with dead eyes. ‘You need to stay quiet,’ he said. ‘She’s not well.’

  The driver gazed back at him, then nodded slowly. ‘Okay. But we’re on a tight deadline. Please try to hurry her along.’

  Hussain put his left hand out and she took it. He led her down the coach. There were two Asian men wearing suicide vests, one sitting next to a young woman, the other beside a robed priest.

  Hussain sat down behind the man next to the priest and smiled up at Rebecca. ‘Please sit down,’ he said.

  She sniffed and did as he asked. The priest twisted around in his seat and offered her a red handkerchief. She took it, thanked him, and dabbed at her eyes.

  Hussain saw the driver watching him in the rear-view mirror. Hussain nodded and the driver nodded back. The door closed and the coach lurched forward.

  LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (5.27 p.m.)

  ‘What just happened there?’ asked Gillard, who was watching the screen showing the Sky News feed from the news crew outside the Fulham post office. The coach was pulling away, flanked by police motorcyclists.

  ‘It looked like the hostage was freaking out,’ said Kamran. ‘Hardly surprising, considering the stress she’s under.’

  The Sky News feed was replaced by an overhead view from one of the Met’s helicopters showing the police van en route to Biggin Hill.

  ‘I just hope everyone stays calm,’ said Gillard. ‘At least until we get them to the airport.’

  ‘Sir, we have a feed from the hangar now,’ Lumley called, from the Gold Command suite. ‘It’s only black and white and
there’s no sound but the picture’s clear.’

  Kamran and Gillard walked back to the sergeant’s station. The feed was on his left-hand screen. The camera had been put up near the roof and was looking down at the centre of the hangar, focused on a coach that was a match to the one that was picking up the bombers and their hostages. ‘Make sure we have everything recorded, in duplicate, if possible,’ said Gillard. Murray appeared at the door to the suite and Gillard waved him over. ‘You might like to see this, Alex,’ he said. ‘Your guys are rehearsing taking the coach.’

  As the captain joined them, three SAS troopers ran up to the front of the vehicle and two approached the rear. Unlike the coach that was being used to collect the bombers and the hostages, the windows were clear and they could see a single figure sitting in the driver’s seat.

  ‘That’s Jim Hawkins,’ said Murray. ‘He’s a sergeant.’

  The two men at the rear of the coach had the door open and they charged inside, holding handguns. At the exact moment they entered the coach, the first of the three troopers at the front launched himself up the stairs. The driver stood up, twisted and aimed a gun down the coach. Almost immediately the second and third troopers piled in. They were all waving handguns. Then they stopped. Murray was frowning. ‘Two and a half seconds,’ he said. ‘It’s good but it’s not good enough.’

  The troopers filed out of the coach. The two at the back closed the door, then moved out of view. Sergeant Hawkins sat down again.

  ‘Do you think it’s doable?’ asked Kamran. ‘Can they shoot all the bombers quickly enough?’

  Murray screwed up his face. ‘Hand on heart, I don’t see how it’s possible,’ he said. ‘You have to take out all nine before any of them has time to press the trigger.’

  ‘What about snipers shooting through the windows?’

  ‘When they’re blacked out? They’d be guessing. And if they missed they’d risk hitting the hostages.’

  ‘Is there anything else we can do?’ asked Kamran.

  ‘You can hope they just surrender,’ said Murray. ‘Because if we have to storm the coach …’ He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘What about those night-vision goggles you guys sometimes use?’ asked Waterman. ‘Wouldn’t they work?’

  Murray shook his head. ‘The passive ones wouldn’t see through the blacked-out windows, and the infrared type wouldn’t work because glass is very effective at blocking infrared. Why? What were you thinking?’

  ‘Shooting through the windows, maybe. If you could see where everyone was you could shoot through the glass.’

  ‘It wouldn’t work,’ said the SAS captain. ‘Our only way in is through the two doors, unfortunately. Hopefully the lads can shave some more time off it.’

  Gillard focused on the screen showing the feed from the helicopter. The van had almost reached the main gates of Biggin Hill airport.

  ‘Sergeant Lumley, can you get the TV news feeds up on screens? Let’s see what Shahid can see.’

  Within seconds two screens on the main wall began showing feeds from Sky News and BBC News. Sky was showing a view from its own helicopter, at an angle because they had been forbidden to enter Biggin Hill airspace. The BBC was showing a shot of the road outside the prison. The flashing blue lights of the motorcycles leading the way were visible in the distance. Across the bottom of the BBC screen was a scrolling headline: ‘FREED ISIS PRISONERS ARRIVING AT BIGGIN HILL AIRPORT.’

  ‘Strictly speaking, they haven’t been freed,’ said Kamran. ‘Just moved.’

  ‘Hopefully, it’ll satisfy Shahid,’ said Gillard. ‘I really don’t want them out of the van, even under armed guard.’

  The picture being transmitted by Sky changed to show a view similar to the BBC’s. Six motorcyclists flashed by, then a police armed-response vehicle, the prison transport van, another ARV and more motorcycles. Bringing up the rear were two black SUVs with darkened windows. ‘Please tell me they’re your men, Alex,’ Kamran said.

  Murray laughed. ‘Yeah, they’re Sass.’

  The convoy drove straight into the airport and a pole barrier came down behind them.

  Both TV feeds now had reporters talking to the camera, explaining what had just happened.

  Kamran glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘We made it with half an hour to spare. How are we getting on with the pick-ups?’ he asked Lumley.

  ‘Three on board,’ said the sergeant. ‘En route to Kensington to collect number four.’

  MARYLEBONE (5.32 p.m.)

  The Sky News presenter with too much make-up was talking to a grey-haired man in a suit who was some sort of terrorism expert. He was trying to explain what ISIS was and what they wanted, but the woman kept interrupting him. ‘Let him talk, woman,’ muttered Chaudhry, under his breath.

  ‘She likes the sound of her own voice, doesn’t she?’ said Kenny.

  ‘She probably only got the job because she’s Asian,’ said Chaudhry, contemptuously.

  Kenny laughed. ‘Funny thing to say, you being Asian and all.’

  ‘Hey, mate, I’ve had to fight for everything I’ve done. No one ever gave me a break because I’m a Pak.’

  ‘Is it okay to say that?’ asked Kenny.

  ‘Pak? Hell, yeah. Paki’s an insult, but I’m a Pak and proud of it.’

  ‘But you were born here, right?’

  ‘Sure. So was my mum. My dad is the only one who lived in Pakistan.’

  ‘So you’re British, right?’

  ‘Same as you.’

  ‘So why do this?’ He nodded at the suicide vest. ‘I mean, that’s a bit fucking extreme, isn’t it?’

  ‘It wasn’t my idea, believe me,’ said Chaudhry.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing. Forget it.’

  ‘But you’re ISIS, right?’

  ‘ISIS? Fuck, no. They’re nutters, ISIS. Have you seen those videos? They’re fucking animals.’

  ‘Now I’m confused.’

  ‘Yeah, tell me about it,’ said Chaudhry. ‘I’m a supporter of Al-Qaeda. Have been since the invasion of Iraq and all the shit that went on there. You can’t be a Muslim in the world today and not feel threatened.’

  ‘That’s how you feel?’

  ‘Fuck me, yeah. You can see what the Americans want, right? They want every Muslim dead. We have to stand and fight.’

  ‘But what you’re doing is about ISIS, right? And you’ve won.’ He gestured at the TV. ‘You got them released and now they’re picking up you guys to take you to the airport.’

  ‘That’s the plan, yes.’ He took a sip from his bottle of water. ‘You seem very calm, Kenny.’

  ‘I smoked some dope before I started my shift. That’s probably helped. But generally, you know, if it happens, it happens. I’m not a worrier.’

  ‘Easy not to worry when you’re white,’ said Chaudhry.

  ‘Mate, I’ve not had it easy either. Don’t go thinking that. My mum ran off with my uncle when I was still in nappies and my dad brought up three boys on his own. I went to a shit school and managed one year at uni before I bailed, and now I’m working in a pub for minimum wage. I’m not exactly living the life, you know.’ He raised his almost-empty glass. ‘But, assuming I get through this in one piece, I should be able to sell my story to the papers, right?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Chaudhry.

  ‘Aye, it’s an ill wind,’ said Kenny.

  ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘It’s an expression. It’s an ill wind that blows no good. It means most things work out well for somebody.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I don’t see that anything that’s happened today helps me at all. It fucks me up, big-time.’

  ‘What happens to you?’ asked Kenny. ‘You’ll be on the plane with the ISIS lads, right?’

  ‘Fuck that,’ said Chaudhry. ‘I live here. I’m not fucking off to Syria for nobody. Have you been there? It’s a shit-hole.’

  ‘Have you? Been there?’

  Chau
dhry shook his head. ‘I’ve been to Pakistan, and I was over the border in Afghanistan, but trust me, mate, they’re shit-holes too. You want to stay well clear.’

  ‘But you’ll have to leave the UK after this, right? I mean, you’ve won, but they’re never going to forgive you.’

  The TV was showing a shot of a coach with blackened windows driving through Kensington. ‘Kenny, mate, will you shut the fuck up? You’re really starting to depress me.’

  LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (5.34 p.m.)

  ‘What the hell is wrong with those people?’ asked Kamran, staring up at the large screen that was showing the Sky News feed. The pavements were crowded with people filming the coach on their phones as it went by. ‘Don’t they realise there are bombs on that coach? If it goes up there’ll be shrapnel and broken glass everywhere.’

  ‘We’ve told people to stay away but they’re just not listening,’ said Gillard. ‘And we don’t have the manpower to clear the pavements.’

  ‘This could be Shahid’s plan, right from the start,’ Kamran mused. ‘Get all the bombs on the coach, then detonate among the crowds. Even if it went off now, with just three bombs on board, they’d kill and maim dozens. By the time the last bomber is on there’ll be nine, and if that went up in south London …’ He shuddered.

  ‘You’re right, Mo,’ said Gillard. ‘We need to make sure that doesn’t happen.’ He waved at Sergeant Lumley. ‘We need to clear the streets on the route,’ he said. ‘Get as many police as you can out there and move everyone off the pavements. And I mean everyone.’

  ‘I’m on it, sir.’

  ‘The roads to the airport are going to have to be cleared,’ said Gillard.

  ‘It’s not the roads that are the problem,’ said Kamran. ‘It’s the pavements. The gawkers. The idiots who want a selfie as the coach goes by. Can you talk to Lisa? She needs to make sure the media are pumping out warnings. People need to understand just what will happen if those bombs go off on the coach.’

  Kamran picked up his phone and dialled the press officer’s mobile. It went straight through to voicemail so he left a message. As he was talking, he looked up at the clock. It was twenty-five to six. He put the phone down and went over to Gillard. ‘You know, the bombers will pretty much all be on board at six,’ he said. ‘If Shahid has been planning a spectacular all along, that would be the time to do it.’