‘Fuck. What happens now I wonder?’ and Crane and Dudley-Jones turned away from the press conference, to go back to the waiting room and have a word with Keane.
‘Are you going to tell Kourash?’ Crane asked Keane without preamble, as he walked into the small shop. Keane was stood staring out of the window, but Crane guessed he wasn’t seeing the view.
‘Not sure yet,’ Keane replied slowly. ‘My first instinct is to say no. Perhaps use it later as a bargaining tool. What do you think?’ Keane turned away from the window to face Crane as he asked his question.
‘I think I want to smash the bastard’s face in, for killing a soldier who did nothing more than try to pull a handkerchief out of his pocket.’
‘Not an option, Crane.’
Crane took a few deep breaths. ‘No, I know,’ he conceded as he calmed down. ‘I see what you mean. About not telling Kourash yet, that is,’ and he subconsciously scratched at the scar under his short, cropped beard. ‘We could use it to try and get something out of him. Why should we trust you when you’ve killed an innocent man? Is that the sort of thing you’re thinking?’
‘Something like that. Yes, I think I’ll withhold that piece of information for now. Make sure the others know, will you? And we don’t want it appearing in the press. At least not yet.’
‘Will do,’ and Crane left, glad that Keane was willing to discuss strategy with him. But he didn’t stop in the waiting room, but went outside for a cigarette first. As he got his welcome nicotine hit, he sent a text to Billy: Soldier dead. Not telling anyone for now. Be careful. Shooter volatile.
Kourash was finding it difficult to hold his temper. It wasn’t the fact that he’d shot the delivery man that was the problem. It was his fellow hijackers. They were all over him, pushing and jostling, their anger and fear emanating from them like a miasma.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘We agreed - no shooting!’
‘You could ruin everything for us.’
‘They’re not going to release any prisoners if we start killing people. This was supposed to be a peaceful protest.’
Their voices were raised. They spoke in staccato sentences. All were babbling at once.
Kourash eventually managed to get a word in, by holding up his hands as a signal for silence. ‘Alright, you’ve all made your point,’ he said. ‘I made a mistake, okay? I didn’t mean to shoot anyone, but the man put his hand in his pocket. I thought he was going to pull out a gun.’
‘But he wasn’t, was he?’ one of his colleagues demanded.
‘No, but I didn’t know that at the time. Anyway I deliberately avoided his heart and his stomach.’ Kourash became conciliatory. ‘I’m sorry. I guess the pressure just got to me.’
Kourash bowed his head and looked at the floor for a couple of seconds. Then when he thought he done enough to convince them, he continued speaking, raising his head once again to look them in the eyes.
‘Anyway, I need to speak to the negotiator again. Make sure he understands that they have only 12 hours left in which to report back with the number of prisoners that are going to be released.’
‘What if they refuse to co-operate?’
‘Then they already know I’m determined. Because I wasn’t afraid to use my gun, they’ll now understand that I won’t hesitate to shoot a hostage when I threaten to. So, you see, my mistake could be a good thing.’ He waived his gun around, eyes blazing, a big grin on his face. ‘Don’t you see? Now they’re afraid of me!’
As Kourash looked around at his fellow hijackers, he was pleased to see alarm on their faces. It was about time they understood that this wasn’t a game. They were beginning to realise he was their natural leader and that they also had good reason to be afraid of him. Leaders should rule from a position of strength and Kourash was attaining that position, not only over the negotiator, but also over his fellow comrades. He was the most experienced in these things. He was the one who had been to Syria. He was the one who had been trained. Therefore it was right that they were afraid of him. That way they would do as he asked. The alternative was to be shot for dissent.
Kourash tossed his head at his comrades, lifting his chin, looking down on them, striking a regal pose, daring them to cross him. When no one did, he turned and left them, returning to the driver’s cab, to plan his next move.
21:30 hours
The uncanny thing about the otherwise humdrum train, Crane thought, was its immobility on an otherwise empty track in the middle of a pastoral nowhere. With all the windows covered to conceal its interior from outside observers, Crane could only wonder when tensions between the unseen passengers and their captors would fatefully snap. The hidden implications of the outwardly deserted looking train swirled around it like a poisonous, invisible, pall. The two carriage train remained frozen on the tracks where it normally shuttled to and fro so busily, between Carlisle and Settle. The green pasture around the train had become a no-man’s land, in which the unconcerned white puffballs of grazing sheep were the only moving objects.
The normally placid village of Ribblehead in the distance, seethed in the hubbub created by a milling host of outsiders. National and local officials and their aides. Heavily armed police. Soldiers and anti-terror specialists. A horde of advisors, medics, psychiatrists and other support workers. Not to mention scores of inquisitive rubberneckers.
It was the world’s top news story, so a large media presence exposed the Ribblehead Viaduct to the gaze of hundreds of millions of unseen television viewers and newspaper readers the world over. Amongst the milling hoards Crane knew that, as much as he hated the media, Harry Poole and his new assistant were just doing their job like everyone else.
Looking at the viaduct, Crane wondered how the Victorian engineers managed to build the massive structure, indeed the whole line, in such hostile terrain. He knew that vast numbers of navvies were needed to bore the tunnels and build the viaducts in very difficult conditions, resulting in a high death toll. Crane was determined that the hijackers wouldn’t add to that number.
With a sigh, he threw away his burned down cigarette butt, scratched at his scar one last time and strode back to the station building, just in time for another briefing from Downing Street.
It wasn’t good news for the hostages. COBRA (the crisis response committee set up to coordinate the actions of bodies within the United Kingdom in response to instances of national or regional crisis) had met and agreed that they would not make a deal with the hijackers.
‘Well, that’s just great,’ Crane said. ‘The 24 hour time limit is up tomorrow morning. What the hell are we supposed to do? Kourash is threatening to kill a hostage if we don’t meet his deadline and start releasing prisoners. At the moment we’re deaf and blind as far as what’s going on in the train is concerned. Added to that is the fact that Kourash is making us look like dumb fucks.’
‘Now, Crane, that’s not strictly true,’ countered Colonel Booth. ‘As you well know we’ve got a drone up in the skies, making sweeps along the length of the train. We have cameras and directional microphones set up - although I have to admit they’re a bit too far out to do any good at the moment. However, a satellite is being moved into position and should be on line in the next hour and we’ll have ‘ears’ from on later tonight. Plus we have the button cameras that you wear when you take the supplies to the train. So I don’t think over-reacting is going to do any good, do you, Sgt Major?’
Ignoring Booth, even though Crane had to concede he had a point, Crane turned on the negotiator, demanding, ‘What the hell are you going to do now, Keane?’
After a pause, Keane said, ‘We’re due to send in more supplies.’
‘This late at night?’
‘Yes. Kourash demanded more water, washing things for the hostages, toilet rolls...’
‘Alright, I don’t need an inventory. What’s your point?’
‘If you’ll let me speak and stop interrupting,’ Keane glowered at Crane, ‘I propose we g
et some religious leaders to take the supplies this time. When they’re there they could try and talk to Kourash. See if they can make him understand that this is a futile endeavour and persuade him and the other hijackers to give themselves up. There must be something in the Qur’an that they can quote about not killing people. We’ve got two or three Imams back at Dent Station. They’ve been acting as liaison with the Muslim community and giving specialist advice as required. So it shouldn’t take too long to get them here. I’m sure they’ll do their bit to help.’
Crane looked around the room. Andrew Hardwick had hope in his eyes, as did the Colonel. But as Crane caught the eye of Dudley-Jones, the look that passed between them said it all. If anyone believed that load of bullshit, then they were just plain stupid. Crane shrugged at the army intelligence operative and said out loud, ‘I guess if nothing else it could buy us some time.’
But in the end it didn’t even buy some time. Hanging their heads in shame, the religious leaders registered complete deadlock on their return from the train. Kourash wouldn’t budge in his demands and he took absolutely no notice of their desire for him to give himself up peacefully and let the hostages go. It was beyond their understanding, they said, how a devout Muslim could take this stance. He must have been radicalised. They could do no more than wash their collective hands of him. They shook their heads in dismay and departed.
Crane had no sooner closed the door on them, when the phone from the train rang. Keane ran into the shop to answer it. Crane stayed in the waiting room and listened in the company of Booth, Hardwick and Dudley-Jones.
‘You have a lot to answer for, Keane,’ Kourash shouted as soon as the receiver was lifted.
Crane winced as he heard the anger in Kourash’s voice spewing out of the speakers.
‘I can’t believe you sent in Imams to spout religious rhetoric at me! How dare they tell me what’s in the Qur’an? I know perfectly well what is written in that Holy book. They asked me not to take the lives of the hostages, as it is against our religion. Do you know what I said to that?’ But Kourash pressed on with his verbal diatribe, not waiting for a reply from Keane. ‘I said that in that case Bagram Detention Centre should be closed down as it is nothing more than a place for legalised murder. So, that’s my new demand. Forget about releasing our families. Shut the whole place down and release everyone! You have less than 11hours. By the time I wake up tomorrow morning, I want to hear that you are meeting my demands. If not, it will be the last sunrise one of the hostages will ever see.’
The line went dead and Crane walked through to the shop. He watched Keane slowly replace the receiver and slump down on his desk, bowed down by the responsibility of his unenviable task.
23:00 hours
Billy was having trouble sleeping. Not so much from the cramped conditions, but from worry. The last message he’d managed to send to Crane said, What the f* did you do to K? Very volatile. He didn’t know if it would help. He didn’t know what would help, if he was honest. Also he had a problem with his mobile. The battery was running low. He was now turning it off between messages as he needed to conserve the power. He considered it was more important that Crane could send him updates, rather than the other way around, for Billy needed advance notice of any attack. He was sure one would come. But when? And how? And when it did come, would he be able to protect the hostages in the chaos? He started to run through some ideas in his head. Helicopters. SAS. Stun grenades. He fantasised about grabbing a gun and putting a bullet through Kourash's head, watching his eyes widening in surprise and then remain frozen open as Kourash died.
As Billy shifted his legs to get comfortable, he thought he heard something. Just the slightest crunch. He looked around the carriage as best he could without moving and was pretty convinced everyone was asleep. Maybe it had just been someone stirring in a dream. He then imagined he felt the slightest vibration from the floor underneath his feet and smiled to himself. What was happening that he couldn’t see? Could there be stealthy, black clad SAS soldiers silently making their way underneath the train, fitting transmitters to the floor of the carriages? If so, from now on Crane and whoever else was part of the crisis team would, if nothing else be able to hear what was being said in the train.
Billy’s thoughts grabbed hold of those gossamer threads of slim hope that someone was making advance preparations for a rescue mission, This expectation allowed Billy to close his eyes and manage to sleep. It silenced his rambling, erratic thoughts, as overhead, silent and unobserved, an unmanned drone made yet another sweep of the train.
23:30 hours
‘Right, everyone,’ the Colonel called the meeting to order. ‘This is what we’ve got so far,’ and he outlined the fact that they now had microphones in place under each carriage and the driver’s cab. The drone had been sweeping the area steadily for the past 12 hours and thermal imaging seemed to confirm that there were fourteen people on board the train. He also confirmed that plans were being drawn up for a rescue mission. The Prime Minister and the Chiefs of Staff Committee would have three or four different options for consideration, each dependent upon different elements, such as time of day or night, weather and point of entry.
Crane tried hard to concentrate on Booth’s voice, which droned on with no noticeable distinction in modulation. But it was very late and a lot had happened in the last 13 hours. Whilst not wanting to leave the waiting room in case something happened, Crane knew he would have to grab a few hours of sleep. The plan was that the Colonel would be staying upstairs in the Caretaker’s flat, whilst the others were to nip down to the Station Master’s House, which had been restored and was now a guest house, to grab a few hours kip. They were to do this on a rota basis, so there would be one of them in the control centre at all times. Keane was to have any calls from Kourash that might come in whilst the somewhat dispirited negotiator was trying to get some well-earned rest, patched through to his mobile.
Crane jerked back to the here and now as Booth finished his summing up and turned towards Dudley-Jones. ‘Any news about the hijackers?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ the Army Intelligence operative replied. ‘As you know, CCTV captured good images of the hijackers at Dent Railway Station. We saw pictures of them earlier, but didn’t know who was who. So far facial recognition has identified one of them as Kourash Abdali,’ and Dudley Jones brought up the man’s image on a large screen that had been installed and hung on one of the walls.
As the picture flashed up, Crane said, ‘That’s the one who seemed to be the leader when we were delivering the food. The one that shot Potts.’
‘What’s his background?’ the Colonel asked.
‘Surprisingly normal,’ Dudley-Jones replied. ‘He was born in Afghanistan, but brought over to England to live with his uncle and aunt as a young boy. He settled here with them, attending school and quickly learning English. The family as a whole were regular members of their local Mosque and Kourash went to extra lessons learning the Qu’ran, as do most Muslim boys. He was a successful student and went to university where he obtained a degree in Politics.’
‘So what happened to radicalise him, do you think?’ Crane asked.
Dudley-Jones said, ‘Well, it seems that he went to Syria for a while, to help with the conflict over there, which is where we think he was radicalised. There are rumours that his brother, who still lives in Afghanistan with his parents, was arrested and taken to Bagram Detention Centre, but we’re trying to confirm that.’
‘So we’re dealing with someone who is intelligent, has studied politics, studied the Qu’ran and been to Syria. Those four elements seem to have collided to produce the volatile young man we are now dealing with,’ said Keane, seemingly with a new respect in his voice for Kourash.
‘Does that make your job easier or harder?’ Crane asked. ‘Knowing his background?’
‘Definitely easier I would say. It gives me a few cards up my sleeve as it were. I can use the knowledge that he would have learned about politics, to
try and make him see reality. See the futility of his mission.’
‘Good luck with that,’ said Crane, who didn’t believe negotiation would work and was fantasising about a rescue mission. Wanting to get Billy and the hostages off the train as soon as possible. But, on reflection, maybe he was being unfair to Keane by dismissing his ability to get everyone out safely. It was all so bloody confusing.
‘We’ve got people out interviewing his immediate family to see what else we can glean about him. And people are on the ground in Afghanistan are doing the same thing,’ said Dudley-Jones. The young man was the collection point and mouth-piece for all the intelligence being gathered by various agencies.
‘Good work,’ said the Colonel, rather begrudgingly Crane thought, although it could just be the futility of their task that was weighing heavily on the man, Crane reasoned. No one was particularly upbeat at the moment. Tiredness made their brains sluggish and mouths prone to procrastination. The inability to make decisions plaguing all of them. Fatigue pulling at their limbs and wrapping its debilitating tentacles around their brains. The waiting room of the station wasn’t an ideal space to work in. The solid stone walls seemed permanently cold to the touch. Heaters had been brought in, but they just served to make everyone sleepy. The high ceilings amplified their voices, the sound bouncing off the walls. Their frustrated tones reverberated around the space, making them sound harsher than intended.
‘Hardwick and I had better update the Prime Minister, I suppose,’ Booth said, his face showing his reluctance for the task. ‘Tell him who we’re dealing with. Let me know when you get anything on the other hijackers,’ and the Colonel left the room with the civilian co-ordinator in tow.
Crane, Dudley-Jones and Keane listened to the heavy footfalls as the two men made their way to the Caretaker’s flat above them, where a secure line to Downing Street had been installed. To Cane’s exhausted mind, their feet were drumming a tattoo of defeat.
Hijack: A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller (A Sgt Major Crane Novel Book 6) Page 6
