Fox lowered the gun and walked over to the bedside table where a half-full bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label sat next to an open wrap of coke and two full ones. He’d never understood the allure of hard liquor and drugs. All they did was addle your brain and make you weak physically. There were plenty more enjoyable ways of having a thrill.
Like taking over a hotel in the middle of a big city in front of the whole world.
With a flick of his hand, Fox scattered the coke onto the floor. Then he walked over to the window, pulled back the curtain, and looked out across Hyde Park, where the emergency vehicles and news crews were beginning to gather in numbers. In the sky above he could see two police helicopters circling. Fox knew that in a situation like this the authorities would set up an exclusion zone around the building as soon as possible, and do everything they could to keep the media at a safe distance where they could do no harm. They would have learned the lesson of Mumbai, where the terrorists had been able to check the movements of the police outside the hotel just by watching the TV. Fox was expecting a far more sophisticated approach tonight. The problem for their adversaries was that he and the others were ready for it.
He let the curtain fall back into place and turned away. The girls were dressed and looking at him expectantly. He was about to tell them to follow him out when Wolf came into the room.
“We have a problem,” he told Fox.
“What is it?”
“Not something I can talk about in front of these two.”
He produced a pistol from his overalls and shot the Thai girl in the face. Then, as the blonde tried to turn and make a dash for it, he put a bullet in the back of her skull, sending her sprawling onto the bed.
Wolf looked at the Arab. “Is this man a Saudi?”
Fox shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Wolf glared at him. “We don’t kill Saudis, understand? It’s not good public relations. Who do you think is bankrolling this whole thing?”
Fox shrugged again. “Fair enough. So, what’s the problem?”
Wolf led him out into the corridor and unlocked the Garden suite. “This,” he said simply, and opened the door.
35
As Wolf moved to one side, Fox saw it immediately. An outstretched arm, hanging out from behind one of the interior doors. It belonged to a man, and it looked like there was a small patch of blood on his sleeve.
“Go inside,” Wolf told him.
Wrinkling his nose against the stale smell, Fox entered the suite. Keeping his gun pointed in front of him, he walked slowly through the foyer, and into the sitting room, stepping over the arm. It was then that he saw the full extent of the carnage.
There were three men in the room and they were all sprawled out on the shag-pile carpet. The one in the doorway, a well-built, well-dressed man in his early thirties, had had his throat cut, as had another guy, bigger, black, with a bald head and a sharp suit, who was lying on his back ten feet away. The third one looked Greek. He was older, with a thick head of dyed-black curly hair and an open-necked shirt and medallion combination that would have been a hit in 1987, when everyone got their fashion tips from Miami Vice, but now, frankly, looked ridiculous. He was propped up against a tan leather armchair with his head bowed, and Fox could see he’d been stabbed a number of times in the upper body. He took a deep breath. It reminded him of what Panther had looked like downstairs.
He lifted the man’s head up and saw that he too had a neck wound, although it was not as clean-cut or as deep as those on the others. The blood had stopped flowing from it, but it hadn’t yet coagulated, meaning he hadn’t been dead long.
He dropped the head and stood up, puzzled. It looked like Jack the Ripper had set to work in this room, yet he knew for a fact that none of his people had been up here, and even if they had, they would have used guns rather than knives. There were also very few signs of a struggle. The room was spacious, with exotic houseplants in pots at regular intervals along the walls, yet only one of them had been knocked over. It looked to Fox like all the men had been caught by surprise, and had died within seconds and feet of each other. It meant that whoever had killed them was good.
“Well?” said Wolf, coming into the room behind him.
Fox looked around the room one more time. “This is the work of the man who killed Leopard and Panther, I’m sure of it. And he’s a pro.”
He walked through to the bedroom and looked around. The bed was made and there didn’t appear to be anything out of place. “We need to ask the manager who was staying here. That might give us some indication of who we’re dealing with.”
Closing the doors of both suites, they made their way back to the emergency staircase. Wolf waited while Fox set a grenade booby-trap behind the door. If Special Forces landed on the roof and came in through the undefended top-floor windows, their arrival would be announced with a loud bang.
“Don’t say anything about what’s happened up here,” said Wolf as they headed down the stairs. “We don’t want to panic the men.”
Fox nodded. For once he agreed with him. They were unlucky to have attacked the hotel on the day that it contained a man who should have been working for, not against, them, but he knew there was no point in dwelling on this. In battle, events can conspire against you at every turn. The solution was to ride with them and make new plans.
As they walked back into the Park View Restaurant, Wolf nodded curtly at Dragon and Tiger, then called the hotel manager over.
She stood up reluctantly, and Wolf and Fox moved her to one side so that the other two couldn’t hear what was being said.
“Do you have any soldiers staying here?” Wolf whispered.
The manager frowned. “Not that I know of, but I don’t always know the details of the guest lists.”
“Do any of your staff have military training?”
“I don’t think so.”
Fox could see that her curiosity was piqued. “Who’s staying upstairs in the Garden suite?” he asked.
“Mr. Miller. He’s had the suite for most of the last two months. I think he’s going through a divorce.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“I think he’s some sort of businessman, but he keeps to himself.”
“And does he have bodyguards?”
She nodded. “Yes, I believe he does. But that’s not unusual. We have a number of clients—”
“Has he got any enemies?”
The manager looked puzzled. “No, why? Has anything happened?”
“All right,” snapped Wolf, pushing her away. “Sit back down, and don’t say a word to anyone.”
“We need to make a change of plan,” said Fox when she’d returned to where she’d been sitting. “We’ve lost two men, which leaves us with six. It’s not enough to hold hostages securely in three separate locations. We should keep the MI6 man apart, but we need to take the ones in here down to the ballroom.”
“But the whole point is to keep them in different places. That way it’s far harder for the security forces to launch an assault.”
“I know all that,” said Fox, working hard to keep his voice quiet. “But if we keep the hostages up here we’re splitting our resources too much. In fact, it actually makes it easier for them to launch an assault. By now they’ll know we’ve brought people up here—it’ll have been caught on the TV cameras. But with the blinds down, they won’t know we’ve moved them, so they’ll still think we’ve got them in separate places.”
Wolf shook his head emphatically. “No,” he said. “We stick to the plan.”
His pigheadedness irritated Fox, but he could hear the stubbornness in his voice, and knew he wouldn’t change his mind.
“I’m doing the right thing,” said Wolf. “You’ll see that. We’ll keep Dragon and Tiger up here, and Cat and Bear in the ballroom.” He stopped and looked at his watch, his eyes lighting up. “It’s nearly twenty past,” he said. “Time we began negotiations.”
36
18:21
The helicopter followed the trajectory of Oxford Street, flying five hundred feet above the gridlocked roads, going as far as Lancaster Gate before banking over Hyde Park and landing on a hastily assembled landing pad three hundred yards directly north of the Stanhope Hotel.
Arley was talking to Chief Inspector Chris Matthews outside the command center—which consisted of two mobile incident rooms side by side, surrounded by a cluster of police vehicles—trying to organize an HQ for the hundred or so Special Forces and their support teams, whose arrival was imminent, when she saw the helicopter coming in. She immediately excused herself and started across the park toward the landing pad, lighting her first cigarette since the crisis had broken nearly two hours ago, and savoring the acrid hit of smoke in her throat. It was pretty much her first moment alone, when she hadn’t been talking to someone about something.
On the ground, all three cordons were now in place around the Stanhope. In total there were about three hundred police officers on the scene, with more arriving all the time, but Arley was pretty sure that there was none more important than the man she was going to see now.
Riz Mohammed was one of the most successful negotiators in the Met. He had the right mix of hardness and empathy to get under the skin of hostage-takers, and it was well known that in ten years in the job he’d never lost a hostage. He also had the priceless asset of being a Muslim, his Jamaican-born parents having converted from Christianity before he was born. Three months earlier, two Algerian terror suspects wanted for the attempted murder of a police officer had taken their neighbors—a family of four, including two young children—hostage in their Brixton flat. They’d been armed with handguns and a very unstable homemade bomb (which, according to Counter Terrorism Command, they’d been planning to use in a suicide bomb attack) and were demanding their freedom and safe passage to Ankara in Turkey, as well as 50,000 pounds in cash, otherwise they’d start killing the hostages one by one. Riz had been given the task of negotiating with the two men, who’d been desperate, angry, and hopelessly unrealistic in their demands. Yet over the next excruciating twenty-two hours he’d coaxed, empathized with, listened to, and finally persuaded them both to release the four hostages, before surrendering peacefully.
Arley took three rapid puffs on the cigarette, taking in as much nicotine as possible, before stubbing it underfoot at the edge of the landing pad. She watched as Riz emerged from the cockpit door, covering his ample head of hair from the updraft of the rotor blades.
“Hello, ma’am, how are you?” he said, shaking her hand with a firm grip.
As the head of Specialist Operations, Arley had overall control of the Met’s Kidnap Unit, and she’d worked with Riz several times before.
“I’ve been better. Thanks for coming, Riz. I appreciate it. I know it’s your day off.”
They walked in the direction of the command center, which sat just inside the central cordon, Arley having to increase her pace to keep up with him. Riz Mohammed was a big man with a big presence.
Up ahead the Stanhope loomed from behind the trees that bordered the park, illuminated by the many lights across its façade. It was a grand Georgian structure, and showed no obvious signs of being the location of a violent attack. There were no fires, no other unusual activity. If it hadn’t been for the flashing lights of the many emergency services vehicles surrounding the hotel on three sides, and the noise of the helicopters overhead, it would have made for a perfectly ordinary nighttime scene.
“Can you give me a rundown of what’s happening?” Riz asked her as they walked.
“Things are still sketchy, but we’ve definitely got multiple gunmen, large numbers of hostages in at least two different areas of the building, a lot of people trapped in their rooms, and there’ve been reports of sporadic shooting inside the hotel for the last forty-five minutes. What makes it even more critical is that one of the hostages is the head of the Directorate of Requirements and Production at MI6 and one of its top people.”
“You’re joking. What the hell’s he doing in there?”
“We don’t know yet. The hostage-takers have released a film of him tied up in one of the hotel’s rooms. It’s been picked up by Al Jazeera and a number of Islamist websites. On the film, one of the hostage-takers is holding a gun to his head and saying that if their demands aren’t met they’ll execute him at midnight. All this is confidential, of course.”
“Of course. What are their demands?”
“The broadcast called for all British operations against Muslim and Arab countries to stop, but they haven’t made direct contact yet. We’ve tried calling the hotel on the external lines but there’s been no response. To be honest, we don’t know if they actually want to negotiate. From what we can gather they’re holding hostages rather than conducting a massacre. Having said that, though, the military are being put on standby and my guess is responsibility for the operation will get turned over to them sooner rather than later if we can’t make contact.”
Riz nodded. “I’m assuming this is connected with the bomb attacks at the Westfield and Paddington.”
“We think so, so it’s obvious they’re not too worried about taking human life. Also, when they attacked the hotel, which happened at just before five o’clock, they killed several people in the kitchen, and opened fire on the first officers at the scene.”
“That’s not going to help the negotiations. I was told they’re from an organization called the Pan-Arab Army of God. Does that mean they’re Islamic extremists?”
“We don’t know anything about them yet but, given what we’ve got so far, we’ve got to assume that, yes.”
She saw the concern on his face when she said this. Islamic extremists were notoriously tricky to negotiate with because they were unpredictable and far less concerned with staying alive than the average hostage-taker.
“I’m sorry to put this on you, Riz. But if anyone’s got a chance of turning this around, it’s you.”
He sighed. “I’ll do my absolute best, but I’m no miracle worker.”
“I know,” she said. “None of us is. We’ve just got to hope we can conjure up something.”
By now they were approaching the command center. Groups of officers and assorted emergency services personnel were milling about, talking in low voices, as they waited in the cold night air for instructions. Most of them looked nervous, but then, thought Arley, that was to be expected. Their home city was under attack from a group who’d already caused carnage and chaos at two separate locations, and who now controlled one of the most prestigious hotels in London. And right now it looked like the bad guys were winning.
Arley took a deep breath. One thing she’d learned in the best part of a quarter of a century in the force was that criminals, however well organized, had weaknesses that could be exploited. The key to success was locating those weaknesses.
Her mobile rang in her trouser pocket. It was Gold Commander, Commissioner Phillips—the first time she’d heard from him for more than half an hour.
“Has your negotiator turned up yet?” he asked, trying to sound calm and collected but falling just that little bit short.
“I’ve just collected him. We’re outside the incident room.”
“You need to hurry. We’ve had contact. A man with a Middle Eastern accent has just phoned, saying he’s the commander of the Pan-Arab Army of God forces in the Stanhope Hotel. He’s demanded to speak to me personally in the next fifteen minutes, or his men are going to kill a hostage.”
“You haven’t spoken to him, sir, have you?” she asked, thinking it would be a complete breach of procedure if he had.
“Of course not,” he answered gruffly. “That’s your negotiator’s job. The call was made from a landline in the kitchen on the mezzanine floor, and it was logged at 18:20. That’s six minutes ago.”
“What instructions shall I give our negotiator?”
Phillips paused. “That’s the thing, Arley. They’re very specific. I’ve just been on the
phone to the Prime Minister, and he’s very concerned.”
“We all are, sir.”
“Not just about the situation with the civilian hostages.” Phillips spoke slowly and carefully, the concern in his voice becoming steadily more obvious. “Can you move away, so there’s no risk you’re being overheard?”
“Of course.” She excused herself from Riz and walked a few yards away.
“Apparently the MI6 man Michael Prior has some information that, should it fall into the wrong hands, would be disastrous for the country. There’s no reason to believe that the terrorists know he has this information—only a handful of people do know about it—but it’s absolutely essential your negotiator speaks to him. He’s got to insist on it.”
“But how are we going to find out whether Prior’s given away information without alerting the people holding him?” she asked.
“Prior has two prearranged code words. He’ll use one if he has been compromised, and the other if he hasn’t. They’re both on your desk in the incident room. As far as anyone else is concerned, the code words are simply to find out if he’s been mistreated or not. Is all that clear?”
“It’s clear,” she said, not liking the sound of his voice at all.
“Good. Then get your man on the phone to the hostage-taker right away. We need this cleared up fast.”
37
Fox slipped into room 316, shutting the door quietly behind him and bolting it from the inside.
Michael Prior, the director of MI6 and their VIP prisoner, was still in the tub chair where they’d left him earlier, and he was staring cautiously at Fox from behind the gag. He seemed to be quite calm for a man who had a bomb strapped to him.
Siege: A Thriller Page 13
