40
As soon as Fox had the information he needed from Michael Prior, he used the laptop from his backpack to log into a Hotmail account that only he and one other person had access to, where he left a simple three-word message in the drafts section: I have it. Leaving a message in the drafts folder was an old anti-surveillance trick. It meant that the content couldn’t be monitored or read by the security forces, since no message was ever actually sent over the Internet.
He knew he had to move fast. Leaving Prior behind, he exited room 316 and took the emergency stairs to the second floor, where he stopped at room 202. Before he’d tampered with the guest reservation database, 202 had been empty. Now it was registered to Mr. Robert Durran, a freelance architect who was on the first night of a two-night stay.
Using the master key card, Fox let himself into the room. The lights were off and the curtains open, letting in the flashing lights of all the emergency services vehicles gathered across the street. The bed was made and the room still had a fresh, unoccupied smell.
Fox unzipped the rucksack and removed the clothes and shoes he’d been wearing when he arrived at the Park Royal rendezvous earlier that afternoon. Next he pulled out a wallet containing a driver’s license, passport, and credit cards in the name of Robert Durran, as well as several hundred pounds in cash, from an internal pocket. He slipped the wallet into the front pocket of the trousers, then carefully placed the whole bundle under the bed, pushing it in so that it was well out of sight.
Finally, he looked around the room and, satisfied that his contingency plan was in place, headed back to join the others.
In the ballroom, Bear and Cat were sitting on hard-backed plastic chairs a few yards apart, watching the hostages. Both of them turned around as he entered the room. Cat gave him a bored, vaguely dismissive look, which meant that Wolf had yet to tell her about the death of her brother, while Bear, the “man with the face” who’d saved Fox’s neck in Iraq all those years ago by pushing him out of the way of an IED, gave him a nod, which he returned.
Only a handful of the hostages looked up. There were seventy-seven of them in all, forty-six men and thirty-one women, and Fox had to admit they were an acquiescent bunch. Seated quietly at the far end of the room, their heads were down and they were behaving exactly as they’d been ordered. Either sensible or cowardly, depending on which way you chose to look at it.
To Fox, they were cowardly, and he walked past them and into the satellite kitchen.
Wolf was sitting alone at the far end next to the phone in the kitchen drinking a coffee and smoking one of his foul-smelling cigarettes. He turned around as Fox entered. “I’ve spoken to the negotiator and given him our demands. They want to speak to Prior. In fact, they are insistent.”
“We need to be careful about that,” said Fox. “They’ll be trying to pinpoint his location in the building. If you let them speak to him, they’ll know exactly where he is.”
“We can always move him.”
“True. But we’re already two men down so we can’t just shift him from room to room. It means manpower and logistics, not to mention risk.”
Wolf frowned. “So you think we shouldn’t?”
“We don’t have anything to gain from it. Let them sweat a little. And in the meantime, let’s release the children. That’ll give them something to work with, and help to stave off any chance of an early assault.”
“OK,” said Wolf slowly. “That’s what we’ll do. But I’m not releasing any of their parents. I don’t want them giving anything away about us.”
Fox agreed with him. The minute any hostages were released, the police would be on them like a shot, trying to extract any information they could about what was going on inside the Stanhope—information that would later be handed over to the military for when they staged their inevitable assault. Children, however, would be of only limited help.
He rubbed his face beneath the balaclava. His skin felt itchy and sweaty, and he wished he could take the damn thing off, but there was no way he could risk anyone seeing his face tonight.
“I’m guessing you haven’t told Cat about her brother yet?” he asked.
“Not yet, no.”
“She’s not going to take it well.”
“Of course she isn’t, you fool.” Wolf looked agitated. “I’ll handle her. She listens to me. Take over out there and send her in.”
He turned away and Fox left the kitchen, thinking that not only was Wolf an arsehole, he was a weak one too. He looked at his watch. 18:50. The siege was two hours old. A little more than four more and it would all be over. And he’d be a rich man.
It was well worth putting up with a few insults in the meantime.
41
18:53
Clinton Bonner was dying to urinate. A weak bladder had been a constant companion ever since he’d hit his fifties, more than a decade before, and right now it was tormenting him with a vengeance.
He was in the walk-in cupboard of the ballroom’s satellite kitchen, lying in the same spot he’d been in for more than three hours now—the crawlspace beneath the left-hand bottom shelf. When he’d sneaked in there to have a quick nap toward the end of his second double-shift of the week, it was 3:30 on a normal November afternoon. He hadn’t bothered to set the alarm on his phone because he usually only shut his eyes for twenty minutes, but this time, bizarrely, he’d slept for well over an hour, and when he’d woken up at ten to five, already needing the loo, his whole world had changed.
The first thing he remembered was the faint but unmistakable rat-a-tat-tat of automatic gunfire coming from downstairs, then lots and lots of shouting and screaming. He had no idea what was happening, but his instincts had told him to stay put until it stopped, and being far past the age where curiosity would get the better of him, he’d obeyed them.
The shooting had finally stopped, but the shouting hadn’t. It had got closer until it seemed to be coming from the ballroom, barely ten yards from where he was lying. Totally confused, his need to pee temporarily forgotten amid the drama, Clinton had lain there until he’d heard voices, quieter and calmer now, inside the satellite kitchen. He’d always had good hearing. “Ears like a fruit bat’s,” his mother used to claim when he was growing up in Trinidad, as she boxed them for listening in on conversations that didn’t concern him. And what he’d heard in that room had been truly terrifying. It was obvious armed men had taken over the Stanhope, men who’d made Elena Serenko, the pretty young duty manager who was always so friendly to him (unlike some), tell them the locations of the master key cards to the rooms, as well as the main sprinkler system.
That had been some time ago now. Clinton sneaked a peek at his watch, sheltering the fluorescent green light with his hand, and saw that it was five to seven, almost an hour and a half since the official end of his shift. His wife, Nancy, would be home from work herself by now and would have heard about what was happening at the hotel. She’d be worried sick—she was a worrier in the best of times—which was why he’d sent her a text earlier, telling her he was safe and hidden away, but couldn’t talk. He’d then immediately switched off the phone, not prepared to risk the fact that it might make any kind of noise and betray his location to the men who’d taken over the hotel.
His bladder felt like it was bursting. He tried to think of something else, anything that might provide some temporary relief, but nothing seemed to work, and it was taking all his willpower to hold it in. He considered wetting his pants. Almost did it. But the fear that the odor might give him away held him back.
But he wasn’t going to be able to hold out for much longer.
The talking outside had stopped but he could still hear movement. Someone was there, just beyond the door. Someone prepared to kill him.
He heard footsteps approaching, and he felt the fear rise in his chest as they stopped immediately outside.
And then the door opened and light flooded in.
The fear seemed to squeeze Clinton’s bladder so hard
that it felt like it would explode at any second, and he held his breath, pushing himself as far into the crawlspace as possible, silently praying to the Good Lord that whoever the intruder was, he wouldn’t look down.
The intruder was inside the store cupboard now, rummaging around on the shelves, probably looking for something to eat, his booted feet only inches from Clinton’s face, the barrel of a wicked-looking rifle dangling down by the side of one leg.
Clinton desperately wanted to breathe. To breathe and to pee. Terror coursed through him as he realized that he could be just seconds from the end of his life and meeting a God he’d genuinely not expected to see for many years yet, because no one thinks this sort of thing will happen to them, do they?
Please, God. Don’t let me be discovered.
Which was when Clinton felt the wetness running down his leg as his bladder finally gave way.
Oh God, no. Please.
His eyes filled with tears as he tried to stop himself. But he couldn’t seem to manage it, and now he could hear the urine dripping on to the floor beneath him, forming a puddle that any second now was going to be discovered, because the boots were only inches away. And still he couldn’t stop himself.
The man grunted as he dropped a can of something onto the floor. It rolled toward Clinton and he reached out a finger and rolled it back out, away from the crawlspace, praying the man wouldn’t look down and see the growing puddle, or pick up the strong odor of urine that seemed to Clinton to be overwhelming.
The seconds crawled by like days in the hot, claustrophobic silence. At last, Clinton managed to stop the flow of urine, but still he didn’t dare breathe, even though his lungs were close to bursting.
Finally, the man turned and walked out of the store cupboard, carrying a case of bottled mineral water under one arm. He didn’t shut the door, allowing Clinton to catch a look at him for the first time as he placed the water down on one of the counters, and pulled one of the bottles free. He was short and squat, with a wide frog-like face peppered with acne scars. What truly scared Clinton, though, was the fact that if he could see the man, then the man could surely see him.
Feeling utterly exposed, Clinton lay still, conscious of the pooled urine on the floor beside him, at least part of which was clearly visible from outside the door.
Then he heard the kitchen door open more widely and a moment later a woman came into view, pulling off a black balaclava. Clinton could only just see her because the other man was in the way, but she was dark-haired and pretty, and wearing a surprisingly sexy black dress underneath a thick bomber jacket. She had a handgun down by her side.
The man said something in Arabic, his tone subdued, and walked over to her.
Clinton couldn’t hear the remainder of their conversation because a few seconds later the woman let out a wild animal howl that filled the room before she stormed into view, a hand covering her face. The man pulled her back and they continued to talk in hushed voices for several minutes more before she broke free from him and paced the room in ferocious, intense silence, while he watched her, making no move to intervene. On three separate occasions she passed just in front of the open cupboard door, but was thankfully too preoccupied to look inside.
Finally, she stopped. “I want him alive,” she hissed to the man, speaking in English for the first time. “And I want to be the one who slices his balls off.”
“You shall have him, I promise you that.”
“When?”
“Later. There are things we need to do first.”
“Like what?”
“We have to release the children.”
“That is more important than finding the man who murdered my brother? Your fellow countryman and soldier?”
“We need to give a sign of goodwill. When we have done that, we will look for this man. Remember, this whole building will burn tonight, and he will burn with it.”
“I want them all to burn,” she said, walking into view and putting a manicured hand on one of the counters. Her face was no longer pretty but set hard and merciless, and her dark eyes blazed with a terrible anger. “I want to kill as many of these dogs as possible.” She was looking past the man now, right toward where Clinton was lying.
“Something smells strange in here,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
Clinton almost cried out with fear as he heard those words.
The man turned around, and now he too was looking straight at Clinton. He frowned. “It’s something in there.”
Clinton didn’t move. It was over. He was going to die here in this hot, windowless place, away from the family he loved so much.
The man was walking toward him, his rifle dangling from his arm. Getting closer and closer.
And then, in one single terrifying movement, he slammed the door shut, plunging Clinton back into welcome darkness.
42
19:05
Arley Dale was drinking from a huge cup of Starbucks coffee and thinking about having a cigarette. In the last few minutes, things in the mobile incident room had quieted right down, and the phones had stopped ringing. Will and Janine, the two technicians who’d also been acting as coordinators and receptionists, were still tapping away on their computers while Riz Mohammed and John Cheney were leaned over another counter going through lists of terror organizations and their various front companies, searching for anything that might provide a link to the Pan-Arab Army of God. Their body language suggested they hadn’t found anything of use yet.
So far, Arley was reasonably satisfied with the way she was handling her end of the operation. The situation was contained; there’d been no further reports of shooting in the previous half hour, or threats made by the hostage-takers; and it seemed they hadn’t noticed that the hotel’s Internet access had been switched off. Riz might not have been able to make contact with Michael Prior, but Arley wasn’t so worried about that. There was no point forcing the issue and running the risk of antagonizing the terrorist who called himself Wolf. In the end, he’d call them. Like most sieges, it was a waiting game, each side hoping that the other would crack.
The orders from Commissioner Phillips, and from the Prime Minister himself, who as Platinum Commander was in overall charge of the operation, were to attempt a negotiated settlement, but they were also hedging their bets. A full squadron of SAS troops and support staff had arrived on the scene a few minutes earlier, ready to stage a rapid assault on the hotel if the situation suddenly deteriorated. They were being billeted in an office building behind the hotel that had been requisitioned by Chris Matthews, on Arley’s orders, and which was well away from the dozens of camera crews.
Arley was going to need to call the SAS leader and give him a briefing, but she decided to have that cigarette first, figuring she’d earned it. “Anyone fancy joining me for a smoke?” she asked the room.
“Sorry,” said Will, still tapping away on his PC and pulling a face like he’d just smelled something bad. “I’ve never smoked.”
“I’ve quit,” said Janine ruefully, “and it was so bloody hard, I don’t dare go back to it.”
Apparently, smoking was against Riz’s religion, or so he said, and Cheney only smoked these days when he had a drink. “Although if things deteriorate too much I might end up doing both,” he added, giving her one of his winning smiles, which she made a point of ignoring, so as not to give him the wrong idea.
Thinking that she really ought to quit herself, and that the youth of today were turning into lightweights, Arley went outside, walking away from the office and the police vehicles as she lit up.
In the near distance, the Stanhope rose high above the other buildings, with lights on, on every floor, and Arley thanked God neither she nor her loved ones were trapped in there. She was hopeful that a Mumbai-style massacre might still be averted, particularly if negotiations continued, but even so, she couldn’t begin to imagine the terror the hostages were feeling. It was her job to get them out of the hotel safely. It was, she thought, as she took a lo
ng draw on the cigarette, a daunting responsibility.
Her mobile rang, and she sighed. Back to work, she thought, wondering what had happened now.
It was Howard, her husband. She’d left a message on his phone close to two hours back now to let him know that she was involved in the siege at the Stanhope, and it had taken him this long to get back to her. Doubtless he’d been busy getting supper ready and hadn’t wanted to disturb her. He was good like that, and she realized, almost with surprise, that she was pleased to be hearing from him.
But the voice at the other end wasn’t Howard’s. It belonged to a man with a foreign accent.
“We have your family,” he told her.
43
Arley felt a physical lurch of terror that almost knocked her over. “Hold on,” she said, moving farther away from the police vehicles toward a nearby oak tree.
“Your au pair is dead,” continued the caller, his tone matter-of-fact, “and your husband, son, and daughter are being held in a secure location a long way from where I’m calling now.”
“What do you want?” Arley whispered into the phone.
“I’m going to send you a short video of your children with the au pair. Then I’m going to call you back. In the meantime, do not try to trace me. I am in contact every fifteen minutes with the man holding your family. If he doesn’t hear from me for more than half an hour he has strict instructions to execute all of them.”
“I’m not going to do anything stupid, I promise,” she said, angered at the note of pleading that had crept into her voice. But she was already talking into a dead phone.
For perhaps the longest few minutes of her life she stood in the cold staring at the phone, ignoring everything around her, before it bleeped to say she’d received a text message from Howard with a video attached. Taking a deep breath, she opened the message and pressed play on the video.
Siege: A Thriller Page 15
