It lasted barely thirty seconds but it was enough to confirm that the people holding her family were utterly ruthless. The frightened expressions on the faces of her children as they were forced to sit on either side of Magda’s dead body made her want to throw up.
Don’t panic, she told herself. Think.
The phone rang again, Howard’s name and a photo of him pulling one of his stupid faces coming up on the screen.
“You’ve seen the video?” asked the caller.
“Yes. What do you want?”
“I understand you are in charge of the police operation at the Stanhope Hotel.” It was a statement, not a question. “You’re going to find out the SAS’s plan of attack, and when they’re aiming to penetrate the building. If your information is correct, your family will be released unharmed.”
“There is no plan of attack,” she whispered urgently into the phone, stepping even further into the shadows of the oak tree. “We’re still at the negotiating stage.”
“There will be an attack,” said the man with a confidence that scared her. “And you will find out the details of it.”
“I don’t think you understand. Even if some kind of attack did go ahead—and there is no guarantee that it will—it would be a military operation, and under military jurisdiction, which means I won’t be party to any of their plans.”
“Then you will need to find a way, Mrs. Dale. This phone is now going to be switched off. I will call you again when the time is right. If you ever want to see your family again, you’ll tell us everything we need to know.”
44
19:12
The Park View Restaurant, usually a busy yet relaxed place full of the buzz of conversation, was hot and silent, and the exotic smells of Asia and the East had been replaced with the stench of fear, human sweat, and, in the last few minutes, urine.
Elena glanced up at the two guards. The taller of the two was sitting down with his foot dangling above the detonation pedal for the bomb that had been placed in the middle of the group, only a few feet from where Elena herself sat. He hadn’t said a word the whole time they’d been there, but was still watching them carefully, while occasionally checking the TV screen on the table next to him, which appeared to be showing news coverage from outside the hotel. The other guard was smaller and wiry. He had a pronounced limp and he spoke with a Scandinavian accent. He seemed more agitated and unpleasant, and was often limping up and down the far end of the room. When the mother of the youngest child had requested permission to take her to the toilet, the Scandinavian had refused, saying that no one was allowed to go to the toilet. The mother had started to plead, looking over at Elena for support, but the Scandinavian had marched over to where the family was sitting and pointed the gun at the child. “Keep arguing and I shoot her dead right here,” he spat. His words had been delivered like a boast, as if he was proud of his cruelty, and when the poor child started to sob Elena had so, so wanted to stand up and say something.
But she hadn’t. She’d stayed silent. And so had the mother. For the last few minutes Elena had watched as she comforted the child, whispering soothing words to her.
At least now everyone was calm again, and the Scandinavian guard had left the room, which had eased the tense atmosphere a little. Elena was thankful that the blinds were pulled down on the windows so that the world’s TV cameras couldn’t see them. She wondered how many people were right now looking at the normally beautiful image of the Stanhope Hotel at night. There would be millions of them. Hundreds of millions. They would probably include her own family. And Rod. God alone knew how worried they’d all be, although it would be nothing to the fear she was experiencing. Because the thing was, the people holding them were killers. Most worrying of all, Elena could see no joy or hope in any of their eyes, only the cold certainty that they were prepared to die. Possibly even looking forward to it.
She shifted position on the floor so that she was sitting with her arms clasped around her knees. She was trying to get comfortable, and ignoring the thirst that was beginning to gnaw at her, the result of dehydration from the previous night’s drinking session. God, how long ago that seemed now.
The man next to Elena, the one who’d come to the hotel to commit suicide and who’d fashioned a noose in his room, caught her eye and gave her a reassuring smile. They’d barely looked at each other this past hour, and hadn’t exchanged as much as a word. All that time he’d sat unmoving with his head bowed.
She smiled back, curiosity getting the better of her. Here was a normal-looking, quite attractive middle-aged man and he’d come here to die a lonely, bleak death.
“Are you here alone?” she whispered to him, even though she knew the answer. She glanced up as she spoke to make sure the tall guard hadn’t heard her. It didn’t look like he had.
He nodded, looking ashamed. “Yes, I am.”
They were silent for a few moments after that, then he sighed, clearly wanting to unburden himself. “I have to admit, I came here to die,” he whispered. “But not like this.”
“Forgive me for asking, but why do you want to die?”
“Because I’m going to die soon anyway. I’ve got cancer.”
Elena’s jaw tightened. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s OK,” he said, and they both fell silent.
“What’s your name?” she asked him eventually, wanting to keep the conversation going, if only to take her mind off everything else.
“Martin.”
“I’m Elena.”
“So I see,” he said, pointing at her nametag. “I’m sorry about choosing your hotel to finish things in,” he continued. “I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone, but the Stanhope has a very special place in my heart.”
Elena was curious. “Why?”
He paused. “I came here with a girl once. Twenty-two years ago now. Her name was Carrie. She was the love of my life.” He shook his head sadly. “Christ, I should have stayed with her. I know it sounds clichéd, but don’t ever let anything get in the way of love, Elena. It’s the most important thing there is.”
She thought of Rod, and it made her feel happy for the first time since this had begun. “I know.”
“You’re engaged?” he whispered, looking down at her new ring.
“Yes. He proposed last night.”
“God, I’m sorry. Not that you got engaged, but . . . ” He looked around. “Because of all this. You don’t deserve it.”
“None of us does.”
“What’s going on over there?” The voice cut through the quiet of the room like a knife. “You were told to keep your mouths shut.” It was the Scandinavian guard. He’d come back into the room and was limping over to them, the rifle out in front of him, his eyes blazing with anger beneath the balaclava.
Elena felt a flash of sheer terror and bowed her head, hoping he would go away.
He didn’t. He stopped in front of them, the rifle pointing down at her. “What were you talking about?”
“I was just asking if she was OK,” said Martin, who’d bowed his head too. “That’s all.”
“What did I tell you, shithead? No talking.” He kicked Martin hard in the chest, knocking him backward. Martin went down hard onto his side, gasping for air, and the Scandinavian immediately kicked him again. “Talk again and I’ll really make you suffer.” He sneered before turning away.
“You coward,” said Elena, unable to stop the words coming out of her mouth.
The Scandinavian stopped. Then, very slowly, turned around. “What did you say?” he hissed, raising the rifle and pushing the end of the barrel against her forehead.
Elena swallowed. “He’s ill. And he can’t fight back.”
“Please, leave her,” she heard Martin say, his voice full of tension. “She didn’t mean it.”
For several seconds, nothing happened. The Scandinavian didn’t move, and Elena realized with a growing dread that he was debating whether or not to pull the trigger. She closed
her eyes. If the end was about to come, then she prayed it would be quick. In the background, she could hear one of the children sobbing again.
Then she heard the ding of the kitchen elevator, and the door from the kitchen opening. Instinctively she opened her eyes and saw the terrorist leader, Wolf, walk into the room accompanied by the woman from downstairs. Both of them were masked and armed—he with an assault rifle, she with a handgun—and right then, Elena was hugely relieved to see them, because the Scandinavian immediately lowered his gun and retreated as Wolf beckoned him over.
There followed a hushed debate in the corner involving the four hostage-takers. While this was going on, Elena leaned down and helped Martin back up. His face was twisted in pain, and he’d gone so pale that she thought he might vomit.
Still struggling for breath, he gestured for her to come closer. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered. “You could have been killed.”
“I hate bullies,” she whispered back, putting a hand on his arm.
Wolf came forward so that he was standing in front of the hostages. It was clear he was about to make an announcement. “As a gesture of goodwill, and in an effort to help with negotiations, we’re going to release the children.”
The mother with the little girl who’d wanted to go to the toilet gasped, and clutched her child even closer.
“They are to come with us now. They will not be harmed and they will be released through the front doors of the hotel within the next fifteen minutes.”
For a few seconds, nobody moved.
“Do you not want them to be released?” Wolf shouted. “Would you rather they stayed here?”
The mother who’d gasped raised a hand. “Are parents able to go with their children? My daughter needs me.”
“No. They go alone. But we will release them safely. You have our word.”
The mother started to say something else, then thought better of it. Holding her daughter close, she whispered something in her ear, tears streaming down her face. The daughter immediately tightened her grip, but the mother pushed her away, promising that they’d be together again very soon. Across the room, three other sets of parents said goodbye to their children: the eight-year-old girl, the boy of about twelve in his school uniform, and a Japanese boy closer to sixteen.
“He’s not going,” said Wolf, pointing to the Japanese boy as he got up.
The boy stopped, looking unsure what to do, and both of his parents got to their feet.
“Please, sir,” said his mother, “let him go. He’s very young.”
“Not young enough. In my country, he’d be considered a man. Sit down, all of you. Now.”
The mother kept pleading, holding on to her son, her manner bordering on the hysterical, but Wolf stared at her coldly and told her that he’d shoot them unless they did as they’d been instructed. The husband gently took hold of his wife and son, a sorrowful expression on his face, and they sat down slowly, the mother’s sobs quickly subsiding.
It was a heartrending scene, and one that affected all of the hostages, many of whom had tears in their eyes, but it seemed to make no difference to the terrorists. What shocked Elena the most was the expression on the face of the female terrorist as she viewed the pathetic group of frightened children as they clustered together, the two little girls holding the hands of the older boy. It was as if she had a heart made entirely from stone, and it made Elena wonder what could possibly have made someone so pretty on the outside become so ugly within.
And then they were all gone, leaving behind only a hot, frightened silence.
45
19:18
Arley Dale stood in the cold night air of Hyde Park, still stunned by the phone call she’d just received. In the space of a few cruel minutes her whole world had become a nightmare from which it seemed there was no escape.
If she told the man holding her children the details and timing of any SAS entry into the Stanhope she would be betraying them, perhaps even sending the soldiers to their deaths. She would effectively be committing treason. She would also almost certainly be found out, which would mean losing her career, her life as she knew it, and her liberty. Even if a judge took into account the extenuating circumstances behind her betrayal, she could still spend the next ten years of her life in prison.
But if she didn’t do what the caller wanted, what then? There was, of course, the possibility that if she told her bosses they could keep things under wraps while the full resources of the Met were thrown into the hunt for Howard and the children. But the problem was, her family could be anywhere. The only thing she knew for certain was the people they were dealing with were highly organized and utterly ruthless. They’d planted bombs in civilian areas; they’d gunned down members of the public at the Stanhope; they’d even murdered her own au pair, Magda, and forced the children to pose with her corpse. There was therefore absolutely nothing to suggest that they wouldn’t do the same to Howard, Oliver, and India if it suited them. And as soon as they realized that she’d given them false information about any planned attack (which she’d have to do if she confided in Commissioner Phillips) they would take their revenge.
She also knew that, even if she did cooperate, there was absolutely no guarantee that her loved ones would be released. In fact, it would be far simpler for the terrorists to kill them, and perhaps even bury them somewhere they’d never be discovered.
She couldn’t believe what was happening to her. It all seemed so bloody surreal. How on earth had they got to her family? How did they even know she’d be involved with the Stanhope Hotel siege? It wasn’t as if the Met’s major incident command structure was decided in advance. It simply depended on who was available and on duty when an incident actually happened. But they had known. Just as they seemed to know that the SAS would be launching a rescue operation later that night.
Arley felt physically sick as she lit another cigarette with shaking hands, and looked over toward the incident room. She was going to have to go back there soon, act as if nothing had happened, and run a huge and stressful operation.
She pictured Oliver and India. How would she ever live with herself if they died? She thought of Howard too. She loved him too, of course, but not in the same desperate, all-encompassing way she loved her children.
She dragged hard on the cigarette. Thinking. Weighing her options.
What fucking options?
Unless . . .
She looked down at the phone in her gloved hand. There was one person who might be able to help her, one person she felt she could trust with this, the darkest of secrets.
It was a hard call to make, but as Arley flicked through her contacts until she found the number she was looking for, she knew it was worth the risk.
In the end, she’d destroy anyone, whoever it was, to save her children.
46
Tina Boyd had never been a conventional police officer. In a career of sailing close to the wind she’d been shot twice, kidnapped once, involved in cases that had led to the murders of both a colleague and a lover, and even killed violent murderers herself on two occasions (one case had officially been deemed an accident; the other, nobody but her knew about—although both men had deserved what they got in her opinion). She’d also knowingly planted evidence on suspects, had assaulted quite a few, had been suspended twice, and had finally been unceremoniously fired earlier in the year after an unofficial case she was working on in the Philippines had ended with a lot of dead bodies, and even more unanswered questions. In short, Tina Boyd was trouble to anyone mad enough to get involved with her.
But she had one unique selling point, which was the reason she’d lasted as long as she had in the Met: she got results. Not necessarily by the book. Often not even within the boundaries of the law. But the statistics didn’t lie. Of the thirty-nine major investigations she’d been a part of, or had led, including several involving multiple counts of murder, her clear-up rate was 100 percent. Even the most cockeyed commentator couldn’t ar
gue with that.
Ultimately, though, nothing had been able to stand in the way of her own volatility and lack of discipline, and now, nine months on from parting acrimoniously with the Met, she was scraping by doing unofficial private detective work, and the occasional bit of consultancy for film companies looking for her “unique” take on life as a police officer. But ask her if she regretted anything and her answer would always be the same.
Everything I did, I did for the right reasons.
Although, as she sat in her living room watching events unfold at the Stanhope Hotel on the TV, Tina realized how much she missed her old life.
She’d been planning on making dinner, but found it impossible to drag herself away from the rolling coverage of the siege and bomb attacks. The speed with which things were happening was addictive. Tina had taken part in a few sieges in her time, and for the most part it was simply a matter of waiting until the hostage-takers got bored, hungry, or too depressed to carry on. But this was different. These people really knew what they were doing, taking advantage of the lax security in the capital to launch a series of spectacular attacks. So far no one seemed to know very much about them, although, as usual, there was no shortage of talking heads popping up to offer theories. The consensus seemed to be that they were foreign extremists taking revenge on the innocent in retaliation for British involvement in foreign wars.
Tina’s mobile rang just as the PM appeared on the screen for a news conference, adopting a suitably Churchillian pose for the cameras but not quite managing to hide the strain on his face.
She picked it up and frowned at the screen.
Arley Dale.
They’d been friends once—or perhaps acquaintances was a better word for it. Tina didn’t have many friends. In fact, she was actually surprised she still had Arley’s number stored. They hadn’t spoken in several months.
Siege: A Thriller Page 16
