Siege: A Thriller

by Simon Kernick

  There was a professional family portrait on the opposite wall. Arley, her two teenage children, and Howard, a big bluff smiling man standing a good head taller than the others, and without doubt the corpse she’d just seen in the kitchen.

  “Jesus,” whispered Tina in the gloom, wondering what the hell she was getting involved with here, but also feeling the kind of intense righteous anger she hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. She wanted to get the people responsible for this. She wanted to make them pay.

  With a renewed sense of purpose, she searched the rest of the house, but there was no sign of the two children. Both they and the kidnappers were gone, just as she’d expected. She checked for anything that might give her some clue to the kidnappers’ identity, or their final destination, but nothing sprang out at her.

  All of which left Tina with a stark choice. The chances of her finding Arley’s children were slim in the extreme. The best course of action was to persuade Arley to tell her colleagues what was going on. But she wasn’t at all sure that Arley would. And Tina knew she was almost certainly right not to. Neither the Met nor the government would put her two children before the lives of the hostages in the Stanhope.

  Tina let herself out of the house, pulling from the pocket of her jeans a fake warrant card she used sometimes for PI work.

  She’d made her decision.

  51

  20:20

  This was the dead time. The time in the middle of the operation when they were simply waiting around and guarding the hostages, counting down the hours until they were ready to make their next move.

  In the ballroom, Fox was back on guard duty with Bear. They’d both just eaten some pot noodles in the satellite kitchen, during which time Bear had complained more than once about Cat’s volatility. The whole room had heard her scream when she was told what had happened to her brother, and since then the rage had been coming off her in waves, and she’d hardly spoken a word. Fox had told Bear not to worry, that as long as she didn’t go off on a one-woman hunt for the man responsible and get herself killed, everything would be OK. Bear had calmed down, but he still seemed spooked, as he had been ever since he’d found out about what happened to Leopard and Panther. Fox was more sanguine. The man responsible for their deaths was certainly dangerous but the chances were that he was hiding out in one of the rooms and would stay out of their way.

  Fox was more worried about the atmosphere in the ballroom, which was tense. He could see that some of the hostages were agitated, while others seemed to be looking around for ways to escape. Clearly they were beginning to forget what had happened to some of their fellow hostages earlier when they’d made their bids for freedom.

  He and Bear were sitting on chairs twenty feet apart, and well back from the hostages. Bear’s foot rested on the detonation pedal for the bomb that sat in the middle of the hostages, and Fox hoped that none of them would work out that there was no way he or Bear would detonate it, given that they were right in the path of any shrapnel. In fact, the bomb, like all but two of the others, was set to timer and would explode at 23:00 hours, not before. Both the pedal and the det cords were there for show only.

  One of the more troublesome-looking hostages, a young stocky guy dressed like an American high school jock, caught Fox’s eye, and started to stand up.

  Fox shouted at him to sit down.

  The guy went down on one knee. “I need the toilet, badly,” he said, his accent upper-class.

  “I don’t care.”

  “Come on. Cut me some slack. Please.” There was a confidence to his voice that made some of the hostages take notice.

  Fox knew a show of weakness or indecision here would be fatal. He took his time getting to his feet, then took two steps forward and very slowly put the AK-47 to his shoulder, pointing it at the young man’s head. When he spoke, his words cut across the room like a knife. “I’ve already shot two people downstairs. Do you think it’ll bother me if I shoot a third? Your life means absolutely nothing to me. If it means anything to you, then keep still and shut up. Understand?”

  The hostage nodded, every ounce of confidence now gone.

  “Good. That goes for the rest of you too. Stay silent and you stay alive.”

  As Fox sat down, Bear gave him a supportive nod. Bear had always looked to Fox for leadership, ever since he’d served under him in the army. Not for the first time, Fox wondered whether Bear ever resented the fact that he’d been disfigured for life while Fox—who should, by rights, have been blown to pieces—had escaped the IED largely unscathed. If he did, then he hid it very well.

  Fox took a brief look over his shoulder toward the kitchen where Wolf and Cat were. God knew what they were doing in there, but as long as it wasn’t anything stupid, like starting a hunt for their fugitive, he didn’t mind. In the meantime, he had something else he had to do.

  Still keeping a firm grip on his rifle, he slid the pack from his back and, as casually as possible, removed his laptop. He wanted to check that the individual he’d left a message for earlier in the drafts section of the Hotmail account had received it and responded with a message of his own.

  But when he tried to go online, the computer didn’t respond. He tried again, keeping his face impassive, but it definitely wasn’t working.

  The bastards had cut them off.

  This was a real problem. He wasn’t so worried about his own private message. He knew it was there, so a response was less important. However, one of the key components of their plan was knowing where and when the security forces would launch their attack. This information was also going to be provided through the drafts section of a separate Hotmail account so that it couldn’t be read by the authorities. But if they didn’t have an Internet connection, they wouldn’t get it, and they’d lose a key advantage.

  He tried one more time, got the same result, and replaced the laptop in the backpack as he got to his feet.

  Bear gave him a questioning look. “Is there a problem?” he whispered as Fox crouched down next to him.

  Fox knew there was no point spooking him further. “I just need to see Wolf quickly. I’ll be back in a minute.” And then more loudly, so the hostages could hear, he said: “Anyone moves, put a hole in them.”

  He turned and walked quickly toward the kitchen, knowing that they had to get the Internet back on, and fast.

  Even if it meant killing a hostage in front of the world’s cameras to make the authorities act.

  52

  “Did you manage to get the insulin pens?” Abby asked groggily. She looked tired but in OK shape, and was drinking from a bottle of water while Ethan knelt beside her, holding her hand.

  “I’m afraid they weren’t there,” said Scope, shutting the door behind him and putting the chair back against it.

  “But they were in my black handbag by the side of the bed. I’m sure of it.”

  “Your handbag was on the floor, and it looked like someone had been through it.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m guessing one of the terrorists. He was probably looking for clues about who killed his friends.”

  A wave of panic crossed Abby’s face, and Scope could see that Ethan was scared too.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll sort something out.”

  “What, though? This siege looks like it’s going to go on a ways longer yet, and I’m going to need that insulin soon, as well as something to eat, otherwise my blood sugar levels are going to start getting way too high.”

  “What happens then?”

  Abby looked down at Ethan. It was clear she didn’t want to worry him. “It could be a problem, but I should be good for a few hours yet.” She squeezed her son’s hand and forced a smile.

  “Mom, you’ll be OK,” said Ethan quietly, before turning to Scope. “Won’t she?”

  Scope nodded, but something in Abby’s expression worried him. He didn’t know a lot about Type 1 diabetes, but he was pretty sure the consequences would be serious if she didn’t
get her insulin soon. “Leave it with me,” he said. “I’ll sort it.”

  He grabbed the hotel phone, walked it as far as possible from the bed, and dialed the emergency services.

  As soon as the operator picked up, Scope asked to speak to a paramedic. At first, the guy on the other end was reluctant to put him through, but Scope wasn’t taking no for an answer. “This is a matter of life and death,” he hissed into the phone. “If this woman dies because you wouldn’t help, then I’m going to come looking for you, and you’re going to pay, do you understand that?”

  “There’s no need for that kind of attitude, sir,” said the operator indignantly, but clearly there was, because two minutes later he was through to a paramedic who identified himself as Steve.

  Scope briefly explained the situation, keeping his voice low. “We need that insulin fast. She told me she thinks she’s good until about ten, so we’ve got an hour and a half maximum.” This was a lie, but he knew he needed to inject a sense of urgency into the situation.

  “Where’s the patient’s supply?”

  “She dropped her bag when she was shot,” answered Scope, avoiding telling the truth, “and it’s not there anymore.”

  “How much blood has she lost?”

  “I don’t know, but I got the bleeding under control fast, and I’ve only had to change the dressing once, so I don’t think she’s lost that much. Will the blood loss affect how soon she needs her next dose?”

  “I honestly don’t know, but it might have some effect.”

  “So we need to move fast. In a hotel this size they must keep medical supplies somewhere on-site. I just need to find out where.”

  “I can’t help you there,” responded Steve.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You can find out for me.”

  “But I’m nowhere near the Stanhope.”

  “One thing I can guarantee about this siege is that someone in the emergency services will be in touch with the hotel’s owners, and they’ll know. You’ve got to ask to be put through to someone at the scene.”

  “It’ll take time.”

  Scope looked over his shoulder and saw mother and son staring up at him expectantly. Abby still looked OK, but for how much longer was anyone’s guess. He gave them both a reassuring smile before turning away. “We haven’t got time, Steve,” he whispered. “There’s a woman in here who’s going to die if she doesn’t get her insulin, and her eight-year-old son’s going to have to witness it.”

  Steve sighed. “I’ll see what I can do, but it’s not going to happen just like that. This whole thing is bedlam at the moment, and I’m only a lowly paramedic.”

  “Just do what you can, and do it fast. Have you got a number I can get you on?”

  Steve hesitated for a moment, then gave Scope his mobile phone number.

  “I’ll call you in fifteen minutes,” Scope told him, hanging up the phone before Steve had a chance to protest.

  53

  20:29

  The SAS team had been billeted two streets south of Park Lane, well away from the TV cameras, which had been placed almost exclusively around the perimeter of Hyde Park from where they had a clear, if distant, shot of the front of the Stanhope.

  It was a six-minute walk to the team’s temporary base from the mobile incident room but Arley Dale did it in four. It wasn’t official protocol for the head of the emergency services to meet face to face with her military counterparts. It would have been far easier to give their leader a briefing on one of the secure phones. But Arley couldn’t afford to do it that way. She needed to find out as much information as she could. The lives of her husband and children depended on it.

  The office was large and open-plan and full of casually dressed men unpacking kits, which included an impressive arsenal of weapons. There must have been a good thirty of them in all that she could see, and they didn’t look to her like soldiers. A few of them were talking and joking among themselves, but there was an air of studied concentration about them as they worked, and not one of them glanced up as she walked into the room, even though she was in full dress uniform.

  In one corner, a table had been set up and three men, again all casually dressed, were bent over one of three laptops that had been lined up in a row, along with several telephones. One of them was older than the others—probably about forty-five, with graying hair and a lined, weather-beaten face that suggested he spent a lot of time outside. He was dressed in jeans and an open-necked shirt, and there was no sign that he was carrying a weapon.

  “Major Standard?”

  He looked up and gave her an appraising look.

  “I’m DAC Arley Dale,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’m in charge of the emergency services on the ground.”

  “And I’m the man in charge of this lot.” He put out a hand. “Good to meet you, DAC Dale.”

  “Please, call me Arley.”

  “Well, Arley, I’d offer you a cup of tea but, as you can see, our kettle hasn’t arrived yet. Nor have the chairs.”

  “I can’t stop. I just wanted to give you a brief face-to-face rundown of what we’ve got so far.”

  Standard nodded, and Arley thought he seemed a nice guy, which somehow made what she was about to do worse.

  “We’ve had some information,” he said, “but not a great deal.”

  “There isn’t a great deal to be had. We’ve got a previously unknown group of men of Middle Eastern and possibly eastern European origin who are making some very ambitious demands, and who we believe are linked to the bombs at the Westfield and Paddington.”

  “Were they suicide bombs?”

  “We think one of the two at Paddington was.”

  “That makes things a little tricky,” said Standard with admirable understatement. “Our understanding is that they’re holding one group of hostages in a restaurant on the ninth floor.”

  “That’s right. They’ve released a handful of children, and we’ve managed to get some limited information from the oldest of them, a boy of twelve. He says there are about thirty hostages in the restaurant guarded by two terrorists armed with assault rifles. The terrorists are situated near the restaurant entrance, and they have access to a TV showing the news, so they can see what’s going on outside. Because they keep the blinds down the whole time, we can’t see their exact locations.”

  Standard nodded thoughtfully and, though he was trying to hide it, Arley could see he wasn’t liking the information he was receiving.

  “They also have a rucksack that they claim contains a bomb which they’ve placed in the middle of the hostages, and one of them always keeps his foot close to the detonator.”

  Standard nodded again. “And there’s another group being held in the ballroom on the mezzanine floor. Is that right?”

  “That’s what we believe, yes, but we have no idea of numbers, of the hostages or the hostage-takers. According to GCHQ, the hostage-takers aren’t communicating by radio, and there’s no mobile phone signal inside the hotel, so it’s impossible to track them. Our negotiations are being held on the telephone in the kitchen next door to the ballroom, so we think that’s the terrorists’ command center.”

  “And what about our VIP hostage, Michael Prior? Do we have any idea where he’s being held?”

  Arley shook her head, conscious of how limited their information was. “All I can tell you is that as of five P.M. he was being held in one of the guest rooms on the third floor at the front of the hotel, but we haven’t been able to find out which one because he wasn’t booked into the hotel under his own name, and neither his wife nor his office knew he was there. Since then his mobile phone’s moved within the building, and it’s now been switched off. We’ve asked the lead hostage-taker for permission to speak to him, but so far it hasn’t been forthcoming.”

  Standard sighed. “It sounds like these gentlemen are very well organized. Not your usual Angry Brigade bunch of extremists. It’s clear they’ve been studying how we operate in these kinds of situations. What abo
ut their state of mind? Do they come across as agitated, or desperate?”

  “We’ve been dealing with one man, who calls himself Wolf, and he seems remarkably calm under the circumstances. I’m hoping we can negotiate a peaceful solution.”

  “We’re all hoping that.”

  “We’ve got the TV cameras well back from the scene and we’re operating a complete no-fly zone in central London, but if you go in from the roof or the front, your actions will be seen live on TV. With the technology they’ve got these days, there’s no way around that.”

  “I’m aware of that,” said Standard with a frown.

  “Right now, the situation’s calm, but if things deteriorate rapidly, what’s your plan for penetrating the building?”

  There it was. The life-or-death question. She asked it calmly enough, but all the time she was thinking of Howard, Oliver, and India. Wondering if they were even still alive. Just as she had been ever since she’d received that phone call.

  Standard looked at her, and the lines on his face seemed deeper than before. “If things go totally awry and we have to go in at a moment’s notice, our IA—the immediate action plan—is a multi-entry assault via the roof and neighboring buildings. But I have to tell you, it’s a very risky strategy, given the way the terrorists have split the hostages, and our lack of knowledge of their numbers. Or what booby-traps, if any, they’ve laid.”

  “We can’t afford large numbers of civilian casualties.”

  “We know that,” said Standard. “Which is why we’re currently in the process of formulating a more subtle surprise attack. But we only received the digital plans for the building in the last ten minutes, and we’re still waiting for the guest lists from the Stanhope’s owner, so it’s going to take time.”

  Arley needed more than this. Much more. “The hostage-takers claim to have booby-trapped the whole building,” she said, “including the ground floor entrances. And we know they’ve got ready access to explosives.”

  “In that case, we’d be looking at a silent entry through windows on the mezzanine floor into guest rooms on either side of the ballroom. That way we’re almost certain to bypass any booby-traps they’ve set. The idea would be to take out the terrorists in the ballroom, then continue through the building, securing it floor by floor, before engaging the hostage-takers in the restaurant. The terrorists think they’re being clever by not communicating by radio, but in a surprise attack like this it would actually count against them.”