First Response (17 page)

El-Sayed held up his hands. ‘Brother, I am merely curious,’ he said. ‘You want publicity, you want the world to know what is happening, but you hide behind newspapers.’

‘Because there are snipers out there,’ said the man. ‘And they might be stupid enough to think that if they shoot me in the head the bomb won’t go off.’

Something buzzed at the man’s stomach and he flinched. El-Sayed’s eyes widened in horror, but then he realised it wasn’t the vest: it was something in the pack he had around his waist. The man unzipped it and took out a cheap mobile phone. He held it to his ear with his left hand, which meant Hassan had to stand closer to him. Hassan glanced fearfully at his father and El-Sayed smiled, willing the boy to stay calm.

‘I don’t know. I saw movement at the window, pulled back some of the paper and there was a bomb-disposal woman there. She backed off and now I’m covering the window again.’

There was a pause as the man listened. ‘I think she was taking photographs,’ he said eventually. ‘She had a camera in her hand.’

Another pause, longer this time. ‘Okay, okay, I understand.’

A short pause. ‘Yes. I understand.’

He put away the phone and looked up at the television screen. It was showing a view of Edgware Road from a helicopter overhead.

‘What is the problem?’ asked El-Sayed.

‘Shahid saw the bomb-disposal woman on TV,’ said the man, quietly. ‘He wanted to know what was going on.’

‘Shahid? Who is Shahid?’

‘What’s it to you?’ said the man, glaring at him again. ‘You need to shut the fuck up.’

‘Brother, if someone is organising this, if there is a man in charge, then maybe I should talk to him.’

‘Maybe you should shut the fuck up. Maybe that’s what you should do.’

‘Brother, please, stay calm. We have never met before, we are strangers, we don’t know each other, but there is a very good chance that I might be able to help you. But for that to happen, I need to talk with the man in charge. This Shahid. Can you call him back?’

The man shook his head. ‘I can’t call out on this phone. He can only call me.’

El-Sayed nodded thoughtfully. ‘Then we must wait for him to call you again. But when he does, I beg you, let me speak with him.’

‘We have a match on the man in the Kensington childcare centre,’ said Waterman. ‘Not one hundred per cent but it looks good to me.’

Kamran walked over to the MI5 officer and stood behind her. On the middle screen there were two photographs, one taken from outside the nursery as the children were being released, the other a full-face picture taken from either a driving licence or a passport. The man was black, his head shaved. In the CCTV image he was tall and thin, probably over six feet, his runner’s physique covered with a parka. In the head-and-shoulders shot he had a gaunt face with dark patches under his eyes.

‘Mohamed Osman, born in Somalia, came over with his parents nine years ago. They were all granted British citizenship in 2011. Osman is Muslim but relaxed about it. Doesn’t attend a mosque that we know of, no fundamentalist leanings that we know of, has a job as a courier. Never been abroad.’

‘So why is he known to you?’ asked Kamran.

‘He isn’t,’ said Waterman. ‘He’s on the Police National Computer. He was accused of rape two years ago. An underage Somalian girl claimed he’d raped her in the back of his van. There was no physical evidence, he had an alibi, and eventually the girl dropped the charges.’

‘But nothing terrorism-related?’ asked Kamran.

‘Definitely not,’ said Waterman. ‘A true cleanskin. He’s come out of nowhere.’

Kamran rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘So we’ve got four Pakistani Brits and one Somalian Brit. No connections between them, except that today they’ve decided to become suicide bombers.’

Murray smiled thinly. ‘Strictly speaking, they only become suicide bombers when they press the trigger. Until then they’re just terrorists.’

‘We can’t link Osman to any Pakistanis, never mind the ones wearing suicide vests today,’ said Waterman. ‘He’s always stayed within his own community, so far as we know.’

‘So who the hell has put this together?’ asked Kamran. ‘Why would a Somalian with no apparent interest in fundamentalism be willing to kill himself to get ISIS terrorists released?’

Waterman and Murray shrugged. Kamran sighed in exasperation. Asking the questions was easy. It was getting answers that was driving him to distraction.

‘This is probably a dumb thing to say, but is there any significance that so many of them are called Mohammed?’ asked Murray.

‘It’s the most common name in the UK for male newborns,’ said Waterman. ‘Has been for some time. There are various ways to spell it, but put them all together and it’s the most popular name by far.’

‘It’s the tradition for Muslim families to name their boys Mohammed,’ said Kamran. ‘The vast majority don’t use it in everyday life, but it’s on all their official documents. I’m quite unusual in that my parents always used it. They still do. I got called Mo at school but at home I’m still Mohammed and always will be to my mum. But the answer to your question, Alex, is no. It’s just an indication that they’re Muslim, nothing more.’

Waterman transferred the picture of Osman to the screen where she had lined up the photographs of the six bombers they had already identified. Kamran stared at the faces on his screen. Mohammed Malik. Ismail Hussain. Mohamed Osman. Rabeel Bhashir. Mohammed Faisal Chaudhry. Four British Pakistanis. One Somalian. And Kashif Talpur, an undercover cop. One middle-aged, the rest relatively young. Six men with no obvious link between them, other than that they had chosen that day to put on suicide vests and hold the city to ransom. There had to be a connection, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was. Someone had brought the six of them together, trained them, equipped them, and dropped them off at their present locations. There had to be a link between the men, and that link would lead to whoever was behind it.

Sergeant Lumley’s phone rang and he answered it. ‘Your negotiator is here,’ he said to Waterman.

‘I’ll go and get him,’ said the MI5 officer. She left the Gold Command suite and returned a few minutes later with a man in his mid-sixties with a close-cropped grey beard. He was wearing an expensive suit with a sombre tie and a perfectly starched white shirt, though his hair was in disarray and he was patting it down with his left hand. In his right he was carrying a slim leather briefcase. ‘This is Chris Thatcher,’ said Waterman, and Kamran shook his hand, catching a glimpse of gold cufflinks.

‘Sorry if I seem a bit flustered,’ said Thatcher. ‘They put me on the back of a high-powered motorbike and whizzed me through the streets at something like a hundred miles an hour.’ He grinned. ‘That’s what it felt like, anyhow.’

‘Can I get you a coffee?’ asked Kamran.

‘Caffeine is the last thing I need right now,’ said Thatcher. ‘But I’d love a camomile tea.’

‘I’ll get it,’ said Lumley, heading out of the suite.

Thatcher looked out over the special operations room appreciatively. ‘This is impressive,’ he said. ‘You’re getting live CCTV feeds from around the city?’

‘Everywhere we can,’ said Kamran.

‘We’ve been watching it on TV at Thames House. One hell of a day.’

‘And it’s getting worse by the minute,’ said Kamran. He gestured at a chair. ‘Make yourself comfortable while I bring you up to speed.’

‘Sami, I really have to go to the toilet,’ said Zoe. She was jiggling from foot to foot. ‘I’m going to piss myself.’

‘There’s nothing I can do,’ said Malik. ‘Sorry.’

‘You want to be handcuffed to someone who’s wet themselves?’

‘You can pee on the floor.’

‘Then it’ll spread everywhere. Ask them for a bucket or something.’

‘What?’

‘A bucket. I’ll pee in a bucket. And the kids need something to eat and drink.’ She nodded at the changing rooms. The two toddlers had been crying non-stop for the past fifteen minutes and no amount of shouting from Malik had quietened them down. ‘That’s why they’re crying, Malik. Kids cry when they’re hungry. You said they’ve got until six to free the prisoners. That’s more than three hours. Do you want kids crying for the next three hours?’

Malik bit his lower lip. She was right. The crying was doing his head in and it was getting worse. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘Come on.’ He pulled the chain and they walked slowly towards the shop entrance. ‘Jamie?’ he shouted. ‘Jamie, are you there?’

‘I’m here, Sami,’ shouted the negotiator. He sounded far away, at the other end of the shopping centre, maybe. ‘Do you want me to come over?’

‘No, stay where you are. There’s a girl here who needs to go to the toilet. You have to get me a bucket or something.’

‘Okay, Sami, I can do that.’

‘And there are two kids. They need food. And something to drink.’

‘How old are the kids?’

‘I don’t know. Young.’

‘They’re two and a half!’ shouted the woman in the changing room.

‘Two and a half,’ repeated Malik.

‘I’ll get something fixed up. What about you, Sami? Are you hungry?’

‘No.’

‘I could bring a pizza or something.’

‘I don’t want a fucking pizza!’ shouted Malik.

‘I could eat pizza,’ said the woman in the changing room.

‘We’re not here to eat fucking pizza!’ yelled Malik.

‘It’s almost three o’clock and I haven’t had any lunch.’

Malik groaned. ‘Jamie, send in a pizza as well.’

‘No pineapple,’ shouted the woman. ‘I hate pineapple.’

Malik muttered under his breath. ‘No pineapple on the pizza, Jamie. A bucket. And something for the kids. That’s all.’

‘I’ll get it sorted, Sami,’ shouted the policeman.

‘And I want some fags,’ said the woman in the changing room. ‘I’m gasping.’

‘You can’t smoke in here,’ said Zoe.

‘I need a fucking cigarette, darling,’ said the woman.

‘He’s got explosives strapped to him and you want to light a cigarette?’ Zoe looked at Malik and shook her head in disgust. ‘Some people, huh?’

‘Chief Superintendent Philip Gillard is on his way up,’ said Sergeant Lumley. ‘SO15.’

‘Finally,’ said Kamran. Acting as Gold Commander had been challenging but it had been the most stressful few hours of his life and he was looking forward to handing over the reins. He went out to the special operations room and met the chief superintendent at the entrance. Gillard was wearing a dark blue suit with a red and black striped tie, his black hair glistening as if it had been gelled. He was wearing black-framed spectacles and carrying a scuffed leather briefcase, and looked for all the world as if he had arrived to sell them life insurance. He shook hands with Kamran. His fingers were stained with nicotine and there was a wedding band on his left hand.

‘We’ve not met before, but I was at a presentation you gave on major incident procedure last year at Hendon,’ said Gillard. ‘It was good stuff.’

‘Thank you,’ said Kamran.

‘This is our first time, so a few ground rules. When it’s just the two of us I’m Philip, or boss or governor, if you prefer. You’re Mohammed, right?’

‘Mo is fine,’ said Kamran.

‘So when it’s just the two of us I’ll call you Mo, if that’s okay with you. In front of the troops we use our ranks.’

‘Sounds good,’ said Kamran.

‘So what do I do desk-wise?’

‘We’re in the Gold Command suite,’ said Kamran. He took Gillard through to the room. ‘This is the Gold Commander’s station.’ He pointed at the desk he had been using.

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll take this one,’ said Kamran, gesturing at the workstation to the right of the Gold Commander’s. ‘Sergeant Lumley has been assisting me and is using that desk.’

Lumley nodded. ‘Sir,’ he said.

Chris Thatcher was sitting opposite Sergeant Lumley, studying a CCTV feed of the Wandsworth shop.

‘Bloody hell – Chris Thatcher!’ Gillard exclaimed.

Thatcher’s jaw dropped. ‘Phil?’ He stood up and the two men embraced and patted each other on the back. ‘Must be, what, fifteen years?’

‘More like twenty,’ said the chief superintendent. He released his grip on Thatcher. ‘Chris and I were in the Flying Squad in the nineties,’ he said. ‘Snatcher Thatcher he was known as then.’

‘Chief Inspector Thatcher, actually,’ said Thatcher. He grinned. ‘And I seem to remember you being just a sergeant at the time, so a little respect is in order.’

‘Chris is a security consultant, these days,’ said Kamran. ‘He was over at Thames House so we’ve just pulled him in.’

Lynne Waterman stood up and introduced herself. Gillard shook hands with her, then swung his briefcase onto the desk, hung his jacket over the back of his chair and sat down. He steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘Right, Mo, bring me up to speed.’

Kamran spoke for the best part of fifteen minutes and the chief superintendent didn’t interrupt once. He nodded, he smiled occasionally, but most of the time he remained impassive as Kamran went through what had happened and detailed who was doing what in the special operations room.

‘Looks as if you’ve got everything on an even keel,’ said Gillard, when Kamran had finished.

‘There’s one wrinkle,’ said Kamran. ‘The only point of contact we have is this guy Shahid and he’ll only talk to me. That’s why Chris is here. I’m not trained in negotiation and his skill set will be helpful.’

‘How does Shahid get in touch?’

‘He calls my mobile.’

Gillard frowned. ‘How did that come about?’ he said. ‘Protocol is to make contact through a landline and record.’

‘He came through to the SOR, and after our first conversation he said he’d only talk to me. He insisted on a mobile number.’

The chief superintendent grimaced. ‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘I agree, but he was adamant.’

‘And he said he’ll only talk to you?’

Kamran nodded.

‘Why do you think that is? Because you’re a Muslim?’

‘I don’t think so. If anything, he seemed perturbed by the fact I was Muslim. He was asking all sorts of questions about how often I prayed, stuff like that. In fact he was so busy interrogating me that we managed to get a location of the mobile he was using.’