First Response (18 page)

‘That was when the van got shot up?’

‘Unfortunate. They heard a car backfire.’

Gillard rubbed his chin. ‘Right. A few basic necessities I need before I get stuck in. I’m a smoker. I’m guessing the front of the building is out of bounds.’

‘There’s a terrace outside the canteen on the third floor,’ said Kamran. ‘Most of the smokers gather there.’

‘And how do we go about getting coffee here?’

‘Sergeant Lumley can fix you up,’ said Kamran. ‘But the canteen is open twenty-four/seven.’

Gillard smiled at the sergeant. ‘White, two sugars. And if there are any biscuits going, I’d be a very happy bunny.’

Lumley headed out.

‘He’s good?’ asked Gillard.

‘First class,’ said Kamran.

‘So here’s how we’ll play it,’ said Gillard. ‘I’m Gold Commander, but you stick close to me and we’ll share the load. I get the feeling this is going to get worse before it gets better. When Shahid calls, you answer and you talk to him. But talk to our tech boys and see if we can get the conversations recorded. I’d also like to listen in when you’re on to him. And so should Chris, obviously.’

‘I’ll get that sorted.’

‘When you spoke to him, what were your impressions?’

‘He’s organised. Confident. He knows what he’s doing. He asked for Gold Commander and it was his suggestion to release the kids in the childcare centre, as if he knew that was what I was going to ask for.’

‘But the fact you were a Muslim threw him?’

‘I think so. He wasn’t expecting it.’

‘And what about his voice? What could you tell?’

‘Do you mean could I tell if he was a Muslim? Not from his accent. South London, maybe. Essex. Twenties or thirties. Well educated.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘His vocabulary. His manner. There was no real emotion during the conversation. Like I said, there was a confidence about him. He seemed totally unfazed by what was happening.’

‘Okay, so what were you planning to do next?’

‘To be honest, I was waiting for him to call. I don’t see that we gain anything by negotiating with the bombers themselves. I don’t think the individuals on the ground have any negotiating power. They’re just the tools. Even if we do talk to them, I don’t think there’s anything they can do.’

‘And the guys on the ground? How are we getting on ID-wise?’

‘Fairly good progress on that front,’ said Kamran. ‘I’ll pull up the guys we’ve identified.’

Kamran sat down and tapped on the keyboard. Gillard stood behind him. Kamran called up six photographs on his left-hand screen and he pointed at them one by one. ‘Rabeel Bhashir is in the church in Brixton. Mohammed Malik is in the shop in the Southside shopping centre in Wandsworth. Ismail Hussain is in the Fulham post office. Mohamed Osman is in the Kensington nursery. Faisal Chaudhry is in the pub in Marylebone. All are cleanskins, pretty much. Never red-flagged as terrorist threats in this country, no evidence of ISIS membership.’

‘And this one?’ asked Gillard, pointing to the final photograph.

‘I’m saving the best till last,’ said Kamran. ‘He’s a cop. An undercover cop with the National Crime Agency.’

As soon as they got within twenty feet of the bus, Biddulph could see that it was Kashif Talpur. There was no question about it. There was also no doubt that he was wearing a suicide vest packed with explosives. ‘What the fuck are you playing at, Kash?’ Biddulph muttered to himself.

Talpur was standing next to the driver and on his left side was a woman who had clearly been crying earlier on but now had a blank look on her face as if she had emotionally shut down. The woman’s right hand was chained to Talpur’s left and in his right Talpur was holding what was obviously the trigger for the vest.

Greene stopped and Biddulph almost bumped into him. He moved to Greene’s right side. Both men slowly raised their hands to show that they weren’t armed. ‘Kash! It’s me, Mark!’ shouted Biddulph.

There was no reaction from Talpur, though several of the passengers had already spotted them and were peering through the windows. Biddulph realised that his voice wasn’t carrying through the helmet.

‘Kash!’ he shouted, louder this time, but there was still no reaction. He was side on to them, saying something to the driver. Biddulph looked at the upper floor of the bus. Two black schoolboys were looking down at him. And further along he saw a young mother cradling a baby and rocking back and forth.

Biddulph began to remove his helmet but Greene realised what he was doing, put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. ‘No way,’ said Greene.

‘I have to talk to him,’ said Biddulph.

‘That’s what the phone’s for,’ said Greene.

‘I’ve known Kash for years,’ said Biddulph. ‘There’s something not right about this.’

As he was speaking, Talpur turned and spotted them. Biddulph saw the man’s mouth open and close but he couldn’t hear anything. He picked up the field phone with his left hand, held it up and pointed at it with his right, but that seemed to make Talpur even more agitated

‘I have to talk to him face to face,’ said Biddulph. ‘He can’t see who I am with the helmet on and he can’t hear a word I’m saying.’

‘If you take your helmet off and he detonates …’

‘If he was going to detonate, surely he’d have done it already.’

‘Your call,’ said Greene. ‘But it’ll be on your head.’ He grinned. ‘No pun intended.’

Biddulph put the phone down, straightened up, then slowly removed his helmet. It snagged on something and Greene had to help him wiggle it off. As soon as the helmet came free, Biddulph heard Talpur screaming at him: ‘Get the fuck away! Both of you!’

Biddulph put the helmet down next to the field phone. Greene was using the digital camera on video mode.

Biddulph held up his hands and took a step towards the bus. ‘Kash, it’s me, Mark!’

‘Fuck off!’ shouted Talpur. ‘Just get the fuck away before we all die!’

Biddulph took another step towards the bus. ‘Kash, mate, whatever the problem is, we can talk it through. I’m here to help.’

Talpur said something to the driver and a few seconds later the door rattled open. Talpur stood in the doorway, glaring at Biddulph. ‘Listen to me and listen to me good!’ he shouted. ‘You coming here is putting everyone at risk. Do you not understand that? You need to go away – get the hell away from here – because if you don’t this vest will go off and everyone dies.’ He turned and spoke to the driver and the door closed.

‘Looks like he doesn’t want to talk,’ said Greene. ‘But leave the phone where it is, in case he changes his mind.’

Biddulph picked up his helmet and the coil of wire attached to the field phone. The two men walked back to the cordon with Biddulph playing out the wire behind him.

Sergeant Lumley stood up and waved over at Kamran. ‘ISIS have just posted a propaganda video on YouTube, claiming responsibility for what’s happening,’ he said. ‘Dozens of fundamentalist Twitter accounts are now tweeting about it.’

‘Can you put it up on the big screen?’ asked Kamran.

‘No problem,’ said the sergeant. He tapped on his keyboard and the YouTube main page appeared on the screen. Kamran stood up and Gillard joined him.

Shahid was dressed in black and was wearing a black ski mask. Behind him was the black and white flag of the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria. He stood with his arms folded. ‘ISIS is prepared to do whatever is necessary to force the British government to release the ISIS fighters it is currently holding in Belmarsh Prison,’ he said.

The flag disappeared and was replaced with a view of an Iraqi street. A man was walking towards an American checkpoint while soldiers in desert camouflage aimed their weapons at him. Shahid was obviously standing in front of a green screen and the image was being superimposed behind him. He pointed at the man and as he did so he exploded and the checkpoint was destroyed.

‘ISIS suicide bombers are now in place at nine locations around London,’ said Shahid.

The suicide-bomber footage was replaced with a TV news shot of the Brixton church where the first bomber had struck.

‘There is an ISIS warrior at this church, and if the six ISIS freedom fighters are not released by this evening, the warrior will destroy the church and everyone in it.’ On cue, the church exploded.

Kamran flinched even though he knew it was only a CGI special effect.

A map appeared on screen with nine cartoon bombs dotted around the capital, marking the location of the suicide bombers. ‘Other warriors are around the city, ready to give their lives in order to force the government to release the ISIS prisoners,’ said Shahid, folding his arms.

The background became a rapid series of images of the effects of the Seven/Seven bombings in London – images of bodies on stretchers being carried from Underground stations, of damaged Tube carriages and the bus blown apart in Tavistock Square.

The camera went in close on Shahid’s mask. ‘What happens next is in the hands of the prime minister,’ he said. ‘If he releases the ISIS Six, lives will be saved and he will have proven himself to be the better man. But if he insists on unjustly imprisoning the ISIS warriors, his citizens will die. He knows what needs to be done.’ Shahid raised a clenched gloved fist above his head. ‘
Allahu Akbar!
’ he said. ‘Allah be praised.’ The screen went black and then the ISIS flag appeared, wreathed in flames. It stayed on the screen for almost a minute as background chants of ‘
Allahu Akbar
’ grew louder and louder.

‘Two hundred thousand hits already,’ said Gillard, as the video came to an end. He looked at Lumley. ‘Can we talk to YouTube and get them to take it down?’

‘I can make the call, but even if we get them to take it down it’ll be copied and back up within minutes,’ said the sergeant. He peered at his computer screen. ‘It’s already on five other sites. Make that six.’

‘They really know how to use social media,’ said Kamran. ‘Videos of beheadings, video tutorials on how to sign up and what life is like as an ISIS soldier, all professionally done.’

‘They shouldn’t be allowed to post inflammatory videos like that,’ said Gillard.

‘Almost impossible to stop, unfortunately,’ said Kamran.

‘Twitter’s going crazy with it,’ said Lumley. ‘Hundreds of retweets of the video URL. And they’re growing exponentially.’

‘Bastard,’ muttered Gillard, under his breath. ‘He’s got us by the short and curlies and he knows it.’

One of the baristas raised his hand. He was in his twenties, olive-skinned with a carefully tended goatee beard.

‘What?’ snarled the man in the suicide vest. ‘What do you want?’

‘I need to use the bathroom.’

‘Where is it?’

The barista pointed at a door opposite the end of the counter. ‘I really need to go.’

‘Then go,’ said the man. ‘But leave the door open.’

The barista smiled his thanks and dashed to the toilet. One of the men sitting at the table behind El-Sayed also raised his hand. ‘I need to go, too.’

‘You can take it in turns,’ said the man. ‘But don’t even think about fucking with me.’ He raised his right hand above his head and opened his palm so that they could all see the metal trigger attached to the black Velcro strap. ‘Anybody tries anything, I press this and we all die!’ he shouted.

‘Nobody wants to die here today,’ said El-Sayed, calmly.

‘And nobody has to,’ said the man. ‘So long as they release the ISIS prisoners.’

‘But what if they do not, my friend? Will you kill us all?’

‘I will,’ said the man.

‘And what will that achieve?’

The man frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘If you don’t get what you want, and we all die, who benefits? Do you? No, you are dead.’ He waved an arm around the café. ‘Do we? No, we are also dead. Have the ISIS fighters benefited? No, they are still in prison. So who benefits?’

‘They will do as they are told,’ snapped the man. ‘They will not allow so many hostages to die.’ He nodded at the television. The shot was of a studio with two newsreaders, a middle-aged man with blow-dried greying hair and a young Asian girl, talking to each other in front of a map of London on which had been marked the locations of the suicide bombers. ‘They cannot possibly allow that many bombs to go off across London.’

El-Sayed shrugged. ‘Maybe. Or maybe not. Do you think this government cares about individual citizens? About me? Or my son?’ He sneered. ‘Of course they don’t. Look around you, brother. How many white faces do you see? We are all Arab, Asian and African in this part of London. You think they care about the likes of us? You chose the wrong place to attack, brother.’

The man stared at him but didn’t answer. He jumped as the phone in his waistpack buzzed.

El-Sayed pointed at the waistpack. ‘If that is Shahid, then I must speak with him.’

‘He won’t talk to anyone. Just me.’ He fumbled for the zip.

‘He will want to talk to me, brother. Trust me on that.’

The man took his phone out of his waistpack with his left hand and put it to his ear. He mumbled into the phone, listened and mumbled again.

El-Sayed waved for the phone. ‘Let me speak to him,’ he said.

The man on the phone flashed him an angry look. ‘Shut up!’ he said.

‘Tell him I want to speak with him. Tell him I will make it worth his while.’

The man turned his back on El-Sayed and continued to mumble into the phone. El-Sayed stood up. His son shook his head frantically. ‘Dad, sit down! You’ll get us all killed.’

‘I must talk to Shahid,’ said El-Sayed. He stepped forward and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. The man yelped and whirled around, his thumb on the trigger. The baristas screamed and dropped behind the counter.

El-Sayed immediately released his grip on the man and stepped back, his hands in the air. ‘Brother, I just need to talk to Shahid. I mean you no harm.’

‘Stay away from me or we all die!’ shouted the man.

‘I understand,’ said El-Sayed, quietly. He sat down and folded his arms.

The man put the phone back to his ear and gritted his teeth as he listened, barely able to contain his anger. ‘Someone keeps saying he wants to talk to you. One of the hostages. He insists.’ He listened again and nodded. ‘He is the father of the man I have handcuffed myself to. An Arab.’