Liz handed the ticket to Pearson, and said, ‘We’ve dug pretty deep into young Atiyah’s past but I’ve never seen anything in the file about a love of football. Nor that he had the money to fund this sort of expense.’ She turned to the policeman. ‘Do you ever go to Old Trafford?’
‘I’ve been known to attend a match,’ he admitted.
‘Do they search you when you go through the gates?’
‘No. It wouldn’t be practical. You’ve got sixty thousand people going in in a short time. The queues would go back for miles if they searched everyone. They tried it for the Olympics and it caused chaos.’
Pearson was looking on with growing apprehension. He said, ‘It’s cold enough now for everyone in the crowd to be bundled up. You could smuggle a weapon or a grenade in under an overcoat easily enough if there’s no proper searching.’
‘Exactly,’ said Liz. ‘And if you had six people in different parts of the stadium, then even if one got spotted you’d have five others who might not have been.’
The policeman said, ‘To do what? Shoot Wayne Rooney?’ He gave a weak laugh. ‘And why do you say “six people”? The suspect only had the one ticket.’
Pearson didn’t bother to explain. He saw what Liz was driving at, and he said, ‘So the other jihadis must already have their tickets. Which means—’
‘It means they’ve arrived and are holed up somewhere nearby.’ Liz pointed towards the solitary figure of Atiyah, sitting in handcuffs on the wooden crate, then asked the policeman, ‘Are you sure he didn’t have anything else on him? Anything at all – a crumpled bus ticket, or a pocket comb. Anything.’
The officer shook his head. ‘No, and he didn’t say a word – he wouldn’t even tell me his name. I don’t think you’ll get much out of him.’
Pearson said to Liz, ‘Do you want to have a go here or wait until we take him back to headquarters?’
‘Here please.’ It was critical to try to get Atiyah to talk before he had time to collect his thoughts and invent a story – or just clam up and ask for a lawyer.
As Liz started to walk over to Atiyah, Peggy, who had come back from tending the Dagestan women, intercepted her. ‘Could I have a word, Liz?’ She held up her mobile phone. ‘I’ve just had a message relayed from Thames House. It could be important.’
‘Give me two minutes, Peggy. I need to talk to Zara urgently.’ And she strode over and stood in front of Atiyah. He ignored her, continuing to stare out towards the parked cars on the hard standing in front of the warehouse.
Liz said, ‘You all right? You didn’t get hurt in the shooting?’
He didn’t reply. His eyes remained focused on the distance, trance-like. For a moment Liz wondered if he was drugged, but then she remembered him from the video feed – he had been perfectly lively then, even aggressive. She said, ‘Tell me if you got hurt; there are paramedics here now.’ When he still didn’t reply, Liz said softly, ‘Mika, we know who you are.’
This time he blinked. For a moment Liz thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t. She went on, ‘We know the lorry has brought other things into the country, besides the women and the mattresses. We’re going to start searching it in a minute or two. When we find what we’re looking for, you’ll be arrested.
‘But that’s not all we’re searching for. I think you know that. At least five of your colleagues have entered the country from Yemen; I think they’re supposed to meet you once you’ve collected the guns that are in the lorry. I didn’t realise you were interested in football – are your colleagues going to the match too?’
He flinched slightly, then pursed his lips. Liz went on, ‘I’m certain we’ll be able to find them, especially if they show up at the match tomorrow.’ She was watching him carefully. Without these guns, his comrades shouldn’t be able to do much even if they made it inside the stadium next day – unless… And Liz shuddered at the thought. Unless they already had other weapons.
The only way to be sure was to find them. She suddenly hated the idea that Martin might have died for nothing; that despite the sacrifice of his life, and all their efforts, these terrorists might still manage to launch an attack. If only Zara could be made to talk. But looking at him she realised he was determined to give nothing away – he had adopted the same vacant stare again, as if transfixed.
Liz said, her voice hardening, ‘Your colleagues will go down all right. But the big loser is going to be you, Mika, because you’re the one we can tie to the guns we’re about to find. We clocked you a long time ago, and you’ve been followed ever since. We watched your meeting in Primrose Hill, and the dealer you saw there is in custody in France. He’s told us everything we need to put you away. I reckon you’re facing thirty years. You might get out in time for the 2040 Olympics. Just think how old you’ll be then.’
Liz gave a sigh. ‘It’s not as if you will have helped your cause very much, either. But there is a way you can help yourself, a way you could be out of prison in just a few years – you’d still have a life left. But, Mika, you have to tell us where the others are.’
Atiyah continued to sit impassively and Liz realised she was hitting a brick wall. He was obviously a fully signed up jihadi. This was his martyrdom and if she had said two hundred years in prison instead of thirty, he would have been pleased. She made one last try: ‘We’re going to catch your colleagues anyway; it’s just going to speed things up if you tell us where they are. Think about what I’m saying; soon it’ll be too late for me to help you.’
Atiyah turned his head very slowly, and for the first time Liz felt hopeful that he might reply. His eyes met hers, and he held her gaze as his lips began to move. Then his mouth opened and he spat in her face.
Liz jerked back in surprise. She tried to collect herself, and wiped the spittle from her cheek with the sleeve of her coat. She was determined not to show her shock, or anger. She said calmly, ‘If you help us, I promise you I will do everything in my power to help you.’ A thought came suddenly into her head. She added, ‘I’ll also make sure your mother doesn’t get dragged into this.’
Atiyah’s eyes flared for an instant, and for a moment Liz thought he would spit at her again. But then he regained control, and his eyes resumed their opaque stare.
Liz turned round and saw that Pearson was waiting, standing halfway between her and the lorry. She shrugged as she walked towards him, leaving Atiyah in the care of his armed guard. Peggy was there too, waiting for her, and Liz remembered that she had something to tell her.
In the background, behind Pearson, three policemen had approached the lorry, gesturing to the driver to come out of the cab. One of them went round to the driver’s side and climbed up on the step next to the door of the cab. He knocked on the glass and shouted through the window, ‘Open up. We want to talk to you.’
The Chief Constable and Peggy turned round and Liz stopped and watched as the policeman, losing patience, shouted, ‘Open up, or we’ll have to smash the window.’
The driver was looking frightened – though suddenly Liz wondered if that was an act. She was about to shout a warning when she saw the man slide across the front seat of the cab to the passenger side. Opening the door, he leapt down just as two of the policemen came round the front of the lorry.
They were less than ten feet away when from the pocket of his pea jacket the driver drew out a small grenade. With his free hand he prised the pin off, then chucked the grenade underhand, like a child playing rounders.
The nearest policeman to him flinched and turned away with his arms holding his head. The grenade landed on the cement floor, just missing the policeman, then bounced high in the air, angled towards… towards Liz. She tensed, waiting for it to explode. There was nowhere to go and nothing she could do.