On her right-hand screen there were two more photographs, one from the CCTV camera within the Fulham post office showing a second bearded Asian handcuffed to a young woman. The man’s suicide vest was clearly visible under his coat, as was the trigger in his right hand. He could have been the twin of the Asian in the shopping centre — dark-skinned, bearded, average height, average build. Nothing out of the ordinary, other than that they were both wearing suicide vests and threatening to blow themselves up. Next to the CCTV picture was another passport photograph. ‘This is another hundred per cent match. We’re getting a direct feed from the post office and the images are first class,’ said Waterman. ‘Ismail Hussain. He’s more an anti-war demonstrator than a fundamentalist. Was photographed on a few poppy-burning demonstrations and is a member of a group called Muslims Against Crusades. He was one of the guys screaming at soldiers from the 2nd Battalion Royal Anglian Regiment when they arrived back in Luton after their Iraq tour. He’s got one conviction for assault after he attacked an off-duty soldier with a bottle. That was well before the killing of Lee Rigby in Woolwich so he only got community service.’
Lee Rigby was a British soldier who had been stabbed to death in Woolwich, south London, in May 2013, not far from his barracks. His attackers waited for the police to arrive and said that they had murdered him to avenge the killings of Muslims by British soldiers. Both killers were British-born Nigerians who had been raised as Christians but then converted to Islam.
‘No overseas training?’ asked Kamran.
Waterman shook her head. ‘None that we know of,’ she said. ‘He’s a cleanskin. We’re aware of him but he’s never been on a watch list.’
‘So what’s happened to trigger him?’ asked Kamran. ‘How’s he gone from burning poppies and shouting to threatening to blow himself up? That’s one hell of a jump.’
‘We’re looking into his background now,’ said Waterman. ‘Maybe we missed something.’
Kamran peered at the video of the man in the post office, then turned to Sergeant Lumley, who had the same photographs on his screens. ‘Hey, Joe. Can you get me a close-up of the trigger?’
‘Will do,’ said Lumley. He began tapping on his keyboard.
The SAS captain walked into the suite. ‘What’s happening?’
‘We’ve got IDs on two of the bombers,’ said Kamran. ‘Joe’s just getting me a close-up.’
Murray walked over to watch what Lumley was doing. He bent down and squinted at Lumley’s screen. The image focused on the right hand of the man in the post office. ‘It’s not a dead man’s trigger,’ said Murray.
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Kamran. ‘Joe, check the guy in the boutique. Get a shot of his trigger and see if they’re all the same.’
Murray straightened up. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said. ‘I would have expected the trigger to operate when it was released. That depends on active pressing. The way things are, we have a chance of taking them out without the vests going off.’
‘That’s not a risk we can take,’ said Kamran. ‘Not at this stage, anyway.’
‘Sure. I’m not suggesting we go in with guns blazing,’ said Murray. ‘But the lack of a dead man’s switch means a head shot could well neutralise the threat.’
‘Unless there’s another trigger in place,’ said Kamran.
Murray tugged at his ear. ‘True. If there’s some sort of remote trigger, then all bets are off,’ he said. ‘What about jamming mobile-phone cells in the area? We’ve got the gear to do it, and I’m sure Five has, too.’
‘That would kill the texting and social media that’s going on, and that’s obviously a big part of their strategy,’ said Kamran. ‘Blocking all cell phone activity might provoke a negative reaction.’
Murray shrugged. ‘Your call, obviously.’
Kamran nodded. It was his call, and his responsibility, so any decision he made had to be the right one.
‘I’ve got a view of the shop guy’s trigger,’ said Lumley.
The image flashed up on Kamran’s centre screen. The trigger was identical to the first. There was a Velcro strap holding it in the man’s hand. The trigger itself was a simple metal button with a small protective plastic cage over the top. The cage had to be flipped back so that the trigger could be depressed with the thumb.
‘A head shot while the cage is in place would be safe,’ said Murray. ‘Death would be instantaneous and there would be no chance for the trigger to be pressed.’
‘You would need to be able to guarantee a kill, and while they’re inside that’s not possible,’ said Kamran.
‘A double shot, one to smash the window followed by a kill shot would do it.’
‘Too much of a risk,’ Kamran said.
‘There is another possibility. If we can get close, a machete would take off the lower arm like slicing a carrot. No arm, no trigger.’
Kamran shook his head. ‘If we can get close. There’s been no indication that’s going to happen. They’re not allowing anyone in or out.’
‘I’m just giving you your options,’ said Murray. ‘The sooner we end this, the better.’
‘I’d already come to that conclusion,’ said Kamran, frostily.
‘I wasn’t stating the obvious,’ Murray said. ‘The point I’m trying to make is that these guys have just two options: to talk or to blow themselves and their hostages up. The fact that they have no weapons other than the vests is telling. With a knife or a gun they can increase the threat level bit by bit. Hurt a hostage or single one out to kill. But our guys don’t have that option. They talk or they detonate. There’s no midway stage. It’s all or nothing.’
Kamran exhaled through pursed lips as he realised what the SAS officer was getting at. None of the men were carrying guns or knives. And they didn’t appear to be in contact with anyone. That meant there could be only two possible resolutions. Either the jihadists got what they wanted. Or they and their hostages died. There was no middle ground.
TAVISTOCK SQUARE (12.13 p.m.)
Kashif Talpur joined the queue to get onto the bus. He took a quick look over his shoulder. Two police officers were walking along Tavistock Square, deep in conversation. The man in front of him was having trouble with his Oyster card. He kept tapping it against the reader but it didn’t seem to work.
‘You’ll have to get off,’ said the West Indian driver.
‘It’s got ten quid on it, for sure,’ said the man. He was in his forties with greasy, matted hair, wearing a green jacket that had once belonged to an East European soldier.
‘If it doesn’t work you’ll have to get off.’
‘There’s nowt wrong with it,’ said the man, and slapped the card against the reader so hard that everyone on the bus heard the thwack. The reader beeped and the man waved his card in triumph.
He moved down the bus and Talpur stepped forward. The driver glared at him from behind his vandal screens. ‘Come on, I haven’t got all day,’ he snapped.
Talpur turned away and looked down the bus. The passengers reflected the multi-ethnicity of London. Twelve men and women. Half were Asian, four were black, one was Middle Eastern and one was white. The nearest was an Asian woman in a black headscarf holding two carrier bags of groceries. He was supposed to choose the passenger closest to the driver but he knew that she was going to panic and probably scream blue murder. The passenger next to her, closest to the window, was a young black man with headphones, eyes closed, head bobbing back and forth in time to a tune that only he could hear. Talpur would have preferred to use the man but his instructions were clear and he had been told not to deviate from them.