‘They won’t shoot you,’ she said, as she moved over to the counter with him.
‘How do you know?’ barked Hussain.
‘You’re wearing a suicide vest,’ she said. ‘They can’t shoot you. Don’t you watch TV?’
‘They might shoot me in the head,’ said Hussain. He checked that where he was standing wasn’t overlooked by the marksman.
‘Not through a window,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows that. And you’ve locked the door so they can’t get in. Anyway, they’ll send a negotiator. They always do.’
A telephone began to ring. It was on the other side of the counter, behind the screens, where three post-office workers were sitting. Two were Asian and one was black. Like the dozen customers who were now sitting on the floor by the back wall, they were busy on their smartphones. The black guy looked over his shoulder at the ringing phone.
‘Don’t answer it!’ shouted Hussain.
‘It’ll be the negotiator,’ said the pretty woman. ‘You have to talk to them.’
‘How do you know who it is?’ asked Hussain.
‘That’s what they do. They call you and ask you what you want. Then they negotiate.’
‘They know what we want,’ said Hussain. He waved at the hostages by the wall. ‘That’s why I told them to use their phones. They can tell everyone what we want.’ He waved his trigger above his head. ‘Don’t forget to put hashtag ISIS6 on every message.’
‘They’ll still want to talk to you,’ said the woman.
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ said Hussain. ‘They release the prisoners or everyone dies.’ The phone stopped ringing. ‘See? They don’t need to talk.’
‘They’ll call back,’ she said.
He stared at her for several seconds and she met his gaze unflinchingly. ‘Why aren’t you scared?’ he asked eventually.
She frowned but continued to look into his eyes. ‘What makes you think I’m not?’
‘You don’t look scared.’
‘Well, I am. I’m terrified. But screaming and crying aren’t going to do me any good, are they?’
‘I suppose not.’
She smiled thinly. ‘You suppose not? Don’t you know? You’re the one running the show.’
‘I wish that were true,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘But trust me, I want this to be over as much as you do.’
‘So take off the handcuffs and go outside. Then it’ll be over.’
‘They have to release the prisoners.’
‘You really think they’ll do that?’
‘They’ll have to. Or we all die.’
‘You’d kill yourself, and us, just to get some idiot jihadists out of prison?’
‘What do you mean, idiots?’
‘Oh, come on. Anyone who gives up a halfway decent life in the UK to go out to Syria and hack the heads off charity workers isn’t right in the head. You have to realise that, surely.’
‘They’re fighting for what they believe in. That doesn’t make them stupid.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Why do you care?’
‘I don’t, not really, but I’d like to know who I’m handcuffed to.’
‘Ismail. My name is Ismail.’
The woman grinned. ‘Seriously? Ishmael?’
She spelled it out for him and he shook his head. ‘I-S-M-A-I–L,’ he said. ‘It means “heard by Allah”.’
‘It’s also one of the most famous opening lines in literature,’ she said. ‘“Call me Ishmael.” That’s how Moby-Dick starts.’
‘Moby-Dick?’
‘You’ve heard of Moby-Dick, surely. The novel by Herman Melville. About Captain Ahab, the whaler, and his hunt for the great white whale?’
Hussain shook his head. ‘I don’t read much,’ he said.
‘That’s your loss,’ she said. ‘So tell me, Ismail, do you believe that nonsense about getting seventy-two sloe-eyed virgins in Heaven if you kill us infidels?’
‘That’s what it says in the Koran.’
‘And you believe that God wants you to grow that ridiculous beard and not eat bacon?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you being so disrespectful?’
‘You handcuff yourself to me and threaten to blow yourself up, and I’m the one being disrespectful? You know what, Ismail, you are a fucking idiot.’ Hussain opened his mouth to speak but he jumped when the phone began to ring again. ‘You really should answer that,’ said the woman.
LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (12.25 p.m.)
Sergeant Lumley jumped up from his workstation and waved at Kamran. ‘Got it,’ he said excitedly. Kamran hurried across and looked over the sergeant’s shoulder. ‘It’s a white van. It was outside three of the four locations. Haven’t seen it at the Brixton church but there isn’t much in the way of CCTV in that street.’
‘Same van? You’re sure?’ asked Kamran.
Lumley pointed at his left-hand screen. It was divided into four and in three of the four sections there were close-up shots of the number-plate of the white van, two from the front, one from the rear. They matched.
‘Who owns it?’
‘According to the DVLA, it belongs to a company up in Birmingham.’
‘Get the Birmingham cops around to see the owner,’ said Kamran. ‘And find out where the van is now. Run a search through all the number-recognition databases, but focus on north and north-east London.’
‘I’m on it, sir,’ said Lumley.
BRIXTON (12.28 p.m.)
Father Morrison reached inside his vestments, pulled out a bright red handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘I’m going to need my medication,’ he said to the man chained to his wrist.
‘Medication? For what?’
The priest chuckled ruefully. ‘Where do I start? High blood pressure, diabetes, gout. The flesh is failing, my son. I’m in my seventh decade, you know.’
‘Statins?’
The priest nodded. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘My doctor put me on them last year. They make my legs ache.’
‘Mine too. But at least the blood pressure comes down.’
‘They told me to stop smoking.’
The priest smiled. ‘Me too. Chance’d be a fine thing. It’s one of the few vices that we priests are allowed.’
‘And where is your medicine?’
Father Morrison waved towards the back of the church. ‘In the sacristy.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s the room where we change into our vestments. Over there, by the altar.’
‘We have to stay here.’
‘One of my parishioners can get it.’
‘Everyone stays here,’ said the man. ‘I need to be able to see everyone.’
The priest dabbed his forehead again, then blew his nose before slipping the handkerchief back into his pocket. ‘Why are you doing this, my son?’
‘You know why. They want the six ISIS prisoners released.’
‘And why are they in prison?’
‘Because they are jihadists. They were in Syria, fighting for ISIS.’
‘I can never remember what that stands for,’ said the priest. ‘It always sounds like an insurance company. What does it stand for? ISIS?’
The man shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? You’re prepared to die for them and you don’t even know the name of their organisation?’