‘They are jihadists and they fight in Syria. Now they’re in prison. That’s all I know.’
‘And by threatening innocent people you think they’ll be released?’
The man nodded.
‘And you do this in the name of religion? You do this for God? Your God?’
‘You need to shut up, priest.’
Father Morrison took out his handkerchief again and mopped his forehead. ‘What’s your name, my son?’
‘I’m not your son. You’re not my father.’
‘I’ve already told you my name. It’s Sean. Listen, we’re human beings, aren’t we? Can’t we at least treat each other with some civility?’
The man sighed. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘If it’ll shut you up. My name is Rabeel.’
The priest smiled. ‘See? That wasn’t too difficult. Now at least we know who we are.’ He put the handkerchief away. ‘And you are a Muslim?’
Rabeel sneered at the priest. ‘What sort of question is that? Of course I’m a Muslim. One look at me and you know I am.’
‘Because of your beard? I have parishioners with beards. Because of the colour of your skin? Look at my parishioners, Rabeel. Most of them are of colour. This is Brixton, remember. I am the minority here.’
Rabeel gestured at the explosives and wires in his vest. ‘How many Catholics do you see wearing vests like this?’
The priest forced a smile. ‘Admittedly not many. But the Catholic Church has had its fair share of martyrs in the past. Do you want to be a martyr? Is that why you’re here?’
Rabeel shook his head fiercely. ‘I don’t want to die. Not today. Not like this.’
‘Then take off the vest. Walk outside with me.’
Rabeel shook his head again. ‘I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can. You have free will. A man’s life is made up of the decisions he takes.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I know that your God wouldn’t want you desecrating a house of worship. Islam and Catholicism are not that far apart.’
‘Of course they are,’ snapped Rabeel. ‘Have you forgotten about the Crusades, when you Christians waged war on Islam? Millions died.’
‘But we have moved past that, Rabeel. Different religions can live together. We can worship our own gods and respect the right of others to worship theirs.’
‘Father Sean, please, just shut the fuck up, you’re doing my head in.’
‘Maybe that’s because you’re starting to realise the enormity of what you’re doing,’ said the priest. ‘You know this is wrong. Of course you do. Do you have a wife, Rabeel?’
‘Yes. I have a wife.’
‘And children?’
‘Two daughters.’
‘So you’re a family man. Do you want your family to live without you, Rabeel? Do you think it’s fair to them for you to be behaving like this? Is it how you want your family to remember you?’
‘You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,’ said Rabeel. He sighed. ‘Okay, fine, you can have your medicine if that’s what it takes to shut you up.’ He gestured at the parishioners in the front rows of the pews. ‘Tell one of the women to go and get it. One of the old women.’
‘Thank you,’ said Father Morrison. ‘Mrs Brooks,’ he called, to an elderly West Indian lady in a large black hat with a sweeping brim. ‘Mrs Brooks, could you do me a special favour?’
She stood up.
‘Be an angel. Go into the sacristy and get my medicine, will you? It’s in my bag. The white ones. And the blue and white capsules, bring them too. Actually, bring them all. The more the merrier.’
LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (12.30 p.m.)
Lumley put down his phone and waved a hand to attract Kamran’s attention. ‘The Bomb Squad chief is here, sir,’ he said. ‘Tony Drury.’
The main door to the special operations room opened and a man in a grey suit stood there, looking around uncertainly as if not sure where to go. Lumley went over to him and brought him to Kamran’s workstation. Drury was in his forties, with short grey hair and piercing blue eyes. He walked with his back ramrod straight, the sign of a military background, and he had a firm handshake.
‘I’m going to drop you in at the deep end and ask you to give me a view on the vests these guys are wearing,’ said Kamran. One by one he brought up CCTV photographs of the jihadists.
Drury nodded thoughtfully as he studied the pictures. ‘How many are there?’ he asked.
‘Seven so far,’ said Kamran. ‘They’re the same, right? At least, they look the same.’
‘They’re the same design and seem to be using the same components,’ agreed Drury. ‘I’d say each has between ten and twenty-five pounds of explosive. The trigger is a push button so I’m assuming a simple circuit. Push the button and the vest explodes. From the look of it something has been wrapped around the explosive. I would guess ball bearings or nails, to create shrapnel.’
‘Similar to what was used on the London Tube?’
Drury shook his head. ‘No, the Tube bombs were in backpacks. I’d say these vests would be more lethal.’
‘How lethal?’ asked Kamran. ‘Suppose one went off in a shop.’
‘It’s difficult to say,’ said Drury. ‘A lot depends on how many people are nearby, how close they are. Bodies absorb shrapnel so if you have a few people close to the site of the explosion they would take the brunt of the blast.’
‘But people further away might survive?’
‘Sure. It all depends on the type of shrapnel, the velocity, and what’s there to absorb it. Plenty of people survived the London Tube bombings. There were some people in the carriage where the bombs detonated who were completely unscathed. They were the lucky ones, of course. What locations do we have so far?’
‘A coffee shop. A nursery. A post office. A bus. A church. A pub. A shop.’
‘So no pattern, then? Not like Seven/Seven when all four bombers went down the Tube.’
‘This is a different situation,’ said Kamran. ‘The Tube bombings were about causing maximum casualties and spreading terror. These men want something. The bombs are a negotiating technique.’
‘What do they want?’
‘Prisoners released from Belmarsh and a plane out of the country.’
‘I’m guessing they’re going to be disappointed,’ said Drury.
‘Is there any way of neutralising the vests at a distance?’
Drury shook his head. ‘No, you have to remove the detonators or cut the wiring. They’re actually very simple circuits.’ He grimaced. ‘Sorry not to be more helpful.’
‘I just need to know where we stand,’ said Kamran. ‘Now, do you think the trigger is significant?’
‘Push to detonate? That’s pretty standard.’
‘We were thinking that a dead man’s switch would have made more sense.’
‘It depends on the environment,’ said Drury. ‘A dead man’s switch means that you can’t take out the man without the bomb going off. But the downside is that the operator can set it off by mistake.’ He peered at one of the pictures. ‘Looks as if they’re using Velcro strips to keep the triggers in the palm.’
‘Have you seen that before?’
‘It’s a technique used in Israel, by Palestinian suicide bombers, especially the ones who board buses and coaches. It means if they’re rushed they won’t drop the trigger.’
‘If the hand was chopped off? At the wrist or the elbow?’
‘You’d be taking a chance,’ said Drury. ‘If the thumb was on the trigger you might get a muscle contraction that would close the circuit.’
‘And that would go for a head shot, too?’
Drury flashed him a tight smile. ‘The SFOs keen to have a go, are they?’