‘I have to stay here. By the door.’
‘My assistant can get the bag.’
Ali shook his head. ‘Everyone has to stay here.’
‘She can leave the door open. You can see everything she does.’ Metcalfe waved at the damp patch at the front of his trousers. ‘You can’t leave me like this. It’s disgusting.’
‘You’re the one who pissed himself,’ said Ali.
‘Yes, because I was scared. Now, please, I’m begging you, let Molly get me my trousers.’
Ali stared at him for several seconds, then gestured with his chin at Molly. ‘Go in there and get his bag. Come straight back.’
Molly did as she was told and returned a few seconds later with Metcalfe’s overnight bag. ‘There’s a clean pair of trousers in there, and underwear,’ said Metcalfe.
She took them out and handed them to him. Metcalfe looked at Ali. ‘Can you do me a favour and ask everyone to turn around while I change?’ he asked.
‘Just fucking do it,’ snarled Ali. ‘No one gives a fuck about the colour of your underpants.’
‘I’ll stand in front of you, if that’ll help,’ said Molly.
LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (12.56 p.m.)
Kashif Talpur’s boss was a thirty-five-year-old inspector with the National Crime Agency. His name was Mark Biddulph and he arrived at the communications command centre in a leather jacket and jeans. ‘Day off,’ he explained. ‘I was at the dentist’s about to have a tooth drilled.’
‘Sorry to drag you away but we’re in the middle of a shit-storm,’ said Kamran. ‘We’ve got eight would-be suicide bombers at various locations around London.’
‘I saw it on the TV at the surgery,’ said Biddulph. ‘But what do you need me for? I’m not in anti-terrorism.’
‘One of the bombers seems to be your man — Kashif Talpur.’
Biddulph’s jaw dropped. ‘No fucking way,’ he said. ‘Excuse my French, sir, but Kash is one of my best men.’
‘There’s no way he could have fundamentalist leanings?’
‘He’s third-generation British,’ said Biddulph. ‘Grandparents came over just after the Second World War. His dad’s a teacher, mum’s a nurse. He supports West Ham, for God’s sake.’
Kamran tapped on his keyboard and Talpur’s face filled one of his screens. ‘Is that him?’
Biddulph stared at the picture taken from the CCTV camera on the bus.
‘Mark?’ prompted Kamran.
Biddulph stammered for a second or two, then shook his head fiercely. ‘Yes, that’s him. At least, it looks like him. But it can’t be.’
‘Can you call him?’
‘Sure.’ Biddulph took out a mobile and called a number. ‘Straight to voicemail,’ he said. He put the phone away. ‘Where is he?’
‘On a bus in Tavistock Square, threatening to blow himself to kingdom come if we don’t release six ISIS fighters from Belmarsh.’
‘That’s impossible,’ said Biddulph. ‘I don’t mean unlikely, I don’t mean out of character, I mean one thousand per cent impossible.’
‘Where is he supposed to be today?’
‘Brentford. That’s where the gang operates, mainly,’ said Biddulph. ‘He’s been doing a great job. There’s a group of two dozen Asians, minicab drivers most of them, that have been seducing the girls, passing them around and prostituting them. He infiltrated the gang but it soon became clear they were also involved in big-time drugs smuggling. The investigation has grown and grown but we’re almost ready to move in.’
‘And what does he do when he’s undercover?’
‘Hangs out with the Asian gang. Works part-time in a kebab house in Brentford. Almost four months now.’
‘So what’s he up to? Could this in any way be part of the case he’s on?’
Biddulph shook his head. ‘These Asians are Muslim, but in name only. They drink, they smoke dope and they screw underage girls. They go to mosques but maybe once a week, if that.’
‘But Talpur is a Muslim?’
‘Well, again, yes, but you don’t see him in the office face down on a prayer mat. And he drinks. Always buys his round. He can handle his booze, too.’
‘Could he have been hiding all this time?’ asked Biddulph.
‘What — you mean concealing fundamentalist leanings so that he could penetrate the Met?’ He shrugged and sighed. ‘Look, he’s a bloody good undercover cop so, yes, I suppose that’s possible. But if he was involved in some long-term penetration of the Met, why throw it all away to lay siege to a bus? Surely there’d be better ways of sticking it to us.’ He held up his hands. ‘But that’s just crazy talk. As I said, Kash is a bloody good officer, one of my best men.’
‘So what’s he doing on that bus?’ asked Kamran.
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ said Biddulph. ‘All I can think of is that he’s had some sort of breakdown.’
‘At the moment he’s got a trigger in his hand and he’s refusing to let anyone off the bus,’ said Kamran. He thought for a few seconds, then reached a decision. ‘You need to get out there and see if you can talk to him.’
Biddulph nodded. ‘No problem.’
Kamran turned to Lumley. ‘Joe, arrange a car for Inspector Biddulph. We need to get him out to Tavistock Square ASAP. Blues and twos.’ He looked back at Biddulph. ‘Is he married? Kids?’
Biddulph shook his head. ‘Three siblings. You’re thinking a tiger kidnapping?’ It was a common tactic used in robberies where a family member was kidnapped to force the relative to co-operate with the robbers. But the technique had been refined by the IRA, who had used tiger kidnappings to force civilians to plant car bombs, sometimes losing their lives in the process.
‘If you’re sure he’s not turned fundamentalist, maybe he’s being pressured,’ said Kamran. ‘Give me a list of family members before you go and I’ll get someone to check that no one has gone missing.’
MARBLE ARCH (1.05 p.m.)
The helmet weighed just three and a half kilos but it absorbed outside sounds so all Charlie Kawczynski could hear was her own soft breathing. Her heart was pounding but she was able to control her breathing, slow and even. She hadn’t bothered to use the optional cooling system that came with the suit. It had a network of capillaries sewn into it and connected to a four-pint reservoir but it wasn’t usually needed for short periods and Kawczynski figured she’d be done in less than half an hour. There was a microphone and ventilation system built into the helmet, along with a battery pack using standard nine-volt batteries that would run for five hours. All the wiring was built into the fabric of the suit so that it couldn’t be snagged. Walking wasn’t easy but she’d been in the Bomb Squad going on three years so she’d had plenty of practice. It was looking down that was the problem. The ballistic panel that covered the neck and the lower part of the helmet meant that she couldn’t see her feet so the trick was always to know what was on the ground ahead of her.
She looked up to her left and saw a sniper at the window of an office overlooking the coffee shop. And in the far distance two police cars were blocking off the road. Beyond them was a fire engine and beyond that a van belonging to Sky News with a large white satellite dish on the roof.
She walked down the middle of the road. The suit wasn’t designed for concealment and it certainly didn’t allow for running. ‘Slowly but surely’: that was the Bomb Squad’s mantra. Bomb disposal was all about technique, about working out the safest method of making a device safe. And that was what made suicide bombers so difficult to deal with — the human element made them unpredictable. She was always much happier looking down at an IED or approaching a car bomb than a human being.