‘So this guy, he’s been working undercover?’
Biddulph nodded. ‘For the NCA. It started as a sexual-predator case with Asians grooming underage white girls, then it became obvious they were big-time drug importers.’
‘But there was no terrorism involvement?’
‘None that Kash reported.’
‘Kash?’
‘That’s his name. Kash, with a K. Well, his nickname, I guess. Kashif Talpur. He joined three years ago, did a couple of years pounding a beat in Wandsworth, and then we co-opted him into the NCA. Bright lad.’
‘Lad?’
‘He’s only twenty-three but looks younger.’
‘And no one suspected he’d turned fundamentalist?’
‘I still can’t believe it’s him,’ said Biddulph. ‘I’m hoping that when I get up close I’ll realise that it just looks like him and that the facial-recognition system has screwed up.’
‘People change.’
‘Yeah, but not that quickly. I saw him just three days ago and he was as right as rain. Had a couple of pints and a curry, chatted about the football more than the case.’
‘Pints? He drinks?’
‘Likes his beer. Was going out with a very pretty blonde girl before she got fed up with his hours. I’ve even seen him buy pork scratchings in the pub.’
‘But he’s a Muslim, right?’
‘Same way that I’m a Christian. I’m in church for funerals and weddings and I’ve broken most of the Ten Commandments. Kash is third-generation British. He can speak Urdu but that’s because his mum and dad insist on it at home. But Kash is…’ He shrugged, lost for words.
‘Well, let’s see what he has to say for himself,’ said Greene. He indicated a metal box with a phone handset on the top and a coil of wire clipped to the side. ‘You’ll be carrying the field phone. We’ll try to persuade him to take it onto the bus so that we can get negotiations started.’ He gestured at a small video camera that had been clipped to his protective jacket, just under his chin. ‘I’ll be recording everything and the video will be uploaded to Gold Commander in GT Ops so if there’s anything you’d rather keep private…’ He tapped the side of his nose with his finger.
‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ said Biddulph. The man who was helping him dress began adjusting the collar that would protect his neck. ‘You do this a lot?’
‘Suicide bombers? Nope, this is a first for me. To be honest, most of what we do involves old war munitions. Unexploded bombs and the like. And meth labs, we do a lot of them. But since the IRA went quiet we don’t have many terrorist-related bombs. We were there on Seven/Seven, but after the event, obviously.’
‘And these suits will protect us, one hundred per cent?’
‘There’s always a chance that a piece of shrapnel might hit you, but it won’t be anywhere vital. You’d be bloody unlucky to get a scratch.’
Biddulph grinned. ‘Good to know.’
‘It’d be a different story for anyone on the lower level of the bus, though,’ said Greene. ‘What they usually do with those suicide vests is wrap wire and nails and bolts around the explosive. The actual bang isn’t what does the damage, it’s the shrapnel. Now you and me, outside the bus, wearing these suits, we’ll be fine and dandy. And the passengers on the upper level, they’ll mostly be okay. But everyone else — they’ll be ripped to shreds.’
Biddulph nodded. ‘Got it,’ he said.
‘So we go in slowly, try to keep him calm. If there’s any sense that we’re making him agitated, we back away. We don’t want to be the trigger for anything happening. If he wants to talk, we tell him to use the phone. We give him the phone, gather intel, then leave.’
‘All good,’ said Biddulph.
‘We won’t be using the radios in the suits to talk until we’re sure what detonating system he’s using, but providing we’re close together we should be able to hear each other.’
Biddulph’s heart was racing and he took several deep breaths to calm himself down.
Greene grinned and patted him on the shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘That Kevlar will stop most things.’
‘It’s not me I’m worried about,’ said Biddulph. ‘It’s Kash.’
MARBLE ARCH (2.20 p.m.)
The waitress who had been sticking more sheets of newspaper over the window looked at the man in the suicide vest. ‘Is that enough?’ she asked. ‘I can’t see any gaps.’
The man peered at the sheets and nodded. ‘Get back behind the counter,’ he said. ‘And, everyone, you need to keep texting. Hashtag ISIS6.’
‘Do you want me to text, too?’ asked Hassan.
‘Sure,’ said the man. ‘The more the merrier.’
‘And what do you expect this texting to do?’ asked El-Sayed. ‘You think the government cares about texts?’
The man glared at him. ‘If there are enough of them, yes.’
‘So why do you cover the windows? Isn’t it better publicity for the outside world to see what’s going on here?’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ snarled the man.
El-Sayed held up his hands. ‘Brother, I am merely curious,’ he said. ‘You want publicity, you want the world to know what is happening, but you hide behind newspapers.’
‘Because there are snipers out there,’ said the man. ‘And they might be stupid enough to think that if they shoot me in the head the bomb won’t go off.’
Something buzzed at the man’s stomach and he flinched. El-Sayed’s eyes widened in horror, but then he realised it wasn’t the vest: it was something in the pack he had around his waist. The man unzipped it and took out a cheap mobile phone. He held it to his ear with his left hand, which meant Hassan had to stand closer to him. Hassan glanced fearfully at his father and El-Sayed smiled, willing the boy to stay calm.
‘I don’t know. I saw movement at the window, pulled back some of the paper and there was a bomb-disposal woman there. She backed off and now I’m covering the window again.’
There was a pause as the man listened. ‘I think she was taking photographs,’ he said eventually. ‘She had a camera in her hand.’
Another pause, longer this time. ‘Okay, okay, I understand.’
A short pause. ‘Yes. I understand.’
He put away the phone and looked up at the television screen. It was showing a view of Edgware Road from a helicopter overhead.
‘What is the problem?’ asked El-Sayed.
‘Shahid saw the bomb-disposal woman on TV,’ said the man, quietly. ‘He wanted to know what was going on.’
‘Shahid? Who is Shahid?’
‘What’s it to you?’ said the man, glaring at him again. ‘You need to shut the fuck up.’
‘Brother, if someone is organising this, if there is a man in charge, then maybe I should talk to him.’
‘Maybe you should shut the fuck up. Maybe that’s what you should do.’
‘Brother, please, stay calm. We have never met before, we are strangers, we don’t know each other, but there is a very good chance that I might be able to help you. But for that to happen, I need to talk with the man in charge. This Shahid. Can you call him back?’
The man shook his head. ‘I can’t call out on this phone. He can only call me.’
El-Sayed nodded thoughtfully. ‘Then we must wait for him to call you again. But when he does, I beg you, let me speak with him.’
LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (2.30 p.m.)
‘We have a match on the man in the Kensington childcare centre,’ said Waterman. ‘Not one hundred per cent but it looks good to me.’
Kamran walked over to the MI5 officer and stood behind her. On the middle screen there were two photographs, one taken from outside the nursery as the children were being released, the other a full-face picture taken from either a driving licence or a passport. The man was black, his head shaved. In the CCTV image he was tall and thin, probably over six feet, his runner’s physique covered with a parka. In the head-and-shoulders shot he had a gaunt face with dark patches under his eyes.