‘Mohamed Osman, born in Somalia, came over with his parents nine years ago. They were all granted British citizenship in 2011. Osman is Muslim but relaxed about it. Doesn’t attend a mosque that we know of, no fundamentalist leanings that we know of, has a job as a courier. Never been abroad.’
‘So why is he known to you?’ asked Kamran.
‘He isn’t,’ said Waterman. ‘He’s on the Police National Computer. He was accused of rape two years ago. An underage Somalian girl claimed he’d raped her in the back of his van. There was no physical evidence, he had an alibi, and eventually the girl dropped the charges.’
‘But nothing terrorism-related?’ asked Kamran.
‘Definitely not,’ said Waterman. ‘A true cleanskin. He’s come out of nowhere.’
Kamran rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘So we’ve got four Pakistani Brits and one Somalian Brit. No connections between them, except that today they’ve decided to become suicide bombers.’
Murray smiled thinly. ‘Strictly speaking, they only become suicide bombers when they press the trigger. Until then they’re just terrorists.’
‘We can’t link Osman to any Pakistanis, never mind the ones wearing suicide vests today,’ said Waterman. ‘He’s always stayed within his own community, so far as we know.’
‘So who the hell has put this together?’ asked Kamran. ‘Why would a Somalian with no apparent interest in fundamentalism be willing to kill himself to get ISIS terrorists released?’
Waterman and Murray shrugged. Kamran sighed in exasperation. Asking the questions was easy. It was getting answers that was driving him to distraction.
‘This is probably a dumb thing to say, but is there any significance that so many of them are called Mohammed?’ asked Murray.
‘It’s the most common name in the UK for male newborns,’ said Waterman. ‘Has been for some time. There are various ways to spell it, but put them all together and it’s the most popular name by far.’
‘It’s the tradition for Muslim families to name their boys Mohammed,’ said Kamran. ‘The vast majority don’t use it in everyday life, but it’s on all their official documents. I’m quite unusual in that my parents always used it. They still do. I got called Mo at school but at home I’m still Mohammed and always will be to my mum. But the answer to your question, Alex, is no. It’s just an indication that they’re Muslim, nothing more.’
Waterman transferred the picture of Osman to the screen where she had lined up the photographs of the six bombers they had already identified. Kamran stared at the faces on his screen. Mohammed Malik. Ismail Hussain. Mohamed Osman. Rabeel Bhashir. Mohammed Faisal Chaudhry. Four British Pakistanis. One Somalian. And Kashif Talpur, an undercover cop. One middle-aged, the rest relatively young. Six men with no obvious link between them, other than that they had chosen that day to put on suicide vests and hold the city to ransom. There had to be a connection, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was. Someone had brought the six of them together, trained them, equipped them, and dropped them off at their present locations. There had to be a link between the men, and that link would lead to whoever was behind it.
Sergeant Lumley’s phone rang and he answered it. ‘Your negotiator is here,’ he said to Waterman.
‘I’ll go and get him,’ said the MI5 officer. She left the Gold Command suite and returned a few minutes later with a man in his mid-sixties with a close-cropped grey beard. He was wearing an expensive suit with a sombre tie and a perfectly starched white shirt, though his hair was in disarray and he was patting it down with his left hand. In his right he was carrying a slim leather briefcase. ‘This is Chris Thatcher,’ said Waterman, and Kamran shook his hand, catching a glimpse of gold cufflinks.
‘Sorry if I seem a bit flustered,’ said Thatcher. ‘They put me on the back of a high-powered motorbike and whizzed me through the streets at something like a hundred miles an hour.’ He grinned. ‘That’s what it felt like, anyhow.’
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ asked Kamran.
‘Caffeine is the last thing I need right now,’ said Thatcher. ‘But I’d love a camomile tea.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Lumley, heading out of the suite.
Thatcher looked out over the special operations room appreciatively. ‘This is impressive,’ he said. ‘You’re getting live CCTV feeds from around the city?’
‘Everywhere we can,’ said Kamran.
‘We’ve been watching it on TV at Thames House. One hell of a day.’
‘And it’s getting worse by the minute,’ said Kamran. He gestured at a chair. ‘Make yourself comfortable while I bring you up to speed.’
WANDSWORTH (2.45 p.m.)
‘Sami, I really have to go to the toilet,’ said Zoe. She was jiggling from foot to foot. ‘I’m going to piss myself.’
‘There’s nothing I can do,’ said Malik. ‘Sorry.’
‘You want to be handcuffed to someone who’s wet themselves?’
‘You can pee on the floor.’
‘Then it’ll spread everywhere. Ask them for a bucket or something.’
‘What?’
‘A bucket. I’ll pee in a bucket. And the kids need something to eat and drink.’ She nodded at the changing rooms. The two toddlers had been crying non-stop for the past fifteen minutes and no amount of shouting from Malik had quietened them down. ‘That’s why they’re crying, Malik. Kids cry when they’re hungry. You said they’ve got until six to free the prisoners. That’s more than three hours. Do you want kids crying for the next three hours?’
Malik bit his lower lip. She was right. The crying was doing his head in and it was getting worse. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘Come on.’ He pulled the chain and they walked slowly towards the shop entrance. ‘Jamie?’ he shouted. ‘Jamie, are you there?’
‘I’m here, Sami,’ shouted the negotiator. He sounded far away, at the other end of the shopping centre, maybe. ‘Do you want me to come over?’
‘No, stay where you are. There’s a girl here who needs to go to the toilet. You have to get me a bucket or something.’
‘Okay, Sami, I can do that.’
‘And there are two kids. They need food. And something to drink.’
‘How old are the kids?’
‘I don’t know. Young.’
‘They’re two and a half!’ shouted the woman in the changing room.
‘Two and a half,’ repeated Malik.
‘I’ll get something fixed up. What about you, Sami? Are you hungry?’
‘No.’
‘I could bring a pizza or something.’
‘I don’t want a fucking pizza!’ shouted Malik.
‘I could eat pizza,’ said the woman in the changing room.
‘We’re not here to eat fucking pizza!’ yelled Malik.
‘It’s almost three o’clock and I haven’t had any lunch.’
Malik groaned. ‘Jamie, send in a pizza as well.’
‘No pineapple,’ shouted the woman. ‘I hate pineapple.’
Malik muttered under his breath. ‘No pineapple on the pizza, Jamie. A bucket. And something for the kids. That’s all.’
‘I’ll get it sorted, Sami,’ shouted the policeman.
‘And I want some fags,’ said the woman in the changing room. ‘I’m gasping.’
‘You can’t smoke in here,’ said Zoe.
‘I need a fucking cigarette, darling,’ said the woman.
‘He’s got explosives strapped to him and you want to light a cigarette?’ Zoe looked at Malik and shook her head in disgust. ‘Some people, huh?’