The main thrust of the LESLP’s work was to prepare for major emergencies, anything from a terrorist incident to a meteorite strike, and to make sure that when something major did happen, all the different agencies knew what they had to do. Kamran’s two years on the LESLP had been the worst of his professional life. The police representatives were easy enough to deal with, as were the Fire Brigade and the Ambulance Service, who were in the same boat as the police, being asked to do more on operational budgets that were constantly being slashed. But the bureaucrats working for the local authorities were a nightmare. They were all primarily concerned with protecting their own little empires and tended to nitpick and argue over every tiny detail. What made it worse was that the local authority representatives tended to be paid a lot more than the emergency service members, and drove better cars.
Kamran had asked for a transfer several times but had always been knocked back. He was doing a valuable job, he was told, and the earliest he would be moved would be following the completion of a new version of the LESLP manual, which detailed who should do what in the event of pretty much every conceivable disaster that might befall London. He sipped his coffee and started to go through the emails. Even the most tedious and pedantic required at least an acknowledgement that he had received it and understood the contents. At least half came from the local authority bureaucrats, who seemed to think that the longer the email, the more they were justifying their six-figure salaries.
He was halfway through the seventh email when his intercom buzzed. ‘It’s the deputy commissioner,’ said his secretary. ‘Urgent.’ She put the call through before he could reply.
The deputy commissioner got straight to the point. It was clear from his voice that he was under pressure. ‘Mo, we’ve a major terrorist incident on the go and I need you as Gold Commander for the time being. From the look of it, it’s an Operation Plato. Drop everything and get to GT Ops. I’ll call you back on your mobile and brief you en route.’
‘On my way, sir,’ said Kamran. The line went dead. Kamran’s heart was pounding. Operation Plato was one of the worst scenarios they trained for: a multi-seated terrorist attack on the city. GT Ops was the call sign for the Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre. There were three command centres in London, in Bow, Lambeth and Hendon. Between them, they handled the city’s daily six thousand emergency and fifteen thousand non-emergency calls. They were also used to provide specialist communications for major incidents, with experts from the police, Fire Brigade, Ambulance and any other of the emergency services that might be needed. Kamran grabbed his jacket and briefcase and rushed to the door. His secretary was standing at her desk, looking worried. He flashed her a confident smile. ‘Have my car downstairs, Amy, I’m going to GT Ops. Take messages for me and I’ll check in with you when I get the time. Clear my diary for the day and tell the Rotary Club that I won’t be able to do that talk this evening.’
Kamran’s mobile phone buzzed as he headed for the stairs. Reception was patchy at best in the lifts so he took the stairs down to the ground floor. ‘We have three suicide bombers in the city,’ said the deputy commissioner. ‘Brixton, Wandsworth and Fulham. The attacks appear to be coordinated and we fear there could be more coming. I’ve arranged for MI5 and the SAS to be represented at GT Ops but, as Gold Commander, it’s your show, Mo.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Kamran, though he knew his show could well turn out to be a poisoned chalice.
‘We have armed-response vehicles at all three locations and hostage negotiation teams on the way. We don’t know what their demands are yet but there’s no need to tell you this is going to be a tough one.’
‘I hear you, sir.’
‘We’ll try to get a more senior officer over later this morning but at the moment you’re the most qualified. Good luck.’
Kamran put his phone away as he hurried down the stairs. He was going to need more than luck, he was sure of that. He pushed open the door that led to the reception area and walked outside. His car was already waiting for him, engine running.
KENSINGTON (11.10 a.m.)
There were times when Sally Jones would quite happily have given Max Dunbar a smack across the face. He truly was a nasty piece of work, mean-spirited with a foul temper and a tendency to bite. The snag was that Max was four years old and Sally was a twenty-seven-year-old childcare professional, paid to take care of him and another dozen children of the rich and well connected. There was a waiting list to join the Little Kensington Nursery and it was able to pick and choose who it accepted. Sally just wished the owners had been a little more selective when it came to Max. His parents were go-getters in the City, the father a merchant banker, the mother in PR, but the high six-figure salaries meant they had little time for child-rearing and Max was an only child so had few, if any, social skills.
Max had been biting for the past month, and they weren’t playful nips, either. He thought it was funny to fasten his teeth onto a girl’s arm and bite until he drew blood. Sally figured he’d either grow up to be a vampire or a serial killer. He had taken a particular liking to a sweet little girl called Henrietta, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. He had already tried to bite her twice that morning and Sally was at her wits’ end. If Henrietta ended up with a bite mark, Sally would get the blame and she really didn’t need the grief. There were sixteen children in the class and two teachers. Sally and Laura had split the class into two and unfortunately she’d been stuck with Max. Punishing the child was out of the question, but there was no way of reasoning with him. His parents never said no to him, and at home he spent most of the time with his two Scandinavian au pairs, who catered to his every whim.
‘Right, let’s have story time,’ she said, clapping her hands. ‘Max, why don’t you choose the book?’ She pointed at the bookcase and nodded encouragingly. ‘Something with ponies, perhaps?’ Hopefully if she got him to participate, he’d forget about sinking his teeth into Henrietta’s arm.
The door to the classroom opened and Sally frowned as she saw a tall, thin black man walk in. His head was shaved and he had sunken cheeks, one of which had a curved scar across it. Sally knew immediately he wasn’t a parent. London might have been one of the most ethnically mixed cities in the world, but the nursery wasn’t and the man certainly wasn’t related to the Chan boy or the Indian twins, who were the only non-white children on the premises. Sally’s first thought was that he was a beggar. His long coat looked cheap and he didn’t appear to have washed in a while. But it was his eyes that worried her most — they were wide and staring, almost fearful.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked. She looked at Laura, but Laura was busy organising a painting exercise and hadn’t noticed him.
The man tried to smile but it was more like the grimace of an animal in pain. ‘I am sorry, madam,’ he mumbled. He wiped his face with the palm of his hand and Sally realised he was sweating. Maybe he was sick. He certainly appeared disoriented.