‘And we don’t know who or where this man is?’
‘He calls in on a different phone each time and he’s never on long enough for us to trace him. We’ve managed to locate the nearest mobile-phone antenna each time but all that shows us is that he’s moving around.’
‘This is an absolute nightmare,’ said the prime minister. ‘Awful business. Truly awful.’
Gillard said nothing, but it was clear from the look on his face that he was in full agreement. It was a nightmare. But not one that they would be waking up from anytime soon.
‘Do you have any sense of how likely it is that they’ll detonate at six p.m. if we don’t do what they want?’
‘I don’t, sir. I really don’t. The one saving grace is that they do have demands. They didn’t just blow themselves up. If this had been a repeat of Seven/Seven we’d be looking at dozens of dead, possibly hundreds. The fact that they gave us demands does suggest there is a possibility that this can be resolved without casualties.’
‘Unless you’re right and this is a set-up to make it look like it was our fault,’ said the prime minister. ‘They ask for something they know we can’t give so that when we refuse they can kill the hostages and blame us.’
‘On a more positive note, from the conversations we’ve had with their man, it does at least appear that he wants to achieve his objectives,’ said Gillard. ‘He isn’t shifting the goalposts. He made his demands clear at the start and hasn’t wavered.’
‘He has released some hostages, though.’
‘Children, Prime Minister. And I think that was always part of their plan. Why send a bomber into a childcare centre if you were concerned about putting children at risk? I think they deliberately targeted the nursery in Kensington so that they could then appear to gain the moral high ground by letting the children go.’
‘Moral high ground?’ snapped the prime minister. ‘I hardly think so.’
‘An unfortunate choice of words, my apologies,’ said Gillard. ‘What I meant was that by offering to release the children they appeared to be doing the humanitarian thing, even though it was their actions that put the children at risk. I have to say he was less happy about the idea of releasing the children from the bus.’
‘Is there anything else we can do to get more of the hostages released?’ asked the prime minister.
‘He has said that once he’s assured the ISIS prisoners are being transferred to Biggin Hill, he will release the children on the bus.’
‘How many?’
‘So far as we can see, two schoolkids and a babe-in-arms.’
‘That’s not much of a concession, is it?’
‘He’s not making concessions, Prime Minister. I think he just appreciates that killing children is bad PR. Look, sir. If we can isolate the bombers on a coach and then at the airport, we can drastically reduce the number of hostages at risk. From close to a hundred to hopefully nine or so.’
‘And at no point will the ISIS prisoners be set free?’
‘They will remain on the prison transport van at all times under armed guard,’ said Gillard. ‘They will still be in our custody and that won’t change.’
‘Is there any way of doing this without the media being aware of what’s happening?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ said Gillard. ‘The man we’re talking to has already said he wants to see the prisoners on TV. Once he sees that the prisoners are on the way to the airport, he’ll arrange for the bombers to follow them.’
The prime minister sighed. He was clearly frustrated at the way he’d been backed into a corner, but Gillard sensed he had already decided what he had to do. ‘So far as the world is concerned, the terrorists will have won,’ said the prime minister.
‘Once we have the bombers in a controlled environment, the prisoners will be taken straight back to Belmarsh,’ said Gillard.
‘And this is the best way forward?’ asked the prime minister. ‘There’s no alternative?’
‘I don’t see one,’ said Gillard. ‘Worst possible scenario, we drastically reduce the number of casualties. Best possible scenario, they realise there’s no way forward and they surrender.’
‘Do you think the latter is at all likely?’
Gillard could hear the hope in the man’s voice and he didn’t want to dash it by being too honest. ‘It’s a possibility,’ was the best he could do.
‘Please God,’ said the prime minister. ‘Well, Chief Superintendent, it looks as if we have no choice. Go ahead and pick up the prisoners from Belmarsh. I shall speak to the home secretary now. I’ll leave it to you to make the announcement. Obviously keep me informed.’
The line went dead. Gillard sat down and sighed.
‘That we-never-negotiate-with-terrorists line annoys the hell out of me,’ said Murray. ‘Not only did they negotiate with the IRA, they let the bastards get away with murder.’
Gillard ignored him. ‘At least now we have a plan,’ he said. ‘Alex, you need to get a secure environment ready at Biggin Hill. Tony, do what you can with a coach in the time available. Sergeant Lumley, track down Lisa Elphick from the press office. Oh, Alex, did you find a driver for the coach?’
‘We had a dozen volunteers.’
Gillard shuddered. ‘Rather them than me.’
‘Just a thought,’ said Kamran. ‘What about getting a similar coach to Biggin Hill now? It’d give your guys something to rehearse with.’
‘Excellent idea,’ said the SAS captain.
‘I’ll arrange that,’ said Kamran, reaching for his phone.
Inspector Adams popped his head around the door, but before he could speak Gillard waved at him. ‘Ian, the prisoners are being moved to Biggin Hill airport as soon as possible. Make contact with Belmarsh. We need a high-security van to transfer them, and make sure it’s real prison officers and not GS4 muppets.’
BIGGIN HILL AIRPORT (4.20 p.m.)
Biggin Hill airport was fourteen miles south east of London, a six-minute helicopter ride from the city centre that made it the airport of choice for the tycoons and oligarchs who called the capital home. As the unmarked grey Chinook helicopter came in to land, three large private jets were lined up ready to take off.
The helicopter touched down on a helipad some distance away from the main aviation terminal, where a white minibus and a black saloon car were parked. The back ramp came down as the twin rotors continued to turn. Eight men walked out, all casually dressed and carrying black nylon kitbags. They were led by a fifteen-year veteran of the SAS, Sergeant Pete Hawkins. He waited until all the men were off before jogging over to the vehicles. A pretty brunette in a beige jacket over a dark blue dress climbed out of the car to meet him as the Chinook lifted into the air and headed back to Hereford.
She turned her face away from the rotor draught and put up her hand in a vain attempt to stop her hair whipping about. Hawkins was still grinning when she turned back to face him. ‘Plays havoc with the hairdo,’ he said. He held out his hand. ‘Pete Hawkins.’
‘You don’t look like SAS,’ she said, shaking it.
‘We scrub up well,’ he said.
‘I thought you’d be, you know, bigger.’
‘SAS.’ He laughed. ‘Short And Stupid.’
She grinned. ‘Paula Cooke. I’m in charge here today. I’m told to offer you any support you need and then to keep well away from you.’
‘Sounds perfect to me,’ said Hawkins. ‘We need a hangar where we won’t be disturbed.’
‘The biggest is over by the terminal,’ said Cooke.
‘Size isn’t that important, and the further away from the terminal the better,’ said Hawkins.
‘We have a smaller one that’s being used to respray a jet,’ said Cooke. ‘It wouldn’t be a problem to move it out.’