CAMBERWELL (6.30 p.m.)
Ali Pasha put away his phone. ‘It is time to go,’ he said. He smiled. ‘The ISIS prisoners have been released and are on the way to the airport.’
Roger Metcalfe frowned. ‘That’s impossible,’ he said. ‘The government’s policy is never to negotiate with terrorists.’
Pasha grinned. ‘Maybe they changed it when they found out that I had a Member of Parliament as my hostage.’
‘Is that why you chose me?’ asked Metcalfe. ‘Because I’m an MP?’
‘I didn’t choose you,’ said Pasha. ‘But someone did and maybe it was because you were an MP that you were chosen. Come on, we must go. There is a coach outside.’
‘What do you mean, a coach?’
‘We are to go to the airport. You and I. Everyone else can go.’
‘Which airport?’
‘I don’t know. Please, we don’t have time to talk. We have to go.’
‘It’s true,’ said Molly, who was sitting, back to the wall, with the rest of the hostages. ‘It’s all over Twitter. They’ve let them go. All six of them.’
‘Ali, listen to me,’ said Metcalfe. ‘You’ve won. You’ve got what you wanted. You don’t need me to get on the coach with you. Please. I have a family. I need to get back to them.’
‘We have no choice,’ said Pasha. ‘I was told to get on the coach with you and I have to do exactly as I am told. If I disobey, the vest will explode.’
Metcalfe frowned. ‘You mean someone else can detonate it?’
Pasha scowled. ‘I’ve said too much already. Come on. We must go.’
‘You’re telling me that someone else can set the bomb off? That it’s not up to you?’
Pasha glared at the MP. ‘If you continue to talk like this, we could all die. Do you want to die, Roger? I don’t. Not today.’ He headed for the door.
‘They could shoot us,’ said Metcalfe.
‘They won’t,’ said Pasha. ‘They’ve released the prisoners. They’re letting us go to the airport. They don’t want anyone hurt.’
‘They make mistakes sometimes,’ said Metcalfe. ‘Remember that Brazilian electrician they shot in the Tube after Seven/Seven?’
‘That won’t happen again,’ said Pasha. ‘They have rules. That is why the police here are so weak. They have to follow them, no matter what.’
‘But you don’t. Is that what you mean?’
Pasha ignored the question and opened the door. He stepped out into the corridor. A man in a green bomb-disposal suit was standing some fifteen feet away to his left. He pointed to Pasha’s right. ‘Down the stairs,’ he said.
Pasha and the MP went along the corridor and down the stairs to the street. Armed police were aiming their weapons at them. At the roadside a white coach with the windows blacked out was waiting. They climbed on board and found free seats close to the back on the driver’s side. Pasha had to take the window seat. Metcalfe was sweating profusely and had started to shake. ‘Breathe deeply,’ said Pasha. ‘You will have a heart attack.’
‘I don’t want to die. I have a family.’
‘We all have families,’ said Pasha. ‘But we have to stay calm. If we are lucky, we will all get out of this alive. Inshallah.’
‘Inshallah? What does that mean?’
‘It means “God willing”. It means that everything that happens is the will of Allah.’
The coach door closed and they pulled away from the kerb.
‘But this isn’t Allah’s doing, is it? This is you.’ Metcalfe gestured at the men sitting in front of them. ‘And them. You’re doing it. You’re making this happen.’
Pasha shook his head. ‘No, we’re not.’
SOUTH LONDON (ten hours earlier)
Talpur stopped struggling. Nothing he did loosened his bonds. He looked around the circle. Most of the men were slumped in the chairs. One was crying. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he shouted. ‘Where the fuck are we?’
There were pigeons roosting in the girders of the warehouse and several fluttered to the roof, but they soon returned to their posts and began cooing softly.
‘Stay quiet,’ said a voice. ‘Anyone who talks will be gagged.’
A man moved into view from Talpur’s left. He was wearing blue overalls and his face was covered with a ski mask. Behind him a large metal screen hung from chains attached to a girder. At the far end of the building there was a pile of disused machinery, much of it rusting and covered with cobwebs. The oil stains on the concrete floor suggested that the building had once been a thriving business.
The man moved into the centre of the circle. ‘My name is Shahid,’ he said, brandishing a gun over his head.
‘What the fuck is this about?’ yelled a captive.
Shahid pointed his gun at the man and pulled the trigger. The bullet thudded into the wall. The sound of the shot echoed and the pigeons scattered in fright. Talpur could smell the cordite and his ears were ringing.
‘I will kill the next person who speaks,’ said Shahid. ‘This is what is going to happen. You will notice that you are each wearing a raincoat. Under the raincoat is a vest containing explosives and detonators, with screws, nuts and bolts to serve as shrapnel when the vest explodes. You each have written instructions in your left-hand pocket. You are to read those instructions and follow them to the letter. You will be hooded again and delivered to a specific place where the hood and mask will be removed. You will then follow your instructions. At all times you will be watched. If at any point you deviate from the script you have been given the explosives you are wearing will detonate. The vests cannot be removed. If you attempt to remove the vest, it will explode. It has been booby-trapped. Believe me, any attempt to take it off will end badly so, please, do not even try.’
One of the men began shaking his head. ‘This is fucking evil, man. Fucking evil.’
‘What I am now about to tell you is the most important thing you have to remember,’ said Shahid. ‘In the right-hand pocket of the raincoat there is a trigger for the vest, which you will keep in your right hand at all times. There is a Velcro strap to keep it in place. The trigger must be visible at all times. But the trigger will not detonate the vest. The vest can only be detonated by phone.’ He reached into a pocket of his overalls and pulled out a cheap phone. He held it above his head. ‘If I call your vest it will explode. Only I can make that call, and until I do, the vest is safe. But if I do call the number — you and everyone nearby will die.’
‘This is fucking sick, man!’ shouted the man, rocking his chair back and forth.
‘You need to shut the fuck up, bruv,’ said Shahid, waving his gun at the man’s face.
‘You can’t be doing this to people,’ said the man.
‘You’ll do as you’re told or you’re dead.’ Shahid put away the mobile phone.
‘I’m not even a fucking Muslim!’
‘Muslim or not, you follow the instructions or you’ll be dead.’
The man threw back his head and screamed up at the roof, a blood-curdling howl of frustration and pain.
Shahid walked over to him and slapped him across the face. The man stopped screaming and stared up at him. ‘You will do this,’ he said. ‘You will follow the orders I give you.’
‘I can’t. I fucking can’t. You need to let me go.’
One of the other captives shouted, ‘Just do it, man. Just do it as he says. Don’t make him mad!’