‘I’m on it,’ said Waterman.
Lumley returned from the special operations room and walked over to them. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
‘It looks as if they’re being dropped off,’ said Kamran.
‘So there are going to be more? This is just the start?’
‘I’m afraid that’s exactly what it looks like,’ said Kamran.
One of the phones on Lumley’s desk rang and he answered it. ‘It’s the deputy commissioner, line two,’ he said.
Kamran picked up his phone. ‘So there’s four now?’ said the senior officer.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Kamran. ‘Kensington.’
‘How are things in the SOR?’
‘All good. A bit frantic, as you can imagine, but we’re staying on top of it.’
‘We’re going to have to hand over more of the operational decisions to you at GT Ops,’ said the deputy commissioner. ‘I know that generally the SOR takes more of a support role but things are moving too quickly so we need decisions taken centrally.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘At the moment you’re the only one who can see the big picture, the wood for the trees, if you like.’
‘Understood, sir.’ Kamran wasn’t thrilled about being given operational command on a day when a lot of people could die. Generally the special operations room didn’t control incidents: it provided a support structure to Incident Command and helped manage the incident, providing resources, analysing intelligence and co-ordinating communications. Kamran understood the necessity of taking decisions centrally but he was only a superintendent, and if anything went wrong, shit had a habit of rolling downhill.
‘I know it’s a lot of responsibility,’ said the deputy commissioner, as if sensing Kamran’s unease. ‘Just bear with me for an hour or so. I’m going to fix up an SO15 senior officer to take over there.’
‘No problem, sir,’ said Kamran. SO15 was Counter-terrorism Command, the anti-terrorism squad formed in 2006 by merging the Anti-terrorist Branch with Special Branch.
‘Have the negotiators gone in yet?’
‘Not yet, sir. We’ve got four locations and we’re getting phone numbers as we speak. As soon as we’ve established communications we’ll have a better idea of what’s going on.’
‘Twitter’s on fire, as I’m sure you know.’
‘We’re monitoring it for intel.’
‘Well, it sounds as if you’ve got everything under control,’ said the deputy commissioner.
Kamran smiled to himself. He might well have given that impression, but it wasn’t exactly how he felt. Things were changing so quickly that he was close to losing any grip that he had on the situation. He felt like a juggler with too many balls in the air and more threatening to join them at any moment. One lapse of concentration and he might end up dropping them all. But that wasn’t something he could ever admit to the deputy commissioner, or to the men and women in the special operations room. ‘Yes, sir, we’re on top of it,’ he said.
MARYLEBONE HIGH STREET (11.52 a.m.)
Faisal Chaudhry sat and stared at the card in his hands, reading the typewritten words for the third time, unable to get his head around what he was being asked to do. Each time he thought about the consequences of the suicide vest going off he felt so light-headed he feared he would pass out.
He jumped as a hand fell on his shoulder. Shahid was behind him. ‘It is time,’ he said.
‘Brother, this is a mistake,’ said Chaudhry.
‘Just do as you’re told and everything will be all right,’ said Shahid.
‘Brother, I am in Al-Qaeda. I am one of the chosen ones. I have been trained in Pakistan. I was trained in explosives and guns and everything. I’m one of you, brother. I want to kill the infidel, too. But not like this, brother. This is not what I was trained for. I’m a jihadist. I’m a fighter. Give me a gun, give me a knife, and I’ll kill with a happy heart. But I can’t blow myself up, brother. I can’t.’
‘This is how you will best serve Allah, brother,’ said Shahid, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Follow your instructions and six of our brothers will be released. You will leave the country with them and your actions will be a beacon for jihadists all over the world. Now, go and serve Allah.’
The fight went out of Chaudhry. He nodded.
Shahid opened the door. ‘Allahu Akbar.’
‘Allahu Akbar,’ mumbled Chaudhry, as he shuffled towards the door. He climbed out and the door slammed. He walked away and didn’t look back.
MARYLEBONE (11.55 a.m.)
The midday rush wasn’t far away, thought Kenny Watts, as he looked at the wall-mounted clock. Once it started he’d be rushed off his feet so he figured he had better pop out for a cigarette now rather than try to grab a break later. He caught Bonnie’s eye and gestured at the door. ‘Just popping out for a fag,’ he said.
‘Have one for me,’ she said, bending down to fill the glass-washer. Two men in suits came up to the bar, one waving a twenty-pound note. ‘Get them first, will you?’ she asked.
‘Sure,’ said Kenny, thrusting his pack of cigarettes back into his back pocket. ‘What can I get you, gents?’
‘Two pints of Speckled Hen,’ said the guy with the money. ‘Straight glasses.’
Kenny was pulling the second pint when another customer came in. He grimaced, wondering if he’d lost the opportunity for a smoke. It was an Asian wearing a long coat. He had a straggly beard and a hooked nose and looked for all the world like the Kalashnikov-toting nutters he kept seeing on the evening news. The man came up to the bar and stared at his reflection in the mirrored gantry.
Kenny finished pouring the second pint, took the money and gave the man his change. He put his hands on the bar and nodded at the new arrival. ‘What can I get you?’ he asked.
The man turned slowly to look at him, a slight frown on his face.
‘What can I get you?’ Kenny repeated.
The man’s right hand shot out and grabbed Kenny’s arm. Kenny pulled back but the man’s other hand appeared and clamped a handcuff around his wrist. ‘What are you doing?’ shouted Kenny. He pulled back and the chain linked to the man’s left wrist tightened. The man yanked it and the metal bit into Kenny’s flesh, making him grunt in pain. The two men Kenny had just served were watching what was going on, their pints forgotten. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ shouted Kenny.
Bonnie stared in horror at the Asian man as he used his right hand to unbutton his coat and reveal that he was wearing an explosive-packed suicide vest.
‘Allahu Akbar!’ shouted the man, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a metal trigger and held it above his head. ‘Everyone do exactly as I say or we all die!’
WELLINGTON BARRACKS (12.02 p.m.)
The Chinook did a slow circle two hundred feet above Wellington Barracks, then slowly descended to make a textbook landing in the centre of the parade ground. The twin rotors continued to whir as the back ramp lowered and eight SAS troopers came out, toting black kitbags.
Major Haydyn Williams was standing at the edge of Tarmac Square, a line of four black SUVs behind him. The men jogged over and formed a line in front of him, then dropped their bags beside them. All eight were part of the SAS’s special projects team, specialising in anti-hijacking and counter-terrorism.
‘For those of you who haven’t been watching the news, there’s been a spate of hostage-taking incidents across London this morning,’ said Williams, who had lost most, but not all, of his Welsh accent during his eight-year stint with the SAS. ‘The hostage-takers appear to be linked to ISIS and are wearing suicide vests. In each case the terrorist has handcuffed himself to a member of the public. It’s a delicate situation, to put it mildly.’