First Response (15 page)

‘I need to talk to him.’

‘No can do, I’m afraid. No one is allowed within fifty feet of the bus.’

‘I need to know why he’s there.’

‘I understand that, but I’m in charge here and if anything were to happen to you it would be down to me.’

‘He’s my man.’

‘And this is my crime scene and the SOP is quite clear. I have to keep everyone well away from the immediate danger, and at the moment that immediate danger is the bus. If he detonates, there’ll be glass and shrapnel spraying all over the square. If anyone gets caught in the blast that will be my responsibility.’

‘So how do you plan to set up lines of communication with him?’

‘We’re waiting for the Bomb Squad,’ said McNeil. ‘Once we have someone with the appropriate protective gear we can see about getting a landline over.’

Biddulph sighed, knowing that the Silver Commander was right. But what was happening made no sense, no sense at all. And the only way of answering the riddle of why Kash was on the bus was to speak to the man himself.

Sergeant Lumley put his hand over the phone he was holding. ‘Sir, you might want to take this. Guy on the line says he wants to talk to the man in charge about the demands of the suicide bombers.’

‘Are you sure he’s not a crank?’ asked Kamran. ‘They’ll all be coming out of the woodwork today.’

‘He seems to know what he’s talking about. Design of the vests, location of the bombers.’

‘Anyone who’s watching Sky would know most of the details,’ said Kamran.

‘He sounds like the genuine article, sir.’

Kamran wrinkled his nose, then took the phone from the sergeant. ‘Who is this?’ he said.

‘My name is Shahid – at least that’s what you can call me. You are?’

‘Superintendent Kamran.’

‘And you are the Gold Commander?’

‘Yes. For now. I’m expecting a more senior officer at any moment.’

‘But you’re the acting Gold Commander?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you are my point of contact from now on. I’ll talk to you and no one else. Do you understand?’

‘I’m not the best person for that. I’m not a trained negotiator.’

‘You’re my point of contact. I won’t be talking to anyone else in future. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Kamran.

‘Good. Now what’s your first name?’

‘Mo.’

‘Mo is short for Maurice?’

‘Mohammed.’

There was a silence for several seconds. ‘You are fucking shitting me?’

‘That’s my name. Mohammed Kamran. Superintendent Mohammed Kamran.’

‘You’re a Muslim?’

‘Very few non-Muslim boys get to be called Mohammed.’

‘Don’t fuck around, Mo. Are you a Muslim or not?’

‘Yes. I am.’

‘A good Muslim?’

‘I try to be.’

‘You pray five times a day, you plan to visit Mecca one day, you give ten per cent of your earnings to charity?’

‘Like I said, I try to be a good Muslim. I do the best I can.’

‘And they fast-tracked you, did they? Because you’re Asian and a Muslim?’

‘I wish,’ said Kamran. ‘I walked a beat for five years and drove around in a Territorial Support Group van as a sergeant for three. I’ve been lucky, but I didn’t get preferential treatment. I worked for my rank. Why? Do you have a problem with Muslim police officers, Shahid?’ Lumley was grinning and giving him a thumbs-up.

‘I just think it’s one hell of a coincidence that you’re in charge, on today of all days.’

‘I’ve had experience in policing major events,’ said Kamran. ‘But, as I said, a more senior officer will be taking over shortly.’

‘No, you tell everyone that I’m only talking to you from now on. You’re my point of contact and only you. Make that clear to one and all, right, Mo?’

‘If that’s what you want, Shahid. You’re the one calling the shots.’

‘Then we’re on the same wavelength, Mo. You and me, we’re going to get along just fine, I can tell.’

Sergeant Lumley stood up and punched the air. He picked up a phone and started talking animatedly.

‘So what is it you want, Shahid?’ asked Kamran, keeping his voice as calm as he could. By the look of it the sergeant had managed to trace the call.

‘What I want is the six brothers released from Belmarsh. Can you handle that, Mo?’

‘How do I know you have any connection to the incidents?’ said Kamran.

‘One of them is in a childcare centre in Kensington,’ said Shahid.

‘That’s been on television,’ said Kamran. ‘Everyone knows that.’

‘I will arrange for the children to be released,’ said Shahid. ‘Our quarrel is not with innocents. I shall arrange for their release, then call you back. But I need a direct line for you, Mo. From this point on I will talk with you and no one else.’

Kamran started to give him a landline number but Shahid cut him short. ‘Your mobile, Mo. Your personal mobile. It’s that or nothing.’

Kamran gave him the number of his mobile. Shahid repeated it once, then cut the connection.

Lumley put down the phone. ‘We’ve got a location,’ he said. ‘Brixton. There are two ARVs en route as we speak. Well done on keeping him talking as long as you did.’

‘It wasn’t down to me,’ said Kamran. ‘I couldn’t shut him up.’

‘Well, we’ve got him now, that’s the important thing.’

Mohamed Osman flinched as the mobile phone in his waistpack buzzed. He was sweating and wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. The phone buzzed again. The girl was standing as far away from him as she could and the chain linking them was taut. He had to step towards her to reach into the waistpack but as soon as he moved she backed away from him. He tried to smile. ‘I have to answer the phone,’ he said.

‘What phone?’

‘In my pack. Someone is calling me. I have to use my left hand.’ He held up his right hand and showed her the trigger. ‘I have to keep hold of this. You understand?’

The girl nodded fearfully. Osman took a step towards her and this time she didn’t move. He unzipped the pack and took out the phone. He pressed the green button to accept the call and put it to his ear.

‘Are you well, brother?’ It was Shahid.

‘I just want to go home,’ said Osman. ‘What we’re doing is wrong.’

‘You are part of jihad, brother, you should be proud. Now, listen to me and listen carefully. You are to release the children. But only the children. You are to take the children to the door and allow them to leave, in single file. If you allow even one of the adults to escape, I will detonate the vest. Do you understand?’

‘Please, this isn’t fair. I shouldn’t be here. I’m a good Muslim. I have a mother and a father and they need me. They depend on my money. I should be at work today. This isn’t—’

‘Brother, if you carry on like this I will detonate the vest. Is that what you want?’

‘No!’ said Osman.

‘Then do as I say. Let the children go. But the adults must stay. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then do as you are told, brother, and know that you are serving Allah the best you can.’ The line went dead. Osman put the phone away and zipped up the waistpack with a trembling hand. He tried to smile at the girl. ‘What is your name, madam?’ he asked.

‘Sally,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Sally Jones.’

He forced a smile, trying to put her at ease. ‘Sally, you have to help me,’ he said. ‘We are going to let the children go.’

‘Really?’

He nodded. ‘Can you gather them all together? And then we will take them to the door. The police will be outside to meet them.’

‘What about me?’

‘The adults have to stay inside.’

‘Why can’t you let us all go?’

‘I can’t. But the children can go.’

‘Are you going to kill us?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Osman. ‘Not if we all do as we’re told. Now gather them together.’

Sally closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them. ‘Right, children, listen to me,’ she said. ‘It’s time to go outside so I want you all to stand up and hold hands. We’re going to go for a walk.’

‘What’s happening?’ asked Laura.

‘He’s letting the children go,’ said Sally.

‘What about us?’

‘We have to stay.’

Laura was close to tears.

‘Madam, the children can go now,’ said Osman. ‘If the prisoners are released, you will be able to go, too. Now, please, get the children organised.’

The children were standing up and looking around, confused.

‘Children, I want you all to hold hands in a long line,’ shouted Sally. ‘Hold hands with the friend next to you.’

‘What about us?’ Laura said to Osman. ‘You should let us all go.’

‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘If any adults leave, the vest I am wearing will explode.’

‘This isn’t fair,’ said Laura.

‘I know, madam. I am sorry. But, please believe me, if any of the adults try to leave, the bomb I am wearing will explode and everybody will die.’

‘Just because you want your friends released from prison?’

‘They are not my friends, madam. Now, please, get the children ready.’

Some of the children had split into twos. ‘No, children, form a line,’ shouted Sally. ‘Hold hands with the friends either side so we make a long line, like a snake.’

Laura went over to help the children. Several had realised that something was wrong and had been crying.

‘It’s all right, children!’ shouted Sally. ‘Your mummies and daddies are outside.’ She realised what Max Dunbar was about to do and she yelled at him, ‘Max, I swear to God, if you bite Henrietta I’ll slap you into the middle of next week.’

The boy’s jaw dropped and he stared at her in astonishment.

‘I’m serious, Max. You do as you’re bloody well told for once in your life!’

Ben Peyton gripped the handle above his head to steady himself as the tyres of the BMW X5 screeched against the tarmac and the vehicle swung to the left. He would have preferred to be driving but he was SAS and a guest of the Met so he had to sit in the back, grin and bear it. There were two armed officers in the car and so far they seemed decent enough guys, though both admitted to never having fired a shot in anger. Even their range time was minimal compared with what passed for normal in the SAS. Peyton couldn’t even begin to count the number of rounds he fired during training in an average year. Twenty thousand? Thirty thousand? It would be several hundred rounds each training session, and when he wasn’t on active duty he’d often train twice a day. The cops trained but they tended to do it without actually pulling the trigger, which, to be fair, was the way they went about their work on the streets. The whole point of the Met’s armed police seemed to be geared towards
not
firing a shot. If shots were fired and anyone was hit, the officer was immediately suspended pending an investigation, which, more often than not, seemed to assume that the officer was guilty of a crime.

It was a set-up that Peyton found difficult to understand. In the SAS he was trained to kill, then sent out to do just that. In fact, he would be doing a crap job if he didn’t kill people. He had killed a fair number during the ten years he’d been in the SAS, and he could remember every single one. But the guys he was riding with had never killed, never wounded, and in all likelihood they never would. There were two of them. Phil Hall was a sergeant, thirty-something, as bald as a cue ball but with a spreading moustache. Hall was in the front passenger seat, handling the comms and the satnav. The driver was Tom McGuirk, a few years older than Hall but still a constable, albeit one with more than ten years’ experience. Both men were dressed in black fireproof coveralls. They had put on their bulletproof vests and Kevlar helmets before getting into the SUV.

Peyton was wearing jeans and a black denim jacket. He had a Glock in a nylon holster on his hip and the cops had lent him a flak jacket and a helmet.

‘The phone’s in Wiltshire Road, next to Max Roach Park,’ said Hall. ‘We’re assuming it’s in a vehicle. We’re coming in from the north. Trojan Two Five One is approaching from the south. We’re going straight in. We don’t have time to fuck about. Ben, get the guns ready, will you?’

Peyton unhitched two SIG Sauer 516 assault rifles from their rack. He left the third where it was. He preferred to stick with his Glock because it was clearly going to be up close and personal.

‘Two minutes,’ said Hall.

They weren’t using lights or sirens but it was a marked car so McGuirk had no problem cutting through the traffic and they had been lucky with the lights. A woman with a pram was getting ready to use a zebra crossing but McGuirk flashed his lights and beeped his horn to let her know he wasn’t stopping. From the look on her face she was cursing him something rotten and McGuirk mouthed, ‘Sorry,’ but kept going.

‘One minute,’ said Hall.

Peyton had the rifles on his lap. Hall took a quick look over his shoulder. ‘Okay?’ he asked Peyton.

Peyton nodded. ‘Good to go.’

‘We’re going in hot, there’s every chance he’ll have explosives.’

‘Understood,’ said Peyton.

‘Not quite the same as Afghanistan,’ said Hall.

‘Not as much sand here,’ said Peyton.

McGuirk took a quick left, the tyres screeching.

‘Almost there,’ said Hall.

The SUV turned right. There was only one vehicle parked in the road by the park – a white van. Hall was already on the radio, reading out the registration number as McGuirk brought the car to a halt. Hall put his hand up to his earpiece, then nodded. ‘That’s the van that dropped the bomber at the Camberwell location.’

The second ARV came around the corner ahead of the white van and stopped with a squeal of brakes.

Peyton was out of the SUV first and handed the rifles to Hall and McGuirk before pulling his Glock from its holster. He followed the two cops as they headed towards the van, shuffling forward with their rifles shouldered. He kept to the right, making sure that neither of his companions crossed his line of fire.

Three armed cops fanned out of the ARV ahead of the van, guns at the ready.

‘Phil, maybe move to the left a tad,’ said Peyton.

Hall and McGuirk crossed the road to the pavement, taking themselves out of the other group’s field of fire. Peyton followed them.