First Response (21 page)

‘So another cleanskin?’ said Kamran.

‘Yes, but he is known to the police. He was arrested two years ago after a long-running investigation into an underage sex ring in Tower Hamlets. A dozen or so Asian men were grooming underage white girls, getting them hooked on drugs and alcohol before having sex with them.’

‘So why isn’t Mr Pasha inside?’

‘That’s a very good question,’ said the MI5 officer. ‘And one that the
Sunday Times
investigation team was asking a year or so ago.’

‘I remember this,’ said Kamran. ‘Didn’t they accuse the CPS of having a mole or something?’

‘Or something,’ Waterman said. ‘The journalists didn’t come up with a name but they alleged that all the evidence pointed to someone within the CPS tipping the gang off. The initial investigation involved three girls, but as soon as the CPS was given the file one of the girls vanished and the other two had a sudden change of heart, which may or may not have had something to do with the fact that one family had an arson attack on their home and the other found their pet cat gutted outside their front door. The detectives kept on the case and came up with two more girls, one of whom had contracted HIV. The files went to the CPS and, again, the families of the girls were threatened. Actually, worse than threatened. Someone threw bleach into the face of the mother of one of the girls, almost blinding her. Again they refused to give evidence.’

‘It does seem pretty conclusive that someone within the CPS was passing information to the gang,’ said Kamran.

‘No argument there,’ said Waterman. ‘But it all got very racially charged, as you can imagine. There are a fair number of CPS staffers who are of Pakistani heritage and all sorts of allegations got thrown about. Several lawyers started alleging racism and the Met had to back off. A few of the CPS people took the paper to the Press Council but they found in favour of the journalists. At the end of the day the investigation was allowed to wither on the vine, as it were.’

‘So the big question is, how does a child molester end up holding an MP hostage with a waistcoat full of explosives?’ said Gillard.

‘And you might very well ask the same question of Mohammed Tariq Masood, the man in the restaurant in Southwark,’ said Waterman, turning her attention to the centre screen on her desk. There were another two photographs there. One was a CCTV shot of a bearded Asian man walking along the pavement, the other a police mugshot. ‘He’s another cleanskin. No terrorist involvement, isn’t a regular at a mosque and actually applied to join the army when he was eighteen. He was turned down on medical grounds. He had a detached retina, which was fixed when he was twelve but that’s a barrier to joining the forces. He got a job in the family business, importing rugs and textiles, and was a model citizen until last year. He was in a car with three Asian friends and they got into an argument with a couple of Romanian women in west London. The women were gypsies selling the
Big Issue
, words were exchanged and the four guys beat the women senseless. They were arrested and charged and they’re due in court next month. The case has taken time because after they left hospital the women went back to Romania. But they’ve been interviewed and will come back to give evidence.’

‘So yet again no terrorist involvement. But known to the police.’ Gillard rubbed the back of his neck ‘What the hell is going on here?’

‘They’re cleanskins, but they’re not innocents,’ said Kamran. ‘Is that what’s happening? Someone has recruited them because they’re not on MI5’s radar?’

‘It’s possible,’ said Waterman. ‘But how do you persuade someone with no history of fundamentalism to become a suicide bomber?’

El-Sayed’s heart was pounding. His head was moving constantly, his attention switching between the television on the wall and the pack around the man’s waist. According to Al Jazeera there were now nine suicide bombers spread around London. Most of the attention seemed to be devoted to a bus in Tavistock Square and an MP who was being held hostage in Camberwell. There was the occasional shot of the coffee shop but there wasn’t much to be seen now that the windows had been covered with newspaper. From the little El-Sayed did see, the street had been closed off and the only people moving around were armed police officers. They had shown the ISIS propaganda video twice, so at least now El-Sayed had some idea of who Shahid was. Asian, for sure, probably London born, like many of the fighters he had sent to Syria and Somalia.

He looked at his watch. It was worth more than fifty thousand pounds but he would happily have given away a hundred of them to get his son released. He could always make money, he could always replace things, but he had only one son.

The phone buzzed in the man’s waistpack and El-Sayed flinched. The man fumbled for the phone, answered it, then handed the phone to El-Sayed. ‘You are a man of your word,’ said Shahid.

‘That is how
hawala
works,’ said El-Sayed. ‘Your word means everything. All transfers are done on trust.’

‘We have the money. We thank you for that.’

‘And you will release my son?’

‘Like you, we keep our word. But my man will need a hostage. You must find someone there to take his place.’

‘And when that is done, my son can leave?’

‘No one can leave until it is over,’ said Shahid. ‘But I will tell my man to allow you and him to go upstairs, out of the way. You can both stay there.’

‘I appreciate this, my brother. You have done a good thing today.’

‘I will have done a good thing when the brothers are released from Belmarsh,’ said Shahid. ‘
Inshallah
. Now pass the phone back to my man.’

El-Sayed did as he was told and reached over to pat his son’s arm. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ he said. ‘You are to be freed.’ He looked at a group of four men sitting at a nearby table, staring up at the television screen. A senior uniformed police officer was being interviewed by a reporter, saying that negotiations were continuing. El-Sayed suspected that was a lie. No one had even tried to negotiate with the man who was chained to his son.

‘My friends,’ El-Sayed said to the men, ‘I have a favour to ask of you. Is there one of you who would be willing to help me in my time of need? For a price, of course?’

Kamran’s mobile phone rang. He hurried over to his desk and checked the screen. It was showing number withheld. ‘I think this is him,’ he said to Gillard.

The chief superintendent went over to Chris Thatcher’s workstation. Thatcher had run a wire from the earphone socket of Kamran’s phone to a grey metal box with a line of small lights on the top and sockets on the side, from which ran leads to four sets of headphones. Thatcher had already put on one set and Gillard, Waterman and Murray followed his example. The grey box contained a hard drive that would record both sides of the conversation, and the headsets would allow them to listen in without Shahid knowing.

‘Remember, take it slowly,’ said Thatcher. ‘There’s always a tendency to rush. Big breaths every time you speak.’ He had a small whiteboard in front of him and a black marker so that he could write messages for Kamran if necessary.

Kamran looked at Sergeant Lumley, who was already working to trace the incoming call. Lumley flashed him a thumbs-up and Kamran pressed the green button to accept the call. ‘Superintendent Kamran,’ he said.

‘You took your time, Mo,’ said Shahid. ‘Are you trying to make me sweat?’

Kamran took a breath and exhaled. ‘It’s hectic here, Shahid, as you can imagine. And you’re the one who’s been keeping us waiting. It’s more than an hour and a half since we last spoke. The ball’s in your court. Has been from the start.’

‘I’ve got a lot on my plate too,’ said Shahid. ‘Time is running out, Mo. Just a little over two hours to go.’

‘I know, I know. You need to give us more time. There’s a lot to arrange.’

‘Are the prisoners being prepared for release?’

‘It’s under consideration.’

Thatcher held up his whiteboard. He’d written two words in block capitals. DON’T LIE.

‘By who?’

‘The prime minister. He’s discussing it with the Joint Intelligence Committee as we speak.’

‘He does realise that the clock is ticking? If those six men are not released by six p.m., all the brothers will detonate their bombs.’

‘He understands that, Shahid. We all do.’

‘Then you need to hurry him up, Mo. Or you’ll have blood on your hands. A lot of blood.’

‘Once the prisoners have been released, what then?’ asked Kamran.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What happens to your people? With the bombs?’

‘They are to be taken to the airport, of course. I told you that last time. They are to fly out with the brothers from Belmarsh.’

‘You want me to arrange that?’

‘No, they can call cabs. Are you fucking with me, Mo? Of course you need to arrange that.’

Thatcher held up his board again. SLOW DOWN. BREATHE.

Kamran realised he had speeded up and took a deep breath.

‘Did you hear me, Mo?’

‘Yes, I heard you. I’ll arrange it. But, Shahid, we need a gesture of good faith from you.’

‘I have already released the children. You can take the credit for that. You don’t need more.’

‘It’s not about taking credit, Shahid. As you said, this isn’t about hurting innocents. And there are children on the bus. A baby and two schoolchildren. Can you let them off?’

‘Are you fucking with me, Mo?’

‘I just want the children out of there. Men don’t kill children, Shahid. You know that.’

‘When the prime minister announces that the brothers are being released, I will release the children on the bus. But your time is running out, Mo. At six o’clock, my people will sacrifice themselves and their hostages.’

‘And there are two children at the shopping centre in Wandsworth. Two toddlers. Can you let them go, too?’

‘How do you know there are kids in there? The centre was evacuated.’

‘We sent in food for the kids. They were crying.’

‘You did what?’

‘The kids were crying, we sent in food …’ began Kamran, but Shahid had already cut the connection.

The man’s name was Mohammed. That was all El-Sayed knew, though, to be honest, he cared nothing for the man or what he was called. All El-Sayed cared about was that the man was prepared to take the place of his son. The agreed price had been a hundred thousand pounds, which El-Sayed had arranged for the man’s daughter to collect from a
hawala
agent in Shepherd’s Bush, and the watch, which was now on Mohammed’s wrist. The man was nervous, but committed. It hadn’t taken much convincing to persuade Mohammed to take Hassan’s place – he was clearly in need of money and, as El-Sayed had explained, if the suicide vest were to go up then it wouldn’t matter if he was sitting at the next table or was chained to the bomber: the result would be the same. ‘At least by helping me, you will be helping your family. I truly believe that this situation will be resolved without bloodshed, but if not …’ El-Sayed had shrugged. ‘Well, at least you will have provided for your family.’

Mohammed had originally asked for a million pounds but had settled for a hundred thousand and the watch. He stared at the glittering gold and diamond timepiece on his wrist as the man unlocked the handcuff that was attaching him to Hassan. Hassan scurried over to his father as if he was scared the man would have a change of heart. Mohammed held out his right hand, still staring at the watch on his left wrist, though he flinched as the handcuff snapped shut.

‘Thank you,’ El-Sayed said to Mohammed. Then he nodded at the man wearing the suicide vest. ‘And thank you for giving me back my son.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ said the man sourly. ‘This is nothing to do with me. Just go. Get the hell away from me.’

El-Sayed stood up. ‘This way,’ he said to his son, and ushered the boy up the stairs, which led to an office overlooking an alley at the back of the building. There was a desk and two metal filing cabinets, boxes of coffee and a couple of chairs.

‘Now what?’ asked Hassan.

‘Now we wait,’ said El-Sayed. ‘We wait for this to be over.’ He looked out of the window and saw two armed police crouched in the alley. They were dressed all in black with military-style helmets and bulletproof vests, and the guns they were holding looked like something that belonged in the hands of a soldier. One of them glanced up at the window and El-Sayed stepped back. He twisted his wrist to look at his watch, then smiled ruefully when he remembered he had given it to Mohammed. ‘What time is it?’ he asked his son.

‘Almost four,’ said Hassan. ‘Why?’

‘Because the deadline is six p.m. What happens then is the will of Allah. But at least you are safe, my son, and that is all that matters.’

Chris Thatcher took off his headphones. ‘Well, that was interesting,’ he said to Sergeant Lumley. ‘I’m thinking he ended the call before we could get any meaningful trace.’

‘He knows how long it takes to get a fix on a mobile.’

‘That’s not why he ended the call, though.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Gillard, taking off his headphones and putting them on the desk.

‘It threw him that we’d made contact with his man in Wandsworth. He didn’t know that had happened. Hardly surprising because there are no TV cameras in the shopping centre. You told him something he didn’t know and that unsettled him.’

He stood and began to pace slowly up and down as he gathered his thoughts. ‘You see, up until then he was totally in control. You could hear it in his voice. Some tension, yes, but not fear. He sounded like a man in control. We heard it all the time when we were dealing with the Somalian pirates. They know the score, they know that the ships are insured, so it’s almost as if they’re following a script. They play their part and we play ours. The money is handed over and the ship and the crew are released. The pirates would sound angry but it was an act. They knew how it would end. They were never scared because they knew that no one would be attacking them.’