First Response (29 page)

He got her to the coach door, then went up the stairs backwards so that he could lead her up. She kept her head down as she sobbed.

‘Come on, we haven’t got all day,’ snapped the driver.

Hussain stared at him with dead eyes. ‘You need to stay quiet,’ he said. ‘She’s not well.’

The driver gazed back at him, then nodded slowly. ‘Okay. But we’re on a tight deadline. Please try to hurry her along.’

Hussain put his left hand out and she took it. He led her down the coach. There were two Asian men wearing suicide vests, one sitting next to a young woman, the other beside a robed priest.

Hussain sat down behind the man next to the priest and smiled up at Rebecca. ‘Please sit down,’ he said.

She sniffed and did as he asked. The priest twisted around in his seat and offered her a red handkerchief. She took it, thanked him, and dabbed at her eyes.

Hussain saw the driver watching him in the rear-view mirror. Hussain nodded and the driver nodded back. The door closed and the coach lurched forward.

‘What just happened there?’ asked Gillard, who was watching the screen showing the Sky News feed from the news crew outside the Fulham post office. The coach was pulling away, flanked by police motorcyclists.

‘It looked like the hostage was freaking out,’ said Kamran. ‘Hardly surprising, considering the stress she’s under.’

The Sky News feed was replaced by an overhead view from one of the Met’s helicopters showing the police van en route to Biggin Hill.

‘I just hope everyone stays calm,’ said Gillard. ‘At least until we get them to the airport.’

‘Sir, we have a feed from the hangar now,’ Lumley called, from the Gold Command suite. ‘It’s only black and white and there’s no sound but the picture’s clear.’

Kamran and Gillard walked back to the sergeant’s station. The feed was on his left-hand screen. The camera had been put up near the roof and was looking down at the centre of the hangar, focused on a coach that was a match to the one that was picking up the bombers and their hostages. ‘Make sure we have everything recorded, in duplicate, if possible,’ said Gillard. Murray appeared at the door to the suite and Gillard waved him over. ‘You might like to see this, Alex,’ he said. ‘Your guys are rehearsing taking the coach.’

As the captain joined them, three SAS troopers ran up to the front of the vehicle and two approached the rear. Unlike the coach that was being used to collect the bombers and the hostages, the windows were clear and they could see a single figure sitting in the driver’s seat.

‘That’s Jim Hawkins,’ said Murray. ‘He’s a sergeant.’

The two men at the rear of the coach had the door open and they charged inside, holding handguns. At the exact moment they entered the coach, the first of the three troopers at the front launched himself up the stairs. The driver stood up, twisted and aimed a gun down the coach. Almost immediately the second and third troopers piled in. They were all waving handguns. Then they stopped. Murray was frowning. ‘Two and a half seconds,’ he said. ‘It’s good but it’s not good enough.’

The troopers filed out of the coach. The two at the back closed the door, then moved out of view. Sergeant Hawkins sat down again.

‘Do you think it’s doable?’ asked Kamran. ‘Can they shoot all the bombers quickly enough?’

Murray screwed up his face. ‘Hand on heart, I don’t see how it’s possible,’ he said. ‘You have to take out all nine before any of them has time to press the trigger.’

‘What about snipers shooting through the windows?’

‘When they’re blacked out? They’d be guessing. And if they missed they’d risk hitting the hostages.’

‘Is there anything else we can do?’ asked Kamran.

‘You can hope they just surrender,’ said Murray. ‘Because if we have to storm the coach …’ He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.

‘What about those night-vision goggles you guys sometimes use?’ asked Waterman. ‘Wouldn’t they work?’

Murray shook his head. ‘The passive ones wouldn’t see through the blacked-out windows, and the infrared type wouldn’t work because glass is very effective at blocking infrared. Why? What were you thinking?’

‘Shooting through the windows, maybe. If you could see where everyone was you could shoot through the glass.’

‘It wouldn’t work,’ said the SAS captain. ‘Our only way in is through the two doors, unfortunately. Hopefully the lads can shave some more time off it.’

Gillard focused on the screen showing the feed from the helicopter. The van had almost reached the main gates of Biggin Hill airport.

‘Sergeant Lumley, can you get the TV news feeds up on screens? Let’s see what Shahid can see.’

Within seconds two screens on the main wall began showing feeds from Sky News and BBC News. Sky was showing a view from its own helicopter, at an angle because they had been forbidden to enter Biggin Hill airspace. The BBC was showing a shot of the road outside the prison. The flashing blue lights of the motorcycles leading the way were visible in the distance. Across the bottom of the BBC screen was a scrolling headline: ‘FREED ISIS PRISONERS ARRIVING AT BIGGIN HILL AIRPORT.’

‘Strictly speaking, they haven’t been freed,’ said Kamran. ‘Just moved.’

‘Hopefully, it’ll satisfy Shahid,’ said Gillard. ‘I really don’t want them out of the van, even under armed guard.’

The picture being transmitted by Sky changed to show a view similar to the BBC’s. Six motorcyclists flashed by, then a police armed-response vehicle, the prison transport van, another ARV and more motorcycles. Bringing up the rear were two black SUVs with darkened windows. ‘Please tell me they’re your men, Alex,’ Kamran said.

Murray laughed. ‘Yeah, they’re Sass.’

The convoy drove straight into the airport and a pole barrier came down behind them.

Both TV feeds now had reporters talking to the camera, explaining what had just happened.

Kamran glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘We made it with half an hour to spare. How are we getting on with the pick-ups?’ he asked Lumley.

‘Three on board,’ said the sergeant. ‘En route to Kensington to collect number four.’

The Sky News presenter with too much make-up was talking to a grey-haired man in a suit who was some sort of terrorism expert. He was trying to explain what ISIS was and what they wanted, but the woman kept interrupting him. ‘Let him talk, woman,’ muttered Chaudhry, under his breath.

‘She likes the sound of her own voice, doesn’t she?’ said Kenny.

‘She probably only got the job because she’s Asian,’ said Chaudhry, contemptuously.

Kenny laughed. ‘Funny thing to say, you being Asian and all.’

‘Hey, mate, I’ve had to fight for everything I’ve done. No one ever gave me a break because I’m a Pak.’

‘Is it okay to say that?’ asked Kenny.

‘Pak? Hell, yeah. Paki’s an insult, but I’m a Pak and proud of it.’

‘But you were born here, right?’

‘Sure. So was my mum. My dad is the only one who lived in Pakistan.’

‘So you’re British, right?’

‘Same as you.’

‘So why do this?’ He nodded at the suicide vest. ‘I mean, that’s a bit fucking extreme, isn’t it?’

‘It wasn’t my idea, believe me,’ said Chaudhry.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing. Forget it.’

‘But you’re ISIS, right?’

‘ISIS? Fuck, no. They’re nutters, ISIS. Have you seen those videos? They’re fucking animals.’

‘Now I’m confused.’

‘Yeah, tell me about it,’ said Chaudhry. ‘I’m a supporter of Al-Qaeda. Have been since the invasion of Iraq and all the shit that went on there. You can’t be a Muslim in the world today and not feel threatened.’

‘That’s how you feel?’

‘Fuck me, yeah. You can see what the Americans want, right? They want every Muslim dead. We have to stand and fight.’

‘But what you’re doing is about ISIS, right? And you’ve won.’ He gestured at the TV. ‘You got them released and now they’re picking up you guys to take you to the airport.’

‘That’s the plan, yes.’ He took a sip from his bottle of water. ‘You seem very calm, Kenny.’

‘I smoked some dope before I started my shift. That’s probably helped. But generally, you know, if it happens, it happens. I’m not a worrier.’

‘Easy not to worry when you’re white,’ said Chaudhry.

‘Mate, I’ve not had it easy either. Don’t go thinking that. My mum ran off with my uncle when I was still in nappies and my dad brought up three boys on his own. I went to a shit school and managed one year at uni before I bailed, and now I’m working in a pub for minimum wage. I’m not exactly living the life, you know.’ He raised his almost-empty glass. ‘But, assuming I get through this in one piece, I should be able to sell my story to the papers, right?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Chaudhry.

‘Aye, it’s an ill wind,’ said Kenny.

‘What the fuck does that mean?’

‘It’s an expression. It’s an ill wind that blows no good. It means most things work out well for somebody.’

‘Yeah, well, I don’t see that anything that’s happened today helps me at all. It fucks me up, big-time.’

‘What happens to you?’ asked Kenny. ‘You’ll be on the plane with the ISIS lads, right?’

‘Fuck that,’ said Chaudhry. ‘I live here. I’m not fucking off to Syria for nobody. Have you been there? It’s a shit-hole.’

‘Have you? Been there?’

Chaudhry shook his head. ‘I’ve been to Pakistan, and I was over the border in Afghanistan, but trust me, mate, they’re shit-holes too. You want to stay well clear.’

‘But you’ll have to leave the UK after this, right? I mean, you’ve won, but they’re never going to forgive you.’

The TV was showing a shot of a coach with blackened windows driving through Kensington. ‘Kenny, mate, will you shut the fuck up? You’re really starting to depress me.’

‘What the hell is wrong with those people?’ asked Kamran, staring up at the large screen that was showing the Sky News feed. The pavements were crowded with people filming the coach on their phones as it went by. ‘Don’t they realise there are bombs on that coach? If it goes up there’ll be shrapnel and broken glass everywhere.’

‘We’ve told people to stay away but they’re just not listening,’ said Gillard. ‘And we don’t have the manpower to clear the pavements.’

‘This could be Shahid’s plan, right from the start,’ Kamran mused. ‘Get all the bombs on the coach, then detonate among the crowds. Even if it went off now, with just three bombs on board, they’d kill and maim dozens. By the time the last bomber is on there’ll be nine, and if that went up in south London …’ He shuddered.

‘You’re right, Mo,’ said Gillard. ‘We need to make sure that doesn’t happen.’ He waved at Sergeant Lumley. ‘We need to clear the streets on the route,’ he said. ‘Get as many police as you can out there and move everyone off the pavements. And I mean everyone.’

‘I’m on it, sir.’

‘The roads to the airport are going to have to be cleared,’ said Gillard.

‘It’s not the roads that are the problem,’ said Kamran. ‘It’s the pavements. The gawkers. The idiots who want a selfie as the coach goes by. Can you talk to Lisa? She needs to make sure the media are pumping out warnings. People need to understand just what will happen if those bombs go off on the coach.’

Kamran picked up his phone and dialled the press officer’s mobile. It went straight through to voicemail so he left a message. As he was talking, he looked up at the clock. It was twenty-five to six. He put the phone down and went over to Gillard. ‘You know, the bombers will pretty much all be on board at six,’ he said. ‘If Shahid has been planning a spectacular all along, that would be the time to do it.’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘I don’t know, but as the clock hits six we want as few people near that coach as possible.’

‘I’m hungry,’ said Sally. ‘I haven’t eaten since this morning. Nobody has.’ She was sitting with her back to the wall, her legs drawn up to her chest. Osman was standing next to her, his left hand at his side to keep the tension off the chain that linked them.

‘There’s nothing I can do about that, madam,’ said Osman. ‘I’m hungry too. I haven’t had food since last night.’

‘There’s stuff in the kitchen. We give the children lunch so there are sandwiches and fruit.’

‘Everyone has to stay here,’ said Osman.

Sally pointed with her left hand. ‘That’s the kitchen there. Just open the door and there’s food.’

Osman’s stomach growled. He looked at the five hostages sitting by the wall at the far end of the room. ‘Is everyone hungry?’

They all nodded. ‘I’d like a drink,’ said a middle-aged woman. ‘I have to take my cholesterol tablets and I need water for that.’

‘You can stand up and go into the kitchen,’ Osman said to her. ‘Leave the door open and stay where I can see you. Bring out some food and water.’ The woman pushed herself up and went to the door. As she reached for the handle, the mobile phone buzzed in Osman’s waistpack. ‘Wait!’ shouted Osman. She froze. He used his left hand to take out the phone and put it to his ear.

‘We have won, brother,’ said Shahid. ‘The ISIS prisoners are being taken to the airport as we speak.’

‘It’s over?’ asked Osman. He grinned, bobbing up and down excitedly.

‘Almost, brother. A coach is pulling up outside. You are to take your hostage out with you. It will take you to the airport.’

‘I don’t want to go to the airport,’ said Osman. ‘I want to go home.’

‘Once the prisoners are on the plane, you can go home,’ said Shahid. ‘Go outside now. Speak to no one. Just get onto the coach.’

Osman opened his mouth to say something but the line went dead. He fumbled the phone back into the waistpack. ‘We are to go outside,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘You and I.’

‘You’re letting us go?’ asked Sally.

‘Not yet,’ said Osman. ‘We have to get on a coach.’

‘A coach? Why?’

‘We have to go to the airport.’

She frowned. ‘Why?’

‘We just do.’ He gestured at the door. ‘Come on, please, madam. We have to go.’

‘I don’t want to. You go. You’ve got what you wanted. You don’t need me any more.’