First Response (31 page)

‘I hope so,’ said Kamran. He found himself holding his breath as the seconds ticked off. The second hand reached twelve, then ticked past. On the big screen, the coach continued to power along the road, flanked by police motorcycles, their blue lights flashing. Kamran sighed with relief.

‘Don’t relax yet, Mo,’ said the SAS captain. ‘The crunch is half an hour away, when Shahid realises his people aren’t getting on a plane. That’s when the shit is going to be heading fan-wards.’

The Asian Sky News presenter with too much make-up was describing the police van that was driving towards Biggin Hill airport at the centre of a convoy of police vehicles and motorcycles. She seemed to be struggling for words and was constantly correcting herself, so Chaudhry figured she wasn’t reading from a script.

‘What happens to us when the prisoners are at the airport?’ asked Kenny. ‘You let us go, right?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘What do you mean, you’re not sure?’ Kenny gestured at the TV screen. ‘It’s almost over. You got what you wanted.’

The picture changed on the TV screen. Now it was showing a white coach with blacked-out windows driving through the streets of London, flanked by police motorcycles. The pavements were thronged with onlookers, many of whom were holding up their mobile phones. The picture was from a helicopter flying overhead. According to the presenter, the coach was now heading east, presumably towards the Grapes.

‘It’s coming here, mate,’ said Kenny. ‘It’s coming to collect you.’

Chaudhry’s waistpack buzzed. He took out the phone and answered. It was Shahid.

‘The coach is on its way, brother,’ said Shahid. ‘As soon as it pulls up outside, leave with your hostage. The police have been told to stay well back. All you have to do is get on the coach.’

‘And when can I go home?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘Soon, brother, soon. Once the ISIS warriors are in the air.’

‘Do I have to go with them?’

‘You can decide that at the airport, brother. It will be your choice.’

‘I just want to go home.’

‘Then,
inshallah
, you shall.’

The line went dead and Chaudhry put the phone away.

‘Who was that?’ asked Kenny. ‘Was it the police?’

Chaudhry shook his head. ‘No. Not the police.’ He stood up and looked at the TV screen. The coach was driving down Marylebone Road, not far from the pub. All the traffic had been diverted but there was nothing the police could do to keep onlookers away. There were hundreds of people on the pavements, most of them filming on their phones. Other spectators were crowded at the windows overlooking the street, pointing and grinning as if it were a parade they were watching. ‘We need to get ready, Kenny.’

‘Can I ask you a favour?’

‘Sure.’

‘Can I take a selfie with you?’

Chaudhry’s jaw dropped. ‘Are you fucking serious?’

‘Mate, if the papers interview me they’ll pay a lot for a picture like that.’

Chaudhry sighed. ‘Go on, then.’

‘You’re a star, mate,’ said Kenny. He had to use his left hand to pull his mobile out of his back pocket. He put it in camera mode, leant his head close to Chaudhry’s and took a picture. He checked the screen. ‘You’re not smiling,’ he said.

‘Why would I be smiling?’

‘Because you won.’ He put the phone away. Kenny looked up at the TV screen. ‘Bloody hell, there’s the pub,’ he said.

Chaudhry followed his gaze. The coach had just pulled up in front of it. It was flanked by police motorcycles and there were two police cars behind it. ‘Time to go,’ he said. He turned to the rest of the hostages. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m happy to be able to tell you that it’s over. I’m leaving with Kenny here and the rest of you can go home.’

The hostages stared at him blankly, not sure how to react.

‘It’s over,’ Chaudhry repeated. ‘For you anyway.’ He stood up and Kenny followed suit. They walked to the main door and Chaudhry pushed it open. There were several armed police aiming their guns from across the road. Off to his left he saw more police cars, two ambulances and a fire engine.

‘Please board the coach right away!’ boomed an amplified voice. A uniformed officer was standing among the armed police with a megaphone. ‘Move straight to the coach.’

The door was already open. Chaudhry and Kenny walked towards it. Kenny grabbed his phone again and began taking photographs. ‘You are fucking mad, mate,’ said Chaudhry.

He walked up the steps, holding his left hand behind him and keeping his right hand up so that they could see the trigger.

‘Put that fucking camera away!’ shouted the driver, when he saw the phone in Kenny’s hand. Kenny did as he was told but the driver continued to glare at him.

Chaudhry looked down the coach. The windows had all been blacked out but there were small lights on near the roof. Six people were sitting on the left side behind the driver and four on the right. Most of the men wearing the suicide vests were in their twenties but one, sitting next to an elderly priest, was older, in his fifties maybe.

‘Sit down. We’ve got to be on our way,’ snapped the driver. He closed the door and revved the engine.

Chaudhry nodded for Kenny to sit by the window of the second row, in front of a young Asian man handcuffed to a pretty blonde girl. Kenny grinned at the girl. ‘How are you doing?’

She forced a smile. ‘As well as can be expected.’

‘I’m Kenny.’

‘Zoe.’

‘You got a boyfriend?’

‘Have you?’

Kenny laughed, but stopped when Chaudhry glared at him. ‘Mate, you need to focus,’ said Chaudhry. ‘This is no fucking joke.’ The coach moved off and Chaudhry took slow, deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart.

Imad El-Sayed and his son came down the stairs cautiously. El-Sayed pushed open the door to the coffee shop and flinched when he saw two armed officers with carbines held across their chests. When they saw him they shouldered their weapons and aimed at his chest. ‘Armed police, hands in the air!’ shouted one.

‘We are civilians!’ shouted El-Sayed, throwing up his hands. ‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Hassan, put up your hands.’

‘Shut up and move forward!’ shouted the armed officer.

El-Sayed stepped forward with his hands up, Hassan behind him. One of the officers quickly patted them down. Satisfied that they weren’t armed, he nodded at his colleague. Both men lowered their weapons. ‘Who are you?’ asked the older of the two.

‘My name is Imad El-Sayed, and this is my son, Hassan.’

‘Where were you?’

‘We were hiding upstairs.’

‘You work here?’

El-Sayed shook his head. ‘We are customers. We hid while the bomber was here. I run a bureau de change down the road. Can I show you my business card?’

‘Go ahead,’ said the officer.

El-Sayed slowly reached into his robe and pulled out his wallet. He took out a card and handed it to the officer, who studied it. ‘Okay, Mr El-Sayed.’ He gestured at the policemen in fluorescent jackets who were talking to the customers. ‘Please talk to one of these officers before you leave. They have a few questions for you.’

‘Is it over?’ asked El-Sayed. ‘Have the ISIS prisoners been released?’

The officer gestured at the television on the wall. ‘You can watch it while you wait,’ he said.

The coach parked across the road and its door opened. Kashif Talpur’s phone buzzed and he took it out of his waistpack. ‘You are to leave the bus, brother,’ said Shahid.

‘I’m not your brother,’ snarled Talpur.

‘Just do as you’re told. This will soon be over,’ said Shahid.

‘I want to leave the woman behind,’ said Talpur. ‘She’s a pain in the arse.’

‘You are to take the hostage on to the coach. She will be released at the airport.’

‘What’s happened to the ISIS prisoners?’

‘They’re already at the airport,’ said Shahid. ‘Now move over to the coach. You know what will happen if you do not comply.’

The line went dead and Talpur cursed. He put the phone back into the waistpack. ‘Open the door,’ he said to the driver, then turned to address the passengers. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m about to leave the bus. Please stay where you are until the police arrive. Do not, I repeat do not, attempt to leave the bus. There are a lot of armed police out there and I’d hate for them to shoot any of you by mistake.’

The door opened. ‘You have to come with me,’ Talpur said to the woman he was handcuffed to. She opened her mouth to protest but he pointed a warning finger at her. ‘Don’t even think about giving me a hard time,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a shitty twenty-four hours and I don’t want you making it worse.’

‘I’m a Muslim woman and you have no right to do this to me,’ she said.

‘It’s not about you being a Muslim,’ said Talpur. ‘You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ He headed for the door and yanked the chain to get her to follow him.

More than a dozen armed police were covering him with their carbines. In the far corner of the square a cluster of emergency vehicles included a fire engine and two ambulances. Dozens of police officers in fluorescent jackets were holding back onlookers, most of whom were taking videos and photographs on their phones.

‘Kash, we need to talk to you!’ Talpur looked to his left. Mark Biddulph was standing behind two armed officers, wearing a bulletproof vest over his leather jacket.

‘Get the hell away from me,’ shouted Talpur.

‘If you’re being forced into this, we can help you.’

‘Seriously, Mark, you’re putting everyone’s life on the line by talking to me,’ Talpur yelled. He pulled at the chain to hurry the woman up. She cursed him in Arabic.

‘Just tell me what’s happening, Kash,’ shouted Biddulph. ‘Why are you doing this?’

Talpur ignored him and climbed onto the coach, pulling the woman after him. As she climbed up, Talpur looked over his shoulder and saw Biddulph staring at him, his brow furrowed. Talpur forced a smile, then mouthed, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘We haven’t got all day,’ growled the driver.

Talpur turned to him. The driver stared back impassively. ‘Sit down and be quick about it,’ he growled. ‘We’re on a deadline.’

Talpur looked down the coach. Six bombers and six hostages were watching him. He moved towards the seat directly behind the driver. ‘Not there,’ snapped the man. ‘Further back.’

Talpur headed towards the back of the coach as the driver closed the door. He told the woman to sit by the window at the back on the right-hand side, then sat next to her. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she hissed.

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ said Talpur.

Kashif Talpur kept his breathing slow and even. The hood had been over his head when he woke, and he quickly realised that the faster he breathed, the more uncomfortable it was. He had stuck out his tongue and pressed it against the hood and it felt soft and rough. Sacking maybe. He was sitting on something hard and his hands were tied behind him.

He had no idea how long he’d been tied to the chair, or what time it was. The last thing he remembered was walking back to his flat. He’d seen a man waiting on the pavement ahead of him. Something about him had seemed off so Talpur’s defences had been up. But he was so busy concentrating on the man ahead of him that he never even heard the one behind him. Something sweet had been clamped over his mouth and, within seconds, he had lost consciousness. Talpur had no idea how long ago that had happened. It could have been an hour, it could have been a day.

He listened intently. He could hear scraping sounds, and a soft footfall. An occasional grunt. After a while he lost all sense of time. The ripping off of the hood came as a shock, intensified by the fluorescent lights overhead that stung his eyes. He blinked away tears as he tried to focus. There was something on his head, covering his face, though there were holes for his eyes and mouth. A ski mask, he realised. He was wearing a ski mask.

There were men in front of him, wearing ski masks and tied to chairs. He looked to his left. More masked men. He twisted his head to the right. More men. They were sitting in a circle, facing inwards. All men, so far as he could see. All masked. All tied. He blinked faster, trying to clear his vision. Then he saw something that made him catch his breath. The man directly opposite him had a canvas vest under his coat. The vest had pockets containing what looked like greyish blocks of Plasticine and, running from pocket to pocket, there were wires, some red, some blue. Talpur knew that he was looking at a suicide vest. He blinked and glanced at the man to his left. He was wearing an identical vest. So was the man next to him. They were all wearing suicide vests. He looked down at his own chest and gasped when he saw the grey blocks and wires tucked into the canvas vest. He began to struggle but the bonds held him tight and all he could do was rock the chair from side to side.

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.’