Siege (17 page)

Up ahead the Stanhope loomed from behind the trees that bordered the park, illuminated by the many lights across its façade. It was a grand Georgian structure, and showed no obvious signs of being the location of a violent attack. There were no fires, no other unusual activity. If it hadn’t been for the flashing lights of the many emergency services vehicles surrounding the hotel on three sides, and the noise of the helicopters overhead, it would have made for a perfectly ordinary night-time scene.

‘Can you give me a rundown of what’s happening?’ Riz asked her as they walked.

‘Things are still sketchy, but we’ve definitely got multiple gunmen, large numbers of hostages in at least two different areas of the building, a lot of people trapped in their rooms, and there’ve been reports of sporadic shooting inside the hotel for the last forty-five minutes. What makes it even more critical is that one of the hostages is the Head of the Directorate of Requirements and Production at MI6 and one of its top people.’

‘You’re joking. What the hell’s he doing in there?’

‘We don’t know yet. The hostage-takers have released a film of him tied up in one of the hotel’s rooms. It’s been picked up by Al-Jazeera and a number of Islamist websites. On the film, one of the hostage-takers is holding a gun to his head and saying that if their demands aren’t met they’ll execute him at midnight. All this is confidential, of course.’

‘Of course. What are their demands?’

‘The broadcast called for all British operations against Muslim and Arab countries to stop, but they haven’t made direct contact yet. We’ve tried calling the hotel on the external lines but there’s been no response. To be honest, we don’t know if they actually want to negotiate. From what we can gather they’re holding hostages rather than conducting a massacre. Having said that, though, the military are being put on standby and my guess is responsibility for the operation will get turned over to them sooner rather than later if we can’t make contact.’

Riz nodded. ‘I’m assuming this is connected with the bomb attacks at the Westfield and Paddington.’

‘We think so, so it’s obvious they’re not too worried about taking human life. Also, when they attacked the hotel, which happened at just before five o’clock, they killed several people in the kitchen, and opened fire on the first officers at the scene.’

‘That’s not going to help the negotiations. I was told they’re from an organization called the Pan-Arab Army of God. Does that mean they’re Islamic extremists?’

‘We don’t know anything about them yet but, given what we’ve got so far, we’ve got to assume that, yes.’

She saw the concern on his face when she said this. Islamic extremists were notoriously tricky to negotiate with because they were unpredictable and far less concerned with staying alive than the average hostage-taker.

‘I’m sorry to put this on you, Riz. But if anyone’s got a chance of turning this round, it’s you.’

He sighed. ‘I’ll do my absolute best, but I’m no miracle worker.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘None of us are. We’ve just got to hope we can conjure up something.’

By now they were approaching the command centre. Groups of officers and assorted emergency services personnel were milling about, talking in low voices, as they waited in the cold night air for instructions. Most of them looked nervous, but then, thought Arley, that was to be expected. Their home city was under attack from a group who’d already caused carnage and chaos at two separate locations, and who now controlled one of the most prestigious hotels in London. And right now it looked like the bad guys were winning.

Arley took a deep breath. One thing she’d learned in the best part of a quarter of a century in the force was that criminals, however well organized, had weaknesses that could be exploited. The key to success was locating those weaknesses.

Her mobile rang in her trouser pocket. It was Gold Commander, Commissioner Phillips – the first time she’d heard from him for over half an hour.

‘Has your negotiator turned up yet?’ he asked, trying to sound calm and collected but falling just that little bit short.

‘I’ve just collected him. We’re outside the incident room.’

‘You need to hurry. We’ve had contact. A man with a Middle Eastern accent has just phoned, saying he’s the commander of the Pan-Arab Army of God forces in the Stanhope Hotel. He’s demanded to speak to me personally in the next fifteen minutes, or his men are going to kill a hostage.’

‘You haven’t spoken to him, sir, have you?’ she asked, thinking it would be a complete breach of procedure if he had.

‘Of course not,’ he answered gruffly. ‘That’s your negotiator’s job. The call was made from a landline in the kitchen on the mezzanine floor, and it was logged at 18.20. That’s six minutes ago.’

‘What instructions shall I give our negotiator?’

Phillips paused. ‘That’s the thing, Arley. They’re very specific. I’ve just been on the phone to the Prime Minister, and he’s very concerned.’

‘We all are, sir.’

‘Not just about the situation with the civilian hostages.’ Phillips spoke slowly and carefully, the concern in his voice becoming steadily more obvious. ‘Can you move away, so there’s no risk you’re being overheard?’

‘Of course.’ She excused herself from Riz and walked a few yards away.

‘Apparently the MI6 man Michael Prior has some information that, should it fall into the wrong hands, would be disastrous for the country. There’s no reason to believe that the terrorists know he has this information – only a handful of people do know about it – but it’s absolutely essential your negotiator speaks to him. He’s got to insist on it.’

‘But how are we going to find out whether Prior’s given away information without alerting the people holding him?’ she asked.

‘Prior has two pre-arranged codewords. He’ll use one if he has been compromised, and the other if he hasn’t. They’re both on your desk in the incident room. As far as anyone else is concerned, the codewords are simply to find out if he’s been mistreated or not. Is all that clear?’

‘It’s clear,’ she said, not liking the sound of his voice at all.

‘Good. Then get your man on the phone to the hostage-taker right away. We need this cleared up fast.’

FOX SLIPPED INTO
room 316, shutting the door quietly behind him and bolting it from the inside.

Michael Prior, the director of MI6 and their VIP prisoner, was still in the tub chair where they’d left him earlier, and he was staring cautiously at Fox from behind the gag. He seemed to be quite calm for a man who had a bomb strapped to him.

‘You know they wanted to kill you on film,’ said Fox, reverting to his normal accent as he threw his rifle on the bed and pulled off his backpack. He leaned round behind Prior’s head and unstrapped the ball gag, letting it fall to the floor.

‘If you let me go, I’ll do everything I can to minimize your prison sentence.’ Prior’s voice was deep and authoritative, his expression stern and unwavering. It was obvious that he was accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed.

Fox ignored him. He was just another public-school establishment man used to getting his own way. Perhaps he thought that because Fox spoke with a local accent and was clearly English, he could be reasoned with. ‘They wanted to shoot you dead as a show of strength to the UK government. I stopped them.’

‘Thank you. You don’t sound very much like a member of the Pan-Arab Front, or whatever you people are calling yourselves. So, why are you involved?’

Fox sat down on the bed, facing him. Even trussed up like a chicken, Michael Prior exuded a certain gravitas. With his silver hair and finely delineated features, he had the distinguished, well-fed look of confidence backed by old money. ‘I told the man who was holding the gun to your head that you were much more useful to them alive.’

‘You keep saying “them” and “they”. If you’re not a part of them, then who are you?’

‘That doesn’t really matter right now. What matters is that you have information that I need.’

Prior’s eyes widened just a little. ‘I know a lot less than you think.’

‘Don’t try to bullshit me. We haven’t got time. I need a name. A name that only you and a handful of other people know.’

Prior swallowed, and Fox could tell that he knew exactly who he was referring to. ‘I thought this was a terrorist attack.’

Fox stood up. ‘It is. Now, we can do this the hard way, or we can do it the easy way, but the result’s going to be the same. You’re going to give up that name, and if you do it quickly, then it’ll be a lot less painful.’

‘Please, if you have any decency or patriotism …’

He stopped talking as Fox produced a scalpel and a small container of liquid from the backpack.

‘Give me the name and as soon as I’ve verified it I’ll unstrap the bomb, untie you, and let you go. You’ll have to take your chances, but you’ll probably make it out alive.’

‘I can’t. Please. I’ll give you any information you want, but not that.’

‘Last chance,’ said Fox. ‘Then I’ll have to replace the gag while I go to work on you.’

He lifted the scalpel, and Michael Prior’s eyes grew wide with fear.

18.29

THE INTERIOR OF
the mobile incident room was long, narrow and windowless, like the inside of a shipping container. A bank of TV screens – some blank, others showing rolling news footage of the Stanhope Hotel – lined one side, beneath which were a half dozen work stations.

There were three other people in the room when Arley and Riz Mohammed walked in. Will Verran and Janine Sabbagh were both police technicians whom Arley had only just met. Janine was a petite blonde-haired South African in her mid thirties with very dark eyes and a friendly smile, while Will was a tall, lanky twenty-something with a boyish face and sandy hair that was thinning fast. Their responsibility was to keep open the channels of communication between Arley and all the other people and agencies involved in the operation.

The third person was John Cheney. He’d removed his jacket and was down to his shirtsleeves as he stood talking on one of the phones. He gave them a nod as they walked in, sizing up Riz with watchful eyes. So far, Cheney and Arley hadn’t had much to do with each other, which suited her just fine. Even after all these years, she didn’t feel entirely comfortable around him, although she wasn’t exactly sure why.

Arley saw the surprised look cross Riz’s face when he saw the three of them. It was clear he thought there’d be more people inside the police’s forward control room.

‘We’ve got officers in the incident room next door but most of our non-frontline resources are remaining off-site,’ she explained as she introduced him to the others. ‘Mainly because it’s so difficult to get down here with the traffic, and’ – she swept an arm round – ‘obviously there’s not a great deal of room. But we’re in touch with everyone we need to be, and we have video conferencing facilities set up. Right, Janine?’

‘We’ve got a video link to the Scotland Yard control room, which means they’ll be able to see and hear us in here,’ said Janine, pressing a couple of buttons on her keyboard. ‘And we’re just establishing one to the chief commissioner’s office so he can listen in on the call.’

Arley turned to Riz. She’d already briefed him on her call with Commissioner Phillips, and knew that time was short. ‘Don’t forget, you’ve got to insist on speaking to Prior. The codewords he’ll use are written down there. Anything else you need before you make the call?’

‘The most important thing for me is to know who I’m dealing with,’ said Riz, addressing the room. ‘If we can ID any of the hostage-takers, particularly those in charge, it’ll be a huge help.’

‘We’ve got MI5 and CTC checking the voice records from the calls to see if they match any known suspects,’ said Arley, ‘and GCHQ are listening in on all the mobile phone conversations taking place inside the building. Any new developments we should know about?’ she asked Cheney.

‘We haven’t had any matches yet,’ he answered in that deep, gruff voice of his. ‘GCHQ also haven’t been able to pick up any mobile phone conversations between the terrorists in the building, which suggests they’re not communicating by phone. They’re also checking for use of short-wave radios and the internet, but apart from the uploading of the earlier video showing the Director, there’s been nothing.’

‘And the people calling out from the hotel. What are they saying about the hostage-takers? Are they speaking English? If so, with local or foreign accents?’

‘The leader’s speaking with an Arab accent,’ said Cheney, ‘and we’ve got phonetics experts trying to place it to a specific locality, but they haven’t come back to us yet. As to the rest of the hostage-takers, we’ve had surprisingly few reports, although we believe they’re a mixture of Middle Eastern and eastern European accents.’

‘OK,’ said Will Verran, interrupting proceedings, ‘we’ve got live feed to the commissioner’s office.’

One of the blank screens lit up, showing Derek Phillips sitting at his desk, watching them. ‘Are we ready to make the call?’ he asked the assembled room, checking his watch. ‘We’re only two minutes off the hostage-taker’s deadline.’

‘We’re ready now, sir,’ Arley answered, feeling a rush of excitement, before turning to Riz. ‘It’s all yours.’ She pointed at a handset on the desk in front of him. ‘That’s the phone to use. It’s a secure landline. Press one and it’ll get you straight through to the phone the terrorist leader made his original call from.’

‘Remember,’ said Phillips, ‘we have to insist on speaking to Michael Prior.’

‘I’ll do everything I can.’

Riz squeezed his bulk into the seat, picked up the phone and held it in his hand for a few moments, looking pensive but calm. Everyone in the room was watching him. Arley knew he was under a lot of pressure, but then they all were. She recalled his performance in Brixton and was confident she’d made the right decision in picking him for this, probably the biggest job of his life.

Finally, he pressed 1 and put the phone to his ear.

THE PHONE RANG
six times before it was picked up.

‘Who am I speaking to?’ The voice at the other end of the phone sounded clear in the confines of the office.