First Response

MARBLE ARCH (11.40 a.m.)

‘Do you want a muffin?’ Hassan asked his father, even though he already knew the answer. Imad El-Sayed always had a chocolate muffin with his morning cappuccino. It was as much a part of the man’s daily ritual as the five times a day that he prayed to Allah.

El-Sayed frowned as if it were the first time he had ever been asked the question, then nodded. ‘A chocolate muffin would be good,’ he said. He manoeuvred his vast bulk over to a table by the window as Hassan joined the queue to order their coffees. El-Sayed was a big man, with folds of fat around his neck and a massive stomach that protruded over his belt. He had gold chains on his wrists and an even thicker one around his neck. His watch was a gold Rolex, studded with diamonds. El-Sayed was a rich man who liked to flaunt his wealth. Several Arabs at neighbouring tables nodded a greeting as he sat down, and he acknowledged them with a tight smile.

The coffee shop was busy but not yet crowded. The morning rush had passed and there was usually a lull until noon. Hassan and his father were regulars there as it was a short walk from the bureau de change El-Sayed owned. The staff of three dealt with currency conversions for tourists on the street, while offices behind handled larger transactions. It was a good business, which paid for a large house in Hampstead, a Bentley for El-Sayed and a Maserati for Hassan.

El-Sayed settled into his chair and linked his fingers over his belly. He closed his eyes and listened to the babble of conversations around him, mostly in Arabic, spoken with a multitude of accents — Kuwaiti, Lebanese, Egyptian, African… Not for nothing was Edgware Road between Marble Arch and Paddington Green known as Little Arabia. The street was lined with Arabic banks and shops, Lebanese restaurants and halal groceries. It felt like home and in many ways it was because, other than biannual trips back to his native Lebanon, he had lived in London for the past twenty-five years and all his family were now British citizens.

‘Father?’ said Hassan.

El-Sayed opened his eyes. His son had placed his coffee and the muffin in front of him. He smiled and thanked him. A television on one wall showed the Arabic version of Al Jazeera news. There was a picture of a church and a reporter was describing what had happened. A suicide bomber was locked up with a priest and worshippers in a Catholic church in Brixton. The bomber was demanding that six ISIS terrorists were released from Belmarsh Prison.

The channel switched to a studio discussion where another reporter was talking to two terrorism experts, a Westerner in a suit, the other a Saudi in a long-sleeved, ankle-length robe similar to the one that El-Sayed had on. El-Sayed listened intently. There were four suicide bombers in various parts of the city and they were all demanding that the ISIS prisoners be freed. ‘Did you see this?’ he asked his son.

Hassan put down his coffee. ‘It has only just happened,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s talking about it on Twitter.’

‘Twitter?’ repeated El-Sayed. He snorted. ‘You spend far too much time playing with your phone.’

‘It’s not playing, Father,’ said Hassan. ‘The news was on Twitter long before it was on TV. The brothers are allowing their hostages to spread the message.’

‘Do they really believe that this will work, that the government will release the ISIS fighters?’

Hassan grinned. ‘Wouldn’t it be something if they did?’ he said. He sipped his coffee again. ‘You had no idea that something like this was going to happen?’

El-Sayed shook his head. ‘None at all.’

‘There are four of them. It must have taken a lot of organising.’

El-Sayed nodded thoughtfully. ‘No question,’ he said. ‘But why bombs? Why not just kidnap hostages and threaten to behead them, as they do in Syria? Or shoot them as they did in Paris?’

‘Because this is bigger, Father,’ said Hassan. ‘Can you imagine how effective it will be if they show how easily they can strike, even in London?’

‘You sound as if you would prefer the bombs to go off, my son.’

‘And why not? We need to bring the fight here, don’t we? This is where we need to make changes.’

‘Things will change here,’ said El-Sayed. ‘They are changing already.’

‘But not fast enough, Father.’

The door to the coffee shop opened and an Asian man in a buttoned-up coat walked in and looked around. Instead of joining the queue for coffee he stared for a few seconds at the television screen, which was now showing a shot of the Southside shopping centre in Wandsworth where armed police were standing outside the main entrance, guns at the ready, as uniformed officers helped with the evacuation.

The man looked around the coffee shop again, then headed towards where Hassan and his father were sitting. He stopped and looked down at the space next to Hassan. Hassan shook his head. ‘Please, we are sitting here,’ he said.

The man smiled and held out his hand, as if he wanted to shake, then lunged forward and grabbed Hassan. Almost immediately he fastened a steel handcuff around the young man’s wrist.

Hassan stood up, trying to push him away, and a look of terror flashed across his face. ‘I’m wearing a bomb!’ the man shouted. ‘Be careful!’

Hassan struggled to understand what the man had said, but everything became clear as the man unbuttoned his coat to reveal a vest covered with packages and wires. ‘Nobody move or we will all go to Heaven together!’ the man shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Allahu Akbar!’