First Response

MARBLE ARCH (3.07 p.m.)

One of the baristas raised his hand. He was in his twenties, olive-skinned with a carefully tended goatee beard.

‘What?’ snarled the man in the suicide vest. ‘What do you want?’

‘I need to use the bathroom.’

‘Where is it?’

The barista pointed at a door opposite the end of the counter. ‘I really need to go.’

‘Then go,’ said the man. ‘But leave the door open.’

The barista smiled his thanks and dashed to the toilet. One of the men sitting at the table behind El-Sayed also raised his hand. ‘I need to go, too.’

‘You can take it in turns,’ said the man. ‘But don’t even think about fucking with me.’ He raised his right hand above his head and opened his palm so that they could all see the metal trigger attached to the black Velcro strap. ‘Anybody tries anything, I press this and we all die!’ he shouted.

‘Nobody wants to die here today,’ said El-Sayed, calmly.

‘And nobody has to,’ said the man. ‘So long as they release the ISIS prisoners.’

‘But what if they do not, my friend? Will you kill us all?’

‘I will,’ said the man.

‘And what will that achieve?’

The man frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘If you don’t get what you want, and we all die, who benefits? Do you? No, you are dead.’ He waved an arm around the café. ‘Do we? No, we are also dead. Have the ISIS fighters benefited? No, they are still in prison. So who benefits?’

‘They will do as they are told,’ snapped the man. ‘They will not allow so many hostages to die.’ He nodded at the television. The shot was of a studio with two newsreaders, a middle-aged man with blow-dried greying hair and a young Asian girl, talking to each other in front of a map of London on which had been marked the locations of the suicide bombers. ‘They cannot possibly allow that many bombs to go off across London.’

El-Sayed shrugged. ‘Maybe. Or maybe not. Do you think this government cares about individual citizens? About me? Or my son?’ He sneered. ‘Of course they don’t. Look around you, brother. How many white faces do you see? We are all Arab, Asian and African in this part of London. You think they care about the likes of us? You chose the wrong place to attack, brother.’

The man stared at him but didn’t answer. He jumped as the phone in his waistpack buzzed.

El-Sayed pointed at the waistpack. ‘If that is Shahid, then I must speak with him.’

‘He won’t talk to anyone. Just me.’ He fumbled for the zip.

‘He will want to talk to me, brother. Trust me on that.’

The man took his phone out of his waistpack with his left hand and put it to his ear. He mumbled into the phone, listened and mumbled again.

El-Sayed waved for the phone. ‘Let me speak to him,’ he said.

The man on the phone flashed him an angry look. ‘Shut up!’ he said.

‘Tell him I want to speak with him. Tell him I will make it worth his while.’

The man turned his back on El-Sayed and continued to mumble into the phone. El-Sayed stood up. His son shook his head frantically. ‘Dad, sit down! You’ll get us all killed.’

‘I must talk to Shahid,’ said El-Sayed. He stepped forward and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. The man yelped and whirled around, his thumb on the trigger. The baristas screamed and dropped behind the counter.

El-Sayed immediately released his grip on the man and stepped back, his hands in the air. ‘Brother, I just need to talk to Shahid. I mean you no harm.’

‘Stay away from me or we all die!’ shouted the man.

‘I understand,’ said El-Sayed, quietly. He sat down and folded his arms.

The man put the phone back to his ear and gritted his teeth as he listened, barely able to contain his anger. ‘Someone keeps saying he wants to talk to you. One of the hostages. He insists.’ He listened again and nodded. ‘He is the father of the man I have handcuffed myself to. An Arab.’

‘I am Lebanese,’ said El-Sayed.

‘He’s Lebanese,’ said the man.

‘Tell Shahid I can help,’ said El-Sayed.

The man glared at El-Sayed but then he repeated the message to Shahid. He listened, then handed the phone to El-Sayed. ‘Shahid says he will talk to you.’

El-Sayed took a deep breath to compose himself, then put the phone to his ear. ‘As-salamu alaykum,’ he said. Peace be upon you. The Arabic greeting that was used around the world.

‘I do not have much time,’ said the voice at the other end of the line. ‘What do you want?’

‘My name is Imad El-Sayed. You are Shahid, yes?’

‘What do you want, Imad El-Sayed? As you can imagine, I am busy just now.’

‘I want you to return my son to me.’

‘The best way to achieve that is to call for the government to release our six brothers in Belmarsh. If they are released then everyone can go home.’

‘Killing my son, my only son, will not help you in the fight against the infidel. But there is perhaps something I could do to help you.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘At least let me try,’ said El-Sayed. ‘Shahid, my friend, I wish you well in your struggle, I really do.’

‘You are not my friend. And you are wasting your breath.’

‘Shahid, we are on the same side here. I am the same as you. I want what you want.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Shahid.

‘Do you know what hawala is, brother?’

‘I’m not stupid,’ snapped Shahid. ‘Of course I know what hawala is.’

‘I do not mean to be patronising, brother,’ said El-Sayed, ‘but perhaps you are not aware that I am one of the largest hawala brokers in London.’

‘So?’

‘So I am a big supporter of Al-Qaeda. One of the biggest.’

‘I’m nothing to do with Al-Qaeda.’

‘I understand that,’ said El-Sayed, hurriedly. ‘But we are in the same fight here.’

‘The same fight? What do you mean? What fight?’

‘The fight against the infidel,’ said El-Sayed. ‘Brother, please listen to me. Listen to me and listen well. I am on your side. We are fighting the same fight. I helped to fund the glorious attacks in London on the seventh of July 2005.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘I am telling the truth, brother. I used my own funds. And even this very morning I moved money to Syria to help the fight there. Somalia, too. I am on your side, brother, you need to understand that.’

‘You are a money man, that’s all.’

‘I am more than that, brother. Much more.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘I am telling you the truth, brother. We are fighting the same fight. We are on the same side.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘You must, brother, for it is the truth, may Allah strike me dead if I lie. I move donations from London to ISIS in Syria and Iraq. And I move funds for ISIS into this country.’

‘What funds?’

‘You do not know, brother? ISIS is the richest terrorist organisation in history. They make more than two million dollars a day from the oil fields they control. They make millions from ransoms, they raid banks in the territories they take over. They tax all businesses that operate in their lands. And they are selling antiquities they seize. They used to destroy them but I persuaded them to get them out of the country and sell them in Europe. Brother, ISIS is worth billions and I play a part in moving their money around the world. Tell me, brother, you have heard of Jihadi John, surely?’

‘Of course,’ said Shahid.

‘Well, I have supported Jihadi John, and the North London Boys, from the start. Financially and with advice and contacts. I have helped them send jihadists from London to Somalia and Syria. Hundreds of fighters. I am on your side, brother. I am fighting the good fight with you.’

There was a long silence.

‘Are you there, brother?’ asked El-Sayed, eventually.

‘There is nothing I can do,’ said the man.

‘There is, brother. You can allow us to cut my son free. Your man can simply walk out of here. Or I can find someone else to take my son’s place.’

‘Why should I agree to that? One hostage is the same as the next.’

‘Exactly,’ said El-Sayed. ‘It doesn’t matter who you use as a hostage. So why not let my son go and use someone else?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because we are on the same side, brother. We both want the same thing.’

‘If that is true, you should be proud of your son’s contribution to the struggle.’

‘My son can fight in other ways, inshallah. He can help me with fundraising and financing. He is already doing that, brother. He is more useful working for me as a hawaladar.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Shahid. ‘I have wasted enough of my time talking to you.’

‘Wait, please,’ said El-Sayed. ‘How about this? How about I contribute to your fight?’

‘Contribute in what way?’ asked Shahid.

‘Money,’ said El-Sayed. ‘All the money you need. Delivered to you or your people, anywhere in the world. All I ask is that you release my son.’

‘How much were you thinking?’ asked Shahid.

‘A hundred thousand pounds?’

Shahid laughed harshly. ‘You insult me,’ he said.

‘How much, then?’ asked El-Sayed. ‘How much for my son?’

‘How much is he worth to you?’ asked Shahid.

‘He is the world to me,’ said El-Sayed. ‘He is my only son.’

‘And yet you insult him by offering so little?’

El-Sayed mopped his sweating brow with a handkerchief. ‘A million,’ he said. ‘A million pounds.’

‘Five million,’ said Shahid.

‘Five million?’ repeated El-Sayed.

‘It is up to you,’ said Shahid. ‘If your son is not worth five million pounds then I am wasting my time talking to you.’

‘Yes, okay, yes. Five million. Yes.’

‘You will transfer the money for me now?’

‘Yes. Yes, I will.’

‘I shall phone you back,’ said Shahid. The line went dead.