First Response

MARBLE ARCH (3.51 p.m.)

The man’s name was Mohammed. That was all El-Sayed knew, though, to be honest, he cared nothing for the man or what he was called. All El-Sayed cared about was that the man was prepared to take the place of his son. The agreed price had been a hundred thousand pounds, which El-Sayed had arranged for the man’s daughter to collect from a hawala agent in Shepherd’s Bush, and the watch, which was now on Mohammed’s wrist. The man was nervous, but committed. It hadn’t taken much convincing to persuade Mohammed to take Hassan’s place — he was clearly in need of money and, as El-Sayed had explained, if the suicide vest were to go up then it wouldn’t matter if he was sitting at the next table or was chained to the bomber: the result would be the same. ‘At least by helping me, you will be helping your family. I truly believe that this situation will be resolved without bloodshed, but if not…’ El-Sayed had shrugged. ‘Well, at least you will have provided for your family.’

Mohammed had originally asked for a million pounds but had settled for a hundred thousand and the watch. He stared at the glittering gold and diamond timepiece on his wrist as the man unlocked the handcuff that was attaching him to Hassan. Hassan scurried over to his father as if he was scared the man would have a change of heart. Mohammed held out his right hand, still staring at the watch on his left wrist, though he flinched as the handcuff snapped shut.

‘Thank you,’ El-Sayed said to Mohammed. Then he nodded at the man wearing the suicide vest. ‘And thank you for giving me back my son.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ said the man sourly. ‘This is nothing to do with me. Just go. Get the hell away from me.’

El-Sayed stood up. ‘This way,’ he said to his son, and ushered the boy up the stairs, which led to an office overlooking an alley at the back of the building. There was a desk and two metal filing cabinets, boxes of coffee and a couple of chairs.

‘Now what?’ asked Hassan.

‘Now we wait,’ said El-Sayed. ‘We wait for this to be over.’ He looked out of the window and saw two armed police crouched in the alley. They were dressed all in black with military-style helmets and bulletproof vests, and the guns they were holding looked like something that belonged in the hands of a soldier. One of them glanced up at the window and El-Sayed stepped back. He twisted his wrist to look at his watch, then smiled ruefully when he remembered he had given it to Mohammed. ‘What time is it?’ he asked his son.

‘Almost four,’ said Hassan. ‘Why?’

‘Because the deadline is six p.m. What happens then is the will of Allah. But at least you are safe, my son, and that is all that matters.’