First Response

CAMBERWELL (6.30 p.m.)

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.’

‘We have no choice,’ said Pasha. ‘I was told to get on the coach with you and I have to do exactly as I am told. If I disobey, the vest will explode.’

Metcalfe frowned. ‘You mean someone else can detonate it?’

Pasha scowled. ‘I’ve said too much already. Come on. We must go.’

‘You’re telling me that someone else can set the bomb off? That it’s not up to you?’

Pasha glared at the MP. ‘If you continue to talk like this, we could all die. Do you want to die, Roger? I don’t. Not today.’ He headed for the door.

‘They could shoot us,’ said Metcalfe.

‘They won’t,’ said Pasha. ‘They’ve released the prisoners. They’re letting us go to the airport. They don’t want anyone hurt.’

‘They make mistakes sometimes,’ said Metcalfe. ‘Remember that Brazilian electrician they shot in the Tube after Seven/Seven?’

‘That won’t happen again,’ said Pasha. ‘They have rules. That is why the police here are so weak. They have to follow them, no matter what.’

‘But you don’t. Is that what you mean?’

Pasha ignored the question and opened the door. He stepped out into the corridor. A man in a green bomb-disposal suit was standing some fifteen feet away to his left. He pointed to Pasha’s right. ‘Down the stairs,’ he said.

Pasha and the MP went along the corridor and down the stairs to the street. Armed police were aiming their weapons at them. At the roadside a white coach with the windows blacked out was waiting. They climbed on board and found free seats close to the back on the driver’s side. Pasha had to take the window seat. Metcalfe was sweating profusely and had started to shake. ‘Breathe deeply,’ said Pasha. ‘You will have a heart attack.’

‘I don’t want to die. I have a family.’

‘We all have families,’ said Pasha. ‘But we have to stay calm. If we are lucky, we will all get out of this alive. Inshallah.’

‘Inshallah? What does that mean?’

‘It means “God willing”. It means that everything that happens is the will of Allah.’

The coach door closed and they pulled away from the kerb.

‘But this isn’t Allah’s doing, is it? This is you.’ Metcalfe gestured at the men sitting in front of them. ‘And them. You’re doing it. You’re making this happen.’

Pasha shook his head. ‘No, we’re not.’