Siege

Twenty-six

IT WAS ALL going so damn wrong, thought Martin Dalston as he lay behind the double bed, trying to keep as still as possible.

One minute he’d been sipping the Pinot Noir and remembering the sound of Carrie Wilson’s laughter, the pills still firmly in their containers, the next he’d heard the commotion coming from the room next door, followed by people talking just outside his door. He’d tried to ignore it, determined not to be disturbed, but then he’d heard a woman with a Polish accent introducing herself as the Stanhope’s duty manager, her voice shaking as she spoke. She was saying that the hotel had been taken over by a group called the Pan-Arab Army of God, that they had master key cards to all the bedrooms, and that everyone had to come out of their rooms, otherwise they would be shot immediately.

The whole thing seemed so surreal that at first he’d thought it was some bizarre joke, but then he’d ventured over to the window and peered out, which was when he saw the flashing lights of dozens and dozens of emergency vehicles blocking the road in both directions. That was when he’d knelt down behind the bed.

‘Please, please,’ the manager kept saying, her voice fading then coming back into earshot as she paced up and down the corridor, ‘do as you’ve been told and you won’t be hurt.’ She sounded very scared.

Martin was scared too. Terrified. Irrationally so, really, given that within the next few hours he’d fully intended to kill himself anyway. But the thing was, he wanted to die at a time and by a method of his own choosing, with happy memories filling his consciousness. Not at the hands of terrorists.

He could hear the sound of doors opening further down the corridor, barked orders, and the nervous whispers of frightened people. A young child was crying, and Martin felt his stomach knot. God, what on earth was happening? He knew if he didn’t go out he risked being shot. Dying on his knees in a pool of his own blood. Even so, he didn’t move, maintaining his position behind the bed, hoping that the terrorists were lying about having key cards, or that they’d rounded up enough people and therefore wouldn’t bother searching all the rooms.

The noise in the corridor faded, and Martin felt his hopes rise. ‘You wouldn’t believe this, Carrie,’ he whispered to himself. ‘All this happening outside our room.’

He had a sudden urge to speak to her then. Just one last time. To reminisce with her about those two fantastic weeks all those years ago. To find out what she was up to now. Whether she had children or not. How her life had turned out. He wished he’d found her contact details so he could ask some of the questions he so desperately wanted answered before he went to his grave.

‘Please, this is your last chance to come out of the rooms.’ The manager’s voice was coming back down the corridor, loud and clear. And getting closer.

Martin remained absolutely still. There was no way he was going out. He suddenly felt brave. Braver than he’d felt in all his adult life. Even more so than on that day when he received the news about the spread of the cancer, when he’d held himself together so well.

He could hear muffled voices right outside the door.

And then it began to open, and he could hear movement.

God, they were inside his room.

He held his breath. But the wine, the stress and the ever-present cancer were making him feel nauseous.

With his eyes tightly shut, he felt rather than heard the man stop at the end of the bed, and he knew he’d been seen.

He heard the sound of a gun being cocked, loud in the silence of the room, and he gritted his teeth, waiting for it all to be over.

‘Open your eyes.’

The words were delivered calmly in an eastern European accent that, for some reason, didn’t sound quite right. Martin gasped and looked up into the eyes of a masked man in a balaclava and dark overalls, pointing a rifle down at him.

The man turned towards the door. ‘See, I told you there’d be more of them hiding.’

‘Kill him,’ ordered a voice in a foreign accent, its tone terrifyingly casual, as if he, Martin Dalston – a man who’d lived, loved, had children and fought against a terrible illness – was completely worthless. Someone – something – simply to be disposed of as quickly and efficiently as possible.

But the gunman didn’t fire. Instead, Martin could see him watching him beneath the mask.

‘We need more hostages,’ said the gunman. ‘And if we shoot too many guests, we’ll make the security forces jumpy.’

‘As you wish,’ grunted the other man dismissively.

The gunman flicked his gun upwards and Martin got to his feet unsteadily, unsure whether to feel relief, gloom or terror.

He could now see the other gunman. He was small and dark, heavily built, also dressed in black. Beside him was the hotel manager. She was tall and pretty, with blonde hair and a kind face. She was staring, horrified, at the noose hanging from the picture hook.

Their eyes met briefly, and Martin experienced a deep sense of humiliation as his carefully made and deeply personal plans were exposed to the world.

And then he was being pushed into the corridor along with the manager and maybe a dozen guests of varying ages, including the crying child, who was no more than ten. There were four gunmen in all, all masked, and the leader – the man who’d ordered his killing – didn’t look happy at all.

‘There must be more people on this floor,’ he snapped, grabbing the manager and pointing his gun at her.

‘Most of the rooms are taken,’ she answered quickly, ‘but it doesn’t mean that they’re occupied. A lot of our guests will be out.’

‘There should be more.’ The leader turned to two of the other gunmen, one of whom was Armin. ‘You have your key cards. Clear the rooms one by one. Take people alive unless they resist. If they try to fight back, kill them.’

He turned away and, as the little girl’s sobs grew louder, began herding the rest of them towards the exit doors.