Siege

Thirty-six

18.21

THE HELICOPTER FOLLOWED the trajectory of Oxford Street, flying five hundred feet above the gridlocked roads, going as far as Lancaster Gate before banking over Hyde Park and landing on a hastily assembled landing pad three hundred yards directly north of the Stanhope Hotel.

Arley was talking to Chief Inspector Chris Matthews outside the command centre – which consisted of two mobile incident rooms side by side, surrounded by a cluster of police vehicles – trying to organize an HQ for the hundred or so Special Forces and their support teams, whose arrival was imminent, when she saw the helicopter coming in. She immediately excused herself and started across the park towards the landing pad, lighting her first cigarette since the crisis had broken nearly two hours ago, and savouring the acrid hit of smoke in her throat. It was pretty much her first moment alone, when she hadn’t been talking to someone about something.

On the ground, all three cordons were now in place around the Stanhope. In total there were about three hundred police officers on the scene, with more arriving all the time, but Arley was pretty sure that there were none more important than the man she was going to see now.

Riz Mohammed was one of the most successful negotiators in the Met. He had the right mix of hardness and empathy to get under the skin of hostage-takers, and it was well known that in ten years in the job he’d never lost a hostage. He also had the priceless asset of being a Muslim, his Jamaican-born parents having converted from Christianity before he was born. Three months earlier, two Algerian terror suspects wanted for the attempted murder of a police officer had taken their neighbours – a family of four, including two young children – hostage in their Brixton flat. They’d been armed with handguns and a very unstable homemade bomb (which, according to Counter Terrorism Command, they’d been planning to use in a suicide bomb attack) and were demanding their freedom and safe passage to Ankara in Turkey, as well as £50,000 in cash, otherwise they’d start killing the hostages one by one. Riz had been given the task of negotiating with the two men, who’d been desperate, angry and hopelessly unrealistic in their demands. Yet over the next excruciating twenty-two hours he’d coaxed, empathized with, listened to, and finally persuaded them both to release the four hostages, before surrendering peacefully.

Arley took three rapid puffs on the cigarette, taking in as much nicotine as possible, before stubbing it underfoot at the edge of the landing pad. She watched as Riz emerged from the cockpit door, covering his ample head of hair from the updraft of the rotor blades.

‘Hello, ma’am, how are you?’ he said, shaking her hand with a firm grip.

As the head of Specialist Operations, the Met’s Kidnap Unit fell under Arley’s overall control, and she’d worked with Riz several times before.

‘I’ve been better. Thanks for coming, Riz. I appreciate it. I know it’s your day off.’

They walked in the direction of the command centre, which sat just inside the central cordon, Arley having to increase her pace to keep up with him. Riz Mohammed was a big man with a big presence.

Up ahead the Stanhope loomed from behind the trees that bordered the park, illuminated by the many lights across its façade. It was a grand Georgian structure, and showed no obvious signs of being the location of a violent attack. There were no fires, no other unusual activity. If it hadn’t been for the flashing lights of the many emergency services vehicles surrounding the hotel on three sides, and the noise of the helicopters overhead, it would have made for a perfectly ordinary night-time scene.

‘Can you give me a rundown of what’s happening?’ Riz asked her as they walked.

‘Things are still sketchy, but we’ve definitely got multiple gunmen, large numbers of hostages in at least two different areas of the building, a lot of people trapped in their rooms, and there’ve been reports of sporadic shooting inside the hotel for the last forty-five minutes. What makes it even more critical is that one of the hostages is the Head of the Directorate of Requirements and Production at MI6 and one of its top people.’

‘You’re joking. What the hell’s he doing in there?’

‘We don’t know yet. The hostage-takers have released a film of him tied up in one of the hotel’s rooms. It’s been picked up by Al-Jazeera and a number of Islamist websites. On the film, one of the hostage-takers is holding a gun to his head and saying that if their demands aren’t met they’ll execute him at midnight. All this is confidential, of course.’

‘Of course. What are their demands?’

‘The broadcast called for all British operations against Muslim and Arab countries to stop, but they haven’t made direct contact yet. We’ve tried calling the hotel on the external lines but there’s been no response. To be honest, we don’t know if they actually want to negotiate. From what we can gather they’re holding hostages rather than conducting a massacre. Having said that, though, the military are being put on standby and my guess is responsibility for the operation will get turned over to them sooner rather than later if we can’t make contact.’

Riz nodded. ‘I’m assuming this is connected with the bomb attacks at the Westfield and Paddington.’

‘We think so, so it’s obvious they’re not too worried about taking human life. Also, when they attacked the hotel, which happened at just before five o’clock, they killed several people in the kitchen, and opened fire on the first officers at the scene.’

‘That’s not going to help the negotiations. I was told they’re from an organization called the Pan-Arab Army of God. Does that mean they’re Islamic extremists?’

‘We don’t know anything about them yet but, given what we’ve got so far, we’ve got to assume that, yes.’

She saw the concern on his face when she said this. Islamic extremists were notoriously tricky to negotiate with because they were unpredictable and far less concerned with staying alive than the average hostage-taker.

‘I’m sorry to put this on you, Riz. But if anyone’s got a chance of turning this round, it’s you.’

He sighed. ‘I’ll do my absolute best, but I’m no miracle worker.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘None of us are. We’ve just got to hope we can conjure up something.’

By now they were approaching the command centre. Groups of officers and assorted emergency services personnel were milling about, talking in low voices, as they waited in the cold night air for instructions. Most of them looked nervous, but then, thought Arley, that was to be expected. Their home city was under attack from a group who’d already caused carnage and chaos at two separate locations, and who now controlled one of the most prestigious hotels in London. And right now it looked like the bad guys were winning.

Arley took a deep breath. One thing she’d learned in the best part of a quarter of a century in the force was that criminals, however well organized, had weaknesses that could be exploited. The key to success was locating those weaknesses.

Her mobile rang in her trouser pocket. It was Gold Commander, Commissioner Phillips – the first time she’d heard from him for over half an hour.

‘Has your negotiator turned up yet?’ he asked, trying to sound calm and collected but falling just that little bit short.

‘I’ve just collected him. We’re outside the incident room.’

‘You need to hurry. We’ve had contact. A man with a Middle Eastern accent has just phoned, saying he’s the commander of the Pan-Arab Army of God forces in the Stanhope Hotel. He’s demanded to speak to me personally in the next fifteen minutes, or his men are going to kill a hostage.’

‘You haven’t spoken to him, sir, have you?’ she asked, thinking it would be a complete breach of procedure if he had.

‘Of course not,’ he answered gruffly. ‘That’s your negotiator’s job. The call was made from a landline in the kitchen on the mezzanine floor, and it was logged at 18.20. That’s six minutes ago.’

‘What instructions shall I give our negotiator?’

Phillips paused. ‘That’s the thing, Arley. They’re very specific. I’ve just been on the phone to the Prime Minister, and he’s very concerned.’

‘We all are, sir.’

‘Not just about the situation with the civilian hostages.’ Phillips spoke slowly and carefully, the concern in his voice becoming steadily more obvious. ‘Can you move away, so there’s no risk you’re being overheard?’

‘Of course.’ She excused herself from Riz and walked a few yards away.

‘Apparently the MI6 man Michael Prior has some information that, should it fall into the wrong hands, would be disastrous for the country. There’s no reason to believe that the terrorists know he has this information – only a handful of people do know about it – but it’s absolutely essential your negotiator speaks to him. He’s got to insist on it.’

‘But how are we going to find out whether Prior’s given away information without alerting the people holding him?’ she asked.

‘Prior has two pre-arranged codewords. He’ll use one if he has been compromised, and the other if he hasn’t. They’re both on your desk in the incident room. As far as anyone else is concerned, the codewords are simply to find out if he’s been mistreated or not. Is all that clear?’

‘It’s clear,’ she said, not liking the sound of his voice at all.

‘Good. Then get your man on the phone to the hostage-taker right away. We need this cleared up fast.’