Siege

Forty-two

19.05

ARLEY DALE WAS DRINKING from a huge cup of Starbucks coffee and thinking about having a cigarette. In the last few minutes, things in the mobile incident room had quietened right down, and the phones had stopped ringing. Will and Janine, the two technicians who’d also been acting as coordinators and receptionists, were still tapping away on their computers while Riz Mohammed and John Cheney were leant over another desktop going through lists of terror organizations and their various front companies, searching for anything that might provide a link to the Pan-Arab Army of God. Their body language suggested they hadn’t found anything of use yet.

So far, Arley was reasonably satisfied with the way she was handling her end of the operation. The situation was contained; there’d been no further reports of shooting in the previous half hour, or threats made by the hostage-takers; and it seemed they hadn’t noticed that the hotel’s internet access had been switched off. Riz might not have been able to make contact with Michael Prior, but Arley wasn’t so worried about that. There was no point forcing the issue and running the risk of antagonizing the terrorist who called himself Wolf. In the end, he’d call them. Like most sieges, it was a waiting game, each side hoping that the other would crack.

The orders from Commissioner Phillips, and from the Prime Minister himself, who as Platinum Commander was in overall charge of the operation, were to attempt a negotiated settlement, but they were also hedging their bets. A full squadron of SAS troops and support staff had arrived on the scene a few minutes earlier, ready to stage a rapid assault on the hotel if the situation suddenly deteriorated. They were being billeted in an office building behind the hotel that had been requisitioned by Chris Matthews, on Arley’s orders, and which was well away from the dozens of camera crews.

Arley was going to need to call the SAS leader and give him a briefing, but she decided to have that cigarette first, figuring she’d earned it. ‘Anyone fancy joining me for a smoke?’ she asked the room.

‘Sorry,’ said Will, still tapping away on his PC and pulling a face like he’d just smelled something bad. ‘I’ve never smoked.’

‘I’ve quit,’ said Janine ruefully, ‘and it was so bloody hard, I don’t dare go back to it.’

Apparently, smoking was against Riz’s religion, or so he said, and Cheney only smoked these days when he had a drink. ‘Although if things deteriorate too much I might end up doing both,’ he added, giving her one of his winning smiles, which she made a point of ignoring, so as not to give him the wrong idea.

Thinking that she really ought to quit herself, and that the youth of today were turning into lightweights, Arley went outside, walking away from the office and the police vehicles as she lit up.

In the near distance, the Stanhope rose high above the other buildings, with lights on on every floor, and Arley thanked God neither she nor her loved ones were trapped in there. She was hopeful that a Mumbai-style massacre might still be averted, particularly if negotiations continued, but even so, she couldn’t begin to imagine the terror the hostages were feeling. It was her job to get them out of the hotel safely. It was, she thought, as she took a long draw on the cigarette, a daunting responsibility.

Her mobile rang, and she sighed. Back to work, she thought, wondering what had happened now.

It was Howard, her husband. She’d left a message on his phone close to two hours back now to let him know that she was involved in the siege at the Stanhope, and it had taken him this long to get back to her. Doubtless he’d been busy getting supper ready and hadn’t wanted to disturb her. He was good like that, and she realized, almost with surprise, that she was pleased to be hearing from him.

But the voice at the other end wasn’t Howard’s. It belonged to a man with a foreign accent.

‘We have your family,’ he told her.