Ultimatum

Fifty-four

19.47

Voorhess knew he had to move fast.

After putting his balaclava back on, he strode down into the living room and crouched down beside Azim Butt, who was literally shaking with fear in his seat. The reason for his distress was that he’d seen the heavy black explosives vest he was wearing, which Voorhess had fitted to him earlier while he’d been unconscious from the dose of diazepam. Although the actual explosives themselves weren’t visible, as they were sewn into the lining, both the vest’s weight and the exposed wires running between the pockets made it obvious to even the most naive of civilians what it was.

‘I’m going to untie you now, Mr Butt,’ Voorhess explained as he removed his gag, ‘but I must warn you: the jacket you’re wearing contains explosives, and it’s connected to a pressure pad beneath your seat. If you try to remove the jacket or leave the seat, you’ll set off the bomb and blow yourself to pieces.’ As he spoke, he untied each of Mr Butt’s ankles in turn. ‘What I want you to do is remain exactly where you are until help arrives. It won’t be long, I can promise you that.’

‘Please don’t kill me. Please.’

Voorhess started on the left wrist. ‘No one’s going to kill you if you do as you’re told. When help arrives, they’ll come through your front door. When you hear them, you call out and tell them that you’re wired to a bomb. They’ll send in the experts and deal with the device.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I just want to slow them down, Mr Butt,’ Voorhess told him, putting on his most reassuring voice as he released the final bond. ‘And remember, don’t tell them anything about me that could be of use. I don’t want to have to kill your young son in Cobham.’

Mr Butt’s eyes widened. After everything else he’d been through, this was clearly the biggest shock of all.

‘Yes,’ said Voorhess calmly, ‘I know about him. Now give a poor description and he’s safe. A good one and he dies. Understand?’

Mr Butt nodded frantically. ‘Yes, yes. I understand.’

Beneath the balaclava, Voorhess smiled. ‘Good.’

He stood up and left the room, moving quickly. He’d fitted an electronic sensor to the front door of Mr Butt’s house earlier: as soon as the door opened, the sensor would activate, automatically sending a text message to Voorhess’s phone. This would be his cue to set off the bomb.

Afterwards, the conclusion would be that Mr Butt himself had been the man who’d fired the missile, and had then lain in wait to ambush the police when they arrived, trying to take as many of them with him as possible. Given the power of the bomb, there wouldn’t be enough left of Mr Butt to uncover any evidence of his incarceration; and, anyway, Voorhess had been very careful not to leave marks on him. A background check would show no obvious links between Mr Butt and Islamic fundamentalism, but the physical proof of his involvement would be more than enough.

It was, thought Voorhess, a near-perfect plan, which was just the way he liked it.