‘Are you two lads okay?’ asked McNeil.
‘I just want to go home,’ said Luke. ‘I’ve got five-a-side tonight.’
‘Your mum’s coming to pick you up,’ said McNeil.
‘I don’t need my mum,’ said the boy. ‘I’m twelve.’
‘We’d just be happier if she was here to take care of you,’ said McNeil. ‘You’ve both been through a very trying experience.’
‘Do you think he’s going to blow up the bus?’ asked Luke.
‘We hope not,’ said McNeil. ‘Now, the man, did he say anything to you, anything at all?’
Luke shook his head. ‘He just said we were to do as we were told. We were on the top deck so we didn’t see much. He’s a Muslim, right? He wants to kill anyone who isn’t. That’s what this is about, right?’
‘It might be,’ said McNeil. ‘Did he say anything about that? Did he talk about Islam?’
‘He didn’t say anything, really. Not to us, anyway. Like I said, we were upstairs.’
‘What about when he let you off?’ asked McNeil. ‘Did he say anything then?’
Luke shook his head again.
Biddulph noticed that the other boy seemed uncomfortable, staring at the floor and fidgeting. ‘What about you, Peter?’ asked Biddulph. ‘Did he say anything to you?’
‘Not really,’ said the boy.
‘Are you sure? Nothing at all?’
‘I don’t want to say.’
Biddulph frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
The boy shrugged. ‘He’s a pervert,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper.
‘A pervert?’
‘He was asking me about condoms.’
Biddulph and McNeil stared at each other in astonishment.
EUSTON (4.45 p.m.)
The police sergeant put his phone away and went over to the man who was going to be driving the coach. ‘Gold Command says it’s time to go,’ said the sergeant.
The SAS man had given his name only as Terry. He was in his thirties and, to the sergeant, he didn’t look much. He was about five-eight with close-cropped greying hair, wiry rather than muscled, and had a chewing-gum habit that saw him popping a fresh piece between his lips every ten minutes or so. He wore a light brown leather jacket over brown cargo pants and a handgun in a nylon holster under his right arm. The sergeant had seen much tougher men in his twenty years in the police but there was a quiet confidence to Terry that he had rarely come across.
Terry nodded. There was a group of technicians in the coach inserting Kevlar plates in the driver’s seat and in the backs of the first few rows of the passenger seats. Two more had just finished putting black film over the side windows.
‘Guys, you’re going to have to stop now,’ shouted the sergeant. ‘We need to get this show on the road.’
The technicians filed off the coach. The senior man, a former army bomb-disposal officer, went up to Terry. ‘I’m not sure how much good it’ll do if nine bombs go off in a confined space,’ he said. ‘There’ll be some protection for your back but your neck and your head are going to be exposed.’
‘Hopefully it won’t come to that,’ said Terry. ‘Anyway, I brought a protective helmet with me.’ He pulled a flat cap from his pocket and placed it on his head. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you’ve got one hell of a set of balls on you, lad,’ said the technician. ‘Good luck.’
As he walked away, Terry climbed into the driving seat, took a quick look at the controls and turned on the engine.
‘Just follow the bikes,’ said the sergeant.
‘How far is it to Brixton?’ asked Terry.
‘Six miles, give or take. Normally it would take half an hour to drive but the roads have been cleared so you’ll be able to keep your foot down. Should be there in less than ten minutes. The bikes know the route so just follow them.’
Terry nodded. ‘Thanks for your help, Sergeant. Now please get the fuck off my coach.’
BRIXTON (5.00 p.m.)
The pack around Bhashir’s waist vibrated and Father Morrison gasped. ‘It’s a phone,’ Bhashir said to the priest. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Did I look worried?’ said the priest. He took out his handkerchief, mopped his brow, then put it away.
Bhashir used his left hand to unzip the waistpack and take out the phone. ‘It is time to go, brother,’ said Shahid. ‘The brothers have been released from Belmarsh. In five minutes there will be a coach outside to take you to the airport. You are to take only the hostage you are handcuffed to. The rest can stay behind.’
‘It’s over?’ asked Bhashir.
‘It soon will be,’ said Shahid. ‘They have agreed to our demands. There is a plane waiting at Biggin Hill airport.’
‘To take us where?’ asked Bhashir.
‘Away from this country. To a place of safety.’
‘But this is my country,’ said Bhashir.
‘Then you can stay. But first you must go to the airport. The coach will be outside in five minutes. In five minutes’ time you are to open the main door and walk out of the church with your hostage. You are to get into the coach. But be vigilant. I will be watching. If I think that the police are up to anything, all the vests will detonate.’
‘Please do not do that, brother. I do not want to die, not like this.’
‘Providing everyone does as they are told, no one will die,’ said Shahid. He ended the call and Bhashir put the phone back in his waistpack, then zipped it up.
‘We are to leave in five minutes,’ said Bhashir. ‘The government has released the prisoners.’
‘So you got what you wanted?’ asked the priest. ‘You can release us?’
‘Your parishioners will be freed when we go. But you have to come with me to the airport.’ He raised his left hand and jiggled the chain that connected them. ‘I don’t have the key for this.’
‘What will happen when we get onto the plane?’ asked Morrison. ‘Will you let me go?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Bhashir.
The priest frowned. ‘How can you not know?’
‘It’s not my decision.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Morrison. ‘Surely once you have the plane and the prisoners, you just let us go, right? And you fly off to where you’re going.’ He took out his red handkerchief again to mop his brow. ‘And where is it you’re going?’
Bhashir shrugged but didn’t reply.
‘You don’t know?’
‘Priest, you ask far too many questions,’ said Bhashir. He sighed. ‘I want a cigarette so badly.’
The priest grinned. His hand disappeared into his vestments and reappeared with a pack of Benson & Hedges and a cheap disposable lighter. Bhashir stared at the cigarette greedily. ‘I told you it was one of the only vices I’m allowed,’ said Father Morrison. ‘But I suppose the question is, how safe are we smoking while you’re wearing that bloody thing?’
‘I don’t think a cigarette will set it off,’ said Bhashir.
‘You’re probably right,’ said the priest. He flicked open the pack and offered a cigarette to Bhashir. He took it and smelt it as Father Morrison took one for himself and slid it between his lips. The priest lit Bhashir’s cigarette, then his own, and the two men contentedly blew smoke up at the ceiling. ‘This is against the law, you know,’ said Father Morrison. ‘The church is classed as a place of work so smoking is forbidden.’
‘With all that has happened today, no one is going to be charging us with smoking,’ said Bhashir.
The two men chuckled. Father Morrison noticed that one of the parishioners, a black man in his seventies, was looking at them longingly and he waved his cigarette. ‘Do you want one, Mr Donaldson?’ The man nodded. ‘Mr Donaldson is a three-pack-a-day man,’ the priest said to Bhashir. ‘Do you mind if he lights up? We often have a cigarette together outside after the service.’