He showered and changed into brand new clothes he’d bought a week earlier. Then he placed all of his old clothes in the black rubbish bags. Also into the bags went anything that identified him as Zach Ahmed. That wasn’t his real name: it was an identity he’d carefully cultivated over the past two years. His real name was Daniel Khan.
He peered out of the window and saw the police car parked across the road. The two officers had bought coffees from one of the all-night cafés and were sipping them as they chatted.
He had a large nylon kitbag under his bed and pushed the rubbish bags into it, then zipped it up. He went around the flat one last time, checking he hadn’t forgotten anything, then headed downstairs. One of the reasons Daniel had rented the flat in Bayswater was that it had a way out through a small backyard where the rubbish bins were stored. He locked the flat and went downstairs, out of the back door to the yard and through a wooden gate into the alley that ran behind the terrace.
He caught a black cab in Queensway and had the driver drop him at Victoria station. He caught a second cab to south London and got out in Peckham. He walked for a good ten minutes with the kitbag, doubling back several times to reassure himself that he wasn’t being followed.
The warehouse had a for-sale sign over its door. It had been on the market for more than two years but planning restrictions meant it was proving difficult to sell. There was a chain-link fence running around it and the surrounding yard. The gate was unlocked and he walked through and around to the rear of the building where there was a delivery bay and a metal shutter that had been raised. He went inside.
The nine chairs were still standing in a circle. Shahid had taken off his ski mask and overalls and was wearing a pink polo shirt and faded blue jeans. He was taking the SIM card out of a phone as Daniel walked in. He grinned. ‘Hello, bruv.’
Daniel dropped his bag and hugged his brother. Adam Khan was three years older than Daniel but they were often mistaken for twins. ‘Did you get the money?’ asked Daniel, as he stepped back.
‘Of course. All five million.’
Daniel punched the air. ‘Fucking ace.’
‘I had it collected and put into the banking system. I’ll move it around a bit but it’s pretty much untraceable already. And you got the recording?’
Daniel pulled his mobile phone out of his back pocket. ‘The quality’s great. You can hear every word.’
‘And the cops didn’t examine it?’
‘They took the other phone but I told them this was my personal one and they let me keep it.’
‘How did the interrogation go?’
‘Piece of cake. But there’s something you need to know. The guy you sent to Tavistock Square? He was a cop.’
Adam’s jaw dropped. ‘No fucking way.’
‘Undercover with the NCA. We thought he was a paedo but he was undercover.’
‘Fuck me, he looked the part.’
Daniel grinned. ‘Any Asian with a beard is a paedo or a jihadist? That’s racial profiling, bruv. But once he told them what had happened here, they had to believe him. And us.’
Adam shook his head. ‘Shit, that’s not good. We went to a lot of trouble making sure they were bad. If not potential jihadists, at least they were criminals.’
‘He was good at his job, that’s for sure,’ said Daniel. ‘He looked as if he was part of that gang.’
‘We were lucky he wasn’t hurt,’ said Adam.
‘The plan was never for anyone to get hurt,’ said Daniel. ‘The only way he’d have got hurt is if the cops had overreacted. But, yeah, we were lucky.’
The two men embraced again. ‘Time to move,’ said Adam. ‘I cleaned up the body.’
Daniel laughed and went to look behind the screen. ‘It worked a fucking treat, didn’t it? They shat themselves.’
‘It looked real, all right,’ said Adam. ‘That bit of leg sticking out of the trainer was the clincher.’
‘Bog-standard special effects,’ said Daniel. ‘Shows you my degree wasn’t a total waste of money.’ He nodded at the kitbag. ‘The stuff in there needs burning.’
‘Put it in the car with the rest of the rubbish.’ He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘I’m looking forward to getting back to the real world.’
‘Me too,’ said Daniel.
SCOTLAND YARD, VICTORIA EMBANKMENT (the next day)
Kamran’s secretary put a mug of coffee on his desk, with a folder containing mail to be signed. He thanked her, picked up his pen and signed the letters one after another. When he’d finished he looked at the whiteboard on the wall to his right. He had fixed eighteen photographs to it. The top row were the surveillance photographs of the nine men wearing the suicide vests. Below them were the nine hostages. All had now been released and were back home with their families. The hunt for Shahid had been passed onto MI5 and GCHQ as there was virtually nothing that the police could do. They had no description or intel of any sort. All they had was his voice. So far GCHQ hadn’t been able to come up with a match, and neither had their American counterparts, the National Security Agency. It was a mystery, and so far as Kamran could see, it was destined to remain that way.
He picked up his mug of coffee and stood up, his back aching from the two hours he’d spent at his desk. He walked over to the whiteboard and sipped his coffee as he studied the top row of photographs. All nine had told the same story, pretty much. Abducted, masked and hooded, a suicide vest put on them, covered with a raincoat. A waistpack with a phone and written instructions as to what they were to do. The men had seemingly been chosen at random, other than that they were all Muslims. Eight of Pakistani origin, one Somalian. Cleanskins, more or less. Not one considered a threat to the state. The picture of Zach Ahmed was the only one not taken as a close-up. Ahmed had refused to co-operate: he hadn’t wanted to be photographed and had refused to give his fingerprints or a DNA sample. The picture on the whiteboard was the one that had been taken by the bomb-disposal officer through the window of the coffee shop.
He lowered his gaze and looked at the hostages. Another nine people, again seemingly chosen at random. Wrong place, wrong time. Except for Roger Metcalfe, the MP. He’d obviously been chosen because of who he was. He peered at the photograph of Mohammed Al-Khalifa, the man taken hostage at the coffee bar in Marble Arch. He frowned as he stared at the photograph. Something wasn’t right but he couldn’t quite place it. He scratched the side of his face as he stared at the photograph, then back at the one of Zach Ahmed. His frown deepened. He called through to his secretary in the outer office. ‘Amy, see if you can track down Kashif Talpur with the National Crime Agency. Ask him to come in as a matter of urgency.’
Two hours later, Amy showed Talpur into Kamran’s office. At first Kamran didn’t recognise the man: he’d shaved off his beard, cut his hair short and was wearing a dark pinstripe suit and a red-and-black-striped tie. ‘You’ve certainly changed your appearance since we last met,’ said Kamran, waving Talpur to a chair.
‘What happened blew my cover on the drugs operation, obviously,’ said Talpur. ‘In fact, it’s pretty much blown me for undercover work ever again. They’re deciding where to use me next as we speak.’ He shrugged. ‘Probably for the best. Undercover work takes it out of you and plays havoc with your private life.’
‘Do you want a coffee, water, anything?’
‘I’m fine, sir. Just a little confused.’ He gestured at the whiteboard. ‘I thought MI5 were handling the case now.’
‘They are. But SO15 is still involved and I had a thought or two that I wanted to run by you before I talk to Chief Superintendent Gillard. The day it all happened. Your instructions were to take a hostage, correct?’