‘What happens then?’
Abby looked down at Ethan. It was clear she didn’t want to worry him. ‘If they keep going up, then it could be a problem, but I should be good for a few hours yet.’ She squeezed her son’s hand and forced a smile.
‘Mom, you’ll be OK,’ said Ethan quietly, before turning to Scope. ‘Won’t she?’
Scope nodded, but something in Abby’s expression worried him. He didn’t know a lot about Type One diabetes, but he was pretty sure the consequences would be serious if she didn’t get her insulin soon. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll sort it.’
He grabbed the hotel phone, walked it as far as possible from the bed, and dialled the emergency services.
As soon as the operator picked up, Scope asked to speak to a paramedic. At first, the guy on the other end was reluctant to put him through, but Scope wasn’t taking no for an answer. ‘This is a matter of life and death,’ he hissed into the phone. ‘If this woman dies because you wouldn’t help, then I’m going to come looking for you, and you’re going to pay, do you understand that?’
‘There’s no need for that kind of attitude, sir,’ said the operator indignantly, but clearly there was, because two minutes later he was through to a male paramedic who identified himself as Steve.
Scope briefly explained the situation, keeping his voice low. ‘We need that insulin fast. She told me she thinks she’s good until about ten, so we’ve got an hour and a half maximum.’ This was a lie, but he knew he needed to inject a sense of urgency into the situation.
‘Where’s the patient’s supply?’
‘She dropped her bag when she was shot,’ answered Scope, avoiding telling the truth, ‘and it’s not there any more.’
‘How much blood has she lost?’
‘I don’t know, but I got the bleeding under control fast, and I’ve only had to change the dressing once, so I don’t think she’s lost that much. Will the blood loss affect how soon she needs her next dose?’
‘I honestly don’t know, but it might have some effect.’
‘So we need to move fast. In a hotel this size they must keep medical supplies somewhere on-site. I just need to find out where.’
‘I can’t help you there,’ responded Steve.
‘That’s where you’re wrong. You can find out for me.’
‘But I’m nowhere near the Stanhope.’
‘One thing I can guarantee about this siege is that someone in the emergency services will be in touch with the hotel’s owners, and they’ll know. You’ve got to ask to be put through to someone at the scene.’
‘It’ll take time.’
Scope looked over his shoulder and saw mother and son staring up at him expectantly. Abby still looked OK, but for how much longer was anyone’s guess. He gave them both a reassuring smile before turning away. ‘We haven’t got time, Steve,’ he whispered. ‘There’s a woman in here who’s going to die if she doesn’t get her insulin, and her eight-year-old son’s going to have to witness it.’
Steve sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do, but it’s not going to happen just like that. This whole thing is bedlam at the moment, and I’m only a lowly paramedic.’
‘Just do what you can, and do it fast. Have you got a number I can get you on?’
Steve hesitated for a moment, then gave Scope his mobile phone number.
‘I’ll call you in fifteen minutes,’ Scope told him, hanging up the phone before Steve had a chance to protest.
20.29
THE SAS TEAM
had been billeted two streets south of Park Lane, well away from the TV cameras, which had been placed almost exclusively around the perimeter of Hyde Park from where they had a clear, if distant, shot of the front of the Stanhope.
It was a six-minute walk to the team’s temporary base from the mobile incident room but Arley Dale did it in four. It wasn’t official protocol for the head of the emergency services to meet face to face with her military counterparts. It would have been far easier to give their leader a briefing on one of the secure phones. But Arley couldn’t afford to do it that way. She needed to find out as much information as she could. The lives of her husband and children depended on it.
The office was large and open plan and full of casually dressed men unpacking kit, which included an impressive arsenal of weapons. There must have been a good thirty of them in all that she could see, and they didn’t look to her like soldiers. A few of them were talking and joking among themselves, but there was an air of studied concentration about them as they worked, and not one of them glanced up as she walked into the room, even though she was in full dress uniform.
In one corner, a table had been set up and three men, again all casually dressed, were bent over one of three laptops that had been lined up in a row, along with several telephones. One of them was older than the others – probably about forty-five, with greying hair and a lined, weather-beaten face that suggested he spent a lot of time outside. He was dressed in jeans and an open-necked shirt, and there was no sign that he was carrying a weapon.
‘Major Standard?’
He looked up and gave her an appraising look.
‘I’m DAC Arley Dale,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘I’m in charge of the emergency services on the ground.’
‘And I’m the man in charge of this lot.’ He put out a hand. ‘Good to meet you, DAC Dale.’
‘Please, call me Arley.’
‘Well, Arley, I’d offer you a cup of tea but, as you can see, our kettle hasn’t arrived yet. Nor have the chairs.’
‘I can’t stop. I just wanted to give you a brief face-to-face rundown of what we’ve got so far.’
Standard nodded, and Arley thought he seemed a nice guy, which somehow made what she was about to do worse.
‘We’ve had some information,’ he said, ‘but not a great deal.’
‘There isn’t a great deal to be had. We’ve got a previously unknown group of men of Middle Eastern and possibly eastern European origin who are making some very ambitious demands, and who we believe are linked to the bombs at the Westfield and Paddington.’
‘Were they suicide bombs?’
‘We think one of the two at Paddington was.’
‘That makes things a little tricky,’ said Standard with admirable understatement. ‘Our understanding is that they’re holding one group of hostages in a restaurant on the ninth floor.’
‘That’s right. They’ve released a handful of children, and we’ve managed to get some limited information from the oldest of them, a boy of twelve. He says there are about thirty hostages in the restaurant guarded by two terrorists armed with assault rifles. The terrorists are situated near the restaurant entrance, and they have access to a TV showing the news, so they can see what’s going on outside. Because they keep the blinds down the whole time, we can’t see their exact locations.’
Standard nodded thoughtfully and, though he was trying to hide it, Arley could see he wasn’t liking the information he was receiving.
‘They also have a rucksack that they claim contains a bomb which they’ve placed in the middle of the hostages, and one of them always keeps his foot close to the detonator.’
Standard nodded again. ‘And there’s another group being held in the ballroom on the mezzanine floor. Is that right?’
‘That’s what we believe, yes, but we have no idea of numbers, of the hostages or the hostage-takers. According to GCHQ, the hostage-takers aren’t communicating by radio, and there’s no mobile phone signal inside the hotel, so it’s impossible to track them. Our negotiations are being held on the telephone in the kitchen next door to the ballroom, so we think that’s the terrorist’s command centre.’
‘And what about our VIP hostage, Michael Prior? Do we have any idea where he’s being held?’
Arley shook her head, conscious of how limited their information was. ‘All I can tell you is that as of five p.m. he was being held in one of the guest rooms on the third floor at the front of the hotel, but we haven’t been able to find out which one because he wasn’t booked into the hotel under his own name, and neither his wife nor his office knew he was there. Since then his mobile phone’s moved within the building, and it’s now been switched off. We’ve asked the lead hostage-taker for permission to speak to him, but so far it hasn’t been forthcoming.’
Standard sighed. ‘It sounds like these gentlemen are very well organized. Not your usual Angry Brigade bunch of extremists. It’s clear they’ve been studying how we operate in these kinds of situations. What about their state of mind? Do they come across as agitated, or desperate?’
‘We’ve been dealing with one man, who calls himself Wolf, and he seems remarkably calm under the circumstances. I’m hoping we can negotiate a peaceful solution.’
‘We’re all hoping that.’
‘We’ve got the TV cameras well back from the scene and we’re operating a complete no-fly zone in central London, but if you go in from the roof or the front, your actions will be seen live on TV. With the technology they’ve got these days, there’s no way round that.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ said Standard with a frown.
‘Right now, the situation’s calm, but if things deteriorate rapidly, what’s your plan for penetrating the building?’
There it was. The life-or-death question. She asked it calmly enough, but all the time she was thinking of Howard, Oliver and India. Wondering if they were even still alive. Just as she had been ever since she’d received that phone call.
Standard looked at her, and the lines on his face seemed deeper than before. ‘If things go totally awry and we have to go in at a moment’s notice, our IA – the immediate action plan – is a multi-entry assault via the roof and neighbouring buildings. But I have to tell you, it’s a very risky strategy, given the way the terrorists have split the hostages, and our lack of knowledge of their numbers. Or what booby-traps, if any, they’ve laid.’
‘We can’t afford large numbers of civilian casualties.’
‘We know that,’ said Standard. ‘Which is why we’re currently in the process of formulating a more subtle surprise attack. But we only received the digital plans for the building in the last ten minutes, and we’re still waiting for the guest lists from the Stanhope’s owner, so it’s going to take time.’
Arley needed more than this. Much more. ‘The hostage-takers claim to have booby-trapped the whole building,’ she said, ‘including the ground floor entrances. And we know they’ve got ready access to explosives.’
‘In that case, we’d be looking at a silent entry through windows on the mezzanine floor into guest rooms on either side of the ballroom. That way we’re almost certain to bypass any booby-traps they’ve set. The idea would be to take out the terrorists in the ballroom, then continue through the building, securing it floor by floor, before engaging the hostage-takers in the restaurant. The terrorists think they’re being clever by not communicating by radio, but in a surprise attack like this it would actually count against them.’
Arley smiled, trying hard to look impressed. ‘What about Michael Prior? How do you intend to find him?’
‘We’re still working on that, but if you can get a location for him, it would be a huge step forward.’
‘We’ll do everything we can,’ Arley replied, feeling a knot in her stomach. Somehow they had to find a way to end the siege without the SAS having to go in. Somehow, too, Tina Boyd – a disgraced detective, with virtually no leads to work on – had to find her family and bring them home safely. Both things were still possible. They had to be. Hostages had been released, and right now, at least, the situation was calm inside the Stanhope.
Allowing herself to see the tiniest chink of hope, she stepped out of the office and into the street as her mobile rang.
‘Are you on your own?’ asked Tina.
‘Yes. What have you got?’
‘I’ve got bad news, and I’ve got good news. The bad news is bad, and there’s no easy way to say it.’
Arley felt her stomach lurch. ‘Go on.’
‘Your husband’s dead. I found his body in your house.’
The news was a terrible shock, but Arley didn’t have time to process it. ‘What about the twins?’
‘There’s no sign of them. I think they must have been taken this morning, not long after you left. Your husband’s been dead quite a long time.’
‘Christ …’
‘The better news is I’ve just come from one of your neighbours, a Mrs Thompson. She saw two men in a red van leaving your house just before eight o’clock this morning. She noted the registration number.’
Arley felt a rush of hope that seemed to lift her off her feet. As a senior police officer, she knew how much useful information you could glean from a simple registration plate. ‘Give me the number,’ she said, pulling a notebook and pen from her pocket. ‘I’ll get on to the ANPR guys.’
‘Arley, you know as well as I do that as soon as you make the request there’ll be a paper trail leading back to you, and you might have to answer some very awkward questions later.’
‘Right now, that’s the least of my worries.’
‘Have the kidnappers been back in contact?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘They will be,’ said Tina emphatically. ‘You know, we shouldn’t be doing this alone, Arley. A single registration number isn’t going to lead us straight to your kids.’
‘Look, Tina, I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me but I can’t afford to tell anyone else what’s going on.’ She paused, wondering whether she should put her concern into words. ‘These people know so much I’m beginning to wonder if it’s an inside job. The thing is, I don’t know who I can trust.’
‘You’re going to have to put your trust in somebody.’
‘And I have done. You.’
‘I’m not enough, Arley. If the SAS go in and you give their plans to the terrorists, you’ll have a lot of blood on your hands. And so will I.’
‘I know, but just let me see what this registration number gives us. Where are you now?’
‘Just down the road from your house.’
‘Can you stay there for the moment? I’ll call back as soon as I can.’
‘OK. And while you’re at it, try and get a trace on your husband’s mobile too. It might help me pin down a location for your children.’
Arley hesitated. The man who’d called her on Howard’s phone had told her that if anything happened to him, the twins would be killed by the man who was actually holding them. But she also knew that Tina needed as much information as possible. ‘OK, I’ll do it. And, Tina?’