Close Call (36 page)

The policeman said, ‘To do what? Shoot Wayne Rooney?’ He gave a weak laugh. ‘And why do you say “six people”? The suspect only had the one ticket.’

Pearson didn’t bother to explain. He saw what Liz was driving at, and he said, ‘So the other jihadis must already have their tickets. Which means—’

‘It means they’ve arrived and are holed up somewhere nearby.’ Liz pointed towards the solitary figure of Atiyah, sitting in handcuffs on the wooden crate, then asked the policeman, ‘Are you sure he didn’t have anything else on him? Anything at all – a crumpled bus ticket, or a pocket comb. Anything.’

The officer shook his head. ‘No, and he didn’t say a word – he wouldn’t even tell me his name. I don’t think you’ll get much out of him.’

Pearson said to Liz, ‘Do you want to have a go here or wait until we take him back to headquarters?’

‘Here please.’ It was critical to try to get Atiyah to talk before he had time to collect his thoughts and invent a story – or just clam up and ask for a lawyer.

As Liz started to walk over to Atiyah, Peggy, who had come back from tending the Dagestan women, intercepted her. ‘Could I have a word, Liz?’ She held up her mobile phone. ‘I’ve just had a message relayed from Thames House. It could be important.’

‘Give me two minutes, Peggy. I need to talk to Zara urgently.’ And she strode over and stood in front of Atiyah. He ignored her, continuing to stare out towards the parked cars on the hard standing in front of the warehouse.

Liz said, ‘You all right? You didn’t get hurt in the shooting?’

He didn’t reply. His eyes remained focused on the distance, trance-like. For a moment Liz wondered if he was drugged, but then she remembered him from the video feed – he had been perfectly lively then, even aggressive. She said, ‘Tell me if you got hurt; there are paramedics here now.’ When he still didn’t reply, Liz said softly, ‘Mika, we know who you are.’

This time he blinked. For a moment Liz thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t. She went on, ‘We know the lorry has brought other things into the country, besides the women and the mattresses. We’re going to start searching it in a minute or two. When we find what we’re looking for, you’ll be arrested.

‘But that’s not all we’re searching for. I think you know that. At least five of your colleagues have entered the country from Yemen; I think they’re supposed to meet you once you’ve collected the guns that are in the lorry. I didn’t realise you were interested in football – are your colleagues going to the match too?’

He flinched slightly, then pursed his lips. Liz went on, ‘I’m certain we’ll be able to find them, especially if they show up at the match tomorrow.’ She was watching him carefully. Without these guns, his comrades shouldn’t be able to do much even if they made it inside the stadium next day – unless . . . And Liz shuddered at the thought.
Unless they already had other weapons
.

The only way to be sure was to find them. She suddenly hated the idea that Martin might have died for nothing; that despite the sacrifice of his life, and all their efforts, these terrorists might still manage to launch an attack. If only Zara could be made to talk. But looking at him she realised he was determined to give nothing away – he had adopted the same vacant stare again, as if transfixed.

Liz said, her voice hardening, ‘Your colleagues will go down all right. But the big loser is going to be you, Mika, because you’re the one we can tie to the guns we’re about to find. We clocked you a long time ago, and you’ve been followed ever since. We watched your meeting in Primrose Hill, and the dealer you saw there is in custody in France. He’s told us everything we need to put you away. I reckon you’re facing thirty years. You might get out in time for the 2040 Olympics. Just think how old you’ll be then.’

Liz gave a sigh. ‘It’s not as if you will have helped your cause very much, either. But there is a way you can help yourself, a way you could be out of prison in just a few years – you’d still have a life left. But, Mika, you have to tell us where the others are.’

Atiyah continued to sit impassively and Liz realised she was hitting a brick wall. He was obviously a fully signed up jihadi. This was his martyrdom and if she had said two hundred years in prison instead of thirty, he would have been pleased. She made one last try: ‘We’re going to catch your colleagues anyway; it’s just going to speed things up if you tell us where they are. Think about what I’m saying; soon it’ll be too late for me to help you.’

Atiyah turned his head very slowly, and for the first time Liz felt hopeful that he might reply. His eyes met hers, and he held her gaze as his lips began to move. Then his mouth opened and he spat in her face.

Liz jerked back in surprise. She tried to collect herself, and wiped the spittle from her cheek with the sleeve of her coat. She was determined not to show her shock, or anger. She said calmly, ‘If you help us, I promise you I will do everything in my power to help you.’ A thought came suddenly into her head. She added, ‘I’ll also make sure your mother doesn’t get dragged into this.’

Atiyah’s eyes flared for an instant, and for a moment Liz thought he would spit at her again. But then he regained control, and his eyes resumed their opaque stare.

Liz turned round and saw that Pearson was waiting, standing halfway between her and the lorry. She shrugged as she walked towards him, leaving Atiyah in the care of his armed guard. Peggy was there too, waiting for her, and Liz remembered that she had something to tell her.

In the background, behind Pearson, three policemen had approached the lorry, gesturing to the driver to come out of the cab. One of them went round to the driver’s side and climbed up on the step next to the door of the cab. He knocked on the glass and shouted through the window, ‘Open up. We want to talk to you.’

The Chief Constable and Peggy turned round and Liz stopped and watched as the policeman, losing patience, shouted, ‘Open up, or we’ll have to smash the window.’

The driver was looking frightened – though suddenly Liz wondered if that was an act. She was about to shout a warning when she saw the man slide across the front seat of the cab to the passenger side. Opening the door, he leapt down just as two of the policemen came round the front of the lorry.

They were less than ten feet away when from the pocket of his pea jacket the driver drew out a small grenade. With his free hand he prised the pin off, then chucked the grenade underhand, like a child playing rounders.

The nearest policeman to him flinched and turned away with his arms holding his head. The grenade landed on the cement floor, just missing the policeman, then bounced high in the air, angled towards . . . towards Liz. She tensed, waiting for it to explode. There was nowhere to go and nothing she could do.

Then an outstretched arm, black-clad, with silver on its shoulder, reached out and grabbed the grenade as it started to come down. In one quick motion the arm then threw the grenade straight out of the open front of the warehouse.

It travelled twenty yards and hit with a sharp thump on the tarmac forecourt, where it promptly exploded. As dirt-coloured shards burst through the air, the noise of the explosion was astonishingly small, almost muffled. But it was followed by a series of sharp
pings
– the shrapnel was hitting the sides of the parked police cars.

Pearson ran to the front of the warehouse. ‘Who’s hit?’ he shouted. But the two ambulance attendants had been shielded from the blast by one of the police cars. They looked dazed but unhurt. Tom, the Chief’s driver, was the sole policeman outside, and he’d been in his car on the radio. He held a hand up to show he was OK.

Visibly relieved, Pearson came back into the warehouse, where the driver had been wrestled to the ground and handcuffed. As an armed policeman watched him, Atiyah at last showed some emotion – he was smiling broadly.

‘Are you all right, Liz?’ asked Pearson.

She nodded. ‘Just surprised to be breathing. For a moment I was sure that was it.’ She looked at Pearson. ‘This is the first time I’ve had to thank anyone for saving my life. Thank you very much.’

‘Pure instinct,’ he said. ‘I was in the Territorial Army and sometimes it seemed half our training was about dealing with incendiary devices and grenades. Never had to use it then.’ He shook his head. ‘And never thought I’d have to use it here. There must have been something wrong with that grenade, but thank God there was.’

Behind them they heard a quiet groan. Liz turned and saw Peggy squatting down against the side wall of the warehouse. She was holding her arm, which was bleeding badly just below the elbow.

‘Were you hit?’ Liz asked.

Peggy grimaced and slumped down, her back against the wall and her legs splayed out in front of her, flat on the floor. As Liz rushed to her, Pearson said, ‘I’ll get a paramedic.’

Liz crouched down next to Peggy. She saw at once that the wound was bad; shrapnel had ripped through the layers of sweater and shirt Peggy wore; there was a deep jagged cut in her forearm, which was bleeding profusely.

She saw Peggy’s eyes glaze and start to shut. The girl was going into shock. ‘Peggy!’ Liz shouted, and the eyes fluttered open, stared vaguely at Liz, then shut again.

The paramedic had arrived and Liz stood up to get out of his way. As he examined Peggy’s arm, she moaned in pain, and he took a syringe and vial out of his pack and injected something into Peggy’s other arm. Morphine, Liz guessed; the pain of the shrapnel piece must be excruciating.

Two more paramedics arrived, carrying a stretcher between them. They carefully lifted Peggy onto it, then carried her towards one of the ambulances parked on the tarmac outside.

The medic who had injected Peggy looked at Liz. ‘She should be fine, but we need to get her seen to properly right away – that’s a nasty wound she’s got. Do you want to come with us in the ambulance?’

Liz hesitated. She wanted to be with Peggy, but there was still everything to play for. She shook her head. ‘I’m still needed here. But please keep me posted.’

Pearson was on his phone, but he rang off when he saw Liz. He said, ‘We’re going to have to make a decision about the match.’

She nodded. ‘I know. It’s your call of course, but I’m worried about these other jihadis. We just have no idea where they are or whether they have any weapons. I would hazard a guess that they haven’t, but there are no guarantees. They might have access to some cache somewhere.’

‘Yes. You’re right. And if they do turn up at the match armed or carrying explosives of some kind, we can’t be sure we’ll be able to stop them getting in. We’ve got the seat number of Atiyah’s ticket, but even if we searched everyone with a seat in the same block we might not catch them. They could have seats in any part of the ground.’

The Chief Constable was frowning. ‘I’m beginning to think we have no option but to cancel the match. We can’t take the risk. But if we do it’s going to cause an immense furore. There’ll be chaos on the streets, the media will have a field day, the Home Secretary will get drawn in and all of us including your Service will come in for a load of criticism. I need to speak to the Home Office before we do anything and you’ll want to talk to your management too.’

Liz looked at her watch. It was now a quarter past five. ‘I’ll get on to the Duty Officer. DG will certainly want to be informed.’

Pearson looked round the warehouse. ‘We’re not needed here any more. We’ll go back to HQ and set up a conference call and then everyone can have their say and get themselves prepared for the shit storm we’re going to face. We can start the ball rolling while we drive back.’

Chapter 59

At six o’clock they were in Pearson’s corner office, joined now by Lazarus and several of Pearson’s senior colleagues, called in to help plan what would be a major operation whatever was decided about cancelling the derby match. Outside it was still pitch-dark, and whenever Liz looked towards the windows she saw, reflected against the black sky, the dark-uniformed figures sitting round the conference table in the middle of the room.

Liz had rung the hospital from the car and learned that Peggy’s condition was stable, but that they would soon be operating on the arm to remove the shrapnel, which had fragmented into a number of small pieces. Confident there was nothing she could do for Peggy at the moment, Liz was focused on the decision Pearson was going to have to make.

Reports had been called for from all police divisions for any sightings of a group of men acting suspiciously, but in the absence of any descriptions, no one was surprised that no reports had been received. Liz’s colleagues in Thames House had been in touch with GCHQ, the DCRI in France and the UK Border Agency, but no new information was forthcoming. A4 and police surveillance teams were still out in the area – they all knew the urgency of the situation and would instantly have communicated news of any sightings.

From the speakerphone in the middle of the table an automated voice suddenly announced, ‘Your call is ready to begin. All participants are now signed in.’ Pearson took a deep breath and said, ‘Good morning, everyone, I apologise for the uncivilised hour but we have an urgent decision to take in connection with the Zara Operation on which I think you are all briefed. Will you all please introduce yourselves?’

With the preliminaries over, Pearson outlined the situation, calmly summarising the dramatic events of the ­previous few hours. He concluded, ‘We are confident that the target of this jihadi group is the derby match between Manchester United and Manchester City at Old Trafford this afternoon. We will of course continue to question Zara, but so far we’ve got nothing out of him, and I don’t believe that will change. He’s already asking for a lawyer. We have interdicted the arms imported for use in that attack, but the whereabouts of the group other than Zara is unknown and we do not know if they are armed or have access to arms. So a risk exists that they may attempt to proceed with the attack and that there may be casualties – possibly many.’