if there was another bomber, he would also be working to a five p.m. deadline. It meant that if Victoria was a target, he would be arriving within the next four minutes.
He flicked to the westbound District Line. A train burst out of the tunnel. There was no sound on the monitor. The doors opened and passengers stepped out, confused when they saw that the platforms were empty. Three CCTV cameras were covering the platform and Gannon skipped from view to view. When he clicked on the camera covering the rear of the train, something caught his attention. He leaned forward, staring at the screen.
The ARV pulled up in front of Charing Cross station. Bamber unlocked the MP5s. ‘Stay with the car, Mike,’ said Rose. ‘Monitor the main set.’ He stripped off his personal radio. ‘Dave, you stay between me and the car. I won’t be able to use the radio because it might set the thing off. Anything I should know, shout. Keep at least fifty metres from me.’
‘Sarge, I don’t—’
Rose cut Bamber off with an impatient wave. ‘Just do as you’re told.’
Bamber held out an MP5 but Rose shook his head. At the entrance to the station a uniformed sergeant was standing next to a young Pakistani man in a long raincoat with his hands on his head. He was talking animatedly to the sergeant. Rose looked at the huge station clock. It was almost five o’clock.
He put on his ballistic helmet and fastened the chinstrap as he walked towards the two men.
There were crowds on the pavement, standing and staring.‘Can you all move back,please?’shouted Rose, but no one paid him any attention.‘Keith Rose,SO19,’ he said, as he drew level with the sergeant.
‘Ben Harris. Are you bomb disposal?’
‘They’re on their way.’ Rose nodded at the Pakistani. ‘You’ve seen it?’
The sergeant nodded. There was no colour in his face. ‘He opened his coat. I made him stay like that so he can’t touch the button.’
‘It’s okay,’ said the Pakistani. ‘I don’t want to hurt anyone.’
Rose was surprised at the man’s nasal Birmingham accent. ‘What’s your name?’ asked Rose.
‘Rashid Malik.’
‘Okay, Rashid. Just stay where you are. We’ll get this fixed, don’t worry.’
Malik smiled eagerly.‘It is okay. The bomb is safe.’
A uniformed constable and two rail employees were trying to stop people leaving the station as they would have to walk past the Pakistani. Commuters were shouting angrily. ‘Ben, go and help your colleague over there. Keep everyone at least a hundred metres away.’
‘The bomb is safe,’ said Malik.
The sergeant looked as if he was going to argue so Rose pointed in the direction of the station concourse. ‘If more people arrive, we’ll have major crowd problems over there. Find another way for them to leave.’
‘Everything is all right,’ said Malik.
The sergeant hurried off to shout at the crowds.
Rose waved at Bamber. He pointed at the crowds on the pavement. ‘Dave, get them moving towards Trafalgar Square.’
‘Right, Sarge!’ shouted Bamber. He ran over to the commuters and yelled at them to move away. He was faced with a wall of blank faces. The office-workers wanted to go home and they weren’t prepared to budge.
Rose took one of the plastic ties from his belt and moved behind Malik. ‘I’m just going to fasten your wrists, Rashid,’ said Rose, matter-of-factly. ‘It’s for your own safety.’
‘There is no need,’ said Malik, but he didn’t resist as Rose fastened the tie.
‘Now, stand very still, Rashid. Let me see what we’re dealing with.’
Shepherd scanned the northbound Victoria Line platform as the passengers rushed out of the carriages and registered surprise when they saw the platform was empty. Blue-uniformed members of staff cajoled them towards the escalators. Shepherd saw two Pakistani teenagers, young men with gelled hair and gold chains, but they were wearing loose sweatshirts with designer labels. No threat.
He walked back down the platform. He saw anxious faces, nervous faces, angry faces, but he didn’t see the face of a man prepared to kill himself and dozens of others. There were businessmen with briefcases, secretaries wearing drab office suits and white trainers, schoolchildren with ties at half mast, tourists looking bemused and holding maps of the Underground system.
‘Spider, I have a possible. Just got off the westbound District Line,’ said the major in Shepherd’s ear.
Shepherd started to thread his way through the passengers.
Gannon moved his face closer to the monitor. The man was an Arab and he’d been in the second to last carriage of the westbound train. He was walking slowly down the platform, wearing a brown raincoat that looked several sizes too big for him. The coat had attracted Gannon’s attention, but the man’s body language also suggested something wasn’t right. He was tense: his eyes darted from side to side, and he was clenching and unclenching his fists. Gannon clicked on to a camera closer to the man. It was clear that the man was Middle Eastern: skin the colour of weak coffee, clean-shaven with a hooked nose. Gannon clicked back to the distant view. The man had a scrawny neck but the coat looked bulky round his chest. Or was he imagining it? Gannon had to be sure. ‘Ronnie,’ he said. ‘Have a look at this.’
The commander came up and stood behind him.
‘What do you think?’ asked Gannon.
Roberts exhaled. ‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe’ wasn’t good enough. Gannon clicked back to the close-up. ‘Not a face you recognise?’
Roberts shook his head. ‘He’s not right, though. Look at his eyes – he’s hyper.’
As they watched, the man began to mutter to himself. He looked as if he might be praying.
Shepherd ran through the pedestrian tunnel. Half a dozen office workers using the tunnel as a short-cut glared at him even though they were the ones heading in the wrong direction. Shepherd pressed in his earpiece.
‘Arab male, late twenties, wearing a long brown raincoat. Clean-shaven. He’s on the platform about eighty feet from the exit tunnel.’
Shepherd pulled the Glock from its holster as he ran. A middle-aged woman opened her mouth wide in astonishment and Shepherd had a glimpse of black fillings as he ran past her.
‘Where are you, Spider?’
‘Tunnel leading to the platform,’ said Shepherd.
‘He’s just passed it. You’ll come out behind him. He’s stopped.’
Shepherd raised his gun so that the barrel was pointing at the ceiling. The tunnel curved to the right and ahead of him he saw the platform.
There could be no mistake, Gannon knew. If he called it wrong and an innocent man was shot in the head for no other reason than that he was an Arab, his career would be over, Shepherd’s too. Gannon stared at the CCTV picture, Roberts at his shoulder. ‘It’s a definite maybe,’ said Roberts.
‘I think so.’
The man was still muttering to himself, hands by his sides. Commuters were bumping into him as they passed but he showed no reaction.
Gannon linked his fingers and continued to stare at the screen, unblinking. The man’s hands were empty, he was sure. He wasn’t holding a trigger. Gannon’s eyes flicked to the wall-mounted clock. It was four fifty-nine. The timing was right. The location was right. The man fitted the profile. But was that enough? Was that enough to order a man to be killed?
The Arab stopped. Commuters passed by him like river water flowing around a rock. He raised his head until he was staring into the CCTV camera. His eyes bored into Gannon’s. The Arab smiled. A cruel, knowing smile. His right hand moved to unbutton his raincoat.
‘It’s him,’ said Gannon, calmly. ‘Green light.’
Shepherd ran out on to the platform. There were a dozen or so passengers still there: stragglers in no rush to get home, tourists who weren’t sure if they were heading the right way. A woman in the light blue uniform of the station staff was hurrying them along.
Shepherd dropped into the firing position, legs shoulder-width apart, left foot in front of the right, toes turned inward. He brought up his left hand to cup the right and took aim with the Glock.
The man was fifteen feet ahead. Brown raincoat, black trousers, black shoes. His hair was jet black and
