Getting inside and detonating a bomb. Now that would be something. A real statement of intent that would show how vulnerable British society was. Blowing up the heart of a traditional holiday resort. Working class people from all over the country murdered. Not politicians, not cops or the army. A strike to the heart. Everybody at risk.
Donaldson powered on. Bill scuttled behind him, talking into his PR via the microphone attached to the earpiece.
Resources were moving quickly as all patrols dropped everything and converged on the town centre, controlled by a comms operator who was becoming increasingly hysterical.
Sadiq was forty metres ahead now. On Bank Hey Street, slowing right down near to the Tower entrance. A queue was already snaking out of the door as people waited to get in. Sadiq stopped and was looking around.
Donaldson swore. He knew he was right. This was the target.
Then another thought struck home.
Where the hell was the other guy, the other target for the day? Suicide bombers were often accompanied by another who often also had a trigger device, such as a mobile phone which could remotely detonate the bomb for those times when the bomb carrier’s courage failed and the enormity of what they were doing struck home: not just blowing others to smithereens, but themselves also. Even the most fanatical could find that a tough step to take, or a hard button to press, and they often needed help from a remote source. Many suicide bombs in the Middle East were detonated by a third party.
Donaldson stopped, as did Bill, who had also focused in on Sadiq, a young man who now looked confused, uncertain and afraid.
‘He’s got to have a partner,’ Donaldson said.
‘What do we do?’ Bill asked.
Donaldson shrugged. He knew the blood had drained from his own face and that he was feeling scared now.
Sadiq moved, joined the end of the queue into the Tower. His eyes moved continuously, he mumbled to himself — trying to refocus, Donaldson thought. Prayers, incantations, mantras.
Sadiq wasn’t really looking at anyone in particular, even though his eyes seemed to be searching. Donaldson used this to his advantage and said, ‘Let’s just stroll along together,’ to Bill who glared at him, horrified. ‘You know you want to.’
‘Actually I don’t.’
Donaldson swung a big arm around Bill’s shoulders and looked at him grinning. ‘Do you see any other way?’ Bill shook his head. ‘The first six virgins are mine,’ Donaldson quipped and they started to walk along like two mates, chatting innocently.
‘The next eighteen are mine.’
The pair were perhaps ten metres from Sadiq, who now had people behind him in the queue and was getting closer to the Tower entrance. Donaldson noticed a sign saying there was a lunchtime performance in the Tower circus, and this was obviously attracting lots of families with young kids.
Sadiq’s head started to rock back and forwards, his lips continued to mumble their prayers.
Five metres.
Bill was saying something into his radio.
Then a police car with blue flashing lights turned on to the pedestrianized street.
‘Shit,’ Donaldson said.
Four metres.
Sadiq spun, saw the cop car.
Then another police car screamed up from the opposite direction.
Sadiq saw that one, too. Panic seared across his features. Suddenly trapped, he reacted in a way that gave Donaldson a chance of survival. Sadiq’s knees sagged slightly and his hands came out of his jacket pockets in a response to being caught, like an escaping prisoner in a spotlight, but holding nothing.
Donaldson bowled sideways at him. Hard and low, enveloping him with a bear hug, pinning his arms to his side and smashing him down on to the ground. As the American connected, he felt the hard outline of packed explosives strapped to Sadiq’s body underneath his coat and knew his call had been justified.
Donaldson worked quickly and expertly. Sadiq was nothing more than a thin, skin and bone youth, with hardly anything to him, whereas Donaldson was big, fit, strong, agile, a man with years of physical training and operational experience behind him.
Within moments Sadiq was face down, hands trapped behind his back, his wrists cuffed by Bill who had moved in to assist.
There had been no fight in the lad. He’d just succumbed to the assault.
Bill leaned into his ear and called him the worst name in the English language, but just through relief rather than anything else. The last couple of minutes had seemed like hours of stress.
Bill held him down as Donaldson stood up and looked around. Cops on foot and in cars were converging. The public were shocked, confused and excited, but it would only take moments for the police to take control, push them back and form a sterile ring around Sadiq. But Donaldson knew this was no time to relax because there might be a back-up plan in place. The number two guy with the mobile phone on speed dial, ready to press send. Donaldson didn’t know enough about bombs and electronic pulses even to think of trying to dismantle whatever concoction was underneath Sadiq’s coat, but he knew everyone needed to be on full alert and the lad had to be neutralized as soon as possible.
He guessed that if there was a support bomber in place, that person would either have to have a line of sight on Sadiq to keep a check on progress, or be waiting nearby for a particular time. Such as giving Sadiq half an hour to do his stuff, and if a blast hadn’t been heard by then, press send-and-boom remotely.
Obviously Donaldson did not know for certain, but he did know that these were critical moments.
A bomb disposal expert was needed on scene quickly to disable Sadiq’s body pack.
The public had to be herded away a serious distance. A perimeter had to be established of at least two hundred metres and everyone had to be out of line of sight.
One hell of a job, he thought, as he looked desperately around. Some cops had arrived and, acting on Bill’s shouted instructions, as he held Sadiq down, were moving people away now. But more officers were needed.
Donaldson spun around. Mobile phones were at people’s ears, in their hands, folk were making calls, some were doing their best to take photos as they were pushed back. Panic surged into his gut. He twisted and knelt down by Sadiq’s head. ‘Who’s with you?’ he demanded. Sadiq’s cheek was crushed into the paving and he looked up at Donaldson with one eye, like a flatfish. Spittle dribbled out of his mouth. He sucked it back in. ‘Who’s with you?’ Donaldson repeated.
Sadiq’s half-face laughed. ‘Allah,’ he said.
Donaldson suppressed a serious urge to slam a fist into his head and smash his jaw to pieces, but he fought it, then rose again, his sharp eyes taking in everything that was happening around. The cops working urgently, Joe Public now getting the message, more police arriving.
Bill gripped the rigid bar of the handcuffs, angling them slightly so that they dug into the nerve endings in Sadiq’s wrists, and kept the lad down. ‘Next move?’ he asked.
Donaldson didn’t have an answer. His eyes were constantly roving up and down the street, desperately searching for the accomplice.
Then he saw him. A man moving against the tide of people. The support act.
Curiosity had drawn him out. If he hadn’t been dark-skinned, Donaldson probably wouldn’t have zeroed in. But he did, and he recognized the face instantly. But it wasn’t the face of the other youth from the briefing, the one who was Sadiq’s friend.
This was Jamil Akram, the man Donaldson had been hunting for over a dozen years.
Realization hit Donaldson hard as their eyes locked. Akram immediately saw that he had been recognized and began to fumble through his pockets as Donaldson surged into a run.
There was another roar from Donaldson’s throat. People spun round to see what was approaching and a path opened in front of him. Akram pulled out his phone but it seemed to dance through his fingers as if it was burning hot, or had a life of its own, and it fell to the ground, splitting into several pieces on impact, the battery and the back panel going in separate directions.
