That means everything he does has a political dimension to it. He’s more concerned with not making mistakes than he is with catching villains. The crack in his arse is from sitting on too many fences. Hannant’s a good copper, though. Let’s hope he gets there soon.’
They were driving along Victoria Embankment when Shepherd saw the first of the three figures on the tower. ‘I’ve got one,’ he said. ‘Just below the clock face.’ He could make out a figure in a blue anorak with the hood up and a bulky pack on his back. Not necessarily a he, Shepherd corrected himself. There were as many women as men prepared to blow themselves to kingdom come.
Shepherd scanned down the tower. Two more figures were some way below the first. ‘I see all three,’ he said. ‘They’re carrying backpacks.’
‘Shit,’ said Rose. ‘Backpacks mean a bigger bang. You can put thirty kilos of high explosive in a backpack with ball-bearings or nails and that’s the equivalent of a car bomb.’
Traffic was heavy but the siren and flashing lights carved a way through for the ARV. They reached Westminster Bridge and Sutherland swung right. A traffic patrol car, its blue light flashing, had parked across the bridge and two uniformed constables were turning back southbound traffic.
Rose clicked on his radio. ‘MP, Trojan Five Six Nine, I see crowds all around College Green. Isn’t someone moving them out of the area?’
‘Trojan Five Six Nine, we have units evacuating the Houses of Parliament.’
‘That’s fine, but the threat’s outside.’
Sutherland brought the car to a halt.
‘MP, Trojan Five Six Nine is at the scene,’ said Rose, into his mike. ‘Break out the guns, Stu.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’ Shepherd unlocked the metal case between the two rear seats, handed one of the MP5s to Rose, then slotted a magazine into the second weapon. He climbed out of the car. All around people were staring up at the clock tower. A group of Japanese tourists was snapping away with digital cameras. Mothers with babies in pushchairs were watching the climbers, shading their eyes with their hands. Workmen in overalls were shouting catcalls up at the three, daring them to jump.
‘This is bloody madness,’ said Rose. ‘Why aren’t these people being moved out of the way? Where the hell’s Owen?’
Shepherd let the gun hang on its nylon swing as he scanned the clock tower through his binoculars. He focused on the climber second from the top. He had turned and was watching the crowds. Shepherd got a glimpse of his face. ‘Looks like an Arab,’ he said.
‘You sure?’ asked Rose.
‘Fairly.’
Rose clicked on his transceiver mike. ‘MP, Trojan Five Six Nine, confirm that we have visual on three intruders. One is definitely IC Six.’
Chief Inspector Owen was standing with half a dozen uniformed constables in yellow fluorescent jackets. One of the officers had a megaphone and raised it to his mouth to ask the three men to return to the ground.
‘I don’t believe this,’ said Rose. ‘Come on.’
Shepherd followed him to the group. The constable lowered the megaphone and looked at Owen for further instructions. The workmen jeered at the officers.
Rose nodded at Owen. ‘Trojan unit, sir. We need authorisation from you to fire.’
Owen seemed stunned by his request. ‘Hold on, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘All we have at the moment is three guys climbing Big Ben.’
‘It’s down as a possible terrorist incident, sir,’ said Rose, ‘and I don’t want to start telling anyone their job but we should be getting civilians out of the immediate area.’
‘But we don’t know that there’s a threat,’ said Owen.
‘Three men with backpacks climbing one of the nation’s monuments, I think it’s safe to assume the worst, sir,’ said Rose, with emphasis on the ‘sir’.
‘Could be base jumpers,’ said the chief inspector.
‘Base jumpers?’
‘The guys who parachute off tall buildings,’ said Owen.
‘I know what base jumpers are, sir, but at least one of them’s an Arab and those aren’t parachutes on their backs. MI5 has said there are specific al-Qaeda threats against the House of Commons. If we don’t react decisively it’ll be down to us.’
‘It’s not a question of being decisive, Sergeant. It’s about making the right decision.’
Owen beckoned to the constable with the megaphone. ‘Start moving people back. Establish a perimeter a hundred and fifty yards from the base of the tower. And be tactful, man, we don’t want a bloody stampede.’
Shepherd was looking at the three climbers through the binoculars. One was only feet from the top of the tower.
‘Sir, we have to take action now,’ said Rose.
‘I’m not sure, Sergeant.’
Two police cars arrived, lights flashing but sirens off.
‘If they’re carrying high-explosive charges they could demolish the tower. If there’s shrapnel, people could be killed, even with a cordon.’
Owen wiped his forehead on his sleeve. ‘Where’s the god-damned AC?’ he asked.
‘It’s your call, sir.’
‘You’re sure you can reach them?’
‘No question,’ said Rose.
Indecision was etched into Owen’s face. A sergeant and three constables jogged over from the newly arrived vehicles. Over the megaphone, the constable was asking for people to move away, but no one paid him any attention. All eyes were on the men on the clock tower.
‘If they destroy Big Ben, we’ll look bloody stupid standing here letting them do it,’ said Rose. ‘Sir,’ he added, as an afterthought.
‘And if they’re thrill-seekers, we’ll have shot three innocent men,’ said Owen.
Shepherd focused on the second figure on the tower. The man was looking over his shoulder and smiling. He was to the bottom right of the clock face, close to the V numeral.
‘Sir,’ said Rose, ‘we need a green light from you.’
Owen glanced up and down the Embankment. Two ambulances had arrived and parked close to the police cars. Owen took a deep breath. He clicked his radio mike. ‘MP, this is Chief Inspector Owen, can you patch me through to AC Hannant.’
His radio buzzed. ‘I’ll try, sir.’
Rose sighed with exasperation.
‘Hang on,’ said Shepherd. ‘I think I know him.’
Owen turned towards him. ‘What?’
‘I think I know him,’ repeated Shepherd. He pointed up at the figure by the V. ‘I don’t remember his name but he’s a British citizen, Pakistani descent. His wife did a runner with his two sons and he’s been fighting for custody. He was in the papers last year,did the protest on Blackpool Tower with a couple of other guys.’ In fact, Shepherd had recalled his name – Kashif Jakhrani – but he didn’t want it generally known that he had an almost perfect memory. It was best kept secret so that he could use it to his advantage.
‘What protest?’ asked Rose impatiently.
‘Fathers for Children,’ said Shepherd. ‘Divorced dads who’ve been refused access to their kids. They draped the banner over the tower.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Owen.
‘That’s him. I read about it in the papers.’
‘So on the basis of a newspaper photograph that you may or may not have seen last year, you’re saying that man’s an angry father and not a terrorist?’ said Rose.
Shepherd put the binoculars to his eyes and focused on the man’s face again. He flicked through his mental filing system and found the newspaper article he’d scanned the previous year. In the photograph, Jakhrani was wearing a Superman costume. ‘It’s him,’ said Shepherd. ‘No question. He married an English girl and she refused him access to their two kids after they divorced. He’s no terrorist.’
