Baptism Read online

  “It’s too early to speculate on what’s happened to them,” said Hooper, sounding to Ed as though he was masking his nerves with bluster.

  “Is it?” said Calvert. Ed could detect some of his own feelings toward Hooper reflected in Calvert’s voice and he was glad that it wasn’t just him who found the man’s manner irksome. Ed was also aware, however, of the morale within the team and how imperative it was to safeguard it, especially if this situation was as potentially complex and exacting as it was shaping up to be.

  He couldn’t get it out of his head, the thudding sound that he heard on the radio and the strange way that the CO19 officer had said, “Shit.” It kept replaying over and over. His guess was that the two men were indeed lying dead in the tunnel. There was no point considering whether he should have suggested a different strategy. It had been agreed that sending two armed officers into the tunnel to make contact with the train was the right course of action. That he had had reservations meant nothing now. It served no purpose analyzing what they might have done differently. The inevitable inquiry that would take place afterward could look into all that. From now on it was essential that he kept a clear head, unclouded by emotion. The two CO19 officers were out of the equation; his years of training and experience would have to take over as he pursued potential resolutions.

  The balance of power in the room had shifted. Whatever MI5’s involvement in this—whatever they might have been doing up to this point—this was now a police operation. Hooper was clearly feeling emotionally bruised by the outcome of this first collective initiative. Ed wasn’t. Someone needed to take control while the negotiating cell was being put together and all the corresponding roles assigned.

  Ed could feel the nervous expectancy in the room as the others waited for him to speak. All the bureaucracy and the seminars and meetings and lectures, all the incessant talking, all the bullshit, all of it was in preparation for this moment. It was no time for petty vendettas or posturing, so when he addressed Hooper, he used his first name.

  “Okay, Mark, I’ll leave you to brief your people but, as far as our side of things is concerned, we’ll report back that we’ve got what looks like a terrorist hijack situation on a Northern Line tube train.”

  10:05 AM

  Northern Line Train 037, sixth carriage

  It was over an hour since the train had stopped in the tunnel between Tottenham Court Road and Leicester Square. All soft drinks and bottles of water had been drunk. Heart rates had increased. Claustrophobia—whether apparent and articulated or suppressed and internalized—was rife. Panic stalked the carriages.

  As the voice came over the train’s public address system, people stopped talking; those listening to music turned off their audio devices or pulled out hissing earpieces; eyes flicked up from books, newspapers, and magazines.

  “This is George, the driver, back with another progress report. Apparently we’re still here because they can’t evacuate us down the tunnel in either direction on account of security incidents at Tottenham Court Road station and now Leicester Square station as well. They’re telling me that everything possible is being done to resolve the situation but, in the meantime, rest assured that you’re perfectly safe down here and everyone should relax and await further news. Sorry, folks, I know it’s been a horribly long time but that’s where we are at the moment. As soon as I hear anything else, you’ll be the first to know. Oh, and if anyone toward the front or rear of the train can hear voices and movement, it’s just some maintenance engineers who are down here with us and can’t get evacuated either. But don’t worry, they’re perfectly harmless and getting on with some work.”

  Maggie listened to her husband as he lied to the passengers. It was the sort of reassuring banter that everyone wanted to hear. But although it was unconvincing to her—she could hear the terror in his voice—it seemed as though most people were buying it. But not all. The man in the sports jacket on the opposite row of seats muttered, “Bollocks,” under his breath. Another panic attack was just below the surface and it didn’t look as though his fragile psyche could contain it. Maggie watched the faces of the other passengers as he said, “Either this dick of a driver is lying or he’s being lied to by people further up the chain of command. There’s no way there are two separate security incidents at consecutive stations at the same time. No way.” His stream of consciousness was delivered in a hissed monotone. “There’s something going on.”

  This was too much for the black man in the sharp suit sitting next to Maggie. The lack of oxygen in the air and the withering heat had crippled his morale. “Listen, mate, keep your opinions to yourself. You heard the driver.” He gestured up the train. “They’re doing what they can to get us out of here.”

  “That’s what the people on the planes that went into the Twin Towers were made to believe.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  Mention of 9/11 had the woman from New York rolling her eyes and tutting.

  “Look, can we just keep the histrionics to a minimum here?” she said. Maggie could see from her demeanor that she felt as though she had said too much and now she needed to explain her outburst.

  “I was in Soho when it happened, saw the whole thing. So let’s not even suggest . . .” She looked down at the floor. As she looked up again, she caught Maggie’s eye. “I’m Daniella,” she said, holding out her hand. Her spontaneous introduction was a way of coping, a way of distracting herself from the tension of the situation. Both their hands were clammy and trembled as they touched.

  “Maggie.”

  “Adam,” said the black man in the suit, holding his hand up in greeting.

  The three of them looked at the fourth member of their group. It was a group now. Because of their close proximity, these four people were a unit of sorts—all adults over the age of thirty—just one of a myriad of pockets of humanity thrown together at random by the London transport system.

  “I’m Hugh.” Confessing his name appeared to calm him a little but Maggie thought he still looked unhinged. If only this creep had stayed at home, or been delayed by a few moments, enough to mean that he had missed this train, or even just ended up in another carriage. She wanted everyone to know the truth about their predicament but this guy was not the right conduit for the information. He looked as though he might succumb to full-blown hysteria at any moment.

  “I remember 9/11 really well,” said Hugh. “I guess everyone does. I was due in the hospital on September 12th to have a lump removed from my testicles. They thought it might be cancer—it turned out it wasn’t—but before the operation I’d convinced myself that it was. So I had a kind of end-of-the-world feeling already, which perfectly complemented what I was seeing on the television. All those people trapped in the towers.” Hugh looked up from his hands in his lap. “Maybe we’re trapped down here. What’s that expression? Just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not after you.”

  It was the first time that Maggie had actually thought about the fate of the other passengers on the train. Her own personal circumstances were so horrific and her thoughts so tightly focused on Ben and Sophie that she hadn’t considered that everyone else on the train was someone’s son or daughter, mother or father. Her predicament was only different from theirs because she had knowledge. She knew they were all victims—of what exactly she couldn’t be sure—but they were victims all the same.

  “The atmosphere’s getting worse,” said Hugh.

  “It’s so bloody hot,” said Adam.

  “No, I don’t mean the temperature, I mean the mood.” Hugh’s voice sounded petulant and whiny. “At first, everyone accepted the situation. It was just a delay. This is London Underground, for God’s sake. There are always delays. But it’s too long now. People can feel it. As for the driver, well, he’s saying just what you’d expect a driver to say under the circumstances. But there’s something about the way that he’s saying it. Can’t you hear it?”

  Hugh asked the question of Maggie,
looked straight at her. Maggie nodded. He was right. More right than he might ever imagine.

  “He sounds afraid, as though he knows something more than he’s telling. Whatever’s going on up there is serious, you mark my words. Look . . .” He gestured along the carriage. “You can see it in their faces.”

  “That’s enough now, mate,” said Adam, failing to hide the anger in his voice.

  “I know you don’t want to hear it but I’m telling you, we’re in serious shit.” Hugh leaned forward and buried his head in his hands.

  “Mind your language,” said Adam. “There are kids present.”

  “Yeah,” said Hugh, “and they’re not going to make it to adulthood at this rate.”

  “Look, just take it easy.”

  “And just accept it like a fucking sheep?”

  “Look, we’re all feeling anxious—just calm down.”

  “Yeah, just cool it for Chrissakes.” This from Daniella, her New York inflection sounding stronger than before, enriched by emotion. Her outburst silenced Hugh for a moment and Adam took his chance for further placatory words.

  “Come on, mate, it’s going to be fine. Trust me.”

  Hugh’s voice had gone up an octave when he said, “Oh Christ!” and pulled himself to his feet. Conversations halted as people turned to watch him. If she had had the emotional strength, Maggie would have tried to intervene herself, but all she could do was hope that the arrival of Hugh’s panic attack could be delayed in some way. Hugh cracking up would do none of them any good. Maggie felt too close to cracking up herself.

  Adam stood up opposite Hugh and put his hand on his shoulder. “Come on, mate.”

  Hugh seemed to deflate. “I hate the tube. Always have. I have nightmares about something like this happening.”

  Maggie thought of George and how he might be coping with his own demons.

  “It’s going to be all right,” said Adam, gesturing for Hugh to retake his seat. But Hugh had other ideas and as his emotion took hold he flung his arms around Adam, who clearly decided that the best way to respond was to reciprocate and the two men stood embracing each other in the middle of the carriage.

  On the opposite row to Maggie three seats down was a mother with a little girl on her lap, about Sophie’s age. She had covered the little girl’s ears with her hands when Hugh had started to swear. Maggie saw the concentration on the little girl’s face as she tried to decode the meaning of what she was witness to.

  “It’s all right, darling, those two men are happy to see each other,” said her mother by way of explanation.

  “Happy?” asked the little girl.

  “Happy,” came the reply.

  Through the door to the rear cab came the sound of laughter. No one else seemed to hear it. It came from the woman who was part of the reason for all this. To Maggie it sounded like the coldest laughter she had ever heard.

  10:06 AM

  Northern Line Train 037, driver’s cab

  “They’re not going to believe me for much longer,” said George.

  “Don’t put yourself down,” said Pilgrim. “I think your acting abilities are commendable. If it wasn’t for the fact that I know what you’re telling them is a lie, I’d probably believe you myself. You can be very convincing, George, especially when you consider that it wasn’t so long ago that you were hyperventilating rather spectacularly.”

  There was that smile again and George couldn’t help but reciprocate.

  “Look, you’re even smiling at me. We’re going to get along just fine.”

  “Maybe I’m suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.” Pilgrim said nothing, just stared at him. “In the early seventies some hostages in a Stockholm bank began to feel sympathy and even loyalty for the two men who held them hostage.”

  “I know what Stockholm Syndrome is. I read papers. I went to school.”

  “I’m sorry,” said George, “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Some victims of abuse maintain loyalty to their abuser. They think that it has something to do with the way that newborn babies form an emotional attachment to an adult figure in close proximity because that adult figure is their best shot at survival. It’s like baby animals forming an almost unbreakable bond with the first creature they see when they are born, regardless of the species.”

  “Looks like you know more about it than I do.”

  “Maybe I do. Then, again, maybe you’re being compliant so that you can choose your moment and try to escape.”

  “Do I need to try to escape?”

  The smile on Pilgrim’s face was well and truly gone now. He put his head on one side and narrowed his eyes as he scrutinized George.

  “I hope you’ll come to realize that what we’re doing here—the situation that we’re creating—is not something that you should want to escape from.”

  “What’s your real name?” It was a question George had considered asking a number of times over the past hour. Knowing the man’s name might help. He was convinced, however, that the question would go unanswered, so the response surprised him.

  “My name’s Tommy Denning.”

  Tommy Denning extended his hand and George shook it instinctively. The irony of the situation was not lost on him, that he should be shaking hands with the man who presented an enormous threat to him and his family. But now that this introduction had been made, George thought he might try and capitalize on it. George remembered from a film he had once seen on television the importance of a hostage continually confirming his character and humanity in order to make himself into a person rather than just an object with which to be bargained. If he could arouse some empathy in Tommy Denning then he was less likely to wind up dead.

  “So what is this situation that we’re creating?”

  “You’ll find out, I promise you that. You will find out.”

  “And what about my family?”

  “As I told you before, they’re fine, they’re absolutely fine. You do what you’re told and you’ll see them again soon enough. You have my word.”

  There was a long pause while George thought about how to phrase his next question but then he gave up on his verbal deliberations and just said it as it came to him.

  “So, are you some sort of terrorist?”

  “To be a terrorist, you’ve got to terrorize someone, haven’t you? And before you say that this bloke here on the floor might see things differently, I’d just point out that he was dead before he got to feel any terror. Why are you so inquisitive?”

  “I think you’d be inquisitive if you’d had the morning I’ve had.”

  “Fair enough.” Tommy Denning pulled down the window in the M door set into the front of the cab. He peered out into the tunnel that climbed away from the train at a slight gradient toward Tottenham Court Road station. The pistol hung from his fingers. It was less than five feet away from George’s hand. If he was quick, he could lean across and grab it.

  “So where did you get the J key from to get into the cab?”

  “Why do you want to know that?”

  “Well, it’s not something that you can just buy in a shop.”

  “If you must know, my dad did some work on the Underground. He had a couple and I sort of inherited them.”

  Denning dangled the gun by the trigger guard from his forefinger. Five feet. If George leaned forward in his seat it was only four feet. Was the safety catch on? Did it even have a safety catch? He looked along the black metal body of the gun. Nothing. Not that he knew what he was looking for but nothing all the same. One lunge and he was there, he could pull the gun from Denning’s finger. The handle was pointed toward him at the perfect angle.

  “So why here, why now?” asked George, his eyes fixed on the gun.

  Denning sighed as he stared out of the window. “That’s a big question. It needs—deserves—a big answer, and if I thought I could do it justice for you right now then I’d have a go. But I’m saving myself. Be assured, you’ll get your answer soon enough and, believe me, when you d
o it’ll all make perfect sense. This whole thing hasn’t been easy. It’s taken a lot of time and effort.” He said it like he’d organized a day at the seaside. “But it will be worth it. For all of us.” He said the words with conviction and still the gun hung from his forefinger. Four feet away. Four feet.

  “Do you have any idea,” said Denning, “what it feels like to wake up in the morning and know that of all the thousands of days that you’ve spent on this earth, that today of all days you will make a difference, that today is the day that you will truly come alive?”

  George stared at the gun. He’d grab it and kill him if he could. There was no point even trying to take him hostage. He was too athletic, there might be a fight and George didn’t fancy his chances. So he would have to be quick. Grab the gun, point it at his head and pull the trigger, hope to God there was no safety catch and, if there was, that it was off. But what if he failed? What if Denning was offering the gun to him as some sort of test?

  As Denning turned to look at him, George tore his attention from the gun and met his stare.

  “You ever done anything remarkable, George?”

  “Depends on what you mean by remarkable. If you mean, have I ever climbed Mount Everest or swum the English Channel then no, but I’ve had my moments.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  “We had children. Me and Maggie. Ben and Sophie. You met them.”

  “And very cute they are too.”

  As Denning turned back to the darkness in the tunnel, George wanted to kill him now more than ever. The satisfaction of pumping a bullet into this bastard’s head would be almost sexual in its intensity.

  The gun dangled from the finger. It might not be there for much longer. He had to take the chance.

  “You’re right, bringing life into the world is remarkable.” Denning’s voice was softer now, little more than a whisper, as though he was speaking to himself.