judgement of the man who had actually been there?
Weatherall was looking to her right, but Perkins was examining his hand. Fargo counted seven seconds while she hesitated again and, as she lost control in a sea of ambiguity, he scrawled furiously, making sure he captured every word. ‘No. As you were, Challenger One,’ she finally blurted out. ‘I can’t take the chance he may be a suicide bomber.’
Kerr’s voice hit the room like a punch. ‘This is John Kerr. All Trojan units, stay back. Repeat, stay back. Jack, Melanie, bump him.’
Seven
Thursday, 13 September, 08.44, South Lambeth Road
Good surveillance officers succeed because a credulous public brought up on a diet of TV spookery underestimates them. Their targets fail because fiction teaches them to look for people in distant shadows so they miss the blindingly obvious. Like the victims of a pickpocket, they ignore the student who sidles alongside, or appears next in line at the cashpoint, or sits opposite them in the café, immersed in a book.
Jibril was walking up South Lambeth Road, skirting Vauxhall Park, at full speed and on high alert. But the two surveillance operatives were quicker. Kerr’s two-word command was sufficient. Jack Langton, still wearing his cracked motorcycle leathers, and Melanie converged on their target at a bus stop just past the park, three hundred metres south of Vauxhall station, within view of the ‘Underground’ sign. The bus stop was crowded with morning commuters waiting for buses to Brixton, Stockwell and Clapham. About twenty of them thronged the width of the pavement between the bus shelter and a high brick wall, creating a natural choke point. By the time the operatives blocked Jibril’s path, they had morphed into a young couple arguing violently about his unfaithfulness.
They knew the script by heart, and it worked every time. They left Jibril no option but to push against them. The moment he made contact, they turned on him, united in a torrent of abuse, and shoved him back into the crowd. Langton’s heavy clothing gave them cover. Caught up in their decadent pushing and swearing, Jibril was unaware of the hand checking out his waist and upper body, and never heard the sniff of the explosives detector under his Puffa jacket. For all his training in the desert, he missed them both because he was too busy looking for spooks.
‘This is Jack. He’s clean.’
‘Received,’ said Kerr. ‘Gold, request you keep the Trojan units back in a holding position. We’re in danger of compromise here, over.’
Melanie’s voice broke in. ‘This guy is in a serious hurry. Time to Vauxhall station, two minutes.’
‘Gold from Challenger One. We can take him in thirty seconds.’
‘No,’ snapped Kerr. ‘Gold, he’s not, repeat, not carrying. Are you getting this?’
There was silence again in the ops room. From his chair, awaiting instructions, Fargo studied an exercise in paralysis as Weatherall and Perkins stared at each other. Perkins was an expert on safer neighbourhood teams. With a PhD researched in the job’s time he liked to style himself ‘Doctor’. This morning he looked like he would have settled for anonymity.
It was Fargo who broke the spell. ‘Ma’am, did you get that? Jibril is almost at the station.’ Fargo could recognise a fake and regarded them both with contempt. For all the bullshit and war stories, he knew their front-end experience amounted to a demo outside Marble Arch mosque and a couple of stabbings in north London.
Alice turned, too, her pale eyes darting between Fargo and Weatherall. ‘He’s getting very close. We need a clear decision, Alan.’
‘What are your intentions, ma’am?’ said Fargo.
Weatherall shot him a frozen look, and this time the scraping of the shovel filled the whole room. ‘Brian?’
‘Your call, ma’am.’
Weatherall turned back to the mike. ‘Withdraw the surveillance now.’ Her voice was quavering. ‘Challenger One, prepare to
Weatherall was looking to her right, but Perkins was examining his hand. Fargo counted seven seconds while she hesitated again and, as she lost control in a sea of ambiguity, he scrawled furiously, making sure he captured every word. ‘No. As you were, Challenger One,’ she finally blurted out. ‘I can’t take the chance he may be a suicide bomber.’
Kerr’s voice hit the room like a punch. ‘This is John Kerr. All Trojan units, stay back. Repeat, stay back. Jack, Melanie, bump him.’
Seven
Thursday, 13 September, 08.44, South Lambeth Road
Good surveillance officers succeed because a credulous public brought up on a diet of TV spookery underestimates them. Their targets fail because fiction teaches them to look for people in distant shadows so they miss the blindingly obvious. Like the victims of a pickpocket, they ignore the student who sidles alongside, or appears next in line at the cashpoint, or sits opposite them in the café, immersed in a book.
Jibril was walking up South Lambeth Road, skirting Vauxhall Park, at full speed and on high alert. But the two surveillance operatives were quicker. Kerr’s two-word command was sufficient. Jack Langton, still wearing his cracked motorcycle leathers, and Melanie converged on their target at a bus stop just past the park, three hundred metres south of Vauxhall station, within view of the ‘Underground’ sign. The bus stop was crowded with morning commuters waiting for buses to Brixton, Stockwell and Clapham. About twenty of them thronged the width of the pavement between the bus shelter and a high brick wall, creating a natural choke point. By the time the operatives blocked Jibril’s path, they had morphed into a young couple arguing violently about his unfaithfulness.
They knew the script by heart, and it worked every time. They left Jibril no option but to push against them. The moment he made contact, they turned on him, united in a torrent of abuse, and shoved him back into the crowd. Langton’s heavy clothing gave them cover. Caught up in their decadent pushing and swearing, Jibril was unaware of the hand checking out his waist and upper body, and never heard the sniff of the explosives detector under his Puffa jacket. For all his training in the desert, he missed them both because he was too busy looking for spooks.
‘This is Jack. He’s clean.’
‘Received,’ said Kerr. ‘Gold, request you keep the Trojan units back in a holding position. We’re in danger of compromise here, over.’
Melanie’s voice broke in. ‘This guy is in a serious hurry. Time to Vauxhall station, two minutes.’
‘Gold from Challenger One. We can take him in thirty seconds.’
‘No,’ snapped Kerr. ‘Gold, he’s not, repeat, not carrying. Are you getting this?’
There was silence again in the ops room. From his chair, awaiting instructions, Fargo studied an exercise in paralysis as Weatherall and Perkins stared at each other. Perkins was an expert on safer neighbourhood teams. With a PhD researched in the job’s time he liked to style himself ‘Doctor’. This morning he looked like he would have settled for anonymity.
It was Fargo who broke the spell. ‘Ma’am, did you get that? Jibril is almost at the station.’ Fargo could recognise a fake and regarded them both with contempt. For all the bullshit and war stories, he knew their front-end experience amounted to a demo outside Marble Arch mosque and a couple of stabbings in north London.
Alice turned, too, her pale eyes darting between Fargo and Weatherall. ‘He’s getting very close. We need a clear decision, Alan.’
‘What are your intentions, ma’am?’ said Fargo.
Weatherall shot him a frozen look, and this time the scraping of the shovel filled the whole room. ‘Brian?’
‘Your call, ma’am.’
Weatherall turned back to the mike. ‘Withdraw the surveillance now.’ Her voice was quavering. ‘Challenger One, prepare to
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