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what are their demands?’
    ‘The tweets and Facebook postings all say the same,’ said the inspector. ‘There are six former ISIS fighters being held in Belmarsh Prison. All six are to be released and taken to Biggin Hill airport where they want to fly out on a twin-engined jet.’
    ‘Well I wish them good luck with that,’ said Kamran. ‘What do we know about the explosives they have?’
    ‘We’re analysing CCTV footage at the moment but in the pictures we’ve seen they’re wearing coats.’
    ‘We need an explosives expert here,’ said Kamran.
    ‘I’ve already put a call out to the Bomb Squad. They’re sending someone over from Euston,’ said Adams. The Metropolitan Police was unique in that it had its own bomb-disposal team on staff. Other forces around the country called on the expertise of the army, in particular the 11EOD Regiment of the Royal Logistic Corps. They formed part of the Terrorism Command – SO15 – and were based at the old Traffic Police garage at Drummond Crescent, not far from Euston station.
    ‘Good,’ said Kamran. ‘Now, we’re going to need to ID the hostage-takers as soon as possible. We need CCTV and photographers at the various locations. As soon as we get a clear shot, pass it to Joe and he’ll run facial recognition.’ He looked at Sergeant Lumley. ‘Liaise with Five, obviously.’
    ‘Will do, sir,’ said Lumley.
    ‘And let’s get the details of the six ISIS prisoners they’re referring to.’
    A young female officer stood up from her terminal and waved at the inspector. ‘There’s another one, sir!’ she shouted. ‘Kensington. A childcare centre!’

MARBLE ARCH (11.40 a.m.)
    ‘Do you want a muffin?’ Hassan asked his father, even though he already knew the answer. Imad El-Sayed always had a chocolate muffin with his morning cappuccino. It was as much a part of the man’s daily ritual as the five times a day that he prayed to Allah.
    El-Sayed frowned as if it were the first time he had ever been asked the question, then nodded. ‘A chocolate muffin would be good,’ he said. He manoeuvred his vast bulk over to a table by the window as Hassan joined the queue to order their coffees. El-Sayed was a big man, with folds of fat around his neck and a massive stomach that protruded over his belt. He had gold chains on his wrists and an even thicker one around his neck. His watch was a gold Rolex, studded with diamonds. El-Sayed was a rich man who liked to flaunt his wealth. Several Arabs at neighbouring tables nodded a greeting as he sat down, and he acknowledged them with a tight smile.
    The coffee shop was busy but not yet crowded. The morning rush had passed and there was usually a lull until noon. Hassan and his father were regulars there as it was a short walk from the bureau de change El-Sayed owned. The staff of three dealt with currency conversions for tourists on the street, while offices behind handled larger transactions. It was a good business, which paid for a large house in Hampstead, a Bentley for El-Sayed and a Maserati for Hassan.
    El-Sayed settled into his chair and linked his fingers over his belly. He closed his eyes and listened to the babble of conversations around him, mostly in Arabic, spoken with a multitude of accents – Kuwaiti, Lebanese, Egyptian, African … Not for nothing was Edgware Road between Marble Arch and Paddington Green known as Little Arabia. The street was lined with Arabic banks and shops, Lebanese restaurants and halal groceries. It felt like home and in many ways it was because, other than biannual trips back to his native Lebanon, he had lived in London for the past twenty-five years and all his family were now British citizens.
    ‘Father?’ said Hassan.
    El-Sayed opened his eyes. His son had placed his coffee and the muffin in front of him. He smiled and thanked him. A television on one wall showed the Arabic version of Al Jazeera news. There was a picture of a church and a reporter was describing what had happened.