Nick Oldham - Instinct

‘What game?’

‘Suicide bomber game.’

It had been a fleeting glimpse, seconds only, but long enough for Donaldson to do two things. First, to ID the young man. Second, to take in all the points that suggested — nay, screamed — he was a suicide bomber.

First the ID. Donaldson had spent over twenty years looking at faces, memorizing them, remembering names. One of his pastimes, if you could call it that, was to peruse the Wanted Persons files and put names to faces. It was a basic skill of being an FBI agent, learned and constantly updated. Even on quick reveals Donaldson was one hundred percent certain he could identify someone in a crowd.

As in the case of Zahid Sadiq, one of the two faces he’d seen only for the first time that morning at Beckham’s iffy briefing. Donaldson had taken in the face, the eyes, the ears, the nose, the forehead of a young good-looking Asian boy.

And he was sure he’d seen that same lad walking along the promenade. Even though he was now clean-shaven, Donaldson recognized him. Which led to point two.

Suicide bomber.

Only that brief glimpse as he passed in the car had told Donaldson that.

First the beard — or lack of it. The boy, who was only nineteen and who had a pretty crappy beard anyway, as shown on the photograph at the briefing, had shaved it off, a procedure that had the effect of lightening the skin in the shaved area, under the nose, on the chin, on the side of the face. He had also shaved his head to the bone. Although he was wearing a skullcap, Donaldson had clearly seen that the head was devoid of hair. That was just one of the many things that Donaldson took in and processed.

Next was the three-quarter length coat, bulky and inappropriate for a day that was getter hotter by the minute. Everyone else on the prom had shed their coats and was down to shirtsleeves and light clothing. The lad’s hands were thrust deep into his pockets and Donaldson also caught sight of a white wire coming out of the right-hand pocket and up the sleeve. He saw only a half-inch of it. But he saw it. Initial thought: was this hand gripping a detonator, thumb on button? Why was the coat extra bulky? Were explosives strapped to the boy’s torso? The lad was also staring dead ahead as he walked, as though he was walking down a tunnel, another classic sign of a suicide bomber. And he was mumbling to himself, lips moving

… praying?

The thought that he might be completely wrong was in his mind, too. Perhaps the lad was chilly. Had a few pullovers packed on and was simply listening to his iPod. Donaldson hadn’t seen an earpiece, though.

But he also did not care if he was wrong. Better that than the other.

Bill fumbled in his own earpiece, connected it to his PR and shoved the radio in his pocket. ‘I need to tell ’em something,’ he said, pointing to the PR, meaning he’d alerted comms and they now needed more information.

‘Tell them Zahid Sadiq is walking into the town centre and he could be carrying a bomb.’ Donaldson said it matter-of-factly, then spun away from Bill and started walking quickly, turning the corner into Central Drive hoping he hadn’t lost Sadiq, but spotted him immediately. It helped being a few inches taller than most of the people around him. Sadiq was about seventy metres ahead, walking straight on to Adelaide Street, the big McDonald’s on the corner to the right, then into Bank Hey Street, which ran along the back of the Tower, where the main entrance to that attraction was situated.

Donaldson rushed forwards, wondering how best to deal with the situation. Sadiq was entering an area chock-full with people, but was that the target? A suicide bomb on a shopping street? Just by standing there and detonating it outside WHSmith he would probably kill over fifty people, wound another fifty and cause a huge amount of damage. Easy. But as a target, a statement? Donaldson doubted that would be the case.

Perhaps the Tower itself?

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.