Stella Rimington - Rip Tide

‘You can ring him when we get to the park. Come on, let’s go. Don’t forget, I’ve got to buy a ticket.’

As Malik and Tahira left the café, tension was rising in the Ops room. There had been some initial confusion in the A4 teams as to whether the man who’d joined Tahira was Malik or someone else, as he looked so different from normal. There’d been a discussion about why he was looking so Westernised; they’d come to the conclusion that he must suspect surveillance, so Lamb had warned the teams to hang back, as their target might be alert to them.

‘Looks like he’s going to escort her to the concert,’ said Lamb to Liz as the reports came in that the two targets were still together and walking towards the park.

Liz didn’t reply at first. A thought came to her and she asked Fontana, ‘Is the concert sold out or are they selling tickets at the gate?’

‘It wasn’t sold out yesterday,’ replied Fontana. ‘The organisers asked permission to erect ticket booths and there was concern in the crowd-control unit that there might be trouble if a lot of people were scrambling for tickets. But they let them go ahead in the end. What are you…’

Liz broke in, ‘I think that’s where Malik’s going. He’s going to the concert.’

‘What? A good Muslim boy like him? I wouldn’t have thought he’d be seen dead at a pop concert. Especially when it’s an Indian group.’

‘Dead may be the right word. He’s going because they’re Indian, and Westernised, and vulgar and decadent – just like the rest of us, in Malik’s view. And there will be thousands of people there listening to this girl band. I think the band’s his target – but anyone else will be a bonus for Malik.’

‘God, I think you’re right.’ And Fontana seized a radio from one of the spare console desks and started barking out a series of orders – mobilising the armed teams and passing the description of Malik and Tahira to the police control room to send to the officer in charge on the ground.

‘I’m going to the park,’ he told Liz.

‘I’m coming with you. I know Tahira, I can help look for her.’ As they left the Ops room she said to Fontana, ‘Tell the men on the ground that they have to get her away from Malik.’ She was afraid that whatever the extremist was planning to do, he was intending to take Tahira with him.

‘Are you OK, Malik?’

‘I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘It’s just the way you’re walking – all stiff. You look as if you’ve hurt your back or something.’ Malik usually strolled along, his arms hanging loosely by his sides, but today he was almost marching, his back very straight and his head up. He looks like a soldier on parade, Tahira thought.

‘I went to the gym yesterday for the first time in ages. I think I overdid it a bit. But I’m fine. Who wouldn’t be, walking with a beautiful girl to a decadent pop concert?’ he added with a laugh.

Tahira was struck by how light-hearted he seemed. Maybe the Jane woman from London had got it wrong about him. She hoped so.

On the Stratford Road the traffic was gridlocked. Cars sat motionless in two long lines, completely blocked by the swarm of mainly Asian young people who, bunched up at the entrance to the park, were spilling over on to the road. They made a colourful crowd on the sunny morning, many of the girls in very short skirts that barely covered their pants, tottering along in high-heeled sandals; the men, fewer in number, were wearing bright shirts and jeans, some of them pushing buggies or carrying small children on their shoulders. Tahira thought Malik looked very out of place in his jacket and pullover, but if he’d never been to a pop concert before, perhaps he didn’t know what people wore.

As they were carried along by the crush of people towards the entrance gates, she grabbed Malik’s hand. It would be easy to get separated in this crowd. Closer to the gates, stewards in orange jackets were trying to divide the crowd into those who had tickets and those who needed to buy them. Two booths had been erected, one on each side of the gate, and tapes marked where the queues were supposed to form. But the lines were already longer than the tapes and there was a lot of confusion about where each queue ended and who was in front of whom.

As they stood waiting, Tahira watched the uniformed policemen who had joined the stewards at the gate. It struck her that they seemed more concerned with scanning the concert-goers than with helping the stewards sort out the chaotic crowd. There was a man in a parka with a camcorder. She thought he must be from local TV because he was filming them all as they approached the gates.

‘Come on,’ said Malik. ‘I’m not waiting here any longer. The concert’ll be starting soon.’

‘How are you going to get in without a ticket?’

‘I’ve been watching them and they’re not checking very carefully.’ He took her arm and pushed her towards the dense crowd going through the gates, walking closely behind her. He was right – there was such a crush that the ticket checkers had more or less given up. They were reduced to looking cursorily at tickets when people held them out, but they weren’t able to stop anyone who didn’t. A sudden surge from the crowd pushed Tahira through the bottleneck of the entrance, Malik hanging on tight to her arm. As they came into the park the pressure eased and the crowd spread out, like water pushed through a narrow channel suddenly finding room to flow.

Tahira took a deep breath and realised that Malik had let go of her. She looked around for him, panicking slightly when she couldn’t see him. Then his now-familiar face materialised behind her, and she saw with amazement that he’d put on an orange baseball cap, which had a big blue P emblazoned on the front.

Tahira laughed at him. ‘Where on earth did you get that from?’

He grinned. ‘I went to Tesco earlier this week for my mum. They were selling them there and I thought I could use it today. Isn’t this what you’re meant to wear at a pop concert?’

She shook her head. ‘You’re a clown.’ But as she said it something was occurring to her. If he’d bought the cap in Tesco earlier in the week, he must have meant to come to the concert all along. Why had he pretended to her that he’d only had the idea this morning?

She had no time to think this through, jostled into following the crowd of people moving in the direction of the stage, but Malik steered her towards the side where ropes strung loosely between stakes marked the boundaries of the audience area. She pulled the other way. She wanted to get up to the front, near the stage, and join the girls there who were jumping up and down and clapping in time to the warm-up band. But Malik tugged her back and pointed to a huge screen showing the performers on-stage. She realised that she’d get a better view from here, and it would be more comfortable than being squashed in the crowd and probably seeing very little.

The warm-up band finished playing and the crowd clapped and shrieked as they went off the stage. Then a tall Asian man came on with a microphone in his hand. It was Amrit Sandhu, presenter of the local TV station’s music channel. The crowd roared as he waved to them, then gradually the noise died down.

‘ Namaste, everyone,’ he shouted.

‘ Namaste,’ the crowd roared back.

‘ Salaam, ’ he shouted.

‘ Salaam,’ they roared back.

And finally ‘Hello,’ and back from the crowd ‘Hello.’

‘Are you enjoying yourselves?’

‘Yes,’ the crowd shouted back.

‘Well, now you’re in for the treat of the afternoon. They’re here, straight from their successful European tour, already booked for a US tour and waiting to perform, just for you. Put your hands together. It’s… the Chick Peas!’