First Response Read Free Page B

were all primarily concerned with protecting their own little empires and tended to nitpick and argue over every tiny detail. What made it worse was that the local authority representatives tended to be paid a lot more than the emergency service members, and drove better cars.
    Kamran had asked for a transfer several times but had always been knocked back. He was doing a valuable job, he was told, and the earliest he would be moved would be following the completion of a new version of the LESLP manual, which detailed who should do what in the event of pretty much every conceivable disaster that might befall London. He sipped his coffee and started to go through the emails. Even the most tedious and pedantic required at least an acknowledgement that he had received it and understood the contents. At least half came from the local authority bureaucrats, who seemed to think that the longer the email, the more they were justifying their six-figure salaries.
    He was halfway through the seventh email when his intercom buzzed. ‘It’s the deputy commissioner,’ said his secretary. ‘Urgent.’ She put the call through before he could reply.
    The deputy commissioner got straight to the point. It was clear from his voice that he was under pressure. ‘Mo, we’ve a major terrorist incident on the go and I need you as Gold Commander for the time being. From the look of it, it’s an Operation Plato. Drop everything and get to GT Ops. I’ll call you back on your mobile and brief you en route.’
    ‘On my way, sir,’ said Kamran. The line went dead. Kamran’s heart was pounding. Operation Plato was one of the worst scenarios they trained for: a multi-seated terrorist attack on the city. GT Ops was the call sign for the Lambeth Central Communications Command Centre. There were three command centres in London, in Bow, Lambeth and Hendon. Between them, they handled the city’s daily six thousand emergency and fifteen thousand non-emergency calls. They were also used to provide specialist communications for major incidents, with experts from the police, Fire Brigade, Ambulance and any other of the emergency services that might be needed. Kamran grabbed his jacket and briefcase and rushed to the door. His secretary was standing at her desk, looking worried. He flashed her a confident smile. ‘Have my car downstairs, Amy, I’m going to GT Ops. Take messages for me and I’ll check in with you when I get the time. Clear my diary for the day and tell the Rotary Club that I won’t be able to do that talk this evening.’
    Kamran’s mobile phone buzzed as he headed for the stairs. Reception was patchy at best in the lifts so he took the stairs down to the ground floor. ‘We have three suicide bombers in the city,’ said the deputy commissioner. ‘Brixton, Wandsworth and Fulham. The attacks appear to be coordinated and we fear there could be more coming. I’ve arranged for MI5 and the SAS to be represented at GT Ops but, as Gold Commander, it’s your show, Mo.’
    ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Kamran, though he knew his show could well turn out to be a poisoned chalice.
    ‘We have armed-response vehicles at all three locations and hostage negotiation teams on the way. We don’t know what their demands are yet but there’s no need to tell you this is going to be a tough one.’
    ‘I hear you, sir.’
    ‘We’ll try to get a more senior officer over later this morning but at the moment you’re the most qualified. Good luck.’
    Kamran put his phone away as he hurried down the stairs. He was going to need more than luck, he was sure of that. He pushed open the door that led to the reception area and walked outside. His car was already waiting for him, engine running.

KENSINGTON (11.10 a.m.)
    There were times when Sally Jones would quite happily have given Max Dunbar a smack across the face. He truly was a nasty piece of work, mean-spirited with a foul temper and a tendency to bite. The snag was that Max was four years old and