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SAS officer was getting at. None of the men were carrying guns or knives. And they didn’t appear to be in contact with anyone. That meant there could be only two possible resolutions. Either the jihadists got what they wanted. Or they and their hostages died. There was no middle ground.

TAVISTOCK SQUARE (12.13 p.m.)
    Kashif Talpur joined the queue to get onto the bus. He took a quick look over his shoulder. Two police officers were walking along Tavistock Square, deep in conversation. The man in front of him was having trouble with his Oyster card. He kept tapping it against the reader but it didn’t seem to work.
    ‘You’ll have to get off,’ said the West Indian driver.
    ‘It’s got ten quid on it, for sure,’ said the man. He was in his forties with greasy, matted hair, wearing a green jacket that had once belonged to an East European soldier.
    ‘If it doesn’t work you’ll have to get off.’
    ‘There’s nowt wrong with it,’ said the man, and slapped the card against the reader so hard that everyone on the bus heard the thwack. The reader beeped and the man waved his card in triumph.
    He moved down the bus and Talpur stepped forward. The driver glared at him from behind his vandal screens. ‘Come on, I haven’t got all day,’ he snapped.
    Talpur turned away and looked down the bus. The passengers reflected the multi-ethnicity of London. Twelve men and women. Half were Asian, four were black, one was Middle Eastern and one was white. The nearest was an Asian woman in a black headscarf holding two carrier bags of groceries. He was supposed to choose the passenger closest to the driver but he knew that she was going to panic and probably scream blue murder. The passenger next to her, closest to the window, was a young black man with headphones, eyes closed, head bobbing back and forth in time to a tune that only he could hear. Talpur would have preferred to use the man but his instructions were clear and he had been told not to deviate from them.
    ‘Oy, are you going to tap your card or not?’ said the driver, impatiently.
    Talpur grabbed the woman’s right hand and handcuffed himself to her. For a few seconds she sat stunned, then screamed at him in Urdu. She let go of her bags and her groceries spilled onto the floor. Apples, oranges, naan bread, a box of eggs. Talpur stepped back and pulled the chain tight. The woman continued to scream at him, peppering his face with spittle. He slapped her, hard, and she immediately went quiet. With his right hand he undid his coat and opened it so that everyone could see the suicide vest. ‘
Allahu Akbar!
’ he shouted. ‘You must all do as I say or we will all die here!’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out the trigger, slipping the Velcro strap over his palm.
    He turned to the driver, who was staring at him open-mouthed. ‘Close the door, now!’ Talpur shouted. The man did as he was told. Talpur stared at him through the protective glass. ‘If you make any attempt to leave the cab, you will be responsible for the death of every single person on this bus. Just stay where you are.’
    The driver nodded, wide-eyed.
    The woman was sobbing quietly now, her hands covering her face. ‘You all need to listen to me!’ shouted Talpur.
    The man sitting by the window noticed what was happening and took off his headphones. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he asked.
    There were footsteps on the stairs and a middle-aged black man peered from the stairwell.
    ‘You have to do exactly as you are told or everybody dies. You are all prisoners of ISIS, the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria. We are demanding the release of six prisoners who are being held in Belmarsh Prison. Anyone who has a phone must start tweeting now. If you can’t tweet, send text messages to your friends. Tell everyone that ISIS demands the release of its six brothers in Belmarsh. Do it now. Use hashtag ISIS6.’
    No one moved. The only sound was the sobbing of the woman next to him.
    Talpur