by A. A. Dhand
‘I’m not surprised. Don’t do anything stupid,’ DS Taylor said as she left the house.
Alone now, inside Isaac’s bedroom, Harry set to work, hoping for some information he might use to test Isaac’s loyalties. This wasn’t some stupid, impressionable kid. Something had gone badly wrong here. He just needed to find out what.
Lifting the mattress, a rage overcame him. Saima was in one of those mosques, her life in danger because of these people. What he wanted to do was tear Isaac limb from limb, put him through the kind of pain guaranteed to get him talking and find out where the other three leaders of Almukhtaroon were.
It could take time. And he only had a little over twelve hours until the Patriots’ deadline.
Harry systematically took the bedroom to pieces, starting with the bed and working his way around. He wasn’t really sure what he expected to find.
The wardrobe was interesting. Traditional Islamic clothes for the most part, yet in the back, wrapped in protective plastic covers, he found designer clothing. No price tags. These were clothes that had been worn then carefully stored; they were clearly special to Isaac.
The desk was chaotic. Yet piled neatly to one side were several A4 drawing pads featuring incredibly detailed sketches of what appeared to be a comic superhero called Isiah. The character reminded Harry of Popeye, who would eat a can of spinach and transform himself from weed into hero. Isiah was identical, except he was Asian and ate lentils. His nemesis was a character called the Undertaker, a figure cloaked in black whose superpower was to be able to read other people’s minds, control them and, if they did not comply, make them kill themselves. The detail was stunning. Harry put the drawing pads aside to take with him.
The bottom drawer had books on mindfulness and spirituality alongside several blisters of medication. He pulled it out and emptied it on the bed.
The medication was recent, the labels only a week old. Propranolol hydrochloride 10mg and Amitriptyline 10mg tablets. Harry had no clue what they were for. Maybe the kid needed them. Harry wasn’t about to be the one to kill him.
He made for the door. He couldn’t risk being here when the SOCOs arrived.
He stopped in the doorway and turned around.
Something was missing.
He cast his eyes over the room once more.
Nothing religious.
No textbooks.
No teaching materials.
Absolutely nothing.
He looked at the posters, the all-action heroes. Judge Dredd was apparently the boy’s favourite.
Something wasn’t right here.
Outside, Harry put two large carrier bags in his boot along with a change of Western clothing for the boy. He wasn’t concerned the uniformed officers had seen him; they were too junior to think of it as anything other than a detective doing his job.
Harry Googled what Isaac’s medication was for. He relaxed a little. For the first time, he felt like he was in the game.
Harry started his car and pulled away from the house.
He knew exactly how he was going to break the kid.
TWENTY-TWO
The men who found the bomb immediately locked the entrance to the basement. They had been shocked to find Saima there and surprised to see her hardly react.
This was Saima’s worst nightmare.
Not being locked in a basement with a group of unfamiliar men.
Not being close to a bomb.
No. It was losing control of her destiny. Whether she left this mosque alive or not was in someone else’s hands. Saima hated to feel powerless.
Someone had gone upstairs to discreetly alert the imam. They were awaiting his arrival – his counsel.
‘What now?’ one of the men said.
Nobody answered.
Saima took out her phone and saw that she had one bar of reception.
‘We phone the police,’ she said.
They turned to look at her.
Saima saw an opportunity to seize back some of the power the Patriots had taken from her.
‘My husband is a police officer. I’ll call him. We can’t call 999 and report this. We need to know whoever we report it to won’t leak it and encourage the other mosques to break out – it’s this bomb that goes off if they do. How we control this information is critical.’
There were nods of agreement.
‘And we should keep this to ourselves until such time as Imam Hashim is ready to inform the rest of the mosque. There’s no knowing how people will react. If we have a stampede because people want to run, we might all die.’
She delivered her words with authority and clarity of mind.
Saima stared hard at the men in the room.
Some looked resilient. Others like they would run at the first chance they got.
It wasn’t that Saima was not afraid. She absolutely was. But the fact the bomb was here was something she could not change.
Her heart was aching thinking about Aaron. Yet Saima had to focus on the one positive. Harry was out there. And Harry always came through for her.
Saima scrolled to Harry’s number and hit Call. Three rings. Seven.
‘Saima?’ he said.
It sounded like Harry was driving. She told him to pull over, waiting until he had.
‘What is it, Saima? Are you OK?’ he said, clear concern in his voice.
She took a breath.
‘It’s here, Harry. The bomb. I’m looking at it.’
TWENTY-THREE
ACC Frost had enough on his plate without having to babysit the damn Home Secretary. Leeds Bradford airport had closed down as a result of the bombing, as had rail services. With no quick way to return to Whitehall, Islam had posted himself at Gold Command, promising to send COBRA real-time updates.
Frost had heard the exchange between Islam and the Prime Minister. As operational leader of this incident, he wanted to know everything, including what politics were at play. He’d been silently patched on to the call.
The PM did not want Tariq anywhere near this. Politicians needed to shift blame, he had said, especially if things did not go according to plan. This was no place for a Home Secretary, even if he was ultimately responsible for security arrangements within the UK.
Tariq wouldn’t hear of it.
‘I’m the first Muslim politician to have ever climbed this high. Bradford needs me to be visible, so to hell with the politics.’ Frost would not have entertained his subordinate talking to him in this way. ‘If I went running back to London, I would forever be remembered as the cowardly Muslim Home Secretary who fled for the sanctuary of Whitehall in one of the country’s darkest hours.’
It would ruin him.
Tariq had cut the line before the PM could counter his argument.
Frost had put the phone down, pissed off on the PM’s behalf.
Now Tariq was waiting in the conference room for Frost. He could wait a little longer.
Three hours post bombing and Bradford had been secured. Motorways into the city had road blocks. The official line was ‘security protocols’. In reality they were doing two things: trying to stop the leaders of Almukhtaroon fleeing, and also stop an influx of potential protesters, Far Right or otherwise. Social media was rife with speculation of a demonstration later that evening.
Frost received updates from his team every fifteen minutes. The latest briefing was coming to an end.
‘Nothing at Isaac Wolfe’s house, sir,’ said DS Taylor.
‘Nothing?’ he asked, incredulous.
She shook her head. ‘The good news is that we’ve received confirmation that we have five hundred officers from Humberside and the North East en route to Bradford as we speak.’
Frost nodded to dismiss her. He made his way to the conference room, where Tariq Islam was speaking with Peter Weetwood.
‘This is really not what we need,’ said Frost, closing the door. He could feel eyes on him – the whole floor stealing glances through the glass partition wall. Frost didn’t close the bl
inds. They needed to see who was in charge here and it certainly was not the Home Secretary.
Tariq raised his hands passively and stepped away from Weetwood. ‘Before you launch into some prepared speech—’
‘Prepared speech?’ Frost closed the gap between the two men and pointed angrily. ‘We’re three hours into this shit-storm. It’s moving faster than anything we’ve dealt with before. The only prepared speech I have is the resignation I’ve wanted to submit since you fucked up policing in this country.’
Fucking politicians.
‘Not the time or the place for politics,’ replied Tariq, looking a little flustered.
Weetwood put a hand on Frost’s shoulder, his attempt to calm the hostility.
Frost shrugged it away. ‘Then why are you here?’ he snapped at Tariq.
‘If I was playing politics, I’d be on my way back to Whitehall. I’m here to be accountable.’
That stopped Frost. Accountable – he didn’t think politicians knew the meaning of the word.
‘Whichever mosque the bomb is inside will potentially have hundreds of Muslims inside, right?’ said Tariq.
Frost nodded and beckoned for them all to sit down. He remained close to Weetwood, both men firm in their resolve not to fall victim to whatever game Tariq Islam was playing.
‘If this goes badly, we need everyone to know that not only did we do everything in our power but that every rung of the ladder played its part. We’re at a crossroads where both Far Right and religious extremists are vying for power. We cannot give it to either. The Patriots say that I failed to jail the founders of Almukhtaroon last year – that is my responsibility. Let me speak to them – let them know I am here and willing to negotiate.’
‘Negotiate?’ Frost and Weetwood spoke at the same time.
‘Standard protocols went out the window the moment that bomb went off. I’m not saying I can give them anything but maybe talking about it buys us time.’
‘And maybe the Patriots realize you are playing a game and all rules go out the window,’ Weetwood said, almost to himself.
Tariq leaned closer, his face turned away from the glass wall of the conference room. He didn’t want anyone outside to lip-read what he was about to say.
‘Four leaders of Almukhtaroon dead or many, many innocent civilians. What if it comes down to that equation? We all know it might.’
Frost didn’t say anything. He glanced at Weetwood, who avoided eye contact.
‘How many officers do you have looking for them?’ said Tariq.
‘Over thirty.’
‘How confident are you?’
A pause.
‘Gentlemen, we are currently off the record.’
Frost shook his head. ‘They go underground and it’s a lottery. We might get one or two, but all four?’
‘Is that our absolute priority at the moment, getting the four leaders of Almukhtaroon into custody?’
‘Safe custody,’ replied Frost.
‘Damn it, Steven, we are off the record here.’
‘What are you saying, Mr Islam?’
‘I am saying that I do not believe that four lives are of more value than hundreds of lives.’ Tariq gathered himself up. ‘Gentlemen, I’m here to facilitate things which perhaps you can’t sanction. All I need is for you both to stand up and walk out of that door if you are content for me to stay and explore every option. If not, remain where you are and we can debate some more.’
Tariq folded his arms across his chest and waited.
The men were interrupted by a harsh knocking on the door and a flustered-looking detective entered without being asked. He told Frost that DCI Harry Virdee was on line two, apparently with crucial information.
Frost nodded and waited for the detective to leave before hurrying to a phone in the corner of the room. He put it on speaker.
‘Virdee, sir. Saima found the bomb.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Harry felt numb. He let the car idle in the driveway of the Queensbury farmhouse. The Mehraj mosque, Bradford’s newest, was the largest in the city. If he were honest with himself, Harry hadn’t been all that shocked when Saima had told him she’d found the bomb. There was no higher profile location it could have been.
He had just finished his call to Frost.
‘Do you think we can trust Saima to be our eyes inside there, Harry?’
‘Absolutely,’ Harry said. He wanted Saima distracted so she didn’t go crazy worrying about him or Aaron. Frost needed someone with a cool head to relay information about the bomb to CTU and, as far as Harry was concerned, Saima was the perfect candidate. She dealt with pressure every day in her job at A&E.
‘And do you think we could task her with taking pictures and some video of the device?’ Frost’s voice was rich with concern but also sounded desperate.
Harry gave him Saima’s number and told him he backed his wife to do it. He hung up, tried to call her and, unable to connect, sent her a text.
Frost is going to call. Head of this investigation. He needs help from inside the mosque and I trust you to do it. Stay in control, Saima. We will get through this. I love you x
Harry knew Saima was more than capable of the job.
How long could Frost contain this information?
Harry’s heart was racing.
Inside the mosque, if the imam lost control of his worshippers, this might all unravel quickly. Frost was all over it, he knew. But he had more reason than ever to find the Almukhtaroon himself.
Frost had understood Harry’s request, with his wife’s life at risk, to stand down from this operation and return to his son. Harry had told him he’d return once he was certain Aaron was OK.
Time was against them. Saima had told him there were a dozen men with her. In Harry’s experience, that was too many to contain a secret. Somebody would leak it. Then what?
Harry threw his phone on to the passenger seat, angry, an imaginary clock pounding inside his head. He looked down at the two McDonald’s milkshakes in the passenger footwell. He’d bought them for Isaac on his way back, before Saima had called.
Was he putting his neck on the line for nothing?
Was he risking Saima’s life by not handing over Isaac to Frost?
No, his boss would do this by the book. And Tariq was right – the book might not serve Harry in this instance.
He had little choice but to at least try, though he didn’t like his chances of apprehending the other three leaders of Almukhtaroon before sunrise. Bradford had over three hundred thousand inhabitants; this was a fucking needle in a haystack.
Harry closed his eyes; his head felt like it was about to explode.
Christ, he missed Ronnie. Today of all days his brother’s counsel would have been welcome. Last Harry had heard, Ronnie and his family were headed for the remoteness of Shimla – north India, a cooler climate than the rest of the blistering country. It was 11 p.m. in India. He’d tried to call him while waiting for the shakes at McDonald’s – no reception.
He didn’t like to ask himself what Ronnie would do in this situation. Harry wasn’t keen to beat Isaac Wolfe to a pulp, not unless it was strictly necessary. He thought about the kid’s stellar school grades, the untimely death of his mother and the stretch inside the youth detention centre. That was the key – who had he mixed with there and what impact had it left on the vulnerable boy? Harry thought of the sketches he had seen. Each one dated, and all of them before his time in the secure unit – that was who Isaac Wolfe really was.
That was who he needed to find.
Harry entered the living room and saw Isaac awake, still secure, still gagged.
The boy glared at him, more in anger than fear.
Not a good sign.
A strong smell of urine hit Harry as he untied Isaac’s hands but kept the cuffs around his feet secure.
A pool of piss around Isaac’s feet.
Harry removed the gag, expecting rage and got none. Isaac remained silent.
Harry placed
the milkshakes on the table.
‘Banana or strawberry?’ he asked, waving them at Isaac.
No reply.
He looked as though he’d been crying, eyes red raw.
He stuck the strawberry shake in his lap, retreated and sat on a chair opposite.
Isaac bowed his head.
It was the urine. The smell. The evidence of it around his ankles. The embarrassment alone made what Harry hoped to achieve that bit harder.
Harry replaced his shake on the table, took Isaac’s from his lap and stooped to free Isaac’s feet.
‘This is very simple,’ said Harry, backing away. ‘If you try anything, anything at all, you’ll force my hand and I won’t be nice.’
Harry paused, then added, ‘And trust me, this is me being nice.’
Isaac’s head remained bowed.
Harry was struck again at just how immature the kid looked – a twenty-one-year-old who looked no more than sixteen.
‘I know what you think this is, what you think is going to happen. If that were true, I wouldn’t be telling you to go upstairs, take a shower, then change into some clothes I lifted from your place.’
Isaac met Harry’s gaze, anger fractionally diminished.
Harry was impatient. He didn’t have time for any of this. He knew though that force would make Isaac more resistant. It would make him shut down, revelling in the knowledge that all the Western hostility shit he had no doubt been brainwashed with was valid.
He forced a smile. ‘None of this is going to be like you thought it was, Isaac. As soon as you’ve had a shower, drunk your milkshake and given me a chance to show you why, you’ll see that the only person in control here is you.’
TWENTY-FIVE
ACC Steven Frost was in a peculiar situation. The fact Harry’s wife was inside the Mehraj mosque with the bomb was both of great concern and, at the same time, offered an interesting opportunity.
Two further experts had given their views on the video of the bomb the Patriots had disclosed to them. They needed more information – a closer look, picture and video clips, maybe even a live stream. And for that, they now had a candidate. If Harry thought Saima was capable, Frost was more than happy to go along with that.
