by A. A. Dhand
With a conference scheduled for 2 p.m. at the Midland Hotel, the world’s press is firmly camped inside Bradford. Just who are the Patriots? What will happen to the followers of Almukhtaroon? Do the security services expect a backlash and potential counter-measures from the Far Right?
This siege may have concluded, but for Bradford the past twenty-four hours will surely be only the beginning of a lengthy, complex investigation …
NINETY-SIX
Harry had been admitted to Bradford Royal Infirmary.
Broken ribs. He had undergone several scans and numerous vials of blood had been taken from him. Eventually he’d even been given an injection of morphine.
He was getting used to that shit.
He was in a large comfortable side room. Outside he could see Saima ensuring everything to do with his treatment was in order. As yet, they hadn’t spoken of what had happened in the basement of the mosque. Saima should have been at home but had refused to go. He could see Aaron sitting at the nurses’ station, playing with a stethoscope, several nurses fussing over him.
Harry needed some sleep but his eyes were on the TV hanging above his bed. Sky News was broadcasting live from the conference hall of the Midland Hotel, journalists and television crews from all major channels reporting simultaneously.
ACC Frost and Tariq Islam took to the stage. Frost looked the more serious man. Harry knew why. He needed the streets of Bradford to calm, to end viral rumours on social media. It was … necessary. Last thing Bradford needed were reactionary forces, whether Far Right or otherwise, hitting the streets. This city knew all about that.
Harry had spoken to Frost but hadn’t debriefed him. He hadn’t known what to say.
Isaac had been taken into custody and Harry had made it damn clear he was not to be treated as hostile, and ensured Tariq had relayed the same message. Harry had not disclosed that Abu-Nazir was Isaac’s father. That revelation could come later.
Frost opened up by running through key events of the past twenty-four hours, nothing the audience didn’t already know. Camera shutters clicked ferociously, fingers tapped on laptops and pages of notebooks were ruffled. He spoke for under five minutes, ending his segment by stating that Harry had been an active member of his team, tasked with securing the leaders of Almukhtaroon, and had been compromised in the line of duty, which resulted in him being forced into the Mehraj mosque with Tariq. What happened thereafter, he said, was part of an ongoing investigation. He stepped aside for Tariq.
Harry couldn’t bear looking at him and turned away from the TV. This was a game Tariq had played at such a high level that Harry could not allow it to go unanswered. He would not.
That, though, was for later.
Tariq covered some of what Frost had already said then, as Harry had expected, he made his move for political power.
‘… what I will say is that the past twenty-four hours have reaffirmed the current political climate in the West. What I can tell you all is that what has come out of this is the revelation that Abu-Nazir and his partner, Amelia Rose, were in fact members of a covert Far Right organization and created the smokescreen of Almukhtaroon to conceal that reality. They used our fears to propel their own narrative and, indeed, their bank balance.’
There was a surge of incredulous chatter within the room. Tariq raised his arms, asked everyone to be calm and continued.
‘We live in a time where identity appears to be up for grabs. Where people are asked to pick a side depending on their ethnicity or religious values. This goes against the very ideology of a tolerant society. These divisions have been building for some time and we, not only as government but more widely, have allowed it to happen. Across Europe, Far Right gains have been building, no doubt aided by troubling messages coming from the United States.’
Tariq stared into the audience and paused. ‘What happened inside the basement of the Mehraj mosque is currently under investigation and I cannot tell you any more than you have already heard. What I can say, however, is that it resulted in over a thousand innocent UK civilians being unharmed. I, for one, hold that above everything else.’
Another pause as he allowed the journalists to digest what he had said. Not quite condoning the death of Abu-Nazir but not far away.
‘A thousand innocent UK civilians. Not a thousand Muslims or Asians or ethnics or any other word you want to use. But a thousand of us. We need to fix this country. Communities need to come together and embrace the common ground. Not by playing catch-up or continuing to do what has gone before, but by radically overhauling systems that encourage and tolerate division, whether financially or religiously. No more committee meetings and think-tanks and white papers. Simple, practical solutions. People first. People always. People together.’
Harry stared at Tariq, feeling like a grandstand finish was nearing.
‘I have heard people saying that Bradford is broken. It is not. This country is broken. And I will finish by saying this. Starting tomorrow, I’m going to damn well fix it.’
He stepped aside as journalists fought for the right to ask the first question. Harry had heard enough and reached for the remote just as a journalist shouted out: ‘Home Secretary, is your speech laying down the gauntlet for a prime-ministerial challenge?’
NINETY-SEVEN
Tariq Islam was sitting in Harry’s room, his close-protection detail loitering outside on the ward.
Saima had taken Aaron home, closely followed by a security detail of her own. The media had swarmed around the house but she’d refused to stay in a hotel.
Tariq looked as tired as anyone Harry had ever seen.
‘Two cracked ribs, I heard.’
‘Three, actually.’
‘I’m sorry, Harry. You need to know I mean that.’
‘Park your bullshit elsewhere.’
Tariq leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped together, head bowed. ‘You know what the real job of government is?’
‘Its only job is to serve.’
‘You’re right. But not the people. Government serves itself.’
Harry raised his eyebrows.
‘Westminster is the oldest old-boys’ network in the world. Unlike other countries, we’ve never had foreign rulers – never been invaded or occupied. Westminster is still “Empire”. You either embrace it or you’re shown the door.’
‘Get to the point, Tariq.’
‘That video you saw was a snippet of a much bigger picture, Harry.’
Harry struggled to sit up.
‘How did you get that video?’
‘Group-13 has never officially existed. And yet, over the past eighteen months, my ex-colleagues have started to mysteriously disappear, presumed dead. I’m a threat to those men and they’re trying to send me a message. That video was covertly filmed by Group-13. When you come after us, we don’t take it lying down but this is a complex war we are fighting.’
Harry was confused. ‘What do you mean, you’re a threat?’
‘I’m going to be the first Muslim man to become PM. And I don’t fit with their rhetoric.’
‘So you did do all this for power?’
Tariq got up from his chair and walked to the window, keeping his back towards Harry.
‘No. I did it because behind closed doors the people who really run this country – the billionaires and finance companies who control the economy – are talking about overseas conflicts again. Yemen, Syria, another cold war with Russia. America continues to isolate itself in the most nationalistic of ways and here in Blighty we are, for the first time in generations, completely alone. I did what I did to make myself impossible to ignore and to force real, meaningful change. I’m going to go hell for leather after the hard-line right-wing societies and political entities to break them down but, at the same time, do the same with groups like Almukhtaroon. Abu-Nazir may have been playing a game to swell his bank account but there are others out there, true fundamentalists ready to take his place. I want a complete crackdown on all sections of h
ate speech and toxic nationalistic views. This country cannot afford to become like Italy, Spain, France, Holland, Germany, where the Far Right is growing in political power. We, Harry Virdee, are heading not only for another financial recession but this time also for a possible “cleansing” of UK passport holders. It’s not for nothing that the current Prime Minister cut the policing and national security budgets by 20 per cent. How the fuck are you going to operate robust intelligence and security with cuts like those? It’s not chance or an oversight. It’s social cleansing.’
Tariq returned to Harry, stopping by his bedside. His face was flushed, eyes narrow, the tiredness replaced by something worse: a frightening resilience.
‘You don’t know this world of power like I do, Harry. There are plans in the most elite of circles, including government, to slowly move the centre ground to the right. Look back through history. Every hundred or so years, times change. Populations do. People turn on one another. I did what I did because I aim to topple the PM, and that will start tomorrow with a press conference like no other. I’ll berate the toffs and the career politicians as pen-pushers with no real allegiance to the British way of life. I walked into the mosque with you so that that image would be the one that gets me the power I need to create real, progressive change. The whole world is talking about Tariq Islam and it’s not my fucking ego I’m polishing, it’s my credentials to become the first man of colour, the first Muslim PM in the UK. And my job will be to bring communities closer together and push the Far Right back to the fringes. Otherwise, we are all fucked.’
Harry’s head was hurting. Some things made sense, others didn’t. Why did they involve him? Why hadn’t Group-13 just taken out Almukhtaroon themselves?
Tariq told him that had been the plan but, as he had already suggested, they were being systematically wiped out. Two days before, several key members of the organization had disappeared, ones critical to this operation.
‘Everything was set. You were never part of this plan. No offence, but it’s way above your pay grade,’ said Tariq.
He told Harry that without their usual manpower, they had lost control of Almukhtaroon that morning. Only Isaac remained on their radar and he’d been the lowest rung. Tariq had targeted the only man he knew who stood a chance in Bradford.
Harry.
The remaining members of Group-13 were flat out ensuring the bigger plan with the mosques and security services went accordingly. Moreover, Harry was expendable; they were not.
‘Thanks,’ said Harry.
‘You asked for the truth.’
‘Why tell me all of this? Surely a bullet is what I should get. I could end you in a heartbeat.’
Tariq waved his phone at Harry. ‘Globally I’m at ten million tweets. We live in a world of fake news. You wouldn’t get far.’
Harry hated to admit it but Tariq was right.
‘I’m telling you all this, Harry, so you don’t stay up at night asking yourself questions you don’t have answers to.’
Harry shook his head. ‘No, it’s more than that.’
Tariq smiled. ‘It is more than that. Last year, in one monumental night for Bradford, with all the odds against you, Harry Virdee managed to pull off one of the greatest abductions and murders of our time. The best thing is, nobody knows it happened. You have a very specific set of skills, a very specific type of brother. There is one thing I am damn certain of …’ Tariq helped himself to a glass of water, as if building up to what he had yet to say.
‘In every major city in the UK I am making inroads. Putting “my people” in places they need to be, whether government officials or … otherwise. We need to cleanse this country in a far more radical way than politics currently allows. The world has changed. We either change with it or get left behind. Courts, jails and reform were before the digital age. Before the top one per cent of the world’s elite fucked the rest of us. The one place I don’t have eyes is Leeds Bradford, the fourth-largest catchment in the UK and a place I have no one I can trust to come with me on this journey.’
Harry shook his head. ‘After what you did today—’
‘—zero civilian casualties! Two people who deserved to die got their comeuppance and I put to rest a woman who asked me to end her life the way she wanted. Fine, I upset and frightened thousands of people and we had a few minor injuries but – perspective! Better twenty-four hours of turmoil then twenty-four years.’
‘What was inside that bomb? Actual explosives?’
‘Examination of the device will show it was fake. An extraordinary bluff.’
Tariq went back to his chair and removed his jacket from it, putting it on. His eyes looked so sore they almost made Harry’s water.
‘You’re pretty golden, Harry. The brass doesn’t have shit on you and you were just as much the hero as I was. You broke some rules? It was an unprecedented scenario.’ Tariq pointed to the window and smiled. ‘I’ve plans for Bradford, Harry. Plans for you. Don’t judge me before you have heard them.’
NINETY-EIGHT
Harry was home, sitting in his living room, once again watching the news. Bradford remained the headline story.
This wouldn’t be forgotten. A terrorist event of this scale would be subject to many ‘commissions’ and ‘inquiries’ over the coming years.
There were questions the public would want answering.
Who were the Patriots?
Would Tariq Islam stand trial for murder?
And many they would never know to ask.
Would Maria’s identity lead back to Tariq Islam?
Would his role in this ever come to light?
Harry had none of the answers.
Saima had put Aaron to bed and entered the room, bringing with her a pen and piece of paper. She kicked the footstool over towards Harry and sat opposite him.
‘Divorce?’ said Harry, trying to crack a joke. He’d told her all about Tariq Islam but Saima hadn’t said much.
She didn’t smile.
Harry muted the television.
Saima placed the pen and paper on her lap, then said, ‘How come we always end up here?’
‘Here?’
She nodded towards his ribs.
‘Bones mend.’
‘Don’t use that macho crap with me.’
Harry shrugged. ‘But they do.’
‘This city is going to ruin us, Harry. Don’t you feel it?’
He didn’t reply.
‘We need a fresh start. No drama.’ Saima put her hands on him. ‘All I care about is my boy and my husband. The past forty-eight hours, in all this madness, I saw what really matters. I had so much time to think of you and Aaron alone, without me. Then about what might happen if I got out and something happened to you. I don’t want to think that way any more.’
‘I doubt I’ll have a job anyway, Saima. I broke every rule there is.’
Saima rolled her eyes. She lifted the pen and began to write. Harry peered past her at the TV where a picture of him and Tariq Islam outside the mosque had a bold caption beneath it: HEROES.
He turned it off. You put everything on the line and got a few newspaper headlines, yet when all this died down, he was certain that the only thing in his future was a misconduct charge.
Saima handed him the paper she had scrawled on.
He stared at it and didn’t react.
Just two lines.
‘You don’t need to be the saviour of this city any more. Gotham can find another Dark Knight. You’ve done enough. We just need to be “us”, and everything else we’ll figure out. Will you sign it please?’
Harry didn’t move. He focused on the paper, on Saima, then back on the paper.
‘Are you really asking this of me?’
Her expression said it all. In fact, it said more than Harry cared to see.
Saima was right.
He wasn’t going to win here. Thoughts of Tariq Islam and his own brother Ronnie rolled across his mind.
Bradford’s future was … uncertain.
Saima touched his hands and smiled. ‘It’s time. It is.’
Harry took the pen from her and scribbled his signature where she had left him space.
I, Hardeep Singh Virdee, formally tender my resignation with immediate effect from the West Yorkshire police force.
EPILOGUE
Tariq Islam had been true to his word and Isaac Wolfe was now something of a celebrity. The boy who pissed his pants and took anxiety medication was a distant memory.
Harry was standing by his side as Isaac laid a bunch of flowers on his mother’s grave in Undercliffe Cemetery. The evening was warm and quiet, just the two of them by the headstone.
Harry had attended several meetings with Isaac and Tariq, where their story had been locked down before being shared with security services. Isaac had been given the chance to seal his file so that the fact Abu-Nazir was his father never came out.
He’d declined.
The other version was far stronger: the boy who had gone undercover to become a spy, putting his country first, his toxic father a distant second.
The spin-machine had been hard at work.
Isaac had sold his comic sketches to a publisher for seven figures and was now one of the most eligible bachelors in England.
‘Not half bad for eighteen hours’ work,’ said Harry.
Isaac smiled. ‘Every time someone asks me whether I’m still a spy I say, “No comment” and it increases my social media reach by a few thousand.’
Harry put his arm around the kid. ‘The world could do with a few more brown heroes.’
Isaac turned to Harry and hugged him. ‘Like you, you mean?’
‘Hey, don’t squeeze me too tight. Ribs, remember?’
‘Sorry,’ said Isaac, breaking the embrace.
‘I mean what I said. The shit you did out there – you’re the real hero in all of this.’
