by Ted Tayler
“It’s possible,” said Colin. “What are you thinking?”
“We might not see any spooks or anti-terror cops in Wales, but we might bump into a few hundred of their sympathisers. That could be tasty.”
Rusty slid the initial reports to one side and concentrated on the photos and descriptions of their four targets.
“If I was them, I’d have a vehicle waiting to pick them up as soon as they set foot on Welsh soil. Then they could be past Cardiff before we know what the heck happened.”
“We need to be on our toes,” said Phoenix, “let’s look at who we’re up against, Rusty.”
The known histories that Giles and Henry Case had collected made for interesting reading. The four men due to arrive on the shore of the UK were ‘hardcore’ extremists. After the time they spent in Syria, they were battle-hardened. This was never going to be a picnic; that explained Erebus’s concerns.
Imran Nawaz, a 26-year-old computer sciences graduate from the University of Westminster, was born in Kuwait but grew up in London. He had been under surveillance by MI5 and on a no-fly watch list for two years. But in the spring of 2011, he escaped the UK undetected. He slipped out of the country in the back of a lorry with the help of associates involved in a criminal network.
Another terror suspect, Mohammed Khawaja, who had been placed under even tighter surveillance under a Terrorism Prevention and Investigation Measure, was thought to have escaped with him. Khawaja, 28, born in Somalia, jumped off of a bus in Lewisham on Good Friday, 2011 and then vanished.
Intelligence services were understood to have investigated the possibility that Khawaja left on the same lorry as Nawaz. Khawaja had attended terror training camps in Somalia and had been accused of raising funds for al-Qaeda.
The network was now believed to be much bigger than previously thought. This made it much harder for the security agencies to keep tabs on its various strands.
The other two men travelling with Nawaz and Khawaja had been identified as Hassan Ashiq, 34, a nightclub doorman, and Jamshed Saswar, 41. Saswar, a father of four grew up in Aston. His wife still lived in Smethwick in the West Midlands
Ashiq and Saswar had entered Ethiopia in 2010 and arrested in 2011. They escaped and returned to the UK only two months before Nawaz left London to fight his own jihad.
“Interesting,” said Rusty, “if sparse. Slippery beggars, aren’t they?”
Colin looked at the photos of the four men, committing their faces to memory. It was true, they had little detail to explain what these four had been up to since leaving these shores. But slippery or not, they must find them and deal with them swiftly.
The two agents stayed late into the night going over their plans. A phone call in the morning could be sending them into dangerous territory. Not Wales per se you understand, but any place with extremists lurking, looking for trouble, was dangerous territory.
Kelly Dexter and Hayden Vincent arrived at Larcombe Manor at first light. Rusty and Phoenix shared breakfast with them in the staff canteen. Thirty minutes later they were up to speed and descended into the armoury to meet with Bazza and Thommo. These two agents dragged Colin from the water two years ago and were a comedy double-act most of the time. Even they appreciated that the mood was more subdued on this job. Each of the four agents had a kit bag with every conceivable piece of equipment they might need. Agents Longdon and Thomas were excellent at their jobs.
“We’ve counted the items into the bag, Rusty,” said Pete Thomas, the serious veneer finally cracking.
“We expect to count them back in, minus a few rounds of ammunition, in due course,” said Barry Longdon.
“We’ll do our best not to lose anything lads,” said Rusty.
Two vans had been requisitioned from the transport pool and stood fuelled, ready and waiting by the stable block. Rusty and Kelly Dexter jumped into the driver’s seats. They were up and away!
Two and a half hours later they arrived in Carmarthen. They had safely negotiated the M4 until its end and then began tackling the most rural roads that populated this little corner of the principality.
There had still been no contact from Giles in the ice-house so they went for a meal at The Butcher’s Arms.
“Very nice too,” said Kelly as they left the restaurant to finish the last leg of their journey. A tortuous forty miles that would take the best part of an hour and a half lay ahead. With only two arrival times to worry over for the ferries, they knew that their targets hadn’t been on the lunchtime ferry, the next one is due at midnight. They could only watch and wait.
In the ice-house, Giles and his team were being extra-vigilant. There were so many possible ways for the terrorists to gain entry into the country. While their intelligence told them that these four were crossing from Cherbourg to Rosslare; then Rosslare to Fishguard, they had to be ready to switch the point of attack at a moment’s notice.
They hacked into various CCTV feeds that told them who was where in the ports involved; so far none of the four targets was anywhere to be seen. Henry ‘Head’ Case had an ‘inkling’. One of those little ideas that creep into your head unannounced. Ideas that with no real supporting evidence, become the only thing you can think about. Henry was convinced Fishguard was significant because it gave the terrorists a three-hour run into Bristol. The Queen and Prince Philip were due to visit the city on Thursday, November the twenty-second, one week away.
“It follows old bean,” he said to Giles, who was less convinced, “just as night follows day. Her Majesty is at the Palace most days this week, investitures and the odd dinner on the agenda. Off to the Albert Hall tonight, but it can’t be there that they are targeting, or we’d see bodies on the ground by now.”
“So next Thursday the pair of them will be in Bristol; the whole day, give or take?” said Giles, believing that Henry might be onto something.
“Well, a day for those two nowadays means six hours’ tops. But yes, right across the city for little visits. Then a gentle walkabout if the weather’s fine.”
“If the weather’s fine it will be a miracle after the summer we’ve experienced, Henry,” scoffed Giles.
In Cherbourg, the terrorists made their way towards the ferry terminal. Nawaz and Saswar were the first of the two pairs to travel. They had formulated their plans in Belgium and crossed into France at the weekend. They stayed on the outskirts of Paris until they were ready to travel.
Khawaja and Ashiq were still in Brussels; they were catching the ferry in two days’ time. Throughout the planning stage, they were conscious of the need to stay apart for as long as possible. Nawaz and Saswar were catching tonight’s sailing to Rosslare. They were to arrive at mid-afternoon on Friday. Ashiq as a nightclub doorman had booked his passage as a foot passenger; he was travelling alone.
Nawaz was younger, good looking and intelligent. He waited at the terminal to buy his ticket for four hours. The queue did not justify this delay. He was waiting for the right person to arrive. A young Irish student, travelling home for Christmas after working in Amsterdam for the past nine months arrived with a large haversack. Imran Nawaz sweet-talked the young girl; his charming exotic way captivated the innocent colleen. He offered to carry her bag if they could share the experience of the sea trip together. It was his first time at sea, he lied, he was nervous. She was meeting him that evening; they planned to board the ferry together.
The Rosslare ferry left on time. The first two terrorists were en route. They had been unchallenged.
CHAPTER 17
Friday, November 16th, 2012
Mohammed Khawaja and Jamshed Saswar left the second-floor flat where they had been staying in the early hours. They were soon driving away from the Molenbeek district of Brussels that had enabled them to hide in plain sight.
The prospect of a seven-hour drive to Cherbourg did not faze them. They had suffered far longer journeys threading their way from Syria through Eastern Europe to Belgium. The border crossing would be simple enough.
They
endured the hassle of toll roads and frequent roadworks on the A29, knowing that with each kilometre they neared their goal. They stopped every couple of hours in France to rest. They made sure they weren’t being followed. If they were stopped, they had no weapons for police or security services to find; no suicide belts deployed on this leg of the trip.
The two men were just friends; on their way to a family wedding in Waterford. The clothing in their cases in the boot of the car supported this claim. The other casual clothes were nondescript; ideal for strolling in any spare time either side of the ceremony. They were perfect for blending into the crowds in a British city too, but the two terrorists didn’t imagine that anyone who questioned them was going to make that leap.
Their arrival in Cherbourg, having made the trip without any unscheduled delays, was timed to perfection. The booking that Imran Nawaz had arranged earlier enabled them to drive onto the ferry with a minimum of fuss. The boot of the car had a brief inspection. Mohammed and Jamshed received a lengthy sullen stare from a security guard, but in minutes, they were safe on board.
Neither man was a good sailor. Eighteen hours aboard a ferry was the least attractive part of their journey so far. The sight of the ferry port of Rosslare on Saturday afternoon was welcome.
Jamshed drove the car off of the ferry. They headed towards Waterford, but a few minutes later they turned off and headed towards a small white cottage on the outskirts of Kilrane. They parked the car at the rear of the property, hidden from the road. The back door unlocked. Jamshed and Mohammed entered.
“Assalamu alaikum,” said Imran Nawaz and Hassan Ashiq.
“Wa alaikum salaam,” replied Mohammed Khawaja and Jamshed Saswar.
“Your trip was uneventful I trust, brothers?” asked Nawaz.
“We had a rough crossing, but we are nearly recovered,” replied Khawaja.
The four men prepared themselves to talk, to plan and to pray. Tomorrow they would receive the call that told them when they crossed to Wales.
In Haverford West, Kelly Dexter and Hayden Vincent rested. They had been in contact with Phoenix and Rusty, who sat in their van, parked up one mile away from the ferry terminal in Fishguard. Everything was quiet.
In the ice-house, Giles and his team pored over reams of intelligence. They were searching for phone messages, e-mails, CCTV footage. Something that might give them a clue to the terrorist whereabouts. Late on Saturday evening, there was a breakthrough. The Belgian Special Forces Group had raided a flat in Molenbeek, a district of Brussels. They were acting on a tip-off. Shots were fired. One SFG member was wounded. Two suspected terrorists were arrested; one didn’t make it to the hospital alive.
“Henry,” called Giles, “it looks as if the birds have flown.”
Henry Case trotted across the room. He looked at the information and nodded.
“Right; inform Phoenix and the team that their targets are en route to Rosslare. If we can’t find them at Cherbourg; we’ll have to keep a weather eye on an alternate crossing point. Start re-doubling our efforts in Ireland to pinpoint where they are, and when they plan to travel.”
Phoenix and Rusty received the update from Giles as they moved position. Rusty was driving the van into the High Street.
“I fancy a curry Phoenix; let’s try the Taj Mahal,” he said.
Phoenix stretched; he hated hanging around, waiting for the action to start.
“Suits me,” he replied, “hold on, Giles has something for us.”
He read the message. “Curry it shall be then Rusty; Giles says our guys are either en route or in Ireland. They’ll let us know which ferry they took. We’re okay until midnight at least. I’ll let the other two know what’s happening while you order me a sea bass hakka with trimmings.”
“No worries, mate,” said Rusty.
Time passed slowly but in pleasant surroundings. The food was excellent and the two agents left the restaurant in a happy mood, despite the cold and the enforced long wait. Over in Haverford West the agents from Shrivenham were making out in the van; each to his own.
Not much happens in Kilrane on a Sunday morning. Fair to say that not much happens any day in Kilrane, but the quiet solitude suited the four occupants of the small rented cottage. The call they were waiting for came just after salat al-maghrib.
“Collection will be at the same time on Tuesday evening.”
“Why are we hanging around here for so long?” asked Jamshed Saswar.
“The longer we are in England, the more time the security forces have to find us, brother,” replied Imran Nawaz. “We will land as arranged, then move to Bristol in readiness to send a message to the British people. A message they will never forget.”
“Who waits for us in Wales?” asked Jamshed.
“A friend,” Imran replied.
Salma Begum grew up in East Anglia where her father was a consultant surgeon. At school, she was intelligent and focused. She enrolled as a medical student of Medical Sciences and Technology at the University of Westminster. She dropped out after three years and followed another path. Salma Begum was twenty-six and married to the ISIS cause.
Her father had enjoyed various sports as a young man. Above everything, he had a love of water-sports. As he grew older, the fruits of his labours as a consultant surgeon allowed him to develop that passion for speed. From the age of eighteen, Salma Begum had often partnered her father as he competed in powerboat races in the North Sea. Salma became an extremely proficient driver in her own right.
As University beckoned, she spent less time with her father, less time on the water. Her radicalization increased, her distance from her father and her family lengthened, but those skills she had gathered on the choppy waters of the North Sea were not lost forever. The colleagues she would meet in the next few days would soon discover how valuable she could be.
At dawn on Monday, Salma Begum drove her ten-year-old VW Passat away from her flat in King’s Lynn for the final time. She headed towards Peterborough and then cut across the country; she stopped near Rugby for breakfast. Then she returned to the slow, slow, quick, quick, slow traffic dance to the start of a new week on the M42 and M50. She wasn’t sorry to get on to the M4 and trundle along in the busy traffic until she reached the Welcome Break a few miles from Swansea.
Salma found a parking space away from the buildings with vacant spaces around her. She sat in her car and waited. It was just before one o’clock.
A van drew alongside her and edged forward into the parking space in front of her and to her left. The trailer being towed by the van contained Salma’s pride and joy. She smiled to herself as she glanced to her left and took in its magnificent lines.
Without a word being spoken, the van driver got out, unhitched the trailer and drove away. Salma eased the Passat into the vacant spot and got out of the car. She attached the trailer to the tow bar on the Passat. It was time for a cup of tea, maybe even a bite to eat. Salma was ready for the next stage of the mission.
An hour later Salma drove out of the car park with care and headed towards Tenby. Just another boat owner moving their craft to a safe harbour for winter. Or a young woman with spare time on her hands going to enjoy the last hurrah before winter. Either way, her cargo raised no suspicions. The trailer received the odd envious look, but nothing more.
Her craft was a small, fast boat designed with a long narrow platform and a planing hull to allow it to reach high speeds. The boat had two powerful engines, with more than 1000 combined horsepower. It could typically travel at speeds over 80 knots in calm waters, over 50 knots in choppy waters, and maintain 25 knots in an average five to seven-foot sea. It was heavy enough to cut through higher waves although at a slower pace. For the task that lay ahead, it was the ideal choice.
Salma had learned from her father that the so-called cigarette boats, dating from the 1960s, owed much of their design to boats used in offshore powerboat racing.
During that decade, this model of the boat had been used by drug smugglers to mo
ve drugs across the Caribbean to the United States. The accommodation was minimal; it could cope with the five passengers it was due to carry. The small low cabin under the foredeck was much smaller than a typical motor yacht of similar size.
Boats of this design are difficult to detect by radar; except on flat calm seas or at close range. They are stealthy, fast, seaworthy, and very difficult to intercept using conventional craft. Ninety minutes after leaving the motorway service station Salma Begum approached Tenby but turned off the main road and headed for a quiet beach.
Tenby Harbour, the jewel in Pembrokeshire’s crown, sits in a central position in the Georgian town which has become the country's most popular tourist destination. This ‘little fort of the fish’ as its Welsh name suggests attracts thousands to the glorious beaches that surround it. Salma knew that moorings in the harbour were available up to a maximum size of twenty-one feet. Salma’s craft was half as long again. They had looked at other options. They couldn’t risk leaving her four colleagues exposed for too long in the town of Fishguard or travelling the roads that led east towards their target.
Driving south out of Tenby on the A4139 she threaded her way through Penally and Lydstep. A quiet country road then took her right to Manorbier. From the village, she followed the signs to the beach car park.
