by Ted Tayler
Getting the men from Ireland to the boat might prove a tricky obstacle, but Salma and Imran Nawaz had devised a cunning plan. As the sun sank lower in the sky, another day ebbed away. Salma prepared to spend the night in the Passat, with her precious transport secured behind her.
In the summer months, Presipe is a little gem. Huge crags of fossil-rich red rock jut out towards the sea to form private coves and slips of sand. Salma knew from her holidays there as a child that the sands on the beach were secluded. So quiet that if she ventured out on this November Monday night, she was certain to find it untouched by any footprints other than her own.
Tuesday morning dawned. The weather in Southern Ireland, West Wales and indeed most of England was dreadful. A very wet period began as a succession of low-pressure systems developed in the Atlantic and moved to the UK.
Persistent, heavy rain affected many places and caused widespread flooding and landslips, with south-west England being most affected. Winds were strong, and gales were forecast, with warnings that trees risked being uprooted causing structural damage.
In Kilrane, the four terrorists huddled together in the small cottage and wished the day passed quicker. They wanted to start the next leg of their journey.
Over in Wales, the four Olympus agents had spent a restless weekend wandering, waiting for confirmation of when their targets sailed.
Rusty leant against the wind and struggled towards the Pendre Inn. He had parked his van next to Kelly Dexter’s in the town car park in Fishguard. He was meeting the others in a warm bar, with the prospect of real ale and good food. This job could be boring, with the hanging around, but it had its perks.
Phoenix ordered drinks at the bar when he walked through the door. Several pairs of local eyes followed his every step. English visitors had never been ultra-welcome in these parts.
“They’ll know me again,” said Rusty to Kelly and Hayden as he sat with them at their table. Phoenix brought over the drinks.
“Tuesday evening, and no news yet,” sighed Kelly.
“I’m fed up with playing the waiting game,” muttered Rusty.
“Tell you what,” said Phoenix. “so am I. Let’s assume from now until we get confirmation they’ve set off, that they have travelled tonight, tomorrow morning or whenever. We’ll do what we planned to do each time as a ‘dry run’. It will keep us sharp.
“Great idea,” said Hayden Vincent. “you had better enjoy that pint. We’ll be off to the ferry port as soon as we’ve eaten to see in the ferry at half-past midnight. Now, pass me the menu, I’m starving.”
A few hours earlier, in Kilrane, a removals van had pulled into the driveway of the small white cottage. The driver parked beside the building. Imran Nawaz came out to greet him.
“Are you ready to leave, brother?” he asked.
Imran nodded. The driver opened the large double doors at the rear of the van. It was stacked from floor to ceiling with furniture. He clambered into the back and called to Imran.
“Get your friends out of the house now. We must move fast. We need to unload a few items; then you will see the hiding place we have constructed for you.”
Imran called the others. Ten minutes later, pieces of furniture had been removed, revealing a gangway to the side that led to the back of the van. As soon as Mohammed, Hassan and Jamshed were in a small cavity at the back, surrounded by furniture, Imran, and the driver replaced the furniture. As they closed the doors, Imran was confident nobody would suspect that three fugitives had stowed away inside.
“Keys?” asked the driver impatiently.
“Sorry. brother,” said Imran. “they’re in the cab.”
“Have you made absolutely sure there’s nothing left in the cottage,” said the driver as Imran returned with the car keys. Imran assured him they had spent the day cleaning the cottage from top to bottom, burning everything they didn’t need on this journey. No trace of them ever having been there remained.
“Safe journey,” said the driver, throwing Imran the keys to the removals van. “I shall meet you in Somerset.”
“Inshallah,” said Imran.
He watched Mohammed Khawaja’s car disappear into the distance. He followed in the removal van ten minutes later. Their ferry left at nine-fifteen. They were on schedule and on their way. Nothing would stop them now.
CHAPTER 18
Tuesday 20th into Wednesday 21st November 2012
Just before eight-thirty in the evening, the two vehicles had joined the rest of their fellow travellers on the ferry at Rosslare. Three and a half hours later, they docked in Fishguard.
The Olympus agents would be waiting; whether they knew they were coming or not.
Rusty and Kelly were driving. Phoenix and Hayden rode shotgun. They were armed, alert and ready for action. At nine-thirty, Phoenix received communication.
Giles reported a possible sighting of Imran Nawaz in the Rosslare ferry port. A man known to be an ISIS sympathiser was seen driving a saloon car with Belgian plates as he drove onto the ferry.
Tarek Qaadir had been active in the past twenty-four hours; he had delivered the so-called ‘cigarette’ boat to Salma Begum at Welcome Break near Swansea, before catching the ferry to Ireland in his removals van. Unfortunately, Giles and his team had not captured that piece of intelligence.
After an uncomfortable crossing in high winds and driving rain, the ferry docked safely in Fishguard. Cars and vans drove off in a steady stream. Tarek made his way to the exit. A security guard stopped him, checked his papers and inspected the car and the boot.
A cursory check found nothing; because there was nothing to find. The guard waved Tarek on his way. Without a backwards glance to see what might happen to Imran and the others, he drove off towards the M4. His next destination in the English county of Somerset.
“There’s the car with the Belgian plates,” said Kelly. “Do I follow?”
“It’s just the driver,” said Phoenix into his earpiece headset microphone in the other van, “we need to find our four prime targets. Let him go for now. Inform Giles that he has left the port. He can track him on the motorway and discover where he’s headed.”
Imran Nawaz stopped the big van. He knew he would be checked. He got out of the cab and went to the back doors. He called out to the nearest two guards.
“Lads, you’ll want to get a good look at this lot. I’m booked for a house move from Ireland to Tenby. I could do you a nice carpet if you’re interested.”
Imran Nawaz had changed his appearance on the ferry journey. Tarek Qaadir had supplied him with a bodysuit undergarment which, with the loose Western clothing he had donned, thickened his usual medium build. It made it appear he was a heavy-set individual with a beer-belly. Jeans slung low, well-worn working boots and a bobble hat to hide his long unruly hair completed the transformation. He looked like the archetypal slobbish lorry-driver that has been the cornerstone of the British transport cafe for generations.
As he held the door open, the guards took a look. A quick shine of the torch at the floor to ceiling stack of tables, chairs, beds and wardrobes was enough.
“No, you’re OK.” said a guard. “If you want to get on, just close her up and be on your way. An hour’s drive ahead, look you; so steady as you go.”
Imran took his time as he drove out of the terminal and headed for Tenby.
The guards moved on to check one of the last ten vehicles rolling off the ferry.
“I don’t envy that guy’s job, do you?” said one.
“Especially, on his own look; I suppose in the morning when he drops his load at his destination there will be someone there to help him?” replied the other.
The final car they chose to check over contained four young women returning from a hen weekend for a mate from their university days. Good-looking girls too, most of them. More than enough to stop the guards wondering about the lone occupant of the removal van. Or think how he could be expected to unload that huge van on his own.
“That’s the
last vehicle,” grunted Rusty. “We should have followed that bloody Belgian car.”
“Giles has eyes on him,” said Kelly Dexter.
Phoenix tried to recall the cars and vans he had seen leaving the ferry terminal. They were an assortment of old and new, small and large. There had been that removals van. Nothing that sparked any alarm bells. The foot-passengers too had been inspected closely. No one answering to the description of the four men they sought had materialised.
Back to square one. They could park up nearby for the night and get ready to do the same thing tomorrow lunchtime. Maybe Giles might send them the green light in the morning, a confirmed sighting of the men boarding at Rosslare. They had to hope so. Missing them was not a choice.
While the Olympus agents slept, leaving any decisions until the morning, Tarek drove, without speeding, on a deserted M4. He reached Bristol around four o’clock. Careful negotiation of the M5 brought him to Watchet Harbour in Somerset.
Not that long ago Watchet was a small working harbour, handling coasters. The Marina was constructed around ten years ago. Tidal ranges along this stretch of coast are massive, with a ten-metre range quite common. The Marina made use of this to allow boats to always stay afloat. Depths were maintained in the marina by a flap sill, with access available for a few hours either side of the local high water.
Tarek Qaadir was not a seafarer, but he knew that Salma Begum had done her homework well. The crossing from the Welsh coast should get them here inside that margin of error. High tide was just after six in the morning. There was just one fly in the ointment; the weather.
This is England; isn’t the weather always fickle? In common with harbours along this coast, entry was not possible with strong onshore winds. Tarek got out of the car, licked his finger and stuck it in the air. Was the wind onshore or offshore? He had no idea. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to six. He got back in the car and waited.
While Tarek Qaadir took a long way around to the Somerset coast, back in West Wales Imran Nawaz had parked the removals van next to Salma Begum’s Passat. She got out of the car, stretched her stiff, tired limbs and greeted him warmly.
“No time to waste,” Imran admonished. “We must get the others out of their hiding place.”
The doors were opened; a few pieces of furniture removed. It took longer for Imran and Salma, but the side gangway finally became accessible and the three men were, very gratefully, released from their hidey-hole. Salma laughed as cramp and various aches and pains struck the three men when they tried to walk around the car park to loosen up their stiff limbs.
“Fresh air at last,” said Jamshed. “You have no idea of the smell in there.”
“You men should shower more often,” laughed Salma.
Hassan and Mohammed kept quiet. They were less enamoured with having a woman involved in this mission. Even less pleased when they learned what was happening next.
“We need to get this trailer through the dunes and onto the beach,” said Salma, “we will leave the trailer and the car. In the boot of my old Passat, you will find the materials to destroy them. A five-minute delay will be enough.”
Imran organised the team and after a good deal of pushing and shoving as the car tyres and trailer tyres found soft sand, they had made it. The boat was in the shallow water. Hassan and Mohammed took responsibility for the vehicles. They removed the number plates for use on the other side of the water.
The police would assume this was just a ‘dump and burn’ of an old banger. Something they encountered every week somewhere along the coast.
Salma started the engines and eased the boat further out into the Bristol Channel. They reached a good distance from shore when the petrol tank exploded and the flames tore through the car and incinerated the wooden parts of the trailer.
Despite the wind and rain, and given that the waters of the Channel were decidedly choppy, the go-fast boat kept going at forty to fifty knots. The four terrorists sat in cramped quarters and even Mohammed Khawaja had to admire the skills of their driver. Salma was in her element. Her hair flew in the wind; the spray spattered her face and clothes. It mattered nothing. She was determined to deliver them to the small harbour on the other side of the Channel, many miles up the coast towards the Severn Estuary.
Using the cigarette boat to spirit the four men away from the Welsh side of the Channel had been her idea. Handling the boat in the choppy waters was a challenge, but she knew two more big challenges lay ahead. First, they had to find their friends; and then she had to negotiate that tricky entry into Watchet Harbour. If only the wind and rain eased.
Imran moved from his shelter under the canopy. He stood by Salma.
“How do we find the boat,” he yelled, “the Channel is so big and we are a cork bouncing around in a pond.”
“I must radio them,” Salma shouted back, “it’s dangerous, but we will keep it brief.”
As they got closer to the Somerset coast, they spotted lights ahead. Salma grabbed the handset.
“Royal Hunt to Storm Chaser; come in Storm Chaser.”
“Storm Chaser to Royal Hunt; we are ready for you, welcome.”
Salma eased back the throttle and brought her craft around to the far side of the yacht anchored just off the coast. To anyone watches, on a foul night such as this; they had sheltered in a calmer spot, weathering out the storm. In the morning, they would carry on up the Severn Estuary to dock in Bristol or carry on further out to sea.
Fenders were lowered from the side of the yacht. The cigarette boat was secured by Jamshed and Mohammed. Several men appeared at the rails of the yacht. Item after item then lowered carefully and stowed in the hull of the go-fast boat by Imran and Hassan.
Minutes later Salma moved carefully away again and tackle the final challenge. The crew of Storm Chaser cleared the decks and returned below to wait out the storm for another hour or two. The terrorist cell members now had possession of the explosives, weaponry and other materials they needed tomorrow in Bristol.
Salma expertly brought the go-fast boat to the harbour entrance, waiting, watching, and listening for the perfect moment. It was seven in the morning; dawn was breaking; Tarek should be waiting for them. There it was!
Salma gunned the powerful engines briefly, the boat surged forward. They cleared the seawall on her right by just one foot. They were past the worst. Inside the calm waters of the marina, everything was quiet. She looked for the mooring she had booked with her mother’s credit card last month. Salma might be estranged from her father, but the two women had kept in contact in secret.
As she brought her craft into the reserved space on the quayside, she spotted Tarek Qaadir. He helped Hassan get the boat secured.
“We must get on and transfer the equipment,” he growled. “This weather delayed you. It is light now. We could be seen.”
The four men who had endured an uncomfortable five hours in the cramped quarters on the boat were in no mood for hanging around either. They wanted to be as far away from water as possible.
“I’ve experienced enough of the sea for a lifetime,” said Mohammed angrily.
Hassan Ashiq looked at Jamshed Saswar; they smiled at one another.
Mohammed glared at them. “What’s so funny?”
“Don’t worry brother; you won’t go to sea again,” said Imran putting a hand on his shoulder. “Tomorrow, we will be in paradise.”
Mohammed passed the Passat number plates to Tarek.
“Make yourself useful and put these on the car Tarek; those Belgian number plates will be spotted in no time tomorrow.”
The transfer of equipment was made as quickly and quietly as possible. When the car boot was lifted, they had a partial shield to hide what they were off-loading. The rest of the marina felt empty. It may have been full of little boats, but nobody was up and moving around this early in the morning.
Salma made sure everything was secure on the boat and in her head, she said goodbye. Tarek’s role in the mission was now complete.
He said his goodbyes to his colleagues and set off on foot to the town. He took the bus into Taunton, walked to the railway station and travelled back to his home in Birmingham.
Imran Nawaz drove the car, his four passengers, and their equipment out of Watchet and took the road up to West Quantoxhead in the Quantock Hills. A mile past the village they turned off the minor road onto a narrow country track. Once they were out of sight of the road, they stopped and rested. Everyone needed sleep. It was just before eight in the morning.
As the terrorists nodded off, one by one, in the car in Somerset, the Olympus agents started their hunt for their targets afresh in West Wales.
“We must check with Giles, Rusty, to see if they’re travelling this morning. They should be at the Rosslare terminal by now,” said Phoenix.
Rusty made the call. After a five-minute one-way conversation, he ended the call.
“Okay, listen up,” said Rusty, connecting with Kelly and Dexter in the other van as well, “first, Giles tracked the car with the Belgian plates beyond Bristol. He took the M5 west towards Taunton. They lost any CCTV contact with him around Bridgwater. His best guess is that he headed for the coast. We have people looking for him there. Over in Ireland, Fintan O’Sullivan, our man in Wexford, has unearthed a small holiday cottage near Kilrane. It’s a short hop from there to Rosslare. He inspected the property and reported that it was ‘too clean’, someone went to the trouble of hiding that they had been there. A farmer who lives a mile up the road, towards the ferry terminal, told Fintan he thought he saw a furniture van on that road early last night. But he didn’t see where it headed.”
“That removals van we saw in Fishguard,” shouted Phoenix, “they were inside that!”
“We’ve missed them,” cried Kelly Dexter, “we need to get back to Bridgwater sharpish.”
Colin thought over the events of the past days. What had they missed? Were there any clues where their targets were headed? Was it Bristol; or could there be other targets they planned to hit in the west of England?
