Operation Certain Death

by Kim Hughes

  Satisfied everything was running as it should, Barbara made her way back upstairs and through to the sitting room. To her surprise she had been down there even longer than the Mahler lasted, close to two hours. ‘Tea, darling?’ she asked.

  Henry was in his armchair. The Normandy book was on the floor next to him, its pages splayed open. His head was back, mouth open.

  She walked over, knelt down and took his still-warm hand. She shook him gently, hoping he might have merely dozed off, but knowing in her heart he had done no such thing. Her training pushed her to search for a pulse in her husband’s sinewy wrist but she could find none. Barbara briefly placed her husband’s fingers against her forehead and then rested her cheek on his thigh, the wool soft against her skin. She gave his knee one final squeeze, as if reassuring him. ‘Oh, sweetie.’

  FORTY-ONE

  The property that was registered to former army interpreter Mohammed Safi and his father Aalem was located in Enfield, North London. MI5 notified the Counter Terrorism Command of the Metropolitan Police of a possible bomb factory on its turf. Using thermal imaging it was confirmed that two persons were in the house. Over the course of the evening, nearby houses were quietly evacuated and an ICP set up inside an unmarked van in a side road almost opposite the target address.

  MI5 handed control over to CTC but went to the scene with its own anonymous command truck, parked even further down the road. It was equipped as a mobile surveillance unit, and was pretty cramped for Oakham, Riley, Muraski and two MI5 officers. On the screens was a Google Earth map of the location, plus live feeds from the CTC cameras trained on the house. Armed police were in position in adjacent and facing gardens.

  ‘They know we want them alive?’ asked Muraski. ‘For the Russian connection.’ Riley had explained about Halo and the drones. Muraski had heard of the company, apparently. The man in Stevenage was going to get a little visit. He doubted he’d be anything other than an innocent dupe, but Muraski said it was another piece of evidence that pointed to – albeit obliquely – Russian involvement in the bombings.

  ‘Chief Inspector Mercer doesn’t need to be told that,’ said Oakham. They knew he was going to try to make contact with the bomb-maker, having got his phone numbers from the Department of Work and Pensions, which paid a carer’s allowance to Safi for looking after his disabled son. Riley was well aware there was no rulebook for negotiating with suicide bombers, if that was what Safi had become. Hostage negotiation was a well-practised art, and often succeeded because the motivations of the hostage takers were complex. And they usually wanted to get out alive. Suicide bombers, not so much.

  CTC were making contact with the Safis on a landline. They heard a phone ringing. The receiver was picked up. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr Safi. I believe you speak English.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Good. I’d like to discuss the situation we find ourselves in.’

  ‘Who is this please?’ Butter wouldn’t melt, thought Riley.

  ‘This is Chief Inspector Mark Mercer of the Metropolitan Police’s Counter Terrorism Command.’

  ‘And what can I do for you?’

  Now there’s a stupid question, thought Riley.

  ‘We have reason to believe your premises have been used for the manufacture of explosives.’

  Silence.

  ‘There are armed police officers outside. We don’t want anyone else to get hurt. Not you. Not your son.’

  There was a bitter laugh at the other end. ‘A little late for that, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Mr Safi, we would like you to leave the house now. Come to the front door, with your hands up, and we can continue this discussion elsewhere.’

  ‘The house is wired to blow, Chief Inspector. Mines, grenades, what you call IEDs. Booby traps. You know what a Bouncing Betty is?’

  Muraski looked enquiringly at Riley.

  ‘Spring-powered booby trap,’ he whispered, even though there was no way the men on the telephone could hear him. ‘It sends a shrapnel bomb up into the air before it explodes at chest or head height,’ he added. ‘Or sometimes groin height.’

  She grimaced.

  ‘This isn’t helping,’ said Mercer to the bomb-maker. ‘Come outside, Mr Safi. We have people who can dismantle whatever you have set up.’

  ‘I doubt that. You will lose many men if you approach.’

  ‘If we can’t come in, then it means you can’t leave. Every exit is covered.’

  ‘So be it.’

  ‘You have a son who is not well. What can we get him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said sharply. ‘He has everything he needs here. But you can bring us one thing, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Staff Sergeant Dominic Riley.’

  FORTY-TWO

  Normally it would be a member of CTC’s bomb squad who would climb into the suit. But the bomb-maker had said he would only negotiate with Riley, and not by telephone. Aalem wanted him to approach the house, so Riley could see his son, see what he had become, or so he said. Shielded from view by the CTC vehicle, Riley donned the cumbersome suit as Kate Muraski and Alex Stock, the Met’s EXPO, watched.

  ‘Surely they could just storm the place?’ said Muraski. ‘Stun grenades like they used on you.’

  ‘They don’t work quite so well if you’re expecting them,’ said Riley. ‘In all likelihood all he has to do is pull a wire or press or release a button and boom, the house goes up along with anyone nearby. And before you suggest it, one, there’s not a lot of these to go around, and two, you can’t storm anything in them.’

  Riley worked his arms into the jacket as he continued to explain his thinking. ‘And even these suits don’t always help. Not with a full-on blast. Of course, he could be bluffing. He might have booby-trapped the place. He might not. Bouncing Betties are a good way to scare anyone. So, I don’t think they want to take the chance he is telling the truth. I know I wouldn’t.’

  ‘But you’re still going up there?’

  ‘It’s in his job description,’ said Stock. ‘You comfortable?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll do comms,’ said Stock.

  ‘Appreciate it, Alex.’

  The EXPO nodded and went into the truck to set up his end of the communication link. There was a Beep at work in there, putting out electronic interference. The Met were also using SkyFence, which disrupted communication to a drone, and Aerospot, which could pinpoint both the machine and its operator. Nobody wanted another Cotswolds or, indeed, Gatwick.

  ‘You be careful, Riley,’ Muraski said.

  ‘Always am,’ he said, slightly taken aback by the concern in her voice.

  ‘He’s obviously a tricky character. Safi, I mean. Not Stock.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t be far wrong with Alex. But, yes. Safi will be tricky.’

  ‘And disturbed,’ she added.

  ‘Whereas I’m obviously completely sane doing this.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ she said.

  ‘Staff Sergeant Riley.’ It was Mercer. He was tall and thin like a force-grown sapling, but for the prominent hooked nose that seemed to protrude further than the peak of his cap. He reminded Riley of an eagle in need of a good feed-up.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Your skipper just briefed me.’

  Oakham was no such thing, but he let it pass. ‘Sir.’

  ‘You have history with this man.’

  ‘The son.’

  ‘Safi blames you for the condition of the boy.’

  ‘I think I’m standing in for the whole British Army, sir.’

  ‘There will be trained marksmen on the house. If your life is in danger in any way, they will act accordingly.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Muraski. ‘We’d like them alive if possible. The bomber and the boy.’

  Mercer turned and stared down his nose at her. He looked like he might peck her eyes out with it. ‘And I’d quite like Staff Sergeant Riley here to make it back in one piece.’

&n
bsp; ‘So would I. Sir,’ said Muraski.

  ‘Me, too,’ said Riley. ‘So it’s pretty unanimous. I’m touched by both of your concerns. But you two can argue about this among yourselves. I need to put the helmet on and test radio comms with Alex.’

  First, though, he phoned Izzy. Ruby was asleep, all was well. Izzy either heard some background noise or knew from something in his voice that he was on an op.

  ‘You’re on a call.’ Not a question.

  ‘Yes. I’m putting this thing to bed.’

  ‘Oh God, I always hated this feeling. Why did you call? Just to wind me up?’

  ‘No, of course not. Tell Ruby I love her. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Dom? Dom?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  There was a silence on the other end, as if she was struggling to find the right words. ‘Nothing. Be safe.’

  The line went dead.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later he began the walk across the street, aware of dozens of pairs of eyes and probably some crosshairs on him. Any civilian doing that journey might be terrified or nervous – probably both – but once Riley began, he was simply impatient to get down to it. His heartbeat was slow, sweating at a minimum for the moment, saliva plentiful. He was simply going to work.

  The main building was hidden behind a hedge, apart from a break for the doors to a driveway to his left and an ornamental metal gate straight ahead of him. Beyond the gate he could see the front door, which had two stained glass panels in it, showing peacocks. As he got closer, he could see the nameplate on the gate echoed that representation: the place was called The Peacocks.

  ‘There’s movement in the house,’ came through his headphones. It was Alex Stock.

  ‘What kind of movement?’ he asked.

  ‘Not clear. They’re talking, softly. Not English.’ There were listening devices trained on the house as well as snipers. ‘Hold on.’

  ‘You want me to stop walking?’

  ‘No. Keep going.’

  He was in the centre of the deserted road now and he began sweating despite the cool of the night. He adjusted his man bag. If he was going to step into the house, he was going to deploy all the tricks to look for devices – mine detector, tripwire probe, the bright light attached to his helmet.

  ‘They are moving upstairs,’ said the tech.

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  ‘Helmet camera on?’

  Riley reached up and flicked the switch that would give Stock eyes.

  ‘Got it.’

  Riley continued on and stepped onto the pavement outside the house, one heavy foot at a time. Three steps to the gate. That was where the danger zone began. Even pushing the gate open might snap an invisible cord.

  ‘Front bedroom. Moving towards the window.’

  With difficulty Riley looked up to see the curtains on the bay window whisked back and the shape of the bomb-maker and his son behind the glass. ‘Tell whoever is in charge of the marksmen to hold their fire,’ Riley said.

  ‘Roger that.’

  ‘Tell them twice, Alex.’

  ‘Will do.’

  The top sash of the window slid down about halfway. The bomb-maker said something. But Riley couldn’t hear. He reached up and began to undo the helmet.

  ‘What you are doing, Dom?’

  ‘I need to hear.’

  ‘I’ll lose visual,’ Stock protested.

  ‘I’ll put it back on if I’m going in. Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.’ Riley was lying. He was improvising and for the first time he felt a little stab of the jitters. He took a deep breath, steadied himself.

  He pulled off the bulky helmet and carefully laid it on the ground beside him. With freer head movement he studied the façade of the building and down the path, looking for any sign of devices. Nothing stood out. He turned his attention back to the bomb-maker and Moe the terp.

  ‘Hello, Scouse,’ he said to the boy. ‘Long time no see. Liverpool doing well, eh?’

  ‘He can’t understand you,’ said Safi.

  ‘Klopp,’ said the lad with a lopsided grin.

  ‘I admire his passion,’ said Riley. ‘You know they say he wanted to come to Arsenal, but Wenger wasn’t ready to go. You got lucky.’

  ‘Arse! Gonner!’ the boy yelled.

  Riley felt a lump in his throat, remembering the casual banter between them. He addressed the next sentence to the father. ‘Seems to understand fine to me. Why don’t you let him go? Come on, we can get him looked after. Better than you can.’ From a prison cell.

  ‘You did this,’ said Safi. ‘To my son. What happened to him, it killed my wife.’

  ‘Dead,’ said the boy. ‘Kill.’

  Riley shook his head. ‘Look, it was a fuckin’ stupid war. On both sides. But you have to know, it was a Taliban bullet that did that.’

  ‘You know that Mohammed here was working for us all along. Spotting your every move. He told me where to place my bombs. He was one of us. A soldier. Riley, hope you have better luck than the last ATO. Remember that? We did it.’

  It felt like a slap across the face. It had the ring of truth. There had been rumours of terps, coerced by blackmail or bullying or simple fatherly dominance into acting as eyes and ears for Terry. But he had thought they were just that – paranoid rumours. But maybe Moe had been a mole? Right then wasn’t the moment for such analysis, however. That was a scab to be picked at later.

  ‘Even if that were true, it doesn’t matter now. It’s water under the bridge. Let the boy go and we’ll talk.’

  ‘Die,’ said the lad. ‘Wiped.’

  ‘Nobody has to die, Moe.’

  ‘Gonner. Arse!’ Moe became agitated and the father put his hand over the boy’s mouth.

  ‘You are upsetting him.’

  Me? he almost yelled. But he kept calm. ‘Look, play your cards right, we can all walk away from this place. Choose life. If not for you, then for your son.’

  ‘You,’ said Safi, the words carried along on a wave of fury. ‘You might walk away. It is possible. But you will feel my pain if you do. Misery will be waiting for you. The two of us, my son and I, our fates are bound together.’

  ‘You do what you want. But leave your boy out of it. Or are you scared to die alone, just in case everything you’ve been promised on the other side is a big, shiny lie?’

  Safi‘s face folded like a clenched fist into a mask of hatred.

  ‘Give me Moe.’

  Safi pushed the top sash further down, although Riley didn’t have a clear view of them because of the reflection in the glass. He could hear the speaker in the discarded helmet rasping something. He leaned to one side and could just make out Stock’s urgently shouted words. ‘Can you hear me? Put the fuckin’ helmet back on. He’s got a sheet of some sort wrapped around both him and the boy. Get out of there. Riley, I think it’s a giant suicide vest. Get out of there!’

  Riley looked up, just as Safi raised the detonation switch and showed it out of the window, the thumb hovering over the plunger.

  He yelled at the top of his voice. ‘No, don’t be—’

  ‘This life you think you live is nothing but the illusion and the rapture of delusion. Alla¯hu akbar!’

  At that feared exclamation, Riley turned to run, scooping up the helmet as he went, struggling to get it over his head. His limbs would not move fast enough, the weight of the suit making him slow and bovine. Ahead he could see people taking cover, although Mercer was out of the truck waving him on and yelling encouragement.

  He heard the crack of a marksman’s rifle, trying to take out Safi. Whether he succeeded, they would never know. He could easily have rigged a dead-man’s switch that activated when pressure was taken off. It could have been the last wilful act of a bitter, dying man.

  Riley had just cleared the pavement when the front of the bay window blew out, spewing glass, wood and bits of human into the hedge and over it, spilling across the asphalt. The blast of that was somewhat attenuated by the shield of shrubbery,
but still knocked him sideways, causing him to stagger. Then came a bigger one, blowing the front door off its hinges and hurling it down the path, spinning as it went. Moments later the second detonation wave hit him, carrying with it a large chunk of debris that smashed into his protective suit’s Kevlar plates, pitching him off his feet and sending him sprawling across the road.

  WEDNESDAY

  FORTY-THREE

  It was Ben Beaumont who found Barbara, still kneeling next to Henry, who was by then quite cold. Beaumont had broken his journey from Scotland by stopping over in Perth and then at an inn in Yorkshire. Feeling fully recovered from the rather frantic drive with Barbara, he decided to call in on the Clifford-Browns on the way back to London to see how they were faring. Having received no reply from banging the door knocker several times, he had walked around to the back of the property. He found the kitchen door unlocked and entered. With his heart beating loudly in his ears, he began calling their names. He still had the two guns from the woods at Inverstone Lodge – it was one reason why he had decided to drive back rather than fly – although they were in the car. Besides, unlike Barbara, he was too old for brandishing weapons in anger.

  In the living room, Henry was slumped back in his chair, with Barbara at his feet, her face tear-stained, her make-up streaked. She looked up, unsurprised by Binkie’s unexpected appearance. A spark had gone from her eyes. For the first time he could ever remember, Barbara Clifford-Brown looked lost and confused. ‘He’s gone, Ben.’

  ‘I know. Oh, Barbara, I’m so sorry. But best leave the rest to me.’

  Beaumont helped Barbara into a chair. She didn’t resist as he gently wiped her face with a handkerchief.

  He had carried a torch for her for years. Many of them had in the Service. She had not only been a great beauty, she had a pragmatic and ruthless streak that many of the men envied. Never prone to sentimentality, she was a formidable player. Gunfighter eyes, they sometimes said behind her back, among other more dubious utterances that wouldn’t be tolerated in the modern age. Barbara rose above it or gave as good as she got, depending on her mood. And, distressingly, she was stubbornly faithful to Henry, apart from a few honey-trap operations in the early days of her career. Lucky Henry. Till now, of course. He switched his attention to the final needs of his old friend.