by Sean Deville
There would be a lot of eyes on this. Careers could be shaped or broken. There was a certain degree of relief amongst high ranking officers when the Home Secretary stated he would only talk to Detective Inspector Cooke. Others had tried to begin the necessary questioning, only for the Home Secretary to shake his head and insist Cooke would be the man to do the interview. Why the politician had insisted on this, nobody could say, but if Cooke could get this dealt with quickly and cleanly then it would be to everyone’s benefit. And if he couldn’t and the case went sour, then Cooke would make a suitable scapegoat.
“You are going to think I am mad,” the Home Secretary said. After Baal had fled his body, the Home Secretary had collapsed, the mind that had been displaced not able to gain motor control initially. It had taken hours for some semblance of consciousness to return to him, and by then the Home Secretary had found himself under guard in a hospital bed.
The doctors were still reluctant to discharge him due to a worrying spike in blood pressure, so Cooke’s initial questioning was conducted away from the gloomy sterility of a police interrogation room. Cooke stood over the beleaguered politician who sat upright on pristine sheets in the private hospital room. Two uniformed officers stood guard outside, the Home Secretary spared the humiliation of being handcuffed to the bed.
Cooke had already read the man his rights.
“I try and reserve judgement on such things,” Cooke said in reassurance. There was none of the arrogance and seething anger he had detected in his previous interactions with this powerful man. The Home Secretary seated before him contained a broken and traumatised mind. Cooke had served in the military, ten years in the Black Watch before joining the Met. He’d seen the same eyes looking back at him on numerous soldiers shattered by what they had seen on the field of battle.
This man was ruined and would struggle to recover.
“I didn’t kill my wife,” the Home Secretary insisted. There was a pleading look there. Cooke’s intuition told him the prisoner believed what he was saying.
“I’m sure you will understand why that’s difficult to believe.” The Home Secretary nodded. They had a written confession in his handwriting. They had an officer who could attest to the Home Secretary’s verbal confession. Then there was the crime scene at the Home Secretary’s home, filled with evidence so gruesome it would never make the pages of the tabloids.
“You have to believe me.”
“Home Secretary, I don’t have to do anything. I am here as a courtesy to the Commissioner. You said you would only speak to me, and voila, I am here.” Cooke bent forward slightly, searching his adversary’s face for any sign of deception. He saw none. “You are pulling me away from the murders you were so insistent I investigate.”
“That wasn’t me, either,” the Home Secretary said. “It wasn’t me who you met the other day.”
“You will have to explain this to me.”
“Something took over my mind.”
“Come again?” Cooke insisted. If he was going for an insanity defence, the Home Secretary would have to do better than this.
“I was possessed. I had no say in my actions.”
“And…we are supposed to believe that?” It wasn’t the first time a defendant had tried this ploy during questioning. Cooke would have liked nothing more than to walk out and leave the man to the judicial wolves. But powerful people were watching and listening. The hospital room gave the illusion of privacy, but Cooke was recording the whole thing, the digital recorder placed on the bed next to a folder. Once the Home Secretary was well enough, the questioning would be continued down at the police station.
This would have to do for now.
“Yes, I give you my word.”
“Possession? What, like, by Satan?”
“This one called herself Baal. A demon. I had no choice in what I did.”
“A female demon. I will say, that’s a new one on me.” It was a nice touch, but it didn’t make this madness any more believable.
“I can prove it,” the Home Secretary offered.
“Well lay it out for me, from the beginning.” If he was forced to be here, Cooke might as well do his job as best he could. “You’re sure you don’t want a lawyer before we start? I’m guessing you know a few.”
“Lawyers can’t help me.” Well, thought Cooke, you’re not wrong there. If there was ever an open and shut case, surely this was it. Not even a high-charging barrister would be able to save this man from where he was heading, a long, drawn out stretch in one of Her Majesty’s dilapidated and overcrowded prisons. Then there would be the trial in the British press who had never been a great fan of the Home Secretary’s policies.
“It started a few nights ago, the nightmares. They were relentless, but I never remembered the substance of them. All I recall is the overwhelming need to say yes, to let something in.”
“You mean the demon?” Cooke would later receive a written summary of what could be found regarding the demonology of the name Baal. Baal, a Great King, ruling over the East of Hell, considered one of Satan’s chief lieutenants. Some of the literature found by the constables who had been tasked with finding this information would suggest Baal had in the past been confused with Satan himself, as well as being the name of a Canaanite god. Whatever the internet said, the Home Secretary had certainly chosen the name of a powerful demon to help cement his delusion.
Because, let’s be honest, that was what Cooke was dealing with here, a delusional mind at best. At worst, the Home Secretary was a psychopath who had finally lost it. Such a revelation would devastate the government in power. They had already seen the death of the Prime Minister, and now the third most powerful figure in government was being charged with murder. The country would reel with the news, the tabloids relishing every second of it. This was the sort of thing to make newspaper editors sigh with immense satisfaction.
“You don’t know what that bitch did to me.”
“I’m sure you are going to tell me.” Cooke wondered how many people were being kept in the loop about this interrogation. He knew he daren’t make a mistake here, or use some of his harsher interview techniques. The message he had been given coming into this had been clear. Let the man talk, and with luck he will bury himself and save us the need for a lengthy trial. There was already talk from Cooke’s superiors that an insanity defence might be the most desirable outcome for this debacle, something the public could get behind. It would be easier for all concerned to believe a man in the public eye had been driven insane.
“The demon, Baal, controlled my mind.”
“But why?” Cooke asked. “What was the point?” Help me build the narrative.
“It felt like I had been squeezed out. I could see and hear everything, but I had no control over my body. She made me do things, disgusting and despicable things.”
“Like kill your wife,” Cooke interjected. The Home Secretary nodded.
“That was the worst of it, the feel of the knife. I felt every thrust of the blade as I plunged it into her.” The Home Secretary could barely get the words out.
“There’s a rumour going round you were having marital problems.”
“It’s true,” the Home Secretary admitted. “The marriage died years ago, but my wife insisted we keep up the pretence. She enjoyed the perks that came with being married to me, and I let her have her men on the side.”
“But why kill her?” Being cuckolded was a humiliation to make some men snap.
“Revenge against me. Apparently, Baal found my persistent objection to my captivity annoying.”
“Captivity?” That sounded like a strange word to use.
“It’s what I was, a prisoner trapped in a body controlled by pure evil.”
“You really believe all this, don’t you?” This had been a strange couple of days for the Metropolitan Police. First, they had arrested a mass murderer who claimed to be the son of Lucifer. Then there were the deaths linked to a Satanic ritual. Now this.
“Of
course, I believe it. Detective Inspector, I’m telling you the truth.”
“You said Baal came here for a reason?” Let’s see how far the madness goes, thought Cooke. So far, he wasn’t believing a word of it.
“You remember why I brought you into the investigation of the three deaths four days ago?”
“Yes, because they had a similarity to other deaths I was investigating.” On the day he had first met the Home Secretary, Cooke felt vital information had been kept from him. “You said you suspected some sort of Catholic Order of assassins.”
“What if I told you we caught one of them? You remember the gas explosion that killed two officers?” Cooke had indeed heard about that. The information had been compartmentalised, but the word had still got round. Cops talked to other cops, fuelling the rumour mill churning away at such things.
“Yes. Bad result, that one.”
“There were tunnels below the house. MI5 caught a person of interest down there.”
“What happened to him?” Why the fuck am I only hearing about this now?
“Her. The person MI5 detained was a woman.”
“Is she still in custody?”
“No. Baal ordered her to be taken to a secure location. Through my lips, Baal authorised her to be tortured.”
So, your defence is to dig a bigger hole for yourself? Cooke knew his life had just become infinitely more complicated. “You can’t be serious.” He didn’t have difficulty believing MI5 could torture someone. The Security Services had a reputation for being a law unto themselves, but why was it he who had to deal with the fallout from all this?
“Ask Sir Paul. I’m sure he will deny it. Fortunately, Baal ensured there was a paper record. It’s all in my Parliamentary office.” The Home Secretary predicted the next question before it was asked. “Because even then I think Baal wanted to ruin me.”
“This still doesn’t explain why you were possessed.” Despite himself, Cooke found the tale strangely plausible. It was fitting pieces into a puzzle he’d been working on for years. Were the deaths at the farmhouse somehow linked?
“Baal came here to find what she called an Inquisitor. I’m pretty vague on that, it was difficult to see into the demon’s mind. She was so filled with rage and such evil thoughts that it pained me to try. There was the other thing Baal did.”
“Oh?” What madness would the Home Secretary come up with now?
“Baal killed the Prime Minister and the Chief Whip. Do you not find it curious the way they died as they did?” Cooke picked up the folder off the bed. It held the autopsy reports for the two dead men, amongst other things.
“The PM died of a massive coronary,” Cooke said, reading from one of the sheets.
“Killed by the power of Baal’s mind. She was telekinetic.”
“I’m not sure I know what to say to that.”
“Please,” the Home Secretary begged, “you must believe me.”
“Why? Why is it so important you make us all believe you were the victim here?” Cooke would have preferred stubborn denial rather than this insanity.
“Ask Sir Paul.”
“I’ve already put in a request to interview him,” Cooke said. The problem was, one didn’t just demand the head of MI5 come down to the station for a chat. If they had been running an operation in parallel to the one that saw two police officers die, they would be trying for a cover up. “You mentioned evidence in your office.”
“It’s in my desk drawer. You can’t miss it.” Baal had put her paper trail in an A4 envelope and marked it happy days for the Met Police.
No such evidence had been mentioned to Cooke and he had a sneaking suspicion that the envelope in question would never be found. Cooke suddenly realised he had his work cut out for him. He also realised he had truly been handed a poisoned chalice. Nothing good for his career would surely come out of this.
Shit.
6.
New York, USA
Mohammed sat on a cold chair in a cold room. It had been less than an hour since he had been taken, and he was deathly afraid. His bruised body ached, and two of his teeth were loose from the treatment he had received. When the men had dragged him from the van and pulled him along the tunnel, none of the other drivers caught in the police manifested traffic jam had questioned what was going on. By then badges had been on display, the motorcyclists a quickly organised snatch team sent into the tunnel to capture alive the two wanted men.
The bulk of Mohammed's fear revolved around what would become of him should the atomic bomb not go off. They had found him, so it was very possible they had also uncovered the nuclear device. To die in atomic fire seemed preferable right now. He had been told such horror stories about what the hated Americans would do to him should he be captured. And here he was, deep within their grasp.
A hood had been put over his head during that march of shame, and had hidden the faces of those drivers who had watched his arrest. With news of the Philadelphia atrocity reaching them, most people had put two and two together and correctly calculated four. He would find no allies amongst everyday New Yorkers, and even the more liberally minded wouldn’t care a damn about his civil liberties. Mohammed was alone, surrounded by enemies.
The hood still rested on his head, the smell of urine sickening to him. From the tunnel, he had been bundled into a van where three men had worked him over, all the time screaming questions at him.
“Your name. Give us your name.”
“Where's the bomb?”
“How many of you are there?” He didn't answer, his resistance more out of shock than any true bravado. During the short ride, one of the arresting agents had pissed on him. That sort of thing wasn't supposed to happen. Hollywood told the world that America was supposed to be a country of laws, of due process. Still, he remembered what his superiors told him about the fate he would face if the cursed Americans ever captured him. It would appear they hadn’t been exaggerating.
Mohammed had walked into a jungle of lions thinking he would find only sheep.
He was in the shit here, but he'd had no choice in the matter. If he had refused his orders, someone from his own side would have undoubtedly hunted him down. And to be honest, after the initial shock to his system of being activated, the old ideology had resurfaced. He had flown the drone over the people flocking to St Peter’s Square despite their innocence.
He heard the door open, more than one person entering. Two, perhaps, by the sounds of the footsteps? Mohammed cringed. He had learnt something about himself today, something that left him broken and ashamed. He realised he was no martyr, nor was he a hero to his country. He was a coward who had killed thousands merely to save his own neck. It was so easy to say he had done it all for Allah, but the recent beating had laid the truth in front of him. Only a fool could deny what he really was. And Mohammed may have been many things, but he liked to think he wasn't a fool.
Someone stripped the hood off. The relief he experienced was merely temporary in nature.
Two FBI agents stood before him, a man and a woman. They both appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent which surprised him. They were dressed the way FBI agents were supposed to be dressed, and Mohammed knew he was at their ultimate mercy. He had a strong suspicion the laws of this country did not apply in this room.
“I am Special Agent Khaled,” the man said. “This is my partner Special Agent Ibrahim.” The woman glowered at Mohammed as if she wanted to rip out both his eyes and feed them to him. He had rarely seen a look of such utter hatred.
“Please, I would like some water,” Mohammed begged. His mouth throbbed, and he wondered if he would ever receive some form of medical treatment.
“He wants some water!” Ibrahim said. “But of course. Anything else? Perhaps a three-course meal and a fucking whore to suck you off?” She cast an angry glance at her partner, who nodded for the door. With clear exasperation, Ibrahim left the room, slamming that door behind her.
But I only asked for some water.
&
nbsp; Khaled sat down on the opposite side of the table, casually dropping a manila folder in front of Mohammed. It was out of his reach, for Mohammed's hands were cuffed to the bar welded to the table top. How could they have a folder on him already? What did they think they knew about him?
“I would like to apologise for my partner,” Khaled said, “and for the way you were treated on your arrest. But I'm sure you can understand tensions are high.”
“I don't understand,” Mohammed blustered. “I have rights.”
“Well, actually you don't, which is unfortunate for you. If it was up to me, I would have ensured your humane treatment, but I'm not the one in charge here. A lot of people had friends and relatives in Philadelphia, my partner included.”
“Philadelphia?” What is this agent talking about?
“Come now. It's too late to feign ignorance. The only choice you have here is to help yourself.”
“What about Philadelphia?” Mohammed insisted.
“Very well, if you insist. Roughly an hour ago a thermonuclear device was exploded in the heart of that city. There are thousands dead and dying.” Khaled opened the folder and extracted a photograph which he laid down so Mohammed could see it. “All created by a device no doubt similar to this one.” The photograph showed the suitcase nuke Mohammed had been sent to inspect. The next photograph showed a picture of the man who had volunteered to stay behind to ensure the device’s detonation. The man in the picture had a bullet wound in his forehead.
I am fucked, Mohammed realised. His finger prints would be all over the basement where the bomb was kept.
So, there would be no saviour from his enemies by atomic fire. They had found the bomb and they would use its existence against him.
“You killed him?” Mohammed said, aghast.
“Of course. I regret to say you will likely wish you had met such a fate. This country’s judicial system will not be kind to you.”
