by Alex Gray
As he explained the plan, the potential for damage and carnage was clear to even the dullest imagination. The man’s words conjured up pictures of twisted metal, row upon row of seats upended by the blast and, best of all, the collapse of a regime that each of them detested so bitterly. They were fighters in a war, he reminded them, survivors of an ancient race. Their blood was purer than that of those upstart Hanoverians. It was time to let the world know that they would no longer tolerate being subordinate to such outdated rule.
Some time later each man left the building, singly and in different directions, avoiding the ever-present stares of CCTV cameras, buoyed up by their leader’s rhetoric, surer than ever of the cause for which they were fighting.
Cameron Gregson strode along the city street, heart pounding. The expression on the leader’s face might have been almost laughable had his words not had such deep intent. He was, Cameron had decided with each successive meeting, probably certifiable, but perhaps it took a madman to exert that sort of authority over the members of this group. And to effect the plan.
A thrill of excitement shivered the hairs on the back of the young man’s neck. They could do this. It would happen just as they had planned.
His own contribution had been to gain inside knowledge from the ever-willing Gayle, though lately she had grumbled about his snide remarks. Cameron smiled to himself. He had taken the decision not to pretend too much. Better to be disparaging about the Games, let her protest how wonderful they were going to be as she tried to persuade him to come to the various functions that were happening on an almost weekly basis.
He crossed the road and slipped down a cobbled lane where the internet café door was open to the sunshine. Loads of students seemed to be out on this warm April afternoon, and as Cameron entered the café, he glanced around, hoping that there would be no familiar face there to distract him.
No emails, the leader had always insisted. No using computers to contact one another. Too easy for the spooks to follow a trail like that. So they used cheap mobile phones dedicated to this venture, their identities protected from any network and from each other.
But this afternoon Cameron Gregson was not intending to send an email from his identity as Number Six. The letter to Gayle was from his Hotmail account, one of several that he had set up.
As he ordered his latte, the young man was already composing the words in his head, sweet-talking the girl so that she would give him another chance.
It had been on a bright sunny day like this that he had met the leader. He had taken a pint out to the beer garden at the back of his favourite pub in Ashton Lane when the sound of bagpipes had started up, making the drinkers look up to see where the noise was coming from. Lots of the windows in Lilybank Gardens had been open to catch the warm breeze and it was from behind one of these that the lone piper was beginning his repertoire. After an initial wheeze and tentative notes of tuning, music began to spill: first a slow march, followed by some jigs and reels, then, hauntingly, the measured notes of ‘The Dark Island’.
Cameron had not noticed the man coming to stand by his side then, so wrapped up was he in listening to the unseen piper whose music had captured his attention.
‘That’s the one that always gets me,’ the man had said, looking past Cameron with a rapt expression on his face.
‘Aye,’ Cameron had responded. ‘Know what you mean. Good piper, isn’t he?’
The man had slid easily on to the bench next to Cameron, a polite discussion about the merits of various pipe bands ensuing before the conversation had taken a different turn.
It had been Cameron who had expressed his disgust with modern British politics, not caring to conceal his fervent hatred of the upper classes, especially the royals and all they stood for. It was easy to let your opinions flow with each successive pint when your companion was a stranger you would never set eyes on again. The man had concurred with Cameron’s point of view, filling in historical gaps in the younger man’s knowledge that had impressed the PhD student.
‘What d’you do about it, though? That’s the trouble,’ Cameron had said, a note of bitterness in his tone. He recalled the faraway look in the other man’s eyes, then the way he had turned and stared at Cameron for a long moment as though debating something within himself.
‘There are things that can be done,’ the man had said at last, his words spoken in a low voice so that only Cameron would hear them, ‘for those who are brave enough to go through with them.’
Cameron sipped his latte, remembering the moment when their eyes had met. It was as if some kindred spirit had come to him that afternoon in the form of that ordinary-looking man. They had talked some more, then walked the length of Byres Road together, crossing over to the Botanic Gardens.
It was a war between the royalists and the people, the man had explained, and he had outlined the course of history so succinctly that Cameron felt that it answered all the years of frustration he had felt growing up in a Scotland that seemed ruled by outsiders.
‘My name’s . . .’ He had held out his hand, but the man had waved it away, insisting he didn’t want to know. Knowing names was unsafe. If the young man really wanted to join the fight against the enemy, he would be given a number.
And so Cameron Gregson had become Number Six. A time and place to meet again had been arranged and the mobile phone duly handed over with strict instructions to use it only for operational purposes.
Each meeting with the group was arranged for a different house in a different part of the city. Sometimes it would be an upstairs flat in the heart of the university area; other times he travelled out to the suburbs to a bungalow or semi full of other people’s belongings. Cameron was pretty sure that the properties did not belong to any of the other men, and suspected that the leader, despite his evident hatred of the upper classes and what they stood for, actually owned these places. He was always first to arrive and last to leave. Once, wishing to ask a final question, Cameron had turned back to see the man with a bunch of keys in his hand, ready to lock the front door of a lower cottage flat out in Knightswood. That he might be making his living as a landlord intrigued Cameron Gregson. Was he a wealthy man, then? A disaffected member of the upper classes? His voice and manners were not of that ilk, though. He spoke with the Glasgow accent of an educated man, not one whose vowels were brayed out nasally like some of those public-school types Cameron had encountered at university. And he was always dressed simply, nothing fancy or expensive, just a navy anorak and a pair of Blue Harbour trousers from M&S. It was, Cameron had thought to himself, as though he wanted to merge into the crowd. As he had attended more and more meetings, his respect for the leader had risen, listening to how the plan could be achieved if they managed to infiltrate the various areas of Glasgow 2014 without really being noticed.
Cameron’s mouth twisted in a moue of self-disgust. Becoming Gayle’s boyfriend had brought him to the notice of several of her friends and colleagues. He was always careful not to bad-mouth the Games in front of them, of course, but somehow repressing his real thoughts had made him explode with fury in the private moments when they were together. If the others had any inkling what Number Six was saying to her, he’d be out on his ear, Cameron thought. Or worse.
They were a mixed lot, the soldiers in his small troop. Two of them had mentioned being in prison, though what crimes they had committed was never talked about. Number Two was a big brute of a man with fists like hams and shoulders that suggested he could have carried a beast off the hills. Sometimes Cameron imagined the man in full Highland dress as in the olden times, a plaid wrapped around his chest, a weapon in his hand. The impression was heightened by his muscular arms; they were covered in whorls of green and blue tattoos, Celtic runes that swirled and twisted right down to the backs of his enormous wrists. With his rust-red hair and full beard, Number Two looked well suited to his particular task: something to do with the Homecoming, one of the many events peripheral to the Commonwealth Games, though big in its own way. He was
to accompany a party of overseas visitors to the opening ceremony, though just how that had been achieved, Cameron never found out.
It was best not to ask too many questions, he had discovered. The other ex-con had the privileged position of being Number Three, and Cameron was certain that he and the leader had been on first-name terms long before the group had been established, such was the rapport between the two men. Tall and thin, with lank black hair, he reminded Cameron of an emaciated spider that might scuttle swiftly towards its prey before a sudden kill. A look from Number Three was enough to silence any idle chatter from the members of the group, and Cameron had wondered more than once if this man had ever committed a capital crime, such was the sense of grim suppressed rage that emanated from him at times.
Of the other two, one was the white-haired explosives expert, an older man who always welcomed Cameron with a smile on his benign countenance. Grandad, as Cameron silently termed him, was evidently enjoying his part in the project, particularly in the wake of the Drymen bomb. ‘Number Four blows up some more,’ he’d joked quietly to Cameron, nudging him with his elbow as if the whole plan to destroy the Commonwealth Games was a huge schoolboy wheeze. Cameron had watched him during the meetings, his serene face turned to the leader, listening to every word yet giving the impression that he was still in an impregnable world of his own.
He assumed that each man had been given his number after joining the group, yet Number Five was the one man he felt could take over most easily from the leader if that ever became necessary. In his late twenties, curly dark hair cut smartly, thick-soled shoes always polished, he was, Cameron had to admit, the most difficult member of the group to identify in any way. One day he might arrive briefcase in hand, like a city businessman, yet on others he would be wearing a thick parka, as if his day job entailed being out of doors. It was odd how they all deferred to him whenever he had something to suggest. His was the sort of authority that had made the younger man decide eventually that their mission was not some fly-by-night escapade but something much more serious.
Any failure would have devastating consequences for them all, this man had insisted more than once. And it was Number Five who seemed to know about the activities of MI6, though through what channels he received this information remained a mystery. Was he a government official of some kind?
Or – and this was a thought that had crossed Cameron’s mind more than once – a senior member of Police Scotland?
The Anti Terrorist Unit consisted of four officers, whose domain was a small office upstairs in Stewart Street, though at eight o’clock on this April evening there was only one person still at work. Police Sergeant Patsy Clark smoothed back a loose strand of hair that had escaped from her bun, her fingers searching for a kirby grip to fasten it back. As the date of the Commonwealth Games approached, there were daily memos from the Home Office. Some of them were routine stuff, but there were a few that made the police officer’s eyes gleam with anticipation.
That there were threats to the safety of the Games was not in any doubt. The security measures had been impressive, though, and Patsy’s team had given wholehearted approval to everything carried out since the building work in the East End had commenced. Occasional notes would pass through the office concerning disaffected groups known to government sources. The general public had little inkling of the undercurrents of wrath and madness that went on beneath the surface. TV programmes about spies and films about world domination tapped into only a tiny part of what really went on; stuff that the Official Secrets Act made certain would never come to the consciousness of ordinary people.
Now there was a new memo for the officer to read, a note from someone on high to alert her squad to the possibility of a new group working in the Strathclyde area. Patsy had been commanded to stay in the office until it arrived, and the mounting anticipation had not been rewarded by anything special as far as she could see.
‘Another lot of nutters,’ she murmured, though the wording of the email was rather more stiff and official in describing this particular threat.
It has come to our notice . . . it began, making Patsy smile. Just how that had happened was something she longed to know. Being in this unit was the nearest she would probably come to the misty world of the Secret Services, yet that was a world she longed to be a part of, and she suspected that her fellow officers here in Glasgow no doubt nurtured similar dreams.
‘Right,’ she said aloud, though at this hour of the day there was no other officer in the room, ‘here’s one for you then, sir.’
She read the memo again, nodding in approval. Last year it was Detective Superintendent Lorimer who had been chosen to give a statement about the bomb near the West Highland Way out past Drymen. Now he had been suggested by someone further up the chain of command as the person to take charge of the Glasgow end of the investigation into what could prove to be a terrorist cell. Perhaps this time the team might be able to follow through on the information that came in these brief memos as though someone in the corridors of power were reluctant to let go of it.
Chapter Fifteen
The shopping mall was crowded with youngsters enjoying their last few days of freedom before the school term began again. Shereen steered the young black woman through the melee of chattering kids, pulling at her arm every time Asa stopped to stare at anything, which was often. She had tried to explain their destination as they had left the flat and got into the same car that had brought the girl to this part of the city, but Asa’s terrified face as they were pushed into the back seat showed that the Nigerian girl had understood none of it.
Now, heading towards the entrance of Primark, Shereen hoped that the girl would relax long enough for her to be able to buy the things she needed. Leaving the men back in the underground car park had been her idea.
‘Can’t you see she’s scared of you? It’s taken me days to build up her confidence and I’m not having you pair of idiots ruin it!’ Shereen had scolded them. She’d been aware of Asa listening to the heated exchange, their raised voices only making the girl shrink further into the corner of her seat. But the older woman had chivvied them into seeing things her way, and now she and Asa were together, her hand around the girl’s waist as she steered her into the shop.
‘Dress,’ she said, pulling at a rack of summer clothes and then indicating her own cotton frock.
Asa looked at Shereen intently. ‘Dress,’ she parroted.
‘Good girl, Asa.’ Shereen smiled broadly and patted the girl’s arm to show that she was pleased with her. ‘Now let’s find you some suitable things to wear.’
Asa’s head was spinning after the walk through the marble-floored hall. Never in her young life had she seen so many white people together. There were, admittedly, a few Asian faces amongst them, and once, an African couple who had glanced her way before Shereen had tugged on her arm, making her walk faster. But it all looked so terribly strange, so foreign, that Asa’s longing for home was stronger than ever. Now here she was in this enormous shop full of different sorts of clothing, some of it piled into towering stacks, and faceless white mannequins that made her shudder despite the clothes fitted on to their skinny frames.
Shereen’s voice chattered on as the girl wandered further and further into this place full of colour and finery. Once, she had turned timidly to the older woman, hands outstretched as if to ask permission to feel the cloth of a particular blue dress, and Shereen had grinned widely, nodding her head. The girl’s mouth was open in wonder as she touched the acrylic material, its soft folds slipping like water under her hands. After a quick rummage along the rail Shereen selected a small size and gave a grunt of satisfaction.
Quickly a pattern began to emerge. No sooner would Asa’s fingers touch the silky fabric of one garment than Shereen had it whisked off the hanger and added to the growing pile over her arm.
‘Come over here, time to try these on, Asa,’ she said at last, pushing the girl towards the entrance of the changing rooms.
&
nbsp; The girl drew back a little as she was faced with a row of white canvas curtains. What lay behind them? her frightened expression seemed to ask.
But just as she was resisting the pressure on her thin arm, a girl of about her own age emerged from one of the fitting rooms and twirled around. Asa gave a gasp and covered her mouth with her hand as she saw the same blue dress being shown off to a couple of other girls who were waiting outside.
The next half-hour passed in a dream, Asa trying on one dress after another, Shereen always there with an encouraging nod or a shake of her dark curly head if she didn’t think the garment quite right for the girl.
Asa was in a daze as they left the fitting room behind. Shereen had selected four dresses, the blue and three others that Asa had chosen. Now the woman was heading towards a different area, where the girl saw baskets full of underwear and rows of matching panties and brassieres stretched over clear plastic hangers. Atop a high shelf a black figure reclined, another mannequin, clad only in the skimpiest pale pink bra and bikini pants. Asa’s lips parted, the desire to ask questions burning inside her. Were these things for everyone, then?
Without a glance towards her companion, Shereen shoved several gossamer-thin sets of underwear, bright pink, turquoise and lime green, into the round shopping basket.
‘Shoes,’ she said, stopping suddenly. ‘What size will you be, d’you think?’
Asa stared blankly, unable to understand what was being said.
‘Shoes,’ Shereen repeated, bending down and tapping her own footwear. ‘Come on, we need to get you something you can walk in.’
And so it was that Asa found herself seated on a low stool, several pairs of brightly coloured high heels scattered around the carpet as she tried on one pair after another, her slender feet slipping inside most of them. At last two pairs were deemed to be satisfactory and Shereen added leopard-skin stilettos and navy blue slingbacks to the pile in her basket.
