by R. Jay
"Well that would have fitted the bill rather wonderfully."
"But my guess is that their primary, or at least equal target, was the ginger man of action. The publicity machine has been grinding out the overtime to portray his derring-do in Afghanistan."
"Setting him up as a prime target then?"
"Such is the price of fame. It gets worse too. Our intelligence suggests that if this outrage had been successful, then the rocket flare would have gone up for a planned widespread Jihadist uprising across England. Murders, bombings, mass rioting. External threats to our national security are easily definable. But we have spawned the enemy within, more home-grown terrorists than we know how, or are allowed, to deal with."
Roger Palmer eyed him with a steely reproach. "I do not recall placing restrictions on your combating hostile elements from within this country Director General."
Stafford raised his shoulders a fraction. "No Home Secretary, you have not."
Palmer used his thumb and forefinger to press lightly against his eyelids, as if to push his eyes back into their sockets after too many shock revelations.
"So what are the facts Willard. How have we a dozen of 'Mohammed's Best' littering the beach this morning? And don't tell me they fell overboard."
The Director General of MI5 cleared his throat noisily, marshalled his thoughts, mentally clearing a way through a verbal minefield. "Actually only five were found on the beach. Two others were bobbing about in Kings Lynn docks and the others were pulled out of the water by the UK Border Agency patrol boats.
"Heading back to Whitby on the outgoing tide probably." He joked irreverently. "Local knowledge tells us that they must have used a small craft to even attempt to navigate through the sandbanks at low tide."
"Which they plainly didn't?"
"None found. Could have used a RIB, a Rubber Inflatable Boat, that got holed and sank."
"That would explain a lot Willard would it not?" Roger Palmer mused silkily, his eyes fixed suspiciously on the other's bland face.
"Certainly would Home Secretary." Stafford agreed blithely.
"According to your report they appeared to have taken a day and a half to arrive in the area after leaving Whitby. Tell me, what would be a reasonable estimate for such a journey? Seems an awful long time to me. You could drive it in four to five hours easily."
"In that tub at five to seven knots, a full day's sailing would be about right."
"So what could have taken them so long?"
"Well, erm, radar detected a boat approaching the Norfolk coast coming directly from the East rather than from the North West as would be expected from Whitby."
"So they diverted to mid channel?"
"Looks that way yes. A rendezvous to pick up weapons from associates on the European mainland? A quantity of drugs were found on board, just a small package that is probably a deliberate red-herring, forgive the pun, to give an impression of a smuggling operation if caught. Who knows?"
"I'd like to know." Palmer asserted pointedly.
"We all would Roger. A shame that the EU's commitment to the Maritime Domain Awareness initiative doesn't appear to be that effective in this case." Stafford agreed avoiding direct eye contact. "Ironic that after all that effort they turn up a couple of hours early for high tide. Those sandbanks and marshland is the last place on earth you want to be in the dark with the incoming tide lapping at your backside."
The Home Secretary's smile was bitter-sweet as he leaned forward, peering closely at his colleague. "Forgive me Willard, but your version of events seems to have graduated from supposition to factual reporting. At what point did you become aware that you had been outflanked by these people? Literally."
"The Terrorist Hot-Line does have positive results sometimes Roger." Stafford replied crisply.
"So, we have a third party in the mix. Or a fourth even, fully aware of just where they intended to land on all of that coast. Your mysterious 'Deep-throat', were they privy to radar intelligence too do you think?"
The Director General's eyes slid about the room, looking in every direction but across the desk on which the Home Secretary had propped his bulk on bent elbows.
"That would suggest a degree of collaboration between the security services or the Border Agency or both Roger." He spoke softly, an edge of warning to his voice. "All I can say is that a witness statement describes how five men in black wet-suits were seen clambering back over the sea wall at about the relevant time frame and to drive off in an unidentified car … "
"A witness statement?" Palmer held up a hand to stop him, surprise on his face. "The plot positively thickens. Do enlighten me Willard, please."
Stafford looked a touch uncomfortable now, in deep water himself, and floundering. "A sea angler, getting set up for the incoming tide. He thought it strange. That part of the coast below Hunstanton isn't exactly surfers' paradise, and certainly not in freezing darkness. Most surfing activity takes place further North off of the Lincolnshire coast. The Wash has a deadly incoming tide but it is hardly the Severn Bore is it?"
Palmer stared at and through him, seeking out prevarication or deceit. "So we have no idea who these five mystery men could be, who show remarkable capability in hostile terrain and conditions, as one would expect from the military; Special Forces or Royal Marines maybe?"
"Certainly not Home Secretary." Stafford's eyes did another circuit of the room.
Roger Palmer knew the game. The less you were told, the less you had to confess at a later date to any cross party committee interrogation. Best to duck the flying dung altogether, don't stand in front of the fan.
"Where does all this go from here then Willard. For once I am in agreement with our Prime Minister. It is imperative that the general public are not made aware of what was attempted here. Just that possibility it could spark off a race war in many of our towns. Luton is already on the verge of erupting.
"Which brings us to what we do about this EFL group, whom I suspect know more about all this than we do perhaps?"
Willard Stafford gave a grim little smile. "It appears that their spokesman, sorry, spokesperson, one Christopher Carter, has been arrested for the murder of that Arab lad I spoke with you about, found dead at a Cambridgeshire roadside."
"On what evidence?"
"Well by association in the main. We have photographs of them together in Yorkshire and DNA evidence on their clothing indicates close physical contact."
"Is that all? You only have to travel a few stops on the underground and you'll have a whole bagful of strangers' DNA plastered all over you. But is he guilty?" The Home Secretary looked genuinely concerned.
Willard Stafford splayed his hands. "There were traces of blood on his shoes, though nobody has thought of DNA confirmation here. Probably Sergeant Sahni's that he paddled in inside that barn in Yorkshire.
"Anyhow, the Chief Constable seems keen to pin it on him and it is his investigation. So what becomes of Mr. Carter is hardly our remit is it? However convenient."
******
TWENTY-SEVEN
Friday's midday news report on BBC Radio, led with the usual lies released by government on the economy and the plainly failing euro zone. But tucked in amongst all the brain anaesthetic was a brief item on how a party of young Asian men had perished on the sandbanks of the Wash, apparently caught out by the rapidly incoming tide whilst they were presumably engaged in harvesting cockles by hand.
'The Eastern Inshore Fisheries and Conservation Authority have no record of these unfortunate young men being licensed cocklers. That may explain their presence there in the early hours of the morning as opposed to the more logical afternoon low tide.
'A spokesperson added, "We wish to emphasise to anybody contemplating illegal poaching of Molluscan Shellfish, of the extreme danger faced, even by experienced local fishermen, of being entrapped out on the exposed sea-bed by the rising tides"
'Police are trying to identify the victims so that their families may be informed as soon as po
ssible.'
No mention was made of an abandoned trawler in the area, and the few phone calls from Whitby offering information were fielded as not relevant to this tragedy.
***
Like a stalwart Man O' War, Henry Carter ploughed a course through the Friday afternoon shoppers stocking up for the weekend. Medals, newly polished that morning glinted brightly against the blue serge of his blazer bearing the pocket insignia of the Legion. One hand swung stiffly to a marching beat in his head, the other carried a Tesco shopping bag that hung heavily from gnarled, curled fingers.
Most of the pedestrians on the High Street, stood aside to grant passage for this grand, erect pensioner who clearly knew where he was headed, a mix of amusement, respect or plain annoyance on their busy faces.
As if on the command, 'Squad halt!', he came to an abrupt stop immediately outside the Holtingham mosque; always the Countryman hotel in his cherished memories. His wedding day ad hoc reception in the lounge bar, a one nights stay there in lieu of a honeymoon, no money, no time, an Empire to defend.
Performing a smart parade ground, 'Left turn!', he pivoted on his polished heel and mounted the three wide stone steps to the entrance. Pushing through the big oak door, he re-entered a grandeur of the long past and marched into an environment now entirely and hostile. The sing-song prayer response rose and fell in orchestrated rhythm beyond doors he remembered led to the big ballroom. The very place he had met his young bride to be, on a rare excursion into pleasurable leisure time; remembered the band in shiny jackets, rolling out the Glen Miller sound, the Andrews Sisters, a short thrash at the new Bill Hailey rock and roll, that for him was a bit too raucous.
Rows of shoes had been placed to one side of the entrance, as many as fifty pairs, some new and expensive, some old and worn. Removed as a sign of respect in this place of worship that preached treachery and death.
Thrusting the door back so violently that it smacked hard against the wall behind it, Henry Carter marched into the large, lofty room to be confronted by ranks of worshippers on their knees, facing the tall, fierce Imam who towered above them on the low stage. The same tired, stained old safety curtain from all those years ago hung down in place behind him. The congregation turned shocked faces in his direction as this big impertinent Infidel strode purposefully down the centre aisle, street shoes clacking sharply on the parquet flooring, bright eyes fixed firmly on the rogue Islamic cleric who called himself Kamal Khan.
Four thuggish characters dotted along the flank walls, a stern, threatening Praetorian Guard, jerked forward from their relaxed stance, moving forward in unison, intent on waylaying this intruder with whatever force and pain that would entail. Kamal Khan waved them back with angry and contemptuous gestures as the congregation watched with fear filled eyes, rising up on their knees to view what was to come like badly dressed Meerkats.
Henry mounted the single step up onto the stage, his shopping bag banging gently against his thigh, panting for breath now, his pallor wan, unhealthy. He stopped an arm's length from the Imam, matching him in height and fearlessness, eyes bright with harsh purpose as memory replayed the obscenity he had witnessed that morning; the hacking, slicing swing of that wicked machete, gripped with maniacal fervour by hands crippled with half of the fingers missing. An evil man beheading his only son in the name of hate. Not Allah, not Mohammed, but pure and simple hate.
"You disrupt our prayers Christian?" Khan snarled loudly for the benefit of those who cowed before him for five prayer sessions every day.
"Your worshipping is a farce!" Henry spat back, his strong voice echoing around the old ballroom. "You neither believe in prayer, religion or your Allah. You and all the other psychotic scum calling yourselves Jihadists are nothing but cold-blooded murdering Wops! I have come to make you confront your sins. There is no room for people like you in England."
Kamal Khan's black eyes blazed with ferocious emotion, three fingered hands slashed at the air space between them like a Bengali Tiger's killing stroke.
"This country, this land is our land. Our Brotherhood breed within you, consume you from the inside out and will emerge like an eagle from the broken shell. Islam conquers all Crusader!"
Some colour returned to Henry's lined face now as he twitched with a deep flaring of spirit; just briefly looking young and vital again.
"In 1805 at the Battle of Trafalgar, Lord Horatio Nelson held this nation's very survival in his hands. He knew that the consequences of failure were unthinkable. To rally his forces to the task at hand he sent a simple message to the fleet. 'England expects that every man will do his duty'.
"Well Mr. Khan, I have obeyed that call to arms all of my life and I have no intention of failing my country now."
The Imam snorted like a bull jabbed with a Picador's spear, thick lips drawing back from yellowed teeth in a sneer, his foul breath exhaling into Henry's unflinching face.
"You are a pathetic old man. Your teeth are all drawn and your claws are blunt. You are no threat to me. The days of the British Raj are over. Go home and wait for your grave to call you."
Henry Carter nodded reflectively, as if to ponder the truth of that cutting statement. Then with a tired sigh he pulled his Webley .455 service revolver from the Tesco shopping bag, calmly aimed it directly at the centre of Khan's enraged face with both liver spotted hands, and pulled the trigger. He didn't flinch as the mashed contents of the Imam's head splattered across the safety curtain behind him.
The hammering recoil of the big military gun reverberated up his stiffened arms and hit his chest like a boxer's punch. As manic turmoil exploded all around the room, dozens of wailing worshippers fled for the exit door bottleneck, and the dead cleric's bodyguards grabbed for him, Henry felt the fire of tearing pain in his chest. It flared up like an artillery barrage, consuming and destroying his heart, his being, his life.
Henry Carter was dead before he hit the floor, impervious to the ferocious onslaught of kicking and punching that rained down onto his lifeless body. His duty done.
******
EPILOGUE
Two weeks later:
Her Majesty's Prison Belmarsh is a relatively modern establishment sited in the Thamesmead district of Greenwich, South-East London. It is a Category A prison housing some of the nation's most dangerous and notorious criminals. Also a number of high profile terrorists. Predictably a high percentage of them habitually complain of intimidation and racial victimisation by the staff there, often after engaging in riots and attacks on prison officers or fellow prisoners.
A subsequent report severely curtailed the prison staff's' response to inmate violence and aired damning criticism of the harassed officers for not understanding 'cultural needs'. Demoralised staff members complain despairingly that the Belmarsh establishment now bend over backwards to accommodate the 'sensitivities' of muslim inmates in particular. Quaintly, there is even a support group to aid foreign national criminals there with advice on immigration law.
The natural consequence of this restraint on discipline and appropriate response to disruptive behaviour, is that opportunistic prisoners conduct a virtual reign of terror. Predominant amongst these are the 'Muslim Boys' gang, former devotees of Abu Hamza who was interred there before eventual extradition to the USA.
With the knowledge and advantage that the staff have their hands tied behind their backs by starry-eyed liberalists, the 'Muslim Boys', Asians, Arabs and converts, run amok assaulting whoever they consider an enemy at will.
***
Barry Wells, Alison and the two children, had endured the obligatory security checks, X-ray machine, metal detectors and a full pat down; Alison in particular pink cheeked with embarrassment at the close attentions of a butch something or other, private security personnel.
Eventually along with other family groups and prisoners, they were ushered into the Family Centre to find Chris Carter waiting for them. He sat with tense anticipation on his drawn face behind a plain, melamine topped table, hands flat on its col
d green surface, looking at least ten years older than when he had been recently committed there for trial by a mean faced magistrate in Cambridge.
Barry fought to keep the shock off of his face, failing miserably to do so as he arranged his little family on the chairs provided. Sitting opposite his friend he tried lightening the mood with a guarded smile and mock complaint.
"Took two bloody weeks to get a Visiting Order for just sixty minutes. And it’s a right bugger just getting here Chris lad. Once I'm over that Dartford Crossing and south of the Thames I'm lost. Damn near wound up in Margate, totally opposite direction. Anyway, how are you keeping?"
Chris's grim features betrayed tiredness and defeat. "As good as I'm ever going to get Barry." He nodded wryly and winked at Alison, briefly reaching across the table to squeeze her shaking hand. "Thanks for coming Alison, bringing your kids and all. This ain't the best place for them to be so I appreciate you doing it. It really counts for a lot in here, a bit of normality you know?" He blinked back what could have been tears. "I understand that you are off to Australia in January. I'm really pleased for you all. A new life in a new country, it's a wonderful opportunity."
She smiled tightly, eyes bright with her own embryonic tears, playing the 'isn't life good?' game. No point in depressing a depressed man further with defeatist gloom and recrimination.
"We are honoured to be here Chris," Her tone a forced cynical humour. "You wouldn't let anybody near you … before. Now we have to move half way around the world just to get to visit you two counties away.
"But thank you. It'll be tough getting on our feet out there to start with, but we'll manage it somehow."
"Yeah, give me the opportunity of a level playing field and I'll see us alright." Barry interjected. He scratched the side of his nose and cocked his head inquisitively. "How come they put you in here this far from home? Why not Norwich Prison like before? Not that you should be banged up at all." He added hastily.
