by Alan G Boyes
This temporarily stunned Fadyar.
“Amateurs!” She shouted. “Are you saying a bunch of amateurs did that?”
Carron thought a while and in a slow sombre tone said, “No Fadyar, I’m not, but whoever they were they gave their lives. Our turn will come.”
Fadyar had no answer to that. It was true.
“OK.” She paused whilst she tried to think of something useful to say but could not. “OK Claude”. She sarcastically emphasised the controller’s name knowing it to be false. No one knew real names, only the aliases given to each of them whilst training.
“Fadyar, we don’t have much time. The less we see of each other the better, and driving around Paris is always an accident waiting to happen. So, you are to abandon your planned mission and await further instructions. It may be some while before you hear from me or anyone else.” said Carron, gravely.
“But I’ve deposited some of the money, ready for when we need it.” She tried to find an excuse, any excuse, to have her mission go ahead.
“Money isn’t important,” he mockingly reproved her. “That’s one thing we are never short of. Leave it where it is, we might use it someday if we have business in the UK. Britain is now on maximum alert. Their security forces are going frantic, picking up anyone that moves or has connections with Pakistan or the Muslim community. The furore will gradually subside. Their guard will be down again and that is when we will strike.”
There was little more Fadyar could say. She had to obey and so she accepted that she would continue being a loyal secretary to her fat boss in the clothing factory until Carron next called upon her.
“Drop me home then, will you?” she asked.
Carron duly obliged and stopped the vehicle on the main road, just long enough to allow Fadyar to hurry inside the main apartment block entrance before he pressed the accelerator and the powerful automatic swung back into the traffic and disappeared.
Fadyar climbed the two flights of stairs and opened her apartment front door, went into the lounge and slumped onto her sofa. She was dismayed at the prospect of just waiting, certainly for months and possibly for years – had she realised then just how frustrated she would become at the enforced postponement she would probably have packed her suitcase and returned to her home town of Baghdad. She recalled the joy and exhilaration she had felt when she had heard from Carron that she was to head up an attack on Manchester Airport but just as she was preparing her plans the London bombings had occurred, spoiling everything. She just hoped all the laborious and demanding training, both physical and mental, that she had received from the fundamentalists would not now be wasted. She understood the need for Jihad, but the burning resentment she felt towards the British and American forces was intensely personal. Her primary need was to avenge the cold blooded slaying of her parents.
* * *
Cindy Crossland took a few faltering and unsteady steps along the ward helped by the young nurse Jacqui. Cindy was determined to dispense with the crutches as soon as she was able and was making remarkable progress towards her goal. She had combed her hair whilst sitting up in bed but she was anxious to reach the bathroom where she could have the benefit of a large mirror. She needed to uplift her spirits. She had not yet been able to contact Gordon and, for a reason which she did not wish to properly analyse, the absence of hearing his voice, even just once more, had made her feel depressed. The young nurse left her at the door and twenty minutes later Cindy emerged, smiling broadly and looking radiant. Her shoulder length light brown hair, with blonde highlights, was now immaculately groomed and swayed softly as she hobbled on the shiny vinyl tiled floor. Her face, slightly flushed but still gentle and smooth, was complemented only by the faintest of make up around her lips and her grey-green eyes sparkled in the cold white fluorescent light of the ward. Cindy looked good, and she knew it. At five feet nine inches she was not overly tall, but she stood high enough to show her figure to best advantage. The swell of her breasts – moving rhythmically and in unison as she hobbled along – was sufficient that, even constrained by a less than flattering red dressing gown, Cindy was still able to look both attractive and slightly sensuous.
“You look great” the nurse said, “and home tomorrow then?”
* * *
Cindy viewed that prospect with mixed emotion. Of course she wanted to get home, out of this hospital and back to the Cotswolds, leaving behind her the awful events of last week. However, that meant living with Alan again and possibly never knowing anything more about Gordon. She had gone over and over her last real conversation with Alan. She had lied to him so as not to hurt his feelings but that had only made her feel worse. For how much longer could she go on living a lie and masking her lack of affection for him? Yet Alan had been wonderful to her during her hospitalisation, visiting two or three times a day, driving back to Stillwood to collect clothes and generally showing great concern for her well-being. Whilst she was hospitalised, she knew he had tried really hard to positively demonstrate his love and support for her, yet she disliked herself for finding his attentions irritating. She had even refused to be transferred to the private hospital Alan had proposed, not because she would not have welcomed a room to herself – she would – but she could not bring herself to agree with her husband’s suggestion. It was yet another example of how much she had drifted away from him.
As Jacqui helped her back into her bedside chair, she whispered to Cindy, “Would you like the phone again?”
Jacqui had been marvellous, thought Cindy. She had never asked prying questions about the telephone number but intuitively knew that it represented something deeply personal and important to her patient.
“Please,” said Cindy. “Thank you.”
Cindy had been going over and over in her head just what she was actually going to say to Gordon if ever she did make contact and she was no nearer resolving that dilemma as she punched out the numbers. Her heart was beating noticeably hard and her mouth had gone dry. The ring tone seemed to her slower than usual, or perhaps it was just her imagination. One ring, two rings, three rings… Cindy let it ring on when suddenly a voice answered.
“Truscott,” the voice was soft but firm. “Who’s calling?”
“Is that… is that… Gordon?” Cindy found difficulty uttering the words through her parched mouth.
“Yes. Hello. Who is that?”
“Cindy Crossland. Do you remember? The woman on the train.”
“How could I forget” Gordon laughed. “How are you, where are you speaking from?”
“I’m getting along fine, but still in hospital.”
“Did you know I found out which hospital you were in and looked by, but you had someone with you so I left. I had to be in Scotland by Sunday so there wasn’t much time to come round again. I’m so sorry to have missed you.”
So much information and delivered so quickly that Cindy thought Gordon sounded really pleased that she had telephoned.
“That would have been Alan, my husband. I’ve got a busted leg, but its been reset and in plaster and I’m out of hospital tomorrow. I would really like us to meet up sometime so that I can thank you personally.” Cindy blurted out the words she had so wanted to say ever since they were forced to part by the medics. She couldn’t help herself even though it was quite out of character for her to be so open, especially with someone she hardly knew.
There was a slight pause before Gordon said, “That would be great, I’ll look forward to it. How about you give me your mobile number now and I will catch up with you next week.”
Cindy duly obliged. Almost as an afterthought she enquired whether Gordon was injured by the bombing, and was relieved that he had only suffered a couple of minor cuts and had some superficial bruising.
“Speak soon, then.” and with that Gordon wished Cindy well and said goodbye.
As she put the receiver back into its cradle, Cindy’s mind was in whirl, already excited that the stranger on the train had agreed to a meeting. She desperately
hoped he meant it.
7
Alan came to visit Cindy as usual at 7pm and immediately noticed how much brighter and cheerier she was. She told him it was because she was going home the next day, which was adequate explanation for Alan who was just pleased that Cindy had apparently overcome the trauma of the blast in such a short time – as he had been warned by the medical staff that her anxiety and depression might last for several weeks at least.
“I’ll get Jack to drive you home. The hospital staff say 10:30am would be fine as the doctor will have finished his round and will have discharged you by then.”
“I’m happy to get a taxi, Alan. Don’t bother Jack.” Cindy did not view the prospect of a two and a half hour drive with Jack Donaldson with any sort of pleasure. She loathed the man whom she thought was nothing more than a middle-aged lout.
“You can’t get in and out of taxis in your state, and beside which I have nothing for him to do tomorrow. He might as well earn his pay for once.”
Cindy knew she was going to lose this discussion but decided to have one more attempt.
“How much do you really know about Jack, Alan? What is his background and how exactly did you meet up? You have never really told me and I find him quite creepy. He always seems to get just a little too close physically and lingers for just a second too long. In fact I find him almost threatening at times.”
“Nonsense, Cindy, I’m sure I have explained all this to you before. Jack served in the first Gulf War, spent some time abroad in Africa and South America before briefly doing some work for the good guys when we went into Iraq. I’m not quite sure exactly what he did but he knows how to look after himself and he is an excellent driver. I first met him at some banker’s do in the city when he was working for an American organisation, but he didn’t like the people much so I offered him a job there and then. Anyway, he’s married now and settled down. I think you are a bit paranoid about him.”
Had Alan Crossland bothered to investigate his driver’s background he probably would have found out very little, but at least he would have tried to verify his suitability for the post. The absence of any adverse information about his driver did not however mean that he was an upstanding citizen. As a child, Jack was neglected by his single parent mother and drifted into petty crime and almost permanent truancy from his inner city comprehensive school which he left at the earliest opportunity to join the army. There he found the male companionship he had lacked as an adolescent but he gained little experience of relationships with women. On the couple of occasions he had dated a girl, his overeager and clumsy advances were quickly rebuffed and he ended up feeling humiliated and ridiculed. His frustration turned to anger and it was not long before he started using his physical superiority to enforce his will on any vulnerable female who would not respond to his overtures.
Sergeant Jack Donaldson had been accused, though it was never proved as there were no living witnesses, of the rape of two Kurdish women whilst he was serving in the Gulf. He finished his time with the British Army and gained an honourable discharge. As a mercenary in Mozambique, he was able to satisfy his predatory sexual needs almost whenever he wished as most tribal villages were devoid of any men to protect them and the remaining women were easy prey. Several women would have testified to Donaldson’s brutality if only he had allowed them to live. He returned to Iraq in 2004, having gained a contract to assist in the protection of an oil installation taken over by the Americans, but when that got blown up by insurgents he found himself wandering around the streets of Baghdad. At that time the old city was in chaos and virtually lawless – just the sort of environment Jack Donaldson relished – and within two weeks of arriving he had obtained a military uniform that made him indistinguishable from the various, and numerous, coalition troops. Suitably camouflaged and anonymous, he set out to enjoy the second largest city in Western Asia.
One day he happened to be walking along a side street when he spotted a high school, deserted except for the playground where a group of three teenage girls were playing. As he watched them the thunderous rolling sound of bomb blast filled the air. The few pedestrians in the street ran for cover behind walls or in nearby buildings and the girls fell to the ground, protecting their heads with their bare arms. He seized his moment. The girls were clearly frightened by the proximity and loudness of the blast and when he motioned them with his rifle to go into the building, they thought he was going to shelter them and ran inside. The school had clearly been disused for several months and was filthy. Everything was covered in thick dry dust mixed with coarse sand and the place was littered with debris of every description. There were broken desks and chairs and various papers were strewn everywhere. Some boxes of equipment had been ransacked, the ropes once securing them cut, with anything of value long since gone. All the light bulbs had been taken and radiators had been ripped from the wall, leaving dried and dirty water stains from the broken pipes. Many of the windows had been smashed and glass shards littered the floor.
Once they were out of sight of the road Donaldson shouted at the frightened girls asking if any of them spoke English and one answered that she did. He then pulled his knife from his belt and pointed his rifle at her, ordering to tell the others that they must do exactly as they were told or their throat would be cut. The girl translated and one girl started to scream. Donaldson immediately hit her across the face with the butt of his rifle which sent her crashing into the wall, her mouth crimson with blood. Donaldson picked three chairs that were still intact, arranged them in a row facing him and then ordered the girls to sit facing him. The girls hesitantly did so. Donaldson gathered from his pocket some long heavy-duty nylon cable ties, used by the military as handcuffs, and secured each of the girl’s wrists to their chair. Once he was satisfied their arms were pinned he used more ties to secure the chairs to each other and the end chair to an old radiator pipe. He slowly and deliberately waved the knife in front of their eyes, then walked up to each girl in turn and looked them up and down. He started to gently play with the small white buttons on one of the girl’s dresses. He became more agitated and excited as he imagined what secrets lay beneath the flimsy fabric within his fingers and he started to tear at the buttons ripping open the dress. The girl sat motionless, tears welling in her eyes but too frightened to cry out. Donaldson slowly removed his belt and dropped his trousers and then his strong arms wrenched her head down towards him.
The girls’ ordeal lasted over three hours before his desires and appetite diminished. They had ceased to be of use to him and, battered and bleeding, the three naked bodies lay whimpering and groaning on the concrete floor, each barely conscious and curled up in the foetus position to await their next humiliation. Donaldson, now tired from his exertions and fully spent, stood over them. He raised his rifle and then brought the butt down fiercely on each of their heads before removing his long knife and slitting their throats. As their last moments of life drained away, turning the floor a horrible deep red, Donaldson casually opened the door and strolled out into the sunlight.
A few pedestrians had decided to brave the possibility of another bomb blast and were now scurrying along the street, staying low and cowering as they passed behind the shelter of the low wall that surrounded what a few hours earlier had been a large and impressive block of flats. Smoke was still rising from the damaged buildings and the area was now a mass of wailing and anguished people, clawing desperately at the rubble as they tried to find their loved ones. Very few glanced at Donaldson as he walked away from the school opposite, and those that did see him certainly had little interest in the sight of a soldier checking an empty building after a nearby bomb blast and his exit through the crowds did not arouse suspicion. A week later Donaldson bribed his way onto a flight out of Baghdad on an American cargo plane and eventually made his way back to the UK. At first life was dull for Donaldson who yearned for a meaningful and fulfilling relationship with a female partner, but whenever he thought he was on the point of achieving it he
ended up being emotionally hurt. Gradually he drifted to the superficial contentment of surfing the pornographic websites on the internet until he hit on the idea of a Russian bride. He was amazed at just how many seemingly attractive women were willing to trade their body for a modest sum of money and a passport and it was not long before he found what he was looking for. Ludmilla was in her early twenties and obviously desperate to escape her homeland which made her an ideal target for someone like Donaldson. The pretty Muscovite would not let him down and in return the young Ludmilla would eventually get her passport, but at a price that would have little to do with money.
“Ok Alan. I’ll be at reception at 10:30.” Cindy was not going to argue any more. Anyway, her mind was once more turning to Gordon Truscott and she was rather hoping Alan would leave soon so that she could devote her thoughts solely to that alluring subject.
8
The 7th July bombings killed fifty-six people including the four bombers and injured a further 700, with over one hundred requiring overnight hospitalisation. It was the deadliest single act of terrorism in the UK since the blowing up of Pan Am flight 103 over Lockerbie, and more people were killed that July day than in any single bomb attack by the Provisional IRA. It was also the first suicide bombing in Western Europe.
Unsurprisingly, the most intense police investigation ever undertaken in the UK was mounted and over the years a number of persons thought to have helped the bombers in some way would be arrested. The identity of the bombers was quickly established, but it was for the Anti-Terrorist Unit (ATU) and Military Intelligence Section 5 (more commonly known as Britain’s internal counter intelligence and security agency MI5) to undertake the laborious process of finding out who assisted the bombers in their deadly mission. The attack came at a time when the Metropolitan Police and the Government were already undertaking an urgent review of the UK’s counter terrorism command and control processes, both for the capital city and nationwide. In due course these would result in radical organisational changes and even controversial legislation affecting civil liberties – but when the bombers struck, Assistant Commissioner Phillip Manders of the ATU had amongst his responsibilities that of heading up a small specialist task force dedicated to tracing any funds the terrorist bombers might have received to finance their suicide missions.
