A Fatal Game

by Nicholas Searle

  And there he was. Rashid had been right. A slight figure came round the corner, walking quickly. It was a man, young it would appear, dressed in jeans and a puffa jacket, moving swiftly. Rashid was by this time halfway down the street, out of her sight. The man was gone soon, too, and she reached for her phone.

  Rashid picked up his pace. Leila had told him not to alter his behaviour, not until the last possible moment, so he slowed down again. When was the last moment, though? What if he judged it too late? Steady, Leila had said when they were practising for this, keep your breathing even. Use your brains. Don’t overreact.

  He knew he shouldn’t turn around but felt an almost overwhelming need to do so. What was his cover story for why he was in this part of town, out of his normal patch? Momentarily it escaped him. Yes. He was going for chicken at the halal place on Edgeley Road. Yeah, it was a bit of a trek but they did good chicken. Jake had told him to go there one evening so he could describe it accurately and be recognized. And yeah, it was good. Seven o’clock. Believable time. Was the place open on a Friday night? Yes, he’d checked. Hadn’t he? Yes; and if he hadn’t, Jake and Leila would’ve.

  He didn’t sense it any more, that shadow he’d felt more than seen. But that wasn’t enough, they’d told him. You have to be certain, we have to be certain. We have your back, don’t worry. But if you don’t feel right, you abort. Just walk past the alleyway. It’s fine. There’s always the fallback. Have your cover story ready. If we feel bad about it, the car will just not be there, waiting. Or if we don’t have time to clear out, it’ll be there with both sun visors down. The alleyway wasn’t so far off now.

  Leila gathered her thoughts and climbed nimbly out of her car. She peered briefly down the long street and saw both men walking. The follower was gradually catching up with Rashid but not moving quickly. He showed no sign of trying to conceal that he was pursuing Rashid. She turned and began to sprint to the parallel street, trying to calculate the distances, trying to work out her options.

  She’d been a good middle-distance runner at school. She remained in good condition, went to the gym regularly. It was not too difficult to accelerate and make ground, calculating which of the snickets she should take through the gaps in the poorly maintained Edwardian terraces in order to emerge approximately where this man and Rashid might be. She was pleased she’d chosen to wear jeans and flat shoes as she ran, heart pounding, the words ‘duty of care, duty of care’ reverberating in her mind in precise rhythm with the effortful throbbing in her head and the slap of her shoes on the pavement.

  There was definitely someone there. He wasn’t imagining it. And he was making ground. There was no one else on the street, nowhere to go in this district of blank terraced houses of red brick. Pot luck if he knocked on a door. More likely than not, some red-faced racist would tell him to piss off. He felt the urge to break into a run but resisted it. They’d trained him, somehow they’d look after him.

  Movement from his left side now, approaching through one of those narrow paths between the buildings. He turned involuntarily, then forced his gaze back ahead of him.

  ‘Rashid! Rashid, man, hold up.’

  He stopped.

  ‘Just not seen you for a while, man. You haven’t been to Friday prayers recently.’

  He turned. It was the Somali, the thin smiling man who was learning under the imam at the mosque. Tawfiiq was his name. Ultra-faithful, imperturbable, impossible to read. His head was shaved and a wispy beard outlined his jaw. His large brown eyes shone. He smiled at Rashid. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘how you doing?’

  Rashid knew he was glaring at him and tried to soften his gaze. ‘Sorry, man,’ he said, forcing a sheepish grin on to his face. ‘In a world of my own. That’s what my mother always says. I’ve just been busy. You know, work and stuff.’

  ‘Missed seeing you around,’ said Tawfiiq. ‘You know you shouldn’t skip prayers too often,’ he added lightly.

  Rashid looked into his eyes. He liked Tawfiiq. He looked ageless. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need to apologize, man. Just good to see you. Where you off?’

  ‘Going to stuff my face with fried chicken. The place up on Edgeley Road. You know it? Fancy coming?’

  ‘Nah, don’t think so. Love to. Only I got a meeting.’

  Leila burst into the street. Rashid was talking to this other man, straight-backed but slight. They were smiling at each other and turned towards her. She was out of breath and ran up to them, at the moment of decision whether to employ force or charm. She put her hand in her pocket.

  ‘Sorry, guys, but can you help, please?’ she said.

  Rashid looked straight at her. She ignored him.

  ‘Sure,’ said the other man. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m just getting a bit freaked, that’s all. There’s this man following me, I’m sure. It happens. I can deal with it. But there’s hardly anyone around, and you guys …’

  ‘Look normal?’ said the slight man with the hint of a smile. ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘White guy, balding, quite fat. Fifties? You know the sort.’

  ‘Where is he? Let’s find him.’

  Rashid was still looking at her uncomprehendingly. Behind the back of the thin man she could see Jake’s car pull out on to the road and stop. Its lights flashed briefly.

  ‘There’s no need,’ she said. ‘Just being with you guys will scare him off, I’m sure. I’ll be fine. I hope you don’t think that I normally behave like a helpless female.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said the thin man, with considered gentleness. ‘But we can’t just leave you here. Where are you going?’

  ‘To be honest, I’m lost. I’m trying to find Bessemer Street.’

  ‘It’s back there,’ ventured Rashid.

  ‘I’ll walk back with you,’ said the thin man.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Rashid.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ said the other softly, turning to him. ‘You’ve got your chicken to eat.’

  Leila nodded slightly, and Rashid noticed. ‘All right then. If you’re sure.’

  ‘There’s really no need,’ said Leila, as Rashid began to move away.

  ‘I’m going that way anyway. My name is Tawfiiq.’

  ‘Leila.’

  ‘You aren’t from here?’

  ‘No. I’m visiting. I was looking for a supermarket in Bessemer Street. I wanted to buy some chocolates for my friend. She loves chocolate.’

  They started walking.

  ‘You’re quite a distance out of your way.’

  ‘I got hopelessly lost. My friend lives in a tall block over there somewhere.’ She pointed vaguely with her free hand. ‘At least I think so. I’m hopeless. White Rose Court, it’s called.’ She laughed.

  ‘Ah yes. I know it. It’s round the corner from the mosque.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said.

  ‘I work at the mosque.’

  ‘You’re an imam?’

  ‘Not quite. I’m not yet learned or wise enough. Perhaps one day.’

  ‘Been in the city long?’

  ‘Long enough,’ he said. ‘I like it here.’

  They had completed the small talk and walked a block before he spoke again. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Birmingham,’ she said instantly.

  ‘And your friend, does she attend the mosque? We try to encourage women to come.’

  ‘She’s not been here long. And I’m afraid she’s not particularly observant.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Tawfiiq. They continued to walk in silence.

  ‘Nor am I, if I’m perfectly honest,’ she said.

  ‘Ah,’ he said again. They had been walking some distance apart; now that gap widened. He moved ahead of her.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ he said at length. ‘Bessemer Street. There is the supermarket. Goodbye, Leila.’

  ‘Thank you. Goodbye.’

  He turned the corner towards the mosque and disappeared. Thirty seconds later Jake’s car pulled
up alongside her and she climbed in quickly.

  ‘Fallback,’ said Jake.

  ‘Fallback,’ she said.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Jake almost as soon as they sat down.

  ‘Guy from the mosque,’ said Rashid.

  ‘And?’ said Leila.

  ‘And what? He’s from the mosque. Somali.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  Rashid shrugged. ‘Just a guy training to be an imam, that’s all. Why is it so important?’

  Rashid was sitting on the sofa, holding a glass of water, deliberately, it seemed, avoiding Leila and Jake’s eyes. Jake knelt on the floor directly in front of him, in his space, and dared him to look away. He didn’t.

  ‘You know why it’s important,’ said Jake. ‘He was there when you were on your way to this meeting. It may have been chance, probably was, but it’s important because we have to get everything absolutely right. We’re intent on looking after you properly and we need to deal with every risk as best we can. All right?’

  Rashid’s shoulders relaxed and he nodded. ‘Yeah. All right.’

  ‘So this Tawfiiq. What do you know about him?’

  Leila had already done the homework on the computer. Tawfiiq Mahdi Mohamed, born 25 July 1991, Mogadishu. Legally resident in the UK since 2015. Novice imam, studied at a madrasa in Medina between 2011 and 2014 before returning to Somalia. Fluent Arabic speaker. No adverse mentions, no established connections with others with adverse mentions. Thought to be a religious moderate in line with the mosque’s teachings. No foreign travel recorded since his arrival in the UK.

  ‘He’s training to be an imam, right? I used to see him down the mosque before I got involved with this lot. He was all right. Then I lost touch after I decided not to go to the mosque.’

  ‘Did he know you’d been overseas?’ asked Leila.

  ‘No idea. Wouldn’t have thought so. My folks tried to keep it quiet. My mum didn’t want anyone at the mosque knowing.’

  ‘He’s not tried to contact you at all? Out of the blue?’

  ‘He wouldn’t know how. He’s not got my mobile number. This is the first I’ve known of him since, well, I don’t know.’

  ‘What about his views?’

  ‘He’s one of those sweetness and light preachers, you know? He’s not got the hard edge of the older guys. They can be stern. He’s not.’

  ‘Did you ever talk to him about jihad?’

  ‘Why would I? I knew exactly where he was coming from. He’s a nice guy. Not interested in all that shit. Know what I mean?’

  ‘I do,’ said Leila. ‘We’re going to have to be very careful with regard to him. Tell us if there’s any further contact from him. Straight away.’

  Rashid shrugged. ‘If you say so. But you don’t need to worry about Tawfiiq.’

  Jake delivered Rashid back while Leila went through his reporting again. He’d said nothing new, but with the microphones they had in place that was to be expected. The map was helpful to visualize and confirm what they’d already pieced together from the recorded dialogue. What was most important was the contact with Rashid as the pressure built, together with the knowledge that he was continuing to report faithfully. He would suspect that the boys were listened to as they planned but he could not know for certain. It was, in addition, reassuring to know that he was keeping his head and not losing his powers of recollection as the day approached.

  Jake returned to the room quietly and as they picked inconsequentially at sandwiches they picked at the case.

  ‘This Tawfiiq thing …’ he began.

  ‘He doesn’t seem bothered about it,’ she said.

  ‘He wouldn’t. It’s our job to be bothered for him.’

  ‘We’ve done all we can. We just need to keep an eye on it.’

  ‘You can never do everything you need to,’ he said.

  ‘We can’t do everything.’

  ‘Don’t I just know it. Where did it turn to crap?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Abu Omar.’

  ‘You learn from experience.’

  ‘So they say. Or you’re doomed to repeat the same mistakes, over and over. I wish I could single out the moment when I got it all wrong. But I can’t. I thought I was good at this, but I didn’t log all the discrepancies and incongruities. I was swept along. Maybe it was the momentum of it all. But no, it was just me. I could have stopped it, but I didn’t.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘This must get right up your nose, this soul-searching,’ he said.

  ‘It’s starting to a bit,’ she said. ‘If I’m honest.’

  ‘I’m just worried we’re missing stuff this time round, too.’

  ‘I don’t think so. But, you know …’

  ‘Shit happens?’

  ‘That’s not what I said. But we just have to do our best.’

  ‘Yeah. Try telling that to the inquiry when it comes round.’

  ‘You felt betrayed?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course I was betrayed. The question is, by whom? But that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it? To be betrayed. And in the end we all do the same thing.’

  15

  SATURDAY

  Up early, to be bussed out to the training facility on the edge of the moors. Big job, this, the full complement had been pulled out. All overtime cancelled for the foreseeable. Met officers to make up the numbers. Mutual aid invoked for West Mids and Lancashire to provide on-call teams in the city. Just in case. Detachment from 22 on standby, just in case too. Barracks opened up, kit bags neatly stacked. They were looking on, the Regiment boys. Hard bastards. He’d been one of them, still was a hard man by any normal measure, knew them for what they were. Shit hot, but still just humans with wives and kids and fears and hang-ups.

  Forms to sign. Official Secrets and so forth. Top secret, need to know, you are signing to acknowledge your awareness that you are included on a highly sensitive indoctrination list, you undertake not to divulge details of this operation or its existence to any person you do not know is authorized. Wills carried up in plastic boxes to be gone through and confirmed or redrawn. Long black cars to and fro with the brass. Double guards on the gates and perimeter. Razor wire. All action carefully out of sight of the public. No-fly zone overhead. All discreet and understated. Legal team sitting in one office. Five and Six and GCHQ in another. The Int Cell. And this was just the sideshow. The main ops room was in town.

  There was a briefing before they were taken on a walk-through. Some spook came in to introduce the map jigged up on the big screen. Must be serious if the actual spooks had turned up and were doing the presentations, rather than the CTU civvies.

  ‘This is what the reporting tells us of their plans,’ she said, stern and confident, as she clicked. First a series of lines in different colours converged on the stadium, then each colour had its own section, representing one of the suspects.

  The gaffer was up there too, and said, ‘You’ll each be allocated a subject and it’ll be your job as a team to know everything about your ground.’

  ‘When we get back to town, can we go on the street to walk it through, boss?’ came the inevitable stupid question.

  ‘Of course bloody not,’ the gaffer said. ‘Operational security. Use today as best you can.’

  The woman took them through each of the subjects on the screen. It was neatly colour-coordinated to go with each of the routes. Very slick. ‘No need to make notes,’ she said. ‘There’ll be full dossiers in each of the seminar rooms.’

  Then the walk-through. The huge area, four or five parade grounds’ worth, maybe more, tarmacked over five or six years before so that a street scene could be simulated on it with stage-set buildings. Never before as large as this, though. The joiners and other workmen had done their best. Flimsy building facades cut off just above head height. White tape to represent roads and divide pavements. Makeshift traffic lights with wires dangling from the back. Gaps where side streets should have been but through which you could see the Heath Robinson sk
eleton backs of other ‘buildings’ or just trees and grass. It was like they were on a film set, or what Jon imagined one to be like. Still, he thought, they were much like actors, on stage tomorrow and next Wednesday. Except they had weapons that fired live ammunition.

  It would be uncharitable to say it was cobbled together. It must have been an extraordinary effort. It’d all been laid on: the whole of the stadium quarter. Jon Brough and his cohort walked their walk through terraced streets and tried to suspend disbelief. They finally succeeded as they turned a corner on to Stadium Way and saw Stadium Plaza ahead of them and, towering over it all, the representation of the ground itself on a huge screen. It was mind-boggling, like being catapulted into the future, part of some reality show in which they were playing a role. A single role, since they were as one. The muttering and joshing stopped the instant they turned that corner and saw the screen. It was time for lunch.

  The power was out and the door had been open when Bilal got there. At least that’s what he’d said, waiting at the entrance when Adnan arrived.

  ‘You went in?’ asked Adnan.

  ‘Yeah. Just in the hall and switched the light on. At least I tried to. No power.’

  Rashid had arrived. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Power’s out,’ said Bilal.

  ‘And apparently the door was open,’ said Adnan.

  ‘It was,’ said Bilal.

  ‘OK,’ said Rashid. ‘What do we do now?’

  No one said anything. Abdullah turned up and they explained.

  ‘Got no option,’ said Adnan. ‘Too far advanced to give up on it now. Got to go in.’

  Abdullah and Rashid agreed; Bilal wasn’t so sure. ‘What if it’s a set-up?’ he said.

  ‘If it is, we’re fucked anyway,’ said Abdullah, and no one took exception to his language.

  ‘I’ll go in,’ said Rashid with finality. ‘You wait out here. I’ll call you in. If I don’t come out, clear off. Go home. Behave as if nothing’s happened.’