Locked and Loaded: A Riz Sabir Thriller Omnibus

by Charlie Flowers

  31

  ‘The Quraan is quite clear on this bro …’

  Jawad was on a roll.

  ‘Listen.’ He recited from memory. Like a few in this cell, he was a Hafiz, one who’d learned the Quran by heart. How he was interpreting it, though …

  ‘Sura 9:111 - "Allaah has purchased the believers, their lives and their goods. For them in return is the garden of paradise. They fight in Allaah’s Cause, and they slay and are slain; they kill and are killed … paradise is the promise of Allaah to them.”’

  We were sat at a large round table at the back of the Shah Jahan Tandoori on Normanton Road. The food was good. Meltingly good. I made sure to make the most of it as my life hung in the balance depending on how the next few hours turned out.

  The bombs had been loaded onto the Luton vans, prepped and driven away. The weapons had also vanished somewhere, I knew not where. This looked like the last supper before they hit. It was now 11 o’clock at night.

  Johnny Devlin nodded in approval at Jawad’s recitation and chipped in.

  ‘What we are about to do is not terrorism, or aggression, or any of the other labels that the Zionist media sticks on it. No. It is self defence . Self defence, and lawful in al-Islaam. If we don’t take a stand for the Mumineen and our Ummah, and let’s be honest, we’re being slaughtered like sheep all over the world …’

  The table murmured in agreement.

  ‘… then who else is going to? No, we’re on our own. Guys. We have to make them feel fear right in their homes. And there is a reward for this. THE reward.’

  He stabbed the table with his finger.

  ‘What is the sixth pillar of al-Islaam?’

  Another murmur from the table and some smiles.

  ‘Jihad.’

  ‘Right. And those who Allaah picks will be shaheeds. Shaheeds. The most exalted in jannah.’

  Jawad nodded.

  'Hamid al-Qasyrasi, rahimahullah, said: “Though we know death is certain, we have not prepared ourselves for it. Though we know paradise is definite, we have not worked for it. Though we know the hell fire is certain, we have not feared it. So why are you delighted? What are you waiting for? Death is the first visitor from the Almighty bringing good or evil tidings … so get closer to your Lord!”

  ‘Brother Devlin is right. I’ll tell you something else. Up till now, the Movement’s strikes on Britain have been … well, we could have done better. And now, we will. It’s gonna look like the Oklahoma bombing and Breivik all in one morning. Worse. Mumbai.’

  The group chuckled and nodded. He sat back and smiled.

  ‘I feel really good about what we’re about to do.’

  I scooped up some more Kerala fish curry. Inwardly I shook my head. There was no sixth pillar in Islam, that was a warped Wahaabi interpretation. I should know, I’d been there. I’d made my decision about what to do in the next few hours before midnight. I had to get this information to the Colonel or to Holly, and it had to be a callbox. Internet cafes were out. This cell knew them all round here. I had the change in my pocket and I had a plan.

  I looked around the table and made my assessments of the group. One was missing, the one they referred to as “Chacha” or “Uncle”, but I was assured he was coming tonight. Then Devlin. My God, the man quivered with pure repressed rage and evil, like a live cable. Jawad. A dangerous second-in-command, calm and smiling. Ali, my machine-gunner. I liked him. Akkas. Talha. Hamja. Mateen. The footsoldiers. They would do what was needed. The rest? Well, this wasn’t amateur hour for a change. These weren’t the sort of guys that would turn up at a farm supplies store in a suit and order 600 kilos of ammonium nitrate. These guys meant it and if unchecked, would carry the attacks through.

  I stood up.

  ‘Guys, gimme a coupla minutes. Gotta have a slash.’

  No-one seemed to mind. Did I imagine that Devlin’s eyes were following me as I went to the toilets? Too late to worry, I was out of here. I made my way to the gents and locked myself in the cubicle. I’d guessed right. The window opened easily and I clambered out and down into a side alley. Quickly now. I jogged to the exit with Normanton Road and walked away quickly, south towards the mini-roundabout with Pear Tree Road. Hurrying past the blaze of light from Pak Foods mini-market. There, on the left by the Madina Book Centre, were two callboxes. I took the one facing away from the street, in relative darkness. The two pound coins clunked in and I breathed a sigh of relief. Nearly there. My first call would be to Mahoney and the second would be to Holly to let her know I was alive. I dialled the Colonel’s mobile.

  The dialling tone purred. And purred. Come on , pick up, dammit …

  ‘Mahoney.’

  ‘Boss. It’s Riz.’

  ‘Thank God for that, son. Are you OK?’

  ‘Course but listen, I haven’t got long -’

  ‘Recorder is on. Go.’

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘Two van bombs, big ones. Ringleaders are Johnny Devlin and a guy called Jawad second name unknown. And the worst bit - they’ve got at least twenty AKs and more, and they’re going to hit the shopping centre in Shepherd’s Bush imminently. Mumbai style.’

  ‘Jesus- OK. Riz, get yourself clear immediately.’

  ‘Will do. Listen - the vans were being stored in O- ’

  There was a commotion behind me.

  I turned.

  Johnny Myers and five of the guys were standing there. I dropped the handset.

  And then it got worse. They stood aside, and a man in an expensive suit walked forward into the dim light from the booth. It was Lord Khalil. Chacha. He glared at me in disgust.

  I bomb-bursted out of the booth and broke left but it was far too late and they fell on me like a pack of street dogs. I fought like a banshee against the boots and fists, and then, the lights went out.

  32

  I came round to a pounding head. I couldn’t move. I dry-puked. I tried to move again and found my hands were tied behind my back. My ankles were tied too. The whole left side of my head and jaw was throbbing like a bastard. I could feel a loose tooth. I was sitting on the floor of …

  Oh God no. The inside of a Luton van. I looked up with extreme effort.

  Lord Khalil stood before me.

  ‘Hello Riz. Welcome to our world.’

  He crouched down.

  ‘You’re now zip-tied to your own creation, and when it goes off, it’ll spread your DNA over a large area, and the kuffar British government will be implicated. Oh what a shame.’

  I spat out bloody phlegm.

  He laughed. ‘We had you convinced it was Shepherd’s Bush. And you told your handlers. Deary me. It’s Westfield Stratford my boys are going to hit. And inshallah, Johnny and Jawad will be getting away scot free to continue our campaign. We’re going to bomb the British to the conference table and the kuffs won’t even know where the enemy is coming from. As for backing the police into a corner and a strike… that has worked better than I could possibly have imagined.’

  He paused. Smiled. ‘All we had to do was wait for the armed cops to hand in their tickets. Shame about the wrong people who had to get shot, but still … they are shaheeds.’

  He crouched down and looked at my face.

  ‘A jihadi spy. How unusual.’

  I decided I’d just bleed on him.

  ‘And as for your little gang of girls … we’ll get them too, don’t you worry.’

  It was a bit too late to stress about how and when he’d cottoned onto me, and why. Hell, he was the man at the top, after all. Very smooth of him to let me run on until the final moment.

  Lord Khalil stood and checked his watch.

  ‘Anyway. I’d love to stay and chat but this device is due to go off in ten minutes, so …’

  He turned and rapped on the inside of the roller shutter. It rattled up and some men I didn’t recognise helped him down. One of them jumped up onto the tailgate and hauled it back down. I heard them lock it from the outside. And then I was alone, strapped to a bo
mb I’d helped make. In my mind’s eye, my boss’s “keep calm and carry on” mug had swum into my mental vision. Yeah, that could work.

  I had nine minutes. Lord Khalil was wrong in one respect though - this bomb was so powerful that any DNA left of me would be in orbit, and everything for fifty metres would be carbonised. I had to think. THINK, dammit!

  Zip ties.

  I gave a heartfelt prayer of thanks to almighty Allah. Zip ties.

  OK. Deep breath.

  I wriggled about a bit to get traction. Yep. They’d tied me to a bit of rope too. Good. The trick was to get your arms up behind your back as far as possible and slam them down onto your butt, like some mad frog jump. I went for it. One. Nothing.

  I wriggled more, to get purchase, and coiled my body. Here we go. Whack. Nothing.

  For fuck’s sake Riz, get a grip and do it right. I probably had eight minutes. Arms up as far as they go. I felt like an Olympic diver. DO IT. I slammed my arms down.

  Pop. The ties snapped.

  I fell to the floor of the van and laughed in relief. The ties on my feet were easier. I wriggled and struggled till they snapped.

  OK. Now the bomb. I wobbled to my feet and looked at the pallets. The first thing you had to do was check for anti-handling devices. We hadn’t built any in, and I couldn’t see any alterations. Second thing to do was to remove the power supply. And there it was. The nine-volt battery. My hands hung over it. I gave the firing train one last look. In the movies there was always a big red digital timer or some mad beeping noise. Not in real life. In real life the bombs quietly ticked down to the bang.

  I unplugged the battery. I looked at the mobile phone. The back had been removed and two wires soldered in. I pulled them away. Then, very gingerly, I reached in and extracted the TATP from the booster charge and laid it on the floor. The device had been made safe. Relatively safe.

  Miraculously, they hadn’t taken my watch … or … I checked my wallet. It even had money in it. Two twenty pound notes. I supposed they wanted as much of my stuff on me as possible. It was 10.14am. How could I get out of this van? I pulled on the shutter. Locked from outside. I looked up. Luck. This Luton had the semi-transparent skylight roof. With something sharp, I could cut through it. I looked at the bomb. There. The frame that attached it to the floor. It looked a bit like meccano. I yanked at it like a madman and eventually it gave way.

  I climbed up onto the pallet of ANFO and sugar and steadied myself. Above me was the roof. I began stabbing at it. The whole time I was stabbing, the same thought was running through my brain. Stratford. Bombs. Two teams. I made a ragged hole. I stopped. The phone. I got back down and fetched the mobile, then hauled myself up and out onto the van roof into a bright sunny day. I tried the mobile. 999.

  Fuck.

  ‘ No SIM card’ .

  The bastards had just been using it for a timer. Where the hell was I? I looked around. The van was parked in a square, outside a post office, nowhere I recognised. Right about now would be the time it would detonate. I looked for the position of the sun. It was high in the sky at … 10.20? I was looking south. Suddenly on the horizon was a white flash. Several seconds later was a rumbling thud.

  Oh God. The second bomb.

  I had to move. I jumped down onto the cab roof dropped off of the side, landing heavily. I stumbled back and registered that they’d spraypainted “NHS” in big blue letters down the side. I ran into the post office. I grabbed the nearest person.

  ‘Where am I?’

  He looked at me blankly. The British curse. He didn’t speak English. There was no time to mess around.

  ‘What’s this address? I’m police and I need to know!’

  Everyone in the post office turned to look at me.

  ‘You’re in Welwyn mate.’

  A chavvy looking bloke had spoken. There were several TVs on the walls tuned to BBC News, and they were now clearing to show scenes of devastation. A massive bomb had gone off in the City of London. No details as yet. I ran back outside. There was a taxi rank to my left. I ran to the first car. An old man in the classic Afghan chitrali cap regarded me as I skidded to a halt at his passenger door.

  ‘Fare?’

  He chewed betel and nodded slowly.

  ‘Mate, I need to borrow your phone.’

  His face clouded. I needed to pile this on. OK.

  ‘Uncle. Do you love this country?’

  ‘Of course I do. It has given me everything.’

  ‘Then if you love it, please, please, and I ask you as a son of the Ummah, please lend me your phone for two minutes.’

  I really didn’t want to knock him out. He looked away for a while then shrugged and handed me his battered old Nokia and muttered something under his breath. I dialled the Colonel.

  ‘Mahoney.’

  ‘BOSS IT’S RIZ I’M IN WELWYN AND WE’VE -´

  ‘Calm down, Riz, deep breaths. We’re a bit in the shit here.’

  I could hear sirens in the background.

  ‘Boss. The shooting target is STRATFORD.’

  ‘OK. Got that. It’s an unholy mess here. Liverpool Street is gone. All the firearms units were stood down because of the strike, and all the SF are at Shepherd’s Bush and are pulling off because they think it’s a false alarm. What happened?’

  ‘Lord Khalil happened, that’s what!’

  An icy silence punctuated by the howl of sirens.

  ‘I see. Where are you?’

  ‘Welwyn Garden City, apparently. I just made the other bomb safe.’

  ‘Good one, Riz. Can you get here?’

  ‘Yes. If you ring Fuzz she’ll pick me up.’

  ‘I’ll do that now. Wait one …’

  I hopped from foot to foot in impatience.

  ‘… OK we just texted her your number. Riz, we need you here to - ’

  The line went dead. I looked at the phone. The cab driver was looking at me. Behind us a crowd was gathering from the post office. They were looking at the smoke on the horizon.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Salaams bhai!’

  It was Fuzz.

  ‘Where are you Riz?’

  ‘Fuzz. I’m in Welwyn. Where are you?’

  ‘We’re at Elstree aerodrome. Hang on …’

  I could hear rustling. A map?

  ‘… Riz, can you get to South Mimms services in ten minutes?’

  I looked at the cab driver.

  ‘Uncle, what is your name?’

  ‘My name is Abdul Jamil Khan.’

  ‘Mine is Rizwan Sabir. Abdul Jamil Khan, Sir, can you get me to South Mimms to meet some black-eyed maidens in ten minutes?’

  He grinned with stained teeth.

  ‘Now you’re talking.’

  33

  We drove. Abdul hit the radio for Capital and we listened to the chaos. The reports were conflicting. Dirty bomb. Fire at Liverpool Street. Electrical fault. Something at Shepherd’s Bush. They were winning. They’d got them to go the wrong way. We hit the roundabout for the services at an insane speed as three emergency services vehicles barrelled past us south into London with sirens and lights on.

  We screeched into the truck park at South Mimms and there, at the back, was a black Gazelle helicopter. I pointed at it.

  ‘Uncle. See that? That’s my ride.’

  Abdul sat and stared open-mouthed at the sleek machine. I gave him the two twenties and gripped his shoulder. Then I jumped out and ran forward. The turbine on the chopper started to whine. Bang-Bang flung herself into my arms and I’d never seen a more beautiful sight. We hugged. She popped gum in my ear.

  ‘Missed ya. Let’s go.’

  We ran under the rotors as they started to turn. I jumped into the front passenger seat. In the pilot’s seat Fuzz grinned at me with crazy blue pinwheeling eyes and pointed at the headset hanging behind the seat. I put them on and listened in as the turbine went from a whine to a howl.

  ‘Hey kid. Looks like we got some jihad on.’

  ‘You don’t say. Hal
f the city is gone and they’re about to hit Stratford shopping mall.’

  Fuzz yanked up the collective and we roared into the air. She pulled a pair of aviator shades down over her eyes. The satnav display span up on the console.

  ‘Anyone else inbound?’

  ‘No. We’re it.’

  She shook her head and laughed.

  ‘So we’re it. Fasten your seatbelts brother and sisters, Stratford here we come. Better hold on - this thing goes like a fat kid after the last samosa.’

  We climbed. Before us, in the distance, was a huge ugly wall of smoke near the Gherkhin. The City of London was a mess of fire and dust. Off to our left was our target. Westfield Stratford. Fuzz’s voice came into our earphones.

  ‘I figure seven minutes to target my darlings. Lock and load and I’ll try and deal with traffic control.’

  I spoke into the mike.

  ‘What do we have on board ladies?’

  Calamity’s voice came into my headphones. ‘Er ... we brought your HK. Fuzz has her gat. In back here we’ve got a Para Minimi and a cut-down M14 … and some cough sweets.’

  ‘You do realise we’re probably all going to die, right?’

  ‘Yes bro, we do. And it was an honour to fly with you.’

  ‘OK. We need a recognition marker. Something to mark us out to the security forces.’

  A silence.

  ‘Got a sari in the back here. It’s yellow.’

  That would have to do.

  ‘OK, tear some strips off, we make armbands out of it. One each.’

  The radio screeched in all our headsets.

  ‘ Golf Charlie Kilo please resquawk IFF and state course .’

  Fuzz barked a laugh.

  ‘That’ll be ATC Swanwick. No matter what I do or say now, they’re about to scramble the Typhoon flight at Coningsby. So now we hit the deck. Hopefully they won’t be able to pick us out of the ground clutter and we won’t get a missile up the pipe. Hold on kids. Five minutes to target.’

  We held on.

  Calamity passed forward a scrap of cloth, a walkie-talkie, and my HK PDW. I loaded it and made safe. I pointed it down as helicopter drills required. I tied the cloth onto my left arm. In my earphones I could hear weapons being made ready. Fuzz was on to air traffic control as we went down to rooftop height. The North Circular flashed beneath us. It was crammed with traffic in both directions. I caught a fleeting glimpse of a billboard lit up with ‘KEEP OUT OF LONDON TUNE INTO RADIO’ as we thundered over it.