And then Fuzz whooped and hugged me. We fell to the floor in a heap and started laughing. I knew Bang-Bang would do it. So long as she was alive, she’d have scratched that in any place available. It meant ‘fiancé, I’m not dead.’
I got on the phone to the Colonel. Behind me Fuzz was dancing round and singing an obscure Bollywood song.
Two rings. ‘Riz. What do you have?’
‘We’re at RAF Barford St John and she’s left a message. She’s left a message!’
‘Son, we’re go. I’ll call Swallow and the lads now.’
‘Yeah but we don’t know if she’s definitely in Kabul ye-’
He’d hung up.
Fuzz had walked outside to the airstrip. I walked to her side. She was looking at tyre marks on the concrete in the light of her flashlight, and seemed lost in thought.
Presently I asked her. ‘Thoughts, Fuzz?’
She looked at me. ‘Probably a propeller-driven plane landing. Difficult to get a jet in here. And they look relatively recent. Say within the last week.’
She took a photo on her phone with the flash on. She stopped and ran it through her mind and then paced the distance between the rubber smears.
‘That looks the size of something like a twin-prop. Something with the range to get to Frankfurt, like an Aviocar or a Skytruck. CIA and US Special Ops have a few. They dogleg at Frankfurt to get to places like Cyprus or the Middle East.’
Fuzz tapped on her Android phone for a while. ‘Here we go… PZL M28 Skytruck… wheel track eleven feet… wheel base fourteen point three…’
She paced it out again. Then she paced a point where there was one smear to the left. She came back and looked at me. ‘Yep. It was a Skytruck.’
We looked around at the lines of antenna masts standing silently in the gloom, picked out by their red warning lights.
I spoke. ‘Wouldn’t it be tricky getting a plane in and out among these masts?’
Fuzz shrugged. ‘AFSOC pilots are among the best in the business. They’d use night-vision goggles and thermal imaging cameras. And the runway we’re standing on here, which we’ll call West North-South, has a good 1200 feet from the main blockhouses. A Skytruck can take off in that distance, easy.’
‘Better than you?’
‘They have their moments.’
She looked around. ‘Hah. See? They may have packed up, but look. They left a vital piece of kit up.’
I followed her gaze. Sure enough, there was a bright orange windsock on a high pole. It hung there like a hanged man.
I shivered. It was eerie out here. The red lights in the gloom and the deserted base were giving me the creeps. I suddenly remembered the screenshot I had taken from Joe’s laptop. God, was my brain going with all the stress? Switch back on, Riz, I chided myself. I showed the photo to her.
‘One Leasing… Squawk 5331… I’ve heard of these guys. Spooky as heck.’
She suddenly grabbed my shoulder.
‘RIZBHAI! I know where to go! I know exactly where to go to find the flight plans for this plane!’
‘You do?’
‘Oh yeah. Crawley, near Gatwick. I even know the boss there through work. He’ll be pleased to see me, too…’
She grinned. ‘First thing tomorrow. Coming?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Where you parked, Fuzz?’
‘Behind your car, where all the sheep are. Race you back.’
9
We both got back to my flat at around 9.30pm. Neither of us were in the mood to cook so I rang Perveen’s for a takeout. Fuzz went straight to her laptop and Skype and started calling in favours and hitting pilots’ forums. I scooped up my doormat mail and got the plates out for us. Busy morning ahead tomorrow. There was a postcard from Asma and Bambi, and a letter from St Andrews University terrorism studies course. I had to complete a module. I laughed inwardly. Oh the irony. I had fallen a bit behind lately, what with being shot at by everyone from the Syrian Army to mad wahaabis and then tied to a massive van-bomb. I was sure they’d understand.
An hour or so later, me and Fuzz were deep into our various laptop excursions. The takeout had arrived. Behind us on my wall TV the Parliament Channel was showing George Galloway giving the other side an almighty bollocking about the last couple of months. Go on George, I thought to myself.
Fuzz looked up. ‘Sorted. The main thing I’m doing tomorrow is looking at Iron Maiden’s Boeing loadout down in ATC Lasham. But before that, we have an appointment at Chrome Flightplan in Crawley.’
I nodded back at her. ‘OK ukhti. By the way - how are the rest of the girls getting on?’
Fuzz looked up again and seemed to be sorting through a mental Rolodex. After a minute she replied.‘Duckie was last heard of in a known Combat 18/Infidels pub in Stoke-on-Trent. That's a bit of a tightrope. Calamity and Sadie are on a sniper course in the States, down at the bloke from YouTube's range. What's his face, the guy you laugh at... Professional Russian? They're brushing up on the non-shooting bits. Y'know, sniper-as-reconnaissance.’
I pulled her up on that.‘He's not actually Russian and hang on a minute... what? Has she still not dropped yet? Pregnant? In that heat? She's nuts.’
‘...And we got the mother of all bollockings from Maryam's mum. You can imagine the phone calls. Why was her daughter running around being shot when she should be doing her homework etc. she's so grounded etc.’
‘Where did she end up that night?’
‘We plonked her in UCL A and E. She wouldn't have said anything, she hates cops’, said Fuzz blithely.
‘Jesus, you are some tough chicas.’
‘Wouldn't have it any other way... ’
‘And Roadrunner?’
‘You'll like this. She put a plank on the accelerator of the fire appliance and launched it into the Thames.’
My various email addresses were pinging. Three new emails. First one was a Liveleak update. Oh brilliant, here was the new viral video from the Blackeyes, starring Bang-Bang chainsawing Iqeel al-Afghani’s head off. It had gone global. I could tell it was her, behind that crazy Mexican sugar-skull makeup.
The second email was from a Salafi friend of mine. He’d forwarded this month’s update from the conspiracy magazine Notes from the Glue Factory. They were leading with… fucking hell, they were leading with a picture of me running down the bottom level of Westfield Stratford with an AK. It was captioned “dead al-Qaeda terrorist?” The shot must have come from a bystander’s mobile. The MOD now had an office designated DS35 devoted entirely to scooping up any footage from Black Thursday, be it CCTV or mobile phones, anything. This must have slipped through the net.
The next photo really shook me. It was a photo of Bang-Bang’s M14 rifle, lying on the floor in that mess of blood. It was captioned “Covert British Army unit weapon?”
I took a deep breath. I opened the last email.
It was an office circular from Toots. It read-
From: Tasneem Khani ([email protected])
Sent: 24 Sept 2012 14:28:33
CC: Riz Sabir ([email protected])
Subject: ANALYSIS OF TRENDS AND INTENTS WITHIN
ANTI-ISLAMIC GROUPS
STAFF EYES ONLY
NODIST
Recent terrorist outrages have prompted UK Nationalist and right-wing extremist groups to attempt counterprotests in Muslim-majority areas. The English Defence League leadership appear to be planning major marches or static demos outside mosques in Manchester and Birmingham. The breakaway Infidels groups, who have links with Combat 18, are planning what they refer to as “days of rage” on the same days, with flashmobs outside mosques.
EDL leadership has disassociated themselves from Infidel/C18 involvement (opportunity for action here?).
Elements from European far-right groups also appear to be planning to attend these events. (cf Belgian and Danish Int.) SOCMINT would appear to indicate Vlaams Blok, SIOE, NDL, and many others have elements heading to UK in the next few weeks. All of the above also coincides wi
th today’s anniversary of the death of Ian Stuart Donaldson, former lead singer of Skrewdriver. Blood and Honour will be attempting gigs as close to this date as possible. So far no gigs have taken place but B & H are attempting to book decoy venues in East London and the Midlands.
Two other items of interest. First - Bloed, Bodem, Eer en Trouw (BBET; "Blood, Soil, Honour and Loyalty"), a Flemish Neo-Nazi group, has recently successfully infiltrated members into and/or recruited members in the Belgian armed forces. These elements are rumoured to be actively stockpiling weapons from foreign conflict zones that can be transferred to Europe via military channels.
Second – Anders Breivik is communicating via letters to supporters on the outside, and has mentioned his “English mentor” aka “Lionheart/Lionhearted” several times. Security services are actively attempting to trace this person, IF they exist.
See attached files for NATO security services reports.
ENDS
TK
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www.kts.co.uk’
Even better. More crap to stir into the pot. I made a mental note to contact Tommy Robinson, infamous leader of the EDL, when… if… I got back from wherever I was headed. I was chinstrapped. I looked up at the lounge light. The light was filling my vision.
The light was very bright. It was one of those disco mirror balls. Hang on a minute. I was asleep. No, I was definitely awake. Farzana Shaheen was onstage. Graham Norton introduced her. She sang Yes My Darling Daughter with the entire Windmill Club Band behind her. I was at the bar trying to lose myself in a martini but she had my attention. I used to come and watch her do standup at tough east London clubs where she'd get in fights and lose teeth. Certain members of the audience would always take exception to a mad Paki bird ripping the piss out of them onstage, and more often than not it would kick off. Fuzz never held back though, she had a punch on her like a mule-kick. Heck, I'd been at the one where Calamity thought Al Murray was a real pub landlord and had climbed onstage to get her pint back. The ensuing fight had been like something out of a Western.
This gig was different. Farzana had a story to tell. Farzana had lost a sister and the audience was damn well going to know about it. The band struck up. And we were in. Fuzz sang under the onstage moon.
‘I’ve gotta be good or Mama will scold me
I asked her and this is what she told me
Mother, may I go out dancing?
Yes, my darling daughter
Mother, may I try romancing?
Yes, my darling daughter
What if there’s a moon, mama darling,
and it’s shining on the water
Mother, must I keep on dancing?
Yes, my darling daughter... ’
I was in Mrs Kirpachi’s garden. I looked around. Nope, I was definitely awake. The garden was bathed in the most beautiful moonlight, from a moon the size of a hot-air balloon. It hung in the trees, and then settled down into them. How had I got here? I’d been in my flat a minute ago. The moonlight illuminated the lawn and there was Bang-Bang. Except she wasn’t Bang-Bang, she was a fox in a kimono. She took my hand and wiggled her shiny black nose.
‘C’mon, retard, it’s our wedding.’
A raccoon tugged the leg of my combat trousers. I looked down at it. Its eyes weren’t raccoon eyes, they were like the eyes of someone on Ecstacy. Deep, pitch-black pools like the dead doll button eyes of a shark. It spoke, but it seemed to have a speech impediment. ‘Wiz. Reddingth.’
My eyes were drawn to the lawn we were standing on. The lawn was slicked with blood and cartridge cases. How strange blood looks in moonlight. Black.
Behind us Mrs Kirpachi was sobbing uncontrollably. Bang-Bang turned to both of us and scolded ‘Mum! You should be happy! It’s what you wanted, it’s our wedding!’
With a start, I realised there was a gunshot wound in her kimono and blood was pouring from it. The moon split apart and there was a blinding light. The light went blue, to white, to blue and...
I opened my eyes. Fuzz was shaking my shoulder. I was on the lounge carpet under a duvet. She placed a mug of tea beside me and walked away. I got to my feet. The dawn light streamed in. I looked out over the view to Stratford and the Thames. I was shaking. I decided to take the time to pray. Properly.
‘Cheers for the tea Fuzz. I just dreamt you were onstage with Graham Norton.’
She looked at me and finally said ‘and they say I’m the mad one.’
10
25th September
It was 7.49am. We were parked in the visitors’ car park at Chrome Flightplan in Crawley, just shy of Gatwick airport. A plane thundered over.
‘Remind me why we’re here again Fuzz?’
Fuzz was dressed soberly and smartly for a change, in a charcoal ladies’ business suit, a slightly too-short skirt and Christian Louboutin heels. She was obviously on a vamp mission.
‘One, this is the firm that does the logistic support for all the CIA’s rendition flights in the Eastern hemisphere. Two. Me and the MD, have… well, we have a past.’
She grinned wolfishly.
‘And you’ve got an appointment?’
‘You betchya. Give me five minutes.’
She exited the car and went for the reception, giving me a little wiggle on the way in. I clocked it and laughed to myself.
I turned the news up on the radio. BBC Five. John Gaunt had Tommy Robinson fulminating about Islam and Islamism, and the EDL’s legitimate right to protest. He was adamant that they would be marching, and soon. Gaunty was giving him a hard time. Tommy was punching back, but he kept saying “Inam” rather than Imam. I switched to Sunrise and tuned out. I looked out across the car park. Not much going on apart from rain until...
A shower of glass was raining on the car and an office computer was sliding leftwards off the bonnet. As I watched, it slid off and hit the tarmac with another crash. I got out of the car on autopilot, picked up the PC and slung it on the rear seat. Instinctively I looked up. There was a gaping hole in the office window above me.
The reception doors banged open and Fuzz came walking out with a bounce in her step. She was grinning as she got in. ‘Let’s go, bhai.’
We drove away, me trying to act smooth.
As we hit the ramp for the motorway I asked her.
‘OK. What happened?’
‘I gave him one minutes’ grace and sweet talk, but he wasn’t having it. So I put my pistol to his nose and got him to print out the flight manifests for the 16th. Just in case he was fudging, I threw his PC out the window so we could check it.’
She waved a sheaf of papers. ‘Now we check.’
I laughed, and then stopped laughing as I realised I was going to have to explain the dents and scratches on the pool car to the beancounters at the office.
Back at mine we dismantled the PC with a screwdriver and pulled the hard drive out. Years ago, Bang-Bang had taught me how to do this. I had a gutted terminal she’d left here years ago with the motherboard exposed for this kind of thing, and networked in. SATA cable in, power on… and fingers crossed.
‘Fifty-fifty it survived the fall’ said Fuzz.
We waited. I necked some painkillers as my side was playing up like a bastard.
The drive whirred, then there were a few quick clicks. Success. It was calibrating. Seconds later, an icon appeared on my right-hand screen. We were in.
Fuzz spoke. ‘These guys are so ubiquitous, us pilots call their charts “Chrome charts”. They supply the full package. Lemme do a search on that drive.’
She got busy. I made some tea.
Within half an hour she had it. ‘Here it is. Here are copies of the EFBs.’
‘EFBs?’
‘Electronic Flight Bags. We use them instead of the old paper systems when we can. It’s what you load into those funky green displays in a cockpit.’
She read from the screen.
‘September 16th. N6161K. One Leasing. Squawk 5331. Filed a flightplan to Frankfurt, from there to Cyprus, and from there to Ashgabat in Turkmenistan… and from there to Bagram airfield, Afghanistan.’
She went to look at the files she’d taken. She riffled through them. ‘These are hard copies of the fuel requisitions. Yep. They fuelled up at Frankfurt, Cyprus, and Ashgabat.’
She went back to the PC. ‘Yep. Bagram and then back to Ashgabat.’
She looked up. ‘Bhai. She’s in Bagram. No doubt.’
11
26th September
Out on the rainswept pan at Brize the props on the RAF Special Duties Flight C130 were turning and blurring, their whine turning into a grumbling roar that eventually drowned out the thumping rap music from Fuzz’s car. I ran up the ramp into the brightly-lit interior of the plane. Fuzz waved a goodbye and Swallow winked at her and then looked at me.
‘Ready?’
‘Born ready.’
‘Got your kit?’
I nodded at the two khaki kit bags I was carrying. ‘Packets are with me and ready to go.’
‘Good. We’ll brief you in in-air.’
Two minutes later we were climbing and I was clinging onto the orange webbing on the fuselage. Swallow was laughing. He put a headset over my ears and slapped the mike down. This was the only way we could communicate in the roaring interior of a C130.
‘Welcome back, Terry.’
For the duration of this mission I was Terry. Terry Taliban. The British Army never, ever, let you forget where you were from. Could have been worse though. Could have been Royal Signals.
‘OK Tel, come over here and have a look at the maps.’
We pulled our comms leads behind us and inched inwards to a set of aluminium cases with large-scale maps spread on them. We gathered round.
Locked and Loaded: A Riz Sabir Thriller Omnibus Page 20
