Locked and Loaded: A Riz Sabir Thriller Omnibus

by Charlie Flowers

  ‘It’s meant to be crap kit, Holly, it’s meant to be an Infidels attack.’

  ‘Ah. And all those explosives are from those landmines we found?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Clever.’

  Another silence. She worked on the inside of the transmitter. ‘Remind us why we don’t like these people, babe.’

  ‘The scum that attracts scum like flypaper, like C18. Never mind the terrorist planning, it’s what these pricks do to kids at Uni that gets me. Drag ‘em in, brainwash ‘em, spit ‘em out.’

  ‘What they doing in there then?’

  ‘A summit. They’ve got a new faction called Democratic Opposition, which is trying to oust one of the chairs on grounds of sexually harassing female party members. And the Central Committee is trying to throw out the Democratic Opposition before they can throw out the… you get the picture.’

  She looked at me. ‘Is this getting to you?’

  ‘Holly darling, if you'd have had to sit through as many weeks of squabbles and read as many online discussions on vanguardism and leading the proletariat as I just have... then you’d want to kill them too. As we speak, their Central Committee is in there discussing rape allegations made by several party members against their senior official. And they’re going to let him off. For the good of the party and the struggle.’

  She nodded. ‘Good enough. OK, now what about the building’s CCTV?’

  I had to admit, she had me on that one. ‘I was going to go down in a bit and grab the hard drive…’

  She grinned. ‘I can do better.’

  She dug her netbook out of her Claymore bag and fired it up. ‘Acquiring LANs… OK gimme three minutes to turn it off and wipe the drive.’

  I looked over the parapet and watched the sidestreet while she tapped at her keyboard. We were obscured from view by some ancient spiky plants and a massive TV aerial that looked like a washing line. In the street below, a parking warden ambled away towards Bethnal Green Road. I craned my neck to look at our escape route, Vass Road. Calling it a road was a bit optimistic. It was a greasy, cobbled back alley that ran parallel to the main road for several blocks. With luck we could walk away down the alley and pop out.

  She chatted away happily while she typed. ‘So we use View Available Networks and whaddawee got… ohhhh, many many LANs babe. Here’s one called SUSSEXHOUSE. Go for it?’

  I nodded. ‘Go for it.’

  She laughed. ‘It’s unsecured.’

  Even better.

  ‘OK, I’m now an admin for the internal office network. Whose password was “admin”. Right, control panel... network connections... gotcha. And here’s their CCTV, which, handily for us, is completely IP-based. Turning ‘em off now. Shall I wipe the hard drive?’

  I nodded again. I knew this stuff in theory as we’d had the briefing at work. Nowadays building management systems were becoming internet-enabled for remote access, laying them open to outside attack. It was too easy. In the old days, analogue CCTV cameras would have been installed by TV engineers. Nowadays they were being wired in by regular admin people with three days’ extra training, and what they were installing were effectively network computers little different from those that would sit on your desktop for Skype.

  ‘Wiped.’ Bang-Bang snickered to herself and went back to attacking the transmitter. She’d already got it in bits and was firing up a portable soldering gun. I watched over the parapet.

  Two minutes later she zapped a circuit with the fusing iron, reassembled the transmitter and high-fived me. ‘Done. Now what? I think we’re good to go.’

  ‘Thank God for that. The only backup plan was to go in and kill ‘em all with an icepick.’

  Bang-Bang snorted a laugh. But she didn’t smile. There was no going back now. I stood and got ready to move. Then watched in horror. As I looked out over the parapet, a minibus full of Asian mums pulled up and disgorged its occupants.

  ‘Oh, heck.’ We both looked over the parapet and then at each other. Then we made for the fire escape.

  We both raced into the entrance hall and started haranguing the new arrivals. Bang-Bang was trying to hustle the mum’s group out and shouting at the caretaker. ‘Gas nikal rahi hai!’. They looked at her blankly.

  ‘They’re Bengali!’ I shouted. She took a few seconds to take this in then yelled at them. ‘GAS LEAK!’ She hustled them out and most of them vanished into the street in a riot of colour and noise. I started waving my arms about as well, and that seemed to work. Bang-Bang disappeared into the main office and then returned with a big grin on her face. She waved a bike chain and its attendant padlock. ‘See this? Found it by the desk. Best thing I reckon. Go back up and lock ‘em in.’

  I nodded. ‘Do it.’

  She grinned even more widely and ran for the stairs. I waited and checked my watch. OK. This was going to work. The building was nearly clear, my other half was going to lock the conference doors down, and in minutes, we were going to hit that command button. Yes, Riz, I told myself. This was going to work.

  I shouted at a man who’d just appeared from the reception. ‘Council! Asbestos! Out!’ He left.

  Bang-Bang ran back and her trainers skidded and squeaked on the polished floor. ‘Everyone out?’

  ‘Yeah. All out. How about you?’

  She nodded and panted air, slightly out of breath. ‘Yep. Bike chain is on the doors, doors are locked down tight, and all the real people are out. Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  We hurried outside, driving the last remnants of the mums’ meeting squawking before us into the street.

  We clambered up the fire escape, back onto the roof opposite the target. We checked our kit and gazed at Sussex House. The air was silent, heavy. Bang-Bang started readying the transmitter. I looked at my watch. I made a decision. Thirty seconds. Bang-Bang tapped my arm. ‘Riz babe… where on earth did you find this piece of rubbish?’

  ‘Erm… in the Infidel guy’s lockup. With a model helicopter.’

  ‘Right. How old is it?’

  ‘Too old.’

  ‘So is this my wedding present then? A bunch of dead Trotskyites?’

  ‘One of them.’

  I checked my watch. Twenty seconds. ‘Transmitter ready?’

  ‘Transmitter is ready. Battery level is good.’

  Ten seconds. I looked at her. ‘Miss Kirpachi, please start the bind signal.’

  She worked on the transmitter. ‘Sending. Bind signal is good.’

  That meant the transmitter was sending its electronic handshake to the receiver in the basement. Five seconds. She spoke as the red blinking LED on the transmitter changed to a steady green. ‘Unit is armed.’

  ‘Prepare to fire.’

  She looked at me with those non-committal, wonky hazel eyes. ‘Ready to fire. OK. Good enough, Rizwan Sabir. Kiss me.’

  We kissed and our hands mashed down on the controller’s throttle stick. Click.

  There was a series of rolling cracks that turned into bangs from over the way and the building fell into itself in a cloud of grey smoke and every car alarm on Bethnal Green Road kicked off. Dust swirled and rumbled away over the park. The two seagulls cawed and flapped high above us, and then wheeled away south, into the park.

  Bang-Bang took a glance over the parapet. She laughed. ‘Think you used enough dynamite, Butch?’

  I looked down and around, into the smoke. ‘I hope so. Shall we get going then?’

  I gave the roof one last check-over. Good to go. We left. The pamphlets stayed. But the Radio Shack CCTV display and the transmitter went with us, as they would mess up the evidential chain. I took my disposable gloves off and pocketed them as Bang-Bang stowed the display and transmitter in her Claymore bag. She turned at the top of the stairs and held her hand up. ‘What?’

  She waited. Cocked her head. ‘OK. Nothing. Let’s go.’ The cascade of car and shop alarms was growing to a howl. We pushed our way through the gathering, gawping crowd and walked away down the long alley that was Voss
Street. Past rubbish bags and steaming vents, the backs of kitchens. Soon we were far from the hubbub. We slowed to a stroll. I looked back. All I could see was roiling white smoke and dust. Good.

  ‘Babe,’ said Bang-Bang as we carried on walking to the end of the alley, ‘can you check my accessories before we get to the mosque?’

  She twirled in the alleyway. ‘Bridal nuthli?’

  I nodded and folded my arms. She was asking me to check the massive nose-ring wobbling on her cheek, connected to her ear by a gaudy gold chain. This, traditionally, was a prized symbol of the bride’s virginity. I bit my lip and suppressed the giggle. ‘Yes. Check.’

  ‘Jummar, panj angla, tika…’ She started rattling all the marriage jewellery as she began the famous dance from Aaja Nachle and started singing. ‘Mera jhumka utha ke laya yaar ve…’

  I laughed as I followed her out of the alley and onto the corner of Bethnal Green Road. Pedestrian traffic started to back up as people stared at the bride singing the tune they all knew. I caught up and took her arm. ‘Yes, it’s all there. C’mon, let’s find a cab.’

  She stopped twirling. ‘Cab?’

  ‘Yes love. Cab.’

  ‘Taxi’ yelled Bang-Bang, jumping into the road.

  *

  Tower Hamlets Recorder

  Breaking news: Whitechapel death sparks murder hunt

  Murder squad detectives are appealing for the public's help over the death of a young woman in Whitechapel on Monday.

  Police were called shortly after 2.30am to reports of an altercation in Burslem Street at the junction with Cannon Street Road.

  They found a woman suffering knife injuries on Cannon Street Road who was pronounced dead at the scene.

  Formal identification of the victim has not yet been made. A post-mortem to discover the cause of her death is taking place today.

  An incident room has opened under Detective Chief Inspector Lennie George and he urges anyone who may have witnessed the attack and was in the Moss Close area between 2 and 2.30am, or those who have information that can assist the investigation, to contact his team on (020) 8417 2083 or Crimestoppers anonymously on 0800 555 111.

  Three teenage males, aged between 17 and 22, are currently being questioned at east London police stations.

  4.

  The cab driver grinned in the mirror as he chewed betel. ‘Getting married isn’t it?’

  I nodded. ‘That’s right, Uncle. Get us to the mosque on time, as they say.’

  He cast an eye over us. Me in my British gas overalls, Bang-Bang in her full scarlet wedding get up. She grinned back at him and popped some pink gum. He bobbed his head for a bit and spoke. ‘ELM?’

  ‘You got it.’

  I looked out of the window. My mind was being dragged back down a stream to another taxi driver chewing betel and a cab ride to a short flight into hell. God, when had that been? Not seven months ago. It seemed we’d died and come back to life several times in the meantime.

  Bang-Bang was squeezing my hand. ‘You OK hun?’

  I turned and smiled at her. ‘Course.’

  ‘You’ve got the anguthi, right?’

  She meant the rings. I nodded. ‘Course. Had them all week.’

  OK, time to switch on and get back into the present day. I took off the British Gas overalls and checked myself over. Dark trousers, dark shirt buttoned up… I smoothed my hair and glanced at Bang-Bang again. ‘Asiana enough for you?’

  She got the giggles.

  I caught the driver’s eye in his mirror.

  ‘What’s your name, uncle?’

  ‘Baha.’

  I handed over a fifty pound note. ‘Right Baha, we’re hiring you for the afternoon. Stick around. Shouldn’t be long.’ The betel-stained grin widened and he handed over his card.

  The cab screeched to a halt in front of East London Mosque and we ran up the stairs, then right through a clutch of Salafi lads, and into the stairwell. Floor three. Here it was.

  The nikkah went quickly. The imam blessed us, and the whole room behind us began praying for the lucky couple as we signed the certificate. The whole room being two witnesses and the office staff from the floor below.

  It was while I was signing that I caught sight of Bang-Bang’s birth certificate on the table. Her date of birth read November 3rd 1992, which would make her… twenty.

  ‘Babe.’ I tapped the certificate. ‘I thought you were 22.’

  She grinned at me.

  I grabbed her hand and we left before the office staff started doling out the food.

  We dashed back down the stairs. I had a council form in my right hand, and the bunched-up overalls in my left. We piled into the waiting minicab. ‘OK Baha. Hackney Town Hall. Step on it.’

  “Arranging a ceremony in Hackney: Remember, before you can get married or form a civil partnership, you need to give notice. There are two rooms at Hackney Town Hall where we offer marriage and civil partnership ceremonies, inclusive of room hire; the Gold Suite and the Council Chamber. See below for arranging a ceremony in one of these rooms. For religious ceremonies, contact the place of worship in which you wish to marry or form a partnership. Civil partnerships can only take place in religious buildings that have been approved for civil partnerships.”

  I folded the note and placed it in my jacket pocket. I checked my watch and looked up. We’d ended up with the Council Chamber. Yet another select audience was looking back down the aisle at us, expectantly. They were mostly comprised of my Mum’s relatives and some people I’d never clapped eyes on before.

  Bang-Bang stared them out and there was an embarrassed silence. The very nice lady was waiting at the front with the register. She cleared her throat. She was obviously used to situations like this. ‘Rizwan, Holly.’

  I nodded and made our way to the front. There was the big book, laid open like something you’d see on Judgement Day. We got ready to take the vows. ‘Where’s my lot?’ asked Bang-Bang. ‘I was expecting more bouquets.’

  ‘We’ve been moving so fast today, love, I think we’ve lost them.’

  ‘Yeaahhhhh. Let’s go. Who’s got the anguthi?’

  ‘The rings? You have.’

  ‘Erm…’

  5.

  Two hours later we finally… finally, as husband and wife, walked into the usual noise and chaos of a Mirpuri wedding reception. The families had snaffled the biggest Asian banqueting hall in Ilford. A great cheer rolled backwards then forwards across the hall as the throng registered our arrival, and confetti was cascaded over us.

  I slumped my shoulders as the tension drained out of me and I dumped the British Gas overalls on a drinks table. I knew they wouldn’t be there more than ten minutes before a member of staff cleared them away.

  I cast a glance around and laughed. ‘Oh look, Holly, they’ve started without us.’

  ‘Wallahi. Is there any Paki they haven’t invited?’ said Bang-Bang, gazing over the massed tables. Fuzz and Sadie appeared to be doing the door. Fuzz was cracking her knuckles and glaring. ‘I have a list of people I’m gonna deck if I see them here. Hello Rizbhai, Holly ukhti!’ All of our gang were in their full traditional costume, a riot of silk, shawls, rings and hennaing.

  Sadie handed me baby Zidane. ‘He’s pooped. Say hello to your uncle Riz, Zidane.’

  Bang-Bang took him off me, cooing. ‘Who’s my little jihadi fisabillilah, yes you are!’ Zidane gulped on his dummy. And yes, his nappy was full. Cheers, I thought. We walked into the main hall. A guy I’d never met before was walking backwards before us, wielding a camcorder. ‘Smile for the official video, lovely couple!’

  Ah, Asian weddings. I had to admit, it looked impressive. Lilac lighting, white linen, myriad round tables heaving with guests, and at the rear on a dais lit in soft pink, two seats surrounded by stacked wrapped gifts, ready for the bride and groom as tradition required. All that was missing was Liberace tinkling the ivories.

  Speaking of Liberace… also on the dais were the nasheed act I’d booked, in a row w
ith the Qawaali band. To our left, the Colonel had been buttonholed by one of Mrs Kirpachi’s aunties. She was pressing plates of food on him. The venue was absolutely heaving. Too much mithai was going around for anyone’s good. Someone had placed a really obscure relative from Baluchistan as the guest of honour. Mrs Kirpachi’s mum had arrived from nowhere and was forcing food onto people on our table.

  ‘Damn’ I said under my breath.

  ‘That’s what I thought’ replied Bang-Bang.

  I took her arm. ‘Too late for regrets, Mrs Sabir. Shall we?’

  ‘And you can tell your lot to stop speaking Pothohari. Yes I know we're all Mirpuris, but it's freaking that lot out.’

  ‘Same thing anyway.’

  ‘No it's not.’

  ‘Is.’

  First I had the music to sort out. I made my way to the dais and jumped up onto it. ‘OK. Groom's rules – you guys open, and then you guys take over, and play alternately. Got that?’ I went back to my little gang of Blackeyes. ‘Sorted.’

  One thing both my mother and Bang-Bang’s mother had insisted on as we were growing up, was that we spoke Urdu and English, and not that funny dialect of Punjabi, Pothohari, and its variants. And now here we were, surrounded by relatives jabbering away in Pothohari, and Chapatti, and Allah alone knew what. And then I spotted them, ‘Babe, who are that Taliban lot over there?’

  She grinned. ‘Dad's Pashtun rellies.’

  ‘Oh no…’

  ‘Tell ‘em the story about when your mum and my mum came here for the first time, and saw their first ever escalator.’

  ‘No, tell you what – you tell them.’

  Bang-Bang laughed and handed the CCTV monitor and the remote control to some passing children. They squealed in delight and instantly smeared both in chocolate. ‘They’re just like Playstations!’ she called out. They ran off.

  ‘And that’s all the evidence. Our work for the day is done, I think.’

  As if on cue, the Colonel materialised before us. ‘Top effort you two. Makes this whole thing worthwhile.’

  Bang-Bang just looked at him and popped pink bubblegum. I spoke up. ‘And thanks for shelling out for this. It was giving our families heart attacks.’