Locked and Loaded: A Riz Sabir Thriller Omnibus

by Charlie Flowers

  He said it with a twinkle and I got where he was coming from.

  ‘OK, Ajit. Mr Mayor.’

  ‘Stick around after the meeting. I need to talk to you about something.’

  Now what? Bang-Bang gave me a glance and I looked back, nonplussed. She went back to arranging a large tropical flower in her hair. Everyone in the Blackeyes had this flower thing going on at the moment, and I had no idea why.

  Lennie stood next to me and nodded at the panel. ‘We should count our blessings. The Met have practically given up doing press briefings post-Leveson. It takes a serial killer to get them out and blinking into the daylight.’

  The meeting wrapped up with relatively little acrimony. Well, relatively little for an Asian meeting, that was. There had been ill-tempered shouting between two pressure groups. Some scuffles. The mayor came back to stand with us. He leant his thin, Anglepoise-lamp frame down to speak to us. ‘Riz; Holly; DCI George. This is what I wanted to show you.’

  He produced a folder with a sheaf of email printouts. We crowded in to look at them.

  ‘The bastard’s been emailing me. “banglaripper@gmail.com”. Cheeky twat.’

  We read the top email.

  Subject: MORE BLOOD

  THREE’Z DOWN, MORE 2 COME LOL. LMAO @ THE FEDS SAYING THEY’LL CATCH ME. NO CHANCE. I’MA KEEP RIPPIN. IMPLEMENTIN AL-ISLAAM UPON THEIR NECKS.

  “And when the sacred months have passed, then kill the mushrikeen wherever you find them and capture them and besiege them and sit in wait for them at every place of ambush. But if they should repent, establish prayer, and give zakah, let them go on their way. Indeed, Allaah is Forgiving and Merciful.”

  Surat at-Tawbah 9:5

  ZHC TEAM POISON BANGLARIPPER 4 LIFE

  We looked up from reading it. The mayor spoke. ‘I hear you two are good at tracing this kind of thing.’

  Bang-Bang nodded slowly. ‘Yeah. If you can forward all the emails to me at hollykirpachi@gmail.com, I’ll get working on it. Riz is good at the lingo, too. I’m sorry you’ve had to put up with this Mr Mayor.’

  I traced my finger along the capitalised words. ‘Holly’s got a point. This language here – “implementing al-Islaam upon their necks” – that is standard Arabist stuff. As spouted by al-Muj people.’ I then flicked the last line. ‘ZHC Team Poison. Known, nasty Asian kid hackers. They’ve got form.’

  The mayor twitched his shoulders. ‘Well. Better that we get this sorted now before the killer starts emailing the Bangla Times.’

  I looked at the email heading again. ‘I can ring Emlyn at SO15, they can tap up the FBI. And the FBI can lean on Google.’

  ‘They can do that? I thought people used Gmail because it was anonymous?’

  ‘If it’s a heavy enough case, you bet they can do that. A Google email address resolves to Google HQ in Palo Alto, but if it’s a big crime and they get the right warrant from a judge, they will get the IP address of wherever that Gmail account was set up from, damn straight.’

  Bang-Bang tapped her Android smartphone. ‘While you were having the briefing, I did a little OSINT search on the web. I ran Boolean searches for Whitechapel, stickers, and al-Muhajiroun, and look what I found–’

  She swiped the screen and a YouTube channel called “Muslim Patrol” popped up. ‘Some Islam4UK-looking lads, bouncing round Whitechapel putting up stickers. Recognise any of them?’

  It was the Mayor and my turn to lean in and peruse. ‘Yeah. Freeze that shit Holly. Go back a few seconds.’

  She tapped pause and rewound. The mayor pointed at a man onscreen. ‘Even I know that one. Salahuddin, he calls himself. Real name Trevor. Right pain in the arse.’

  I knew of him. Black fella. Convert. I peered at the sticker Salahuddin was paused in slapping on a Christian Dior poster. Not the same sticker, but the typeface was identical. And it was black and yellow. It was too close. ‘Yeah. Salahuddin and his mates.’

  ‘Al-Muhajiroun? Choudary’s mob?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Mayor. Although I’m told that Anjem Choudary has taken a step back recently, and that people like Trevor are now in charge.’

  Lennie came over to us and coughed discreetly. ‘Holly. You’ve got something to show me? A map?’

  She got the printout from Northrop Grumman out of her bag. She unfurled it and pointed at the three red circled areas. ‘Ambush One, Two, and Three.’

  Lennie looked at the circles dubiously. ‘OK… where, but not when?’

  ‘At night, that’s all we can narrow it down to.’

  ‘Alright. We can get Tower Hamlets CCTV to focus on the cameras round those locations. But, Holly, you saw the mood in that meeting just now. There’s no way I can spare or divert any manpower or patrols. The committee will have a fit.’

  Bang-Bang beamed up at him. ‘That’s OK. Just wire me up and I’ll cover them myself.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure. I know what to look for, I wrote the code, and I’ve got a Taser. And a pistol.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’

  We had a result via the FBI within an hour. Emlyn had called in a few favours across the Atlantic, and Google had coughed up an IP address for where the Gmail account had been set up. It resolved to an internet café on Mile End Road. Lynne Cammack took five guys and they hit it from every angle. We waited as the calls came in, and Lennie put it on the speakerphone in the middle of the office.

  ‘Lennie. Lynne here. There’s a USB stick in the back of one of the computers in this café. My tech guy here says it looks like it’s been sending timed emails from that Banglaripper account. No dice. Sorry.’

  I looked at Bang-Bang and mouthed ‘ZHC?’

  She nodded gravely. She thought so, at least.

  Lennie had bowed his head and was running his hands through his black crewcut. Finally he looked up. ‘OK Lynne. No- one’s fault. Get everything bagged up and secure their CCTV if they have any.’

  She rang off. Lennie turned away and then kicked a folding chair across the room. ‘Shit!’

  34.

  Our phones were now constantly ringing during the day and evening. It was a wonder we could keep them charged. All the strands of the enquiry were coming together and tightening, and our every moment was spent in a small area boundaried by Royal London Hospital, the mosque, and Brick Lane… and the famous Blind Beggar pub. We looked at our folded maps, marked those waypoints, and headed out for the second round of house-to-house enquiries. Slooky and Sunara went with us, each one flat ahead, talking in Bengali and soothing frayed nerves. They’d also been told to keep an eye out for Trevor.

  Lennie had more bad news. ‘One thing coming from this morning’s community meeting is that my superiors have overruled me. They now think, going from advice from those “community leaders” that the killer is going to attack in the same locations he’s attacked in before. And we’ve been told to focus all our resources there.’

  He stopped. ‘My bosses have been listening to the Muslim Communities Forum. My bosses,’ he continued, ‘are fucking idiots.’

  Bang-Bang blew a small balloon of gum. I knew what she was thinking. Lennie spoke as we walked up Commercial Road. ‘I just thank whoever got rid of them that there’s no Muslim Police Association any more. They’d be all over the place trying to run their own investigation.’

  I cleared my throat and looked away. Lennie got the hint and changed the subject. ‘You’ve obviously noticed it’s one great building site from here to Aldgate now?’

  We had. ‘Yes. It’s what we talked about at the curry house.’

  ‘Not just that, but it’s all studentified round here now. You know the Blind Beggar?’ I nodded. Course I did.

  ‘Changed out of all recognition. Full of graphic designers with iPads. Ronnie and Reggie would shit a brick.’

  I laughed.

  He gave me a sharp look. ‘It's also where the London EDL and the Casuals meet every other week. Can I please, please ask you and your girl gang not to go in there? For th
e duration of this enquiry?’

  I held my hands up. ‘OK, you can ask. I doubt the Blackeyes would listen. I'll try and steer ‘em.’

  ‘Thanks. When you hold the office of Constable, there are some things you are beholden to do.’

  Bang-Bang started giggling at “Constable”. The giggle turned into the full Sid James dirty laugh. I glared at her.

  Then I looked across the way. Well, what do you know, I said to myself. A red-and-gold shopfront that read “Najah Internet”. I was looking at the very same internet café where we’d found the USB stick. The internet café where the Banglaripper email account had been set up.

  I sprinted across four lanes of traffic, bounced between some parked cars, and marched in. The offending computer was easy to spot, as it wasn’t there anymore. The MIT team had seized it. Silence. Moon-faces stared at me from every corner.

  I looked at the man behind the counter and pointed at the gap where the computer had been. ‘Salaams, Uncle. Who normally uses this PC?’

  He looked reluctant. I turned. A couple of brothers in Saudi gear were staring at him. I stared back at them. They suddenly found their headphones and screens interesting.

  ‘Uncle. I’m not being funny but girls are being killed round here. Who uses this PC?’

  His adam’s apple bounced up and down for a bit. He spoke. ‘The al-Muj lads. Some of the al-Muj lads, you know?’

  ‘Thank you. Would you recognise them again? Would you recognise Salahuddin? Trevor?’ He shook his head. I’d pushed far enough. It would do for now. Al-Muj lads. Trevor.

  We kept walking. Lennie had gone back to the nick for the scheduled meeting with his superiors. But we kept walking, and around us, I could sense Bang-Bang’s little outfit moving through the estates, bending ears and taking names. This was good.

  I’d picked up the latest copy of Wired from a Costcutter as we scoured the neighbourhood and went from door to door. Slooky tagged along silently beside us. She seemed to be shadowing Bang-Bang, learning from her perambles.

  We walked slowly to the next estate and I leafed through the mag. I’d been meaning to ask her something. ‘So lemme get this straight, chica mia. FlameLite is the deadliest, most advanced cyberweapon in the world, capable of unpacking from a smartphone, jumping a bluetooth connection, punching a smoking hole in any air defence net and blowing any electrical grid in the western world back to the Steam Age?’

  Bang-Bang puffed on a cigarette. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Right. And you can summon it up at any time, like some wicked witch.’

  She exhaled smoke. ‘Yep. Even better, via these I can command it to run a closed loop. Shutttt downnn. Bam.’

  She waved her internet glasses and then put them on wonkily.

  ‘OK. And these raccoon infomorph things, they're like the acolytes of doom, manifesting themselves in social media. Like harbingers.’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘Right.’ I waved my copy of Wired. ‘This says a bunch of virtual raccoons robbed a Brazilian gang site in Second Life last week, and stole $110 million worth of Linden Dollars.’

  She giggled nervously. ‘Go on the lads. Erm, how disconcerting.’

  ‘But you’re in charge.’

  ‘Totally. All the time’, she said, distracted by something in those glasses.

  ‘Totally. So what makes this FlameLite and these infomorphs better than Duqu and Stuxnet and all the others?’

  ‘Easy. FlameLite is driven by the infomorphs. It’s self-aware. It can never be beaten because it's always ahead, always seeking, always curious, always changing the code.’

  ‘Christ. I hope you know what you're doing.’

  She laughed. ‘Nah. Not really. But hey. It works. And it’s working with this enquiry.’

  ‘The bees. That aren’t bees. The serial killer hive-things.’

  ‘That’s right. The hive-things. They pollinate and we follow, babe.’

  Bloody hell, I thought to myself. ‘OK. But Holly – please tell me that it’s not actually sitting in Bethnal Green nick's office network. Tell me it’s remote.’

  She nodded. ‘Course. I’m keeping it well away from anything; it’s the deal I made with the Colonel.’

  I nodded, relieved. ‘For better or worse, you should. Gives me the creeps, that thing. It’s unpredictable.’

  Bang-Bang laughed. ‘The future is unpredictable, hun.’ And with that, she plugged the eyeglasses into yet another of her customised handheld Playstation consoles. She giggled as it made some bleeping noises and strange graphic-equaliser bars flowed across the screen. ‘Just trialling something, a mobile phone tracker, might come in handy one day.’ It started making strangled eight-bit noises and she hit it a few times, then gave up and turned it off.

  ‘Y’know Holly, Lockheed Martin and DARPA spent millions trying to build a similar thing to predict human behaviour. It’s called ICEWS, Integrated Crisis Early Warning System. It’s got everything, cultural models, news inputs, virtual agents. And it doesn’t work.’

  She looked at me over those glasses. ‘Yes luv. But I’m not DARPA.’

  And then she twirled. ‘And I can now see them swarms through these glasses, I’ve loaded them into Streetview as an app!’ She took the glasses off and beamed at Slooky and me.

  ‘You OK Slooky?’ I asked. She nodded and her dark china-doll eyes wobbled. She looked happy enough. Bang-Bang patted Slooky’s shoulder and then delved in her denim jacket pocket, and produced a tiny Beretta pistol. She showed it to Slooky. ‘Ukhti – welcome to the Blackeyes. Here is your first pistol. Be careful with it. Watch.’

  She talked her through the slide and the safety and the magazine. Then loading and unloading. That was pretty much it. Slooky had a go. She loaded the magazine into the grip and racked the slide. Pointed it and squinted down the sights with her one good eye. Bang-Bang grinned at me. ‘She’s a natural, babe.’

  I nodded. ‘I think you’ve made her day.’

  35.

  That night, Fuzz, Mishy and just about everyone came over, and we cooked and batted ideas back and forth. They were also handing out white flowers again and placing them in their hair, and cooing over the arrangements.

  We got the well-used map of the area out, Bang-Bang showed them Ambush One, Two, and Three and all the checkpoints and stuff. No-one was any the wiser.

  The gang went their separate ways at midnight and left me and Bang-Bang switching between old Bollywood films. We’d given up and found the Battle of Britain on some cable channel. The soundtrack followed me and haunted me around the flat. It seemed to be saying a reckoning was due. Bang-Bang was sketching on a map, surrounded by manuals, and seemed to be in a world of her own.

  Maryam was sound asleep on the sofa. I went and got a duvet from the hall cupboard and placed it over her. Her science homework was all over the lounge table, and it looked like Bang-Bang had been helping her with it, judging by the notes in the margins. I suddenly got the feeling that we’d be paying for Maryam to go to college at some point.

  I looked around at the mess. Homework. Pens. Ashtrays. That mosque alarm clock was sitting there. I reached down and set it for 7.30am, which I hoped would motivate Maryam to actually go to school. I then thought about making an attempt at clearing up, and left that idea.

  I went downstairs to the street to check on the cars, sitting in the residents’ permits bays with their police permits visible on their dashes. Good enough.

  All was quiet in East London. I looked up. A late plane was whining over, headed for Heathrow under the neon sky. And that was it. There was a chill on the air. I shivered and went back inside.

  36.

  DAY EIGHT

  My phone buzzed at 7am. Lennie. ‘You’d all better get in here. We’ve been hacked.’

  I sat bolt upright in my bed. ‘What???’

  ‘Hacked. It’s all gone. All of it. All our files, all the I2, everything on HOLMES.’

  I tapped Bang-Bang and she rolled over and looked with one eye at me and the pho
ne. I mouthed “hacked” at her and she instantly came awake and started scrubbing at her face. Lennie was still speaking. ‘It gets worse. Tower Hamlets control rang just now. All their CCTV is gone too.’

  7.38am. We all sat in the desolate briefing room. The screens were blank. Hacked, as the man had said. The whole office network and all its files, HOLMES 2, everything on the Oracle databases – gone. Tower Hamlets CCTV centre had just called to confirm that their entire server backup had also gone away in the night. They also seemed to have some strange glitch affecting the cameras at the moment. Traffic was screwed. But that was the least of our problems.

  Bang-Bang murmured ‘I don’t wanna say I told you so, but if they’d have let me put FlameLite in here…’ I just looked at her. She went back to playing with that customised PSP handset. On the desk next to us, Calamity and some Blackeyes were leafing through some files uncomprehendingly.

  A TSG sergeant was speaking. ‘Before Lennie gets back, I may as well tell you that our killer’s been taking trophies. That hasn’t been made public.’

  Obviously Bang-Bang and I knew this. Calamity suddenly sat up and looked interested. ‘Trophies? What sort?’

  I rolled my eyes. Bang-Bang kicked Calamity’s leg. ‘Ow.’

  The TSG sergeant continued. ‘Earlobes. He clipped them off.’

  The doors slammed open and Lennie marched in carrying a bunch of office supplies under his arms. He neither looked left or right nor spoke to any of us. His face was set and grim. He started setting up a whiteboard and placing marker pens and Post-it notes on the desks. Finally he spoke. ‘Right. We’ll do this the old way. Never got the hang of computers in the first place.’

  Behind me, Bang-Bang sloped away to the nearest terminal and started tapping at the keyboard. Nothing happened. She spat a curse and started messing about behind the PC tower and swapping leads, maybe plugging things in.