THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author.

by David Videcette

  His cover was blown, he couldn’t communicate with anyone and he was all out of options. Except for one.

  He switched on his emergency vehicle equipment. The headlights of his car began to flash alternately, the two-tone siren wailed and the covert blue lights hidden behind his Audi’s front grille began to pulse onto the Micra in front of him.

  Focussing his eyes properly back on the road, he spotted two small objects hurtling at speed from the direction of the Micra. What were they? Bottles?

  Before he had time to wonder what was happening, there was a flash of white in front of him so dazzling that everything in his peripheral vision turned pitch black. The incandescent glare almost seared the back of his retinas, forcing him to close his eyes, before it faded with a yellow glow.

  He opened his eyes again for a split second.

  He could see hundreds of tiny flakes fluttering past and wondered if he were being shaken around inside a snow globe.

  As the flakes hit his face and body, he realised that they were actually miniscule fragments of glass flying through the air as his vehicle rolled over and his windows shattered.

  Jake’s ears were ringing. He’d stopped moving. He could smell battery acid and there was a funny taste in his mouth. Was it coolant from the engine? He touched his head – blood. He was upside down, or the car was upside down – or both. The seat belt had locked tightly across him, thankfully – absorbing his body’s independent inertia. His ribcage and pelvis were bruised where the webbing had spread its stopping force.

  Whatever they’d thrown from their car had exploded in front of him. He felt something sharp and spiky beneath him; metal pins digging into his flesh. He lifted his arm. Nail bombs? Jake knew that nail bombs didn’t kill through concussion; they killed by the blast effect of metal tearing tissue.

  He needed to stop them, needed to tell someone. The fire brigade, the paramedics, police – they would come for him now. Someone would find him.

  Wasim and his friends would be stopped.

  If only they’d listened to him sixteen months ago – even ten days ago.

  It would all be OK now though – when they arrived to help him.

  He lost consciousness.

  3

  16 MONTHS PREVIOUSLY

  Saturday

  28 February 2004

  1825 hours

  Crawley, West Sussex

  Sleet hammered down on the front door of the house they were watching, like an angry man with thousands of tiny fingers – the fingers exploding as they hit the panes of glass.

  It was bitter; Jake was glad to be inside.

  The flat in which Jake had set up camp belonged to an elderly lady who was not in great health. She’d been staying with her daughter for the past few months and the place had been sitting there empty. Jake had found it as he’d wandered through the estate a few weeks earlier. The sheer amount of post hanging from the letterbox and the stale milk outside gave away that the occupant was either dead or absent long term. A few phone calls to the local council quickly revealed that the old girl was unlikely to return for some months. That’s how observation points were found – basic common sense and asking questions of the right people. But you had to be sensible about whom you questioned and what you asked.

  After introducing himself on the phone, Jake had picked the keys up from the old woman’s daughter. He’d told her that he was a police officer, but not that he was a detective inspector with the Anti-Terrorist Branch. She’d asked what it was that he wanted the flat for and Jake had given her the usual cover story about targeting some local teenagers dealing cannabis to schoolchildren down the street. He ‘needed to borrow the place to catch them in the act’. She was very keen to help – as most socially responsible citizens were when they’d been spun the tale – and she’d handed over the keys easily. Jake would reward her with several bunches of flowers and pay the utility bills when they’d no more use for the place – but that could be anything up to a year in some cases.

  Jake often wondered why people never questioned his local-bobby-on-the-beat impersonation. He wasn’t in uniform and didn’t drive a Vauxhall Astra. The expensive suit and high-powered, top-of-the-range Audi were a bit of a giveaway.

  He was sat in the flat with Paul Deacon, a junior detective on his team. Paul was fairly new but Jake liked him already. He could see some of himself in Paul – a reminder of the Jake from nearly sixteen years ago, when he’d originally joined the force.

  Jake had been twenty when he’d joined the Met. He’d worked across various covert and specialist units during his career but it was only once he was selected for the Anti-Terrorist Branch – ‘the Branch’ as they called it – that he felt he’d found a true home for his skills and expertise.

  When he’d started, there had been just sixty detective constables on the Branch; a tiny team in comparison to other police units, but those selected were always the very best in their field. Jake had been immensely proud when he’d got the nod to apply.

  Funding to combat terrorism had all but dried up following the IRA ceasefire. Then 9/11 kick-started the machine again and the Branch began growing rapidly in size, with the threat, as if from nowhere, that Islamic fundamentalism was now said to pose.

  Jake had been asked to help out on Operation Crevice. The police had been briefed intensely by the Security Service about a group of al-Qaeda operatives in the south of England – the group that Jake and Paul, crouched in the old lady’s flat, were now watching.

  Things were hotting up and the Branch was running out of people. ‘Short on sleep and long on memory’ was the official motto on their coat of arms. With two kids and a failed marriage under his belt, Jake knew this only too well.

  Claire, Jake’s current girlfriend, worked at the Security Service. She had convinced Jake that the group they were tracking on Operation Crevice were serious and had a credible attack plan that was linked to dangerous factions back in Pakistan.

  The Security Service believed that these men were plotting to deploy explosives made from fertiliser at various locations across the country, including nightclubs and shopping centres – Bluewater being just one of them.

  So the Security Service would supply the intelligence about the attack plan and who was involved, while the police’s Anti-Terrorist Branch were there to collect anything that could be used as evidence in a traditional court of law.

  Jake had worked hard to get this observation point up and running – getting the right paperwork completed and signed up, getting his team fully briefed, fitting the cameras and listening devices. He couldn’t understand why many of the Security Service appeared not to have the slightest idea what the police did and how evidence was collected and presented in court.

  Fresh from fantastic universities, the Security Service’s graduates were trained to look at intelligence and produce reports, but Jake always thought that their lack of real-world investigative skills gave them a very one-dimensional view of what they were looking at. He resented the fact that they had primacy for all terrorism investigations whilst the police ate the crumbs from their hand.

  The house they were watching was several hundred yards up the street from the flat they now sat in. Jake had requested a clear view of the road and the front door of the property. The recently planted, covert cameras beamed back images onto a dish sat on their flat’s balcony, which meant that they could watch any comings or goings from relative safety, whilst warm and dry.

  Jake and Paul sat in the lounge; several small TV monitors were dotted across the elderly lady’s nest of tables. They sipped their tea out of what were probably her best cups; tiny little china vessels adorned with pink roses and dainty handles.

  The radio crackled into life. ‘Permission 6-1.’

  Jake picked up the black hand-held radio. ‘Go, go!’ he said, authorising 6-1 to speak.

  The reply came loud and c
lear. ‘Silver Honda Accord moving up the street toward the target address.’

  Jake gripped the radio and pressed the talk button in reply. ‘Contact OP,’ he said,

  ‘OP now has the eye.’

  The silver Honda stopped and parked directly outside the suburban house they were interested in. One of the monitors on the old woman’s nest of tables showed two Asian men climbing out of the vehicle and heading toward their target’s front door. They looked to be in their twenties and were both wearing tracksuits.

  ‘All units from OP. Silver car has parked outside the target address. Two Asian males, mid-twenties wearing tracksuits, are out of the car and into the target address,’ Jake said into the radio.

  ‘Did anyone get the index?’ Jake asked the rest of the surveillance team via the radio. He was wondering who the hell owned this car and what it was doing there.

  ‘Permission 4-2,’ the radio chimed again.

  ‘Go, go,’ replied Jake.

  ‘The Honda index comes back to an address in Leeds, I just ran it on the PNC and Intel via reserve. Don’t know anything about it. It’s new to us.’

  ‘Received,’ said Jake. This was odd. He had a bad feeling about finding new people this far into the investigation. He asked for the keeper’s address and scribbled it down.

  The two men were now inside the house; Jake could just about hear them on the listening devices that had been planted inside. These Asian guys sounded different – Yorkshire accents.

  Jake handed his headset to Paul. ‘Make sure you listen to exactly what they say. I want to know what the fuck they’re doing this far south.’

  Jake used his mobile to call Claire. No point in using the official Security Service channels at a moment like this. It would take hours and this could be important.

  ‘Claire? It’s Jake. Are you at work?’ he asked.

  ‘No – night off. What’s up?’ she asked blearily.

  Jake could tell from her voice that he had just woken her up. It was barely 2000 hours. Why was she asleep?

  ‘I need some checks on a car and an address. A new motor just turned up here in Crawley.’

  ‘OK – will call the office. Give me the intel.’

  Jake handed over the details then turned his attention back to Paul, who was still listening to the conversation inside the house on his headphones.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Not really sure. They seem to be talking about money. Don’t think it’s anything important.’

  Jake took the headphones and listened intently. He could hear one of the tracksuited visitors speaking in a broad West Yorkshire dialect interspersed with the occasional Pakistani inflection: ‘Well, I’m not looking to come back. The brothers can do what they want when I am gone. Use my name and get the money. You can use that how you fancy, doesn’t bother me. Can you get me there?’

  ‘Of course I can get you there. But it’s just a question of cost. It’s gonna be three thousand. That’s for my amir, not me.’

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Claire. He handed the headphones back to Paul.

  ‘I checked it out. They’re fresh. Nothing known about the car or the address,’ she said. ‘What are they doing there?’

  ‘No idea. Just had a listen myself and something’s not right,’ he replied.

  ‘They’re probably just nobodies. Put it through properly in the morning, Jake, and we’ll confirm things fully,’ said Claire, before ending the call abruptly.

  ‘I think they’re leaving, guv – the two Yorkshire lads,’ said Paul. ‘They’re saying their goodbyes.’

  ‘Shit!’ said Jake.

  4

  16 MONTHS PREVIOUSLY

  Saturday

  28 February 2004

  1955 hours

  Crawley, West Sussex

  ‘All units from OP. We’re going to go with the Honda and the two guys in it, I want to put these two blokes to bed tonight,’ called Jake into the radio. ‘Paul will stay at the OP. I’ll catch you up after you’re off the plot.’

  Jake thought of himself as a very good decision-maker, yet this part of the job often caused him problems. The brass would want to run everything past the Security Service to make sure they weren’t stepping on any toes. But that took time, time that was not on the side of someone who had to make a swift call on the ground on a dark and windswept night.

  Jake cared little for office politics. Criticism was a constant in the job – although it mainly fell on those who had nothing to show for a bad decision. Jake went by the rule ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained’ – or at least he prayed that would be the case tonight.

  He had decided to follow the Honda, wherever it might go – even if it went to Yorkshire. In an ideal world you actually needed authority for that, but he decided he would worry about it in the morning.

  ‘Received 4-2.’

  ‘6-1.’

  ‘7-6.’

  ‘8-4.’

  ‘2-3.’

  ‘3-5.’

  Each member of the surveillance team called out their numbers to acknowledge the command and that they were aware what they were to do next – follow the Honda and see where it went.

  Most of the surveillance team were in cars. Except that was for 4-2. He was the poor guy on a motorbike in the rain. It was a role Jake had done many times and loved. Being of average height and weight, with blue eyes that missed nothing, he was a natural at surveillance and blended easily into a crowd. Then there was the added buzz of being allowed to do 190 mph legally. Yet it could also be a bloody killer, being stuck outside on a bike in all weathers – especially on a night like tonight.

  Jake watched on the monitor as the two Asian men with Yorkshire accents hugged the head of the group at the door and walked toward their car.

  ‘All units wait… Two males into the car from target address…’

  ‘Honda is off, off, off, toward the station!’

  ‘Contact contact 7-6. Vehicle is 40 mph toward Crawley on A23.’ The surveillance team had picked up the Honda and were now following it.

  Automatic Number Plate Recognition cameras dotted around some suburban areas could give you a rough route, after the fact – but you could never tell where a vehicle had stopped, for how long or the actual address that it had been visiting.

  Just knowing who the car was registered to didn’t actually identify who these two men were either. You needed full-blown, full-on surveillance for that. You needed photos, addresses they visited, the credit-card number they used when they paid for petrol – but most of all you needed to know where they slept at night. That’s how you identified people. You ‘put them to bed’.

  Jake had made a judgement call on the Honda. He would call it in to the Yard after they had garnered more information about these guys and what was going on. It was no good trying to explain a hunch to a senior manager – not unless they trusted your judgement implicitly. Jake knew which senior officer was on call tonight. He knew they would be one of the tougher ones to convince. Better to get forgiveness than permission in these circumstances.

  If he gained nothing, nothing was lost in getting a bollocking. If he turned up something worthy, something of note – then hopefully permission would be given retrospectively, so that what he’d found was ‘evidential’.

  Jake told Paul to keep an eye on the address and to let him know by phone if there were any developments.

  ‘When will you pick me up?’ asked Paul.

  ‘I don’t fucking know, do I? You’ll be all right. Don’t open the door to anyone and if anyone asks for me, I’m down at McDonalds. Speak later.’

  Jake knew Paul would be OK. He was learning the ropes; this was how it worked.

  Jake ran down the stairs to the blue Audi A4 tucked into the garages at the bottom. The team were now out of range of his police radio but he man
aged to get through on his mobile to one of the guys tailing the Honda.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re clockwise on the M25,’ was the response. ‘They’re doing eighty-five, not hanging about.’

  Jake put the Audi into gear and pulled off slowly and silently. Half a mile down the road he hit the accelerator hard. Even after all these years he still relished this part of the job. Red light after red light was despatched with ease, despite it being a busy Saturday night traffic-wise. Driving fast outside London was a breeze – wide roads, dual carriageways and few pedestrians. When he reached the M23 he floored the Audi’s accelerator. It always took longer than you expected to catch the rest of the team from behind – even at top speed. Sometimes you never would.

  5

  TEN DAYS BEFORE 7/7

  Monday

  27 June 2005

  1130 hours

  New Scotland Yard, Westminster, London

  The meeting room on the fifteenth floor could seat forty people, yet today it held just four. They were sat on opposite sides of the large, rectangular pine table, like two opposing teams going head to head.

  The Anti-Terrorist Branch was unlike most police command units – there was no autonomy for the officer; everything had to be actioned and signed off by some bigwig up the food chain who was at least two ranks above you. For Jake, that meant at least superintendent level and discussion after discussion in meeting after meeting. Jake hated that side of his job. If something needed doing he was used to getting on and doing it.

  But not at the Branch.

  Sat opposite Jake in the Battle of the Meeting Room were his big boss, Chief Superintendent Malcolm Denswood, and a minute taker. Sat on Jake’s left was his immediate boss, Detective Chief Inspector Helen Brookes.

  ‘OK, Jake – what’s this about?’ Malcolm Denswood began the meeting.

  Denswood was six feet tall and slim, with dark receding hair and edging slowly toward his middle fifties. He was an intelligent guy who knew his strengths and weaknesses and was often good-humoured – but if you got on the wrong side of him, you were finished at the Branch. He was a very private character; work and home didn’t mix. A product of the Police Staff College at Bramshill, Jake thought he fitted the pattern of their typical output like a clone – he never swore, never raised his voice and was very careful with the words he used. It was rare for Denswood to look outside the box or do things differently. Jake knew this wasn’t going to be easy.