The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 4 - 6: Murder (The DCI Isaac Cook Thrillers Series Boxset)

by Phillip Strang

  ‘I can see your point of view, but we have to deal with the current situation,’ Andrew said.

  ‘You’re right. It’s past history,’ Shafi agreed.

  ‘Why would someone such as the Prof become involved?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘The Prof and others like him, they read the holy book, study the philosophers. ‘They see a decadent country, their daughters openly promiscuous, and their sons drinking alcohol and answering back to their parents. They see that the old ways were better.’

  ‘They want us all to become Muslim?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Yes, in time,’ Shafi said.

  ‘You’re right, but this is England, and we decide what we are to become. It’s our decision, and both Frederick and I are quite content with our decadent ways,’ Andrew said.

  ‘I’m English, too, and I don’t want this country to change. Just get me a couple of women, a car yard in a few years and I ask for no more.’ Mohammad Sohail Shafi agreed with Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin.

  ***

  ‘You’re my senior adviser, and you let me get ridiculed in Parliament. I rely on you for assistance, and so far, you’ve given me nothing.’ Clifford Bell, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, was an angry man, and it was his Chief of Staff, Rohan Jones, who was at the end of a particularly severe dressing down.

  ‘I understand your anger, but I advised you to keep out of that bear pit at question time,’ Rohan Jones retorted.

  ‘Give it to me straight. Is someone out to get me?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘The party is behind you. Your inner cabinet is expressing support, both in the cabinet room and in the media.’

  ‘Don’t give me a politician’s answer. Are you saying they’re after me? Rohan, we’ve been friends for years. Give it to me straight.’

  ‘Prime Minister, Clifford, there has to be something going on.’

  ‘What can I do about it?’

  ‘Rally support, throw your position open.’

  ‘Would I win?’ The Prime Minister knew the answer.

  ‘It’s possible, but it would be tight.’

  ‘Then I’m not going to do anything until I’m sure. What would give me the numbers? What’s your advice?’

  ‘Stop the bombings.’

  ‘And how am I meant to do that?’

  ‘The meetings with the leaders of the various communities, how are they progressing?’ Rohan Jones knew the answer as well as his Prime Minister.

  ‘They’re progressing well. There’s a definite calming of tension,’ the Prime Minister replied.

  ‘That’s another political answer. What’s the truth?’ Rohan Jones persisted.

  Clifford Bell and Rohan Jones had been friends since their days at Cambridge University. The Prime Minister could have drunk his senior adviser under the table then, but both were now teetotal. It was a pact they had made when they were elected to the British Parliament.

  Clifford Bell had picked up a safe seat, Rohan Jones, marginal. The Prime Minister had survived three elections in his parliamentary seat, even increased his majority the last time. Rohan Jones had suffered the ignominy of one term before being dumped by his constituents after a foolish and inappropriate comment about the royal family when the BBC’s camera and microphone he thought were off, were not. A brave face, a severe apology; he even said he was the worse for a few drinks, which wasn’t true.

  The local branch stayed firmly behind him until the highly popular star of a soap opera and a resident of the constituency he represented announced that she would be the Opposition candidate. Rohan Jones lost twenty percent of the vote, the worst result possible and the attractive, vain and not overly bright Helen Glass found herself sitting in Parliament.

  After just one term she was out. Rohan Jones’ party put forward an alternative candidate, who regained the lost twenty per cent plus a few more to rub salt into the wound that he felt after his previous electoral fleecing. Clifford Bell had taken Rohan Jones as his Chief of Staff after his ignominious defeat at the ballot box. A position where he had succeeded admirably, but privately had to admit was not likely to last for much longer.

  Rohan Jones needed to tell his friend the truth. ‘Prime Minister, they’ve got the daggers out. They’re sharpening them at this present moment.’

  ‘I need names. We need to marginalise them, give them a portfolio where they’re bound to fail. Bring on board any we think are dependable, will continue to vote for me.’ Clifford Bell, the consummate politician, realised the need to act.

  ‘That means some deadwood,’ Rohan Jones replied.

  ‘Dead or alive, secure my position,’ the PM insisted.

  ‘What about the bombings? You never answered my question about the meetings.’ Rohan Jones reverted back to his original question.

  ‘You’ve been there,’ said the PM. ‘You know they’re a total waste of time. They make the right sounds, but they’re only there for what they can get for themselves and their vested interests.’

  ‘Should we disband them if they’re ineffective?’ Rohan Jones asked.

  ‘Hell, no. It’s the only positive action we’re showing in dealing with the crisis.’

  ‘So, is anybody out there doing anything to deal with the situation?’ Rohan Jones asked.

  ‘Counter Terrorism Command, they’re involved, but where they’re at is unclear,’ the Prime Minister said on advice from the Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police.

  ‘Maybe we should get their director in. Schedule a meeting of the National Security Council,’ Rohan Jones advised.

  ‘Set up a confidential meeting with their director, or whoever is in charge of the Counter Terrorism Command,’ said the PM. ‘Forget the National Security Council; half of them are after my job. Why they want to remove me when the country’s going to hell is beyond me.’

  ‘Maybe they think they can do it better?’

  ‘Rohan, if you weren’t a friend, I’d take that as impertinence.’

  ‘It’s not impertinence, but this is politics. There are those who would regard having you out and them in as more important than halting the decline of this country.’

  Chapter 9

  Yasser Lahham had been an educated man, making a good living with a girlfriend he loved and a lifestyle that others envied. It all changed when the girlfriend, Diana, left him and went off with a long-haired individual driving an old van. Embittered and heartbroken, Lahham re-engaged with his religion at a Mosque not far from the two-bedroom apartment he had paid cash for as a result of a successful business designing websites.

  An overly sensitive individual, he saw love as eternal. The day she had told him that he was a boring man, only interested in work and money and his BMW, was the day his life changed. The Mullah had been sympathetic.

  ‘You cavort with a Western woman. They are all whores. What do you expect? Marry a good Muslim woman. She will never treat you in such a manner.’

  He came to believe the Mullah. Within three months, his parents had secured a good match with a cousin back in Syria, who he met the day before the marriage in Damascus. She was pleasant, attractive and her name was Lilia. It was another month before he came to the conclusion that she was frigid and lifeless in bed, whereas Diana had been wild. With a child on the way and not even a frigid encounter, his visits to the Mosque intensified.

  ‘Does she not satisfy you?’ Mullah Kosai asked.

  ‘Not in the way that the English girl did.’

  ‘Give her time, be patient. The English women get plenty of practice, they have many men. Your wife has only you. It is for you to teach her.’

  ‘You are right. It would be a better world if all women were as my wife,’ Yasser Lahham agreed.

  ‘Are you ready to embrace the holy cause?’

  ‘The holy cause? Which cause do you refer to?’ Yasser Lahham asked.

  ‘The Islamic State,’ the Mullah said. ‘We intend to bring it to this country.’

  ‘England? Surely that is not
possible?’

  ‘It is possible, but it needs the help of intelligent people such as you.’

  ‘I am interested,’ said Lahham, reborn as a believer in a stricter style of Islam. ‘Let me know what you require of me.’

  ‘We need to put out the message. Bring the converts to the cause.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘We know. We need you to build a website, a jihadi website.’ Computer illiterate, the Mullah had forwarded the request from Faisal Aslam.

  ‘It is not difficult,’ said Yasser Lahham.

  ‘Your identity must be concealed. Can you do that?’ the Mullah asked.

  ‘False IPs, server offshore, it’s possible.’

  ‘You speak words I do not understand.’

  ‘I do. That is all we require.’

  ‘We need you to meet the Master.’

  ‘The Master, who is he?’

  ‘He is a person that few have met. If you reveal his identity, you will be dead. Is that understood?’

  ‘That is clear,’ Yasser Lahham said.

  ***

  An Indian curry house on a wet, windy night out in Croydon was not the most inspiring of locations, but the food was good, the company affable and social. The two heavies sitting to the back of the Master never spoke or moved other than to down double helpings of all the curries on offer.

  ‘We need a website,’ the Master explained.

  ‘What is the focus?’ Yasser Lahham asked.

  ‘What do you mean by focus?’

  ‘What message do you want it to put forward?’

  ‘We need recruits; we need supporters for the cause.’

  ‘You mean people willing to commit acts of violence, to kill and be killed?’

  ‘Yes, that is who we want.’

  ‘Do you want me to set up a blog as well?’

  ‘Will it help?’ the Master asked.

  ‘It will ensure email correspondence. It will be possible to message them back.’

  ‘Then a blog is what we need.’

  ‘I can have a rough website set up by the end of the week. Is that okay?’

  ‘That is fine,’ the Master said.

  There were to be several more meetings before Faisal Aslam was satisfied. Within days of going live through a server in a remote part of the former Soviet Union, the responses from the dissolute, the curious, the educated and the desperate started to rise. Within a month, the Master had a potential two hundred plus for the cause. A further two months, the number had swelled to nearly three thousand.

  The Master was pleased, and Yasser Lahham was content in the knowledge that he was bringing forward the Islamic State’s day of conquest. His wife, now with a child in her arms, was proving more compliant and responding to his gentle teachings in the art of lovemaking. He had been well taught by Diana and he, in turn, was transferring that knowledge to his wife. He knew that she would never have the wild abandonment, the screaming that he had been so fond of, but she would be satisfactory, and he had his love eternal, even though it was not with the original person intended. He was determined to bring the wayward English woman to heel at a later date.

  ***

  The results hoped for after the meetings with Mohammad Shafi had been few and inconsequential. It concerned Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin.

  ‘How do we quantify this? How do we come to a conclusion?’ Frederick asked.

  The new office now had a personal assistant, a formidable woman of forty-five, who bossed both Frederick and Andrew around. Cheryl Gorman was a straight-talking Irish woman who had grown up in Belfast in a family of eight children: seven were male and the one female, the youngest, was Cheryl. It was either push her way in or be pushed to one side. It was a trait that had carried over into womanhood. Two husbands, a couple of daughters, supposedly as tough as she was, and she was not afraid to speak her mind if she felt something was out of order. Andrew thought she was great; Frederick was not so sure.

  ‘What have we gained from Shafi?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘He’s a piece of work,’ Frederick said.

  ‘A dangerous individual, surprisingly charismatic,’ Andrew said.

  ‘It’s a strange world. I found his company to be more agreeable than that of our director,’ Frederick said.

  ‘It begs the question,’ Andrew said. ‘If their upbringings had been reversed, would it be Shafi we’d be reporting to and the director locked up in Belmarsh?’

  ‘It’s an interesting theory,’ Frederick acknowledged. ‘Does conditioning from childhood decide whether a person is to be a saint or a villain, a pacifist or a jihadist?’

  ‘It may well be, but we’re here to stop the Islamic State, not debate a course of resolution. We’re not social workers.’ Andrew saw another area of research for a later date.

  ‘True, so how do we progress?’

  ‘We need facts. What numbers of individuals are there involved?’

  ‘Jihadists or sympathisers?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘Let’s deal with the jihadists. They’re our immediate problem. We need the sympathisers, but first, we need to stop the bombings.’

  ‘That implies we need to think where they will strike next,’ Frederick said.

  ‘We discussed this before. That’s why we met up with Shafi. What did we learn from him?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘The jihadists are invariably poorly educated and easily manipulated, although that wasn’t the case down in Salisbury. The bomber there was well-educated, came from an affluent home.’

  ‘That’s an aberration. Let’s focus on the stupid ones, as Shafi referred to them. How many do we reckon?’

  ‘According to their website, there were about three thousand on the blog that looked possible and, judging by the conversations, at least half are in the north of the country.’

  ‘Do we have a name for the Prof?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Yasser Lahham,’ Frederick answered.

  ‘Any details?’

  ‘Syrian parents, well-educated, born in this country, a smart guy with website design and blogging. He had it made, good car, decent accommodation, but something happened. He changed lanes, became an ardent fundamentalist.’

  ‘What happened doesn’t concern us. What his website achieved is our interest,’ Andrew commented.

  ***

  Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook had bought a new suit for the occasion ‒ dark blue, with a new white shirt and an aqua blue tie. He was Jamaican by heritage, and aqua blue showed the flamboyance of his people. In contrast, Commander Richard Goddard, the current head of the Counter Terrorism Command, wore a dark suit, pale blue shirt, and a navy blue tie.

  ‘Welcome, gentlemen. The name’s Clifford Bell.’

  ‘We realised that, Sir,’ Commander Goddard said. It should have been Isaac Cook who was nervous on meeting the Prime Minister. It turned out to be his boss.’

  ‘Right, my name’s outside on the door,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea, and then get down to business.’

  Small talk ensued for the next couple of minutes as tea was brought in.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector, where do we stand?’ the Prime Minister asked. He had been forewarned that Isaac Cook was the man with the answers, not his boss. ‘What can we do to stop the bombings?’

  ‘Prime Minister, the problem is you can’t if you don’t know in advance where they plan to hit next,’ Isaac Cook replied.

  ‘We’re trying to solve that problem,’ Commander Richard Goddard said, ‘but it’s not so easy.’

  ‘Don’t you have people deep undercover?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘That would be the normal procedure, but we’re not dealing with criminals here,’ Isaac Cook replied.

  ‘Explain that statement,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘Surely they’re criminals?’

  ‘With all due respect, Prime Minister. They’re not criminals.’

  ‘They kill, they steal, they lie. What are they then?’ Clifford Bell had failed to grasp the
complexity of the current situation.

  ‘They’re religious zealots.’.

  ‘Is there a difference?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  Isaac Cook attempted an explanation. ‘Yes, a clear difference. A criminal is motivated by money, a zealot is by their belief and, in this case, it’s Islam. If that means that they indulge in criminal activities to achieve their aims, then so be it. They would not see it as criminal.’

  ‘How does this impact on getting people undercover?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘Normally we’d use money.’ Commander Richard Goddard felt the need to rejoin the conversation between his DCI and the Prime Minister.

  ‘Can’t we do this here?’ To Isaac Cook, the Prime Minister seemed remarkably ill-informed in his understanding of the Islamic State.

  ‘Not so easy,’ DCI Cook said. ‘The moment there’s a whiff of money, an action out of the ordinary, they grab the people and subject them to whatever persuasive tactics necessary to get the truth.’

  ‘Have you tried putting people undercover?’

  ‘We have,’ Commander Richard Goddard said.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It didn’t turn out well.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘They’re either all dead or have simply disappeared,’ Commander Goddard said.

  ‘We have someone in contact with them,’ Isaac Cook said.

  ‘Is he reliable? Likely to achieve results?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘We’ve got a hold on him. He doesn’t like them any more than we do.’

  ‘Any advantage if I met him?’

  ‘Mr Prime Minister, you do not want to meet him,’ Isaac Cook answered.

  ‘And why not? Is he someone special?’

  ‘He’s a murderer and a drug dealer. He’s not the kind of person you would want your photo taken with,’ Isaac Cook stated, not sure of the Prime Minister’s reaction.

  ‘And he’s reliable?’

  ‘We believe he is,’ Commander Goddard said.

  The Prime Minister did not care who they dealt with as long as they got a result or at least something to silence the leader of the opposition. ‘Do what you need to, just get a result.’