‘I am involved.’
‘In what capacity?’
‘I am to become a fighter,’ Ayub proudly proclaimed.
‘Then you are willing to die for your belief?’
‘Willing? I eagerly await my opportunity.’
Ali Askar’s worst fears had been realised. He was fervent in his devotion to Islam. Pragmatic enough to know that other religions existed and should be respected. It was defined in the Koran. Besides, the religion of the Muslims, the Christians, and the Jews was in dedication to the same God. He believed it was through tolerance and harmony that all people could exist.
Ali Askar’s homeland in Somalia was in chaos, ruled by warlords and pirates and brigands, yet England was safe and secure and accommodating. Somalia was Muslim, England was predominantly Christian, but he was clear in which one he preferred. His son, Ayub, had not been to Somalia. He did not understand the reality. It was important that he went as soon as possible.
‘Ayub,’ his father Ali said later that day. ‘I ask one favour of you. If you do this, then I will respect your desire for an Islamic State.’
‘Yes, Father,’ Ayub replied.
‘I want you to go and visit your uncle in Mogadishu, and see what our homeland has become.’
‘Father, if that is your wish, then I will comply. And on my return, you will accept my support for an Islamic State.’
‘That is what I agree to,’ Ali Askar said with a heavy heart. He realised that the possibility of a change in his son’s views was remote. However remote, it was for him to try.
Ayub was delighted. His father had given him the means to serve the Islamic State better. He was as yet unskilled in the use of weaponry. He knew of a training camp in Somalia and, apart from a few days with his uncle, that was where he was going.
It was a Sunday when he left England, a Monday when he arrived at his uncle’s compound, a Thursday when he travelled the eighty kilometres to the training camp and a Friday when he first fired an AK-47. He was delighted, and he thanked his father profusely for the opportunity. It was thanks given in mind, not verbally.
***
‘Haji, what can I do for you?’ Prison Officer Seb DeLeon asked when they met at a small café not far from Canary Wharf. ‘Shafi’s no longer there. I still don’t know who my contact is in Belmarsh.’
‘We have someone else.’
‘Good, I’m anxious to leave and take over my father’s restaurant,’ Seb DeLeon replied.
‘Hopefully, Allah will ensure that your wishes are fulfilled.’
‘What do you want me to take in for you?’
‘Some letters, some phones, nothing else.’
‘How about the security checks at the entrance?’
‘Zohaib is your new contact. He’ll deal with that.’
‘No drugs inside phones, I hope?’
‘I only give the packages, what’s inside is not my concern,’ Haji said.
‘There are drugs. Shafi told me when I was trying to negotiate a better rate.’
‘It is a weakness of people that I do not understand.’
‘Then why do you do this?’
‘For the same reason as you do, for money.’
‘I’m curious as to how Shafi managed to get out so quickly,’ Haji asked.
‘You want the truth?’ the prison guard replied.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘His appeal lawyers weren’t lawyers at all.’
‘What do you mean?’ Haji expressed surprise. ‘Who were they?’
‘They were government employees. I had to sign them in. I saw their identities.’
‘Do you have names?’
‘If it gets out that I told you, I could be in serious trouble.’
‘You’d be in trouble if they caught you smuggling and they haven’t so far.’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Just an old man’s curiosity, I suppose?’ Haji maintained his pose of an innocent old man.
‘Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin, that’s who they were.’
‘Do you have any idea who they worked for?’
‘Their IDs said the Office of National Statistics.’
‘Statistics? What’s that got to do with an appeal?’
‘I’ve no idea, but that’s what their identity cards said.’
‘Curious, I don’t know what to make of it.’ Haji realised that he had some information which would be of interest to the Master.
‘They certainly got Shafi out really quick,’ Seb DeLeon conjectured.
‘It makes you wonder whether the police officers, who claimed to be drunk when he pushed in the knife, were actually drunk.’
‘Shafi told you that story as well? When did you see him?’
‘Not long ago. He was looking for a job.’
‘Are you going to give him one?’
‘I don’t see why not; he was competent inside. He could be useful outside as well.’
‘Do what you like, just ensure my money keeps coming.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll look after you.’ Haji knew that the prison officer’s usefulness was drawing to a close.
They parted amicably. Haji had some information for the Master, while Seb DeLeon was confident in the belief that, in a few months, the restaurant would be his. He was conditioned to his criminal activities – petty, he saw it – and so far, there had been no issues, and no searches at the gate.
***
For seven days, there had been no problems. Seb DeLeon had brought in contraband on two of those days, and the prison officer charged with diligently checking everyone for smuggled goods had conducted the search correctly, failing to look in the hidden lining of a jacket pocket, the deep recess of a backpack.
On the eighth day, DeLeon was to find out that Zohaib was not as adept as Shafi at greasing the palms of the bent prison officers. He had failed to ensure that it was clear when the prison officer re-entered the foreboding establishment for his shift.
‘Seb, I’ll need to check your bags, pat you down.’
‘Bob, how many times have I been through here? You’ve not bothered in the past.’
‘It’s the new regulations.’
‘I’ve heard nothing,’
‘You’re right, I forgot,’ said the prison officer now standing in front of Seb DeLeon blocking his way. ‘You weren’t on shift yesterday when Governor Sheldon gave us a dressing down. It seems that Shafi may have been involved in some of the rackets here.’
‘So why does that mean you have to check me? We’ve been friends for a long time.’
‘The Governor wants to stamp out the smuggling.’
‘It must come in with the visitors.’ DeLeon was a nervous man trying hard to look calm and relaxed. He was neither, and it was showing.
‘It’s unlikely.’ Prison Office Bob Smithers was overly diligent. He’d taken a few parcels in and out over the past year, but in the current situation, the easiest way to deflect suspicion was to find someone else who was involved. He recognised the sweating, the increased breathing rate of his colleague. He was certain he was up to something.
‘I’m late for my shift. I need to change and get ready.’ Seb DeLeon attempted to move through the security area and exit to the relative calm of the prison.
‘Rules are rules; you know that Seb. It’ll only take five minutes.’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘Seb, friend or no friend, I’ve got a job to do. Either you play ball, or I’ll be forced to report you for failure to comply with a direct request from a fellow officer.
‘I can’t.’
‘Seb, what do you mean?’
‘Don’t you get it? I’m carrying a letter for one of the inmates. His wife has just had a baby. She wanted me to give him a picture.’
‘Why would you do that? No one would prevent a photo of a baby.’
‘She didn’t want to go through the normal procedures. She didn’t want anyone to see the picture before her husband.’
‘You’ll get off with just a disciplinary.’
‘I’ll give you the photo and all is fine?’
‘I still have to conduct a full search. You’ve withheld information and we’re on video here. Either I conduct the search, or both of us will be in trouble. Sorry, Seb, but that’s how it is.’
‘Very well,’ Seb said, knowing full well that the dream of the restaurant was over. It was to be a time behind bars for him. ‘You’re about to destroy my life, you realise that?’
‘I’m only doing my job.’
Fifteen minutes later, Isaac Cook received a phone call from Governor Sheldon ‘We’ve caught a prison officer attempting to smuggle contraband.’
‘Thanks, but how does that interest us?’ Isaac Cook asked.
‘He’s singing like a bird,’
‘Yes, but what’s he saying?’
‘He has a contact, Haji, who coordinates the smuggling on the outside,’ the Governor said.
‘Yes, but what is the relevance of that?’
‘The contact was asking about Shafi’s appeal lawyers.’
‘And what did your man say?’ Isaac Cook was interested.
‘He told this Haji who they were and where they were from.’
‘This prison officer…’
Governor Sheldon interjected. ‘His name’s Seb DeLeon, been here for a few years.’
‘Keep him secure and isolated,’ replied Isaac Cook. ‘And, whatever you do, keep him alive. We’ll be there within the hour to take custody.’
‘He’s already in isolation in the detention cells.’ The Governor had ensured that two prison officers were on permanent guard.
‘So was Wali Hasan and he ended up dead,’ Isaac Cook said.
Chapter 15
‘I am pleased to announce that Anne Argento has agreed to my offer to become the Deputy Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland,’ Prime Minister Clifford Bell announced at the next sitting of the House of Commons.
‘You’re aiming to throttle her,’ Ernest Bakewell, the Leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition, shouted.
‘Resign, resign!’ the Opposition backbenchers supported their Leader in unison.
‘Order in the House,’ the Speaker demanded. ‘The comments of the Honourable Leader of the Opposition are out of order.’
‘She was after your job,’ the Leader of the Opposition continued.
‘Order in the House,’ the Speaker of the House repeated.
The media was equally difficult. For days afterwards, both the print media and the television were condemning, speculating, postulating.
‘I am an ardent supporter of the Prime Minister,’ Anne Argento protested on the evening news programme of the national broadcaster.
‘Your criticism of Clifford Bell has been extreme, both in public and in private,’ Clement Fogarty, the most incisive and penetrating political commentator and interviewer in the country, said in the broadcasting studios in London.
‘Clement, it is unfortunate that even you have indulged in the current media circus,’ the Deputy Prime Minister said.
‘Deputy Prime Minister, is it not a fact that, in the privacy of the cabinet room, you have openly accused the Prime Minister of weakness and cowardice?’
‘I do not remember seeing you at any meeting of the cabinet. Where do you get this information?’
‘I have been told that your criticism has been both excessive and vindictive. Am I not correct?’ Fogarty continued.
‘You are not correct. In a vibrant and healthy democracy, the freedom of speech, the ability to express one’s views, is paramount.’
‘Deputy Prime Minister, you are deflecting the question.’
‘I am not deflecting. The Prime Minister, as well as his deputy, are united in the need to temper the influence of the Islamic State.’
‘You have called him weak, inadequate,’ Fogarty kept up the attack.
‘Yet again you make comments based on conjecture, not facts.’
‘Are you saying that you and the Prime Minister are aligned on how to tackle the threat?’ Fogarty asked, hoping to force Anne Argento to make a slip of the tongue, a truthful statement. She knew his tricks. She was not about to be pushed into a corner that she could not extricate herself from.
‘We are united to resolve the situation.’
‘You have still not answered,’ Fogarty continued.
‘We hold differing views on the best way to resolve.’ The Deputy Prime Minister gave some ground.
‘So there is criticism of the Prime Minister?’
‘Clement, your attack on the Prime Minister and his deputy may be conducive to ensuring more viewers, but rest assured that there is no criticism on my part of the Prime Minister.’
‘Did you not say that this is war, and the Prime Minister and his continuing negotiations are going nowhere?’ Fogarty pressed on regardless.
‘You are better informed than I am on this matter,’ Anne Argento deflected.
‘You said that in a Security Council meeting.’
‘Then let us have your source in here. Then we can ascertain the truth of what I said.’
‘Are you denying some conflict?’ The veteran broadcaster decided on another approach. He did not want Rohan Jones involved in a three-way debate.
‘No, I am not,’ the Deputy Prime Minister affirmed. ‘It is true that my approach is more confrontational and would cause unfortunate divisions in society. The Prime Minister aims to avoid those divisions.’
‘Then who is right?’
‘That is a matter for discussion, and the Prime Minister has asked me to be an integral part of the discussions he is having with community leaders, the military and the police.’
‘That sounds like political doublespeak to me,’ said Fogarty. ‘I am not sure that the viewers are any the wiser as to what the future is.’
‘The future is good. We will resolve this crisis and it will be with Prime Minister Clifford Bell and his loyal deputy, Anne Argento, leading the country.’
‘Let me move away from your relationship with the Prime Minister for a minute.’ Fogarty realised that he had exhausted his attempts to break the Deputy Prime Minister.
‘For a minute?’ she replied. ‘The matter is concluded. The Prime Minister and his loyal deputy are an effective team. There is no need for any more time to waste any more time on this unless you are anxious to hear your own voice.’
‘Can I come to your declaration that this is war?’
‘When have I openly stated that we are at war?’
‘When you have attempted to garner support from the backbench and when you shouted the Prime Minister down in the cabinet room. I am led to believe he abandoned the meeting after your direct insult of him.’
‘You are remarkably well-informed on meetings where you were not present, and in any discussions, I may have had with members of the party.’
‘I have my contacts,’ Fogarty said. ‘That is my prerogative as a journalist.’
‘And it is my prerogative to state,’ replied Anne Argento, ‘that anyone who has openly revealed private discussions that I may, or may not have had, is in contravention of the finer traditions of the party and is subject to censure.’
‘Are you admitting that you have had discussions?’
‘I have not. What I can state is that the Prime Minister and myself have differences on how to best tackle the current situation.’
‘Are you after the Prime Minister’s job?’
‘No.’
‘Would you want the Prime Minister’s job?’
‘You’ve just asked the same question twice.’
‘I don’t think I have,’ said Fogarty. ‘I’m sure you can understand the subtle difference?’
‘Clement, you are both subtle and devious,’ laughed Anne. ‘The Prime Minister has my full support. In reference to the second question, I am an ambitious politician and when, in the fullness of time, Clifford Bell decides to retire, then I hope that I will be cons
idered.’
‘You want to take his job.’
‘I’ve just given you my answer! I believe it was clear, factual and not open to misinterpretation.’
‘Deputy Prime Minister, thank you for your time.’
‘It has been my pleasure.’
Off camera, ‘Clement, you were tough there.’
‘Just doing my job, Anne. You know that.’
‘Yes, of course. You gave me a run for my money, though.’
‘Let’s meet up in a few days for a few drinks.’
‘Fine, Clement, see you then.’
***
Ali Askar realised the first day his son returned from Somalia, that the debt he incurred in an effort to save him had been wasted.
‘How was your uncle?’
‘He was fine, and sends his best wishes and hopes that Allah will look over you.’
‘Is he prospering?’ Ali asked.
‘Yes, but Mogadishu is a dump. The Americans have destroyed it, reduced it to rubble,’ Ayub, his son, responded.
‘The Americans have done little there. Why do you say they are to blame?’
‘They destroyed the economy and left it to waste. They have formed blockades to prevent trade. They are blocking the seas. No ships can come in or leave.’
‘Who told you this?’ his father asked.
‘My uncle, your brother. He is a great man, a believer.’
‘He is a believer in what?’ Ali Askar asked.
‘A believer in the Islamic State.’
‘He never told me this.’
‘He did not because he knows you have been seduced by the infidel.’
‘How dare you speak to your father in this way.’
‘I am now a warrior, a man, and I will speak to you as I wish,’ said Ayub defiantly.
‘You shame your family, your religion,’ the father said.
‘I am honoured in my religion. I will be martyred if Allah wishes it.’
‘I can no longer regard you as my son.’
‘Father, this saddens me, but in time you will be forced to make a decision between the infidels and our faith. Until that time, I wish you well. I will go and offer myself for martyrdom.’
In the space of a few weeks, Ayub Askar had gone from a pimply-faced teenager to a soldier of Islam. It was in his latest incarnation that he found himself, one week later, in the presence of Faisal Aslam, the Master.
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 4 - 6: Murder (The DCI Isaac Cook Thrillers Series Boxset) Page 57
