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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Yes, I know of that,’ he said. ‘But how does this help us here?’

  ‘Master, I request your forbearance, please.’

  ‘Haji, I have not shown you the respect you deserve. I apologise profusely.’

  ‘There is no need for an apology. I am aware of the frustration that we all feel.’

  ‘How could it end like this? It seemed foolproof.’ The Master was perplexed that such a carefully orchestrated plan, requiring many months and many people, could have been discovered.

  ‘What of Barry Cardiff? Where is he now?’ Haji asked.

  ‘He is in one of their prisons.’

  ‘They’ll torture him; you know that?’ Haji said.

  ‘It matters little. He only knew his part in the plan. There is no way he can be connected back to us.’

  ‘Then let us not consider him further,’ Haji said. Bashir Cardiff was a small cog in the wheel. His usefulness at an end, his interest to the Islamic State negated.

  ‘Haji, what were you saying before about Bangladesh?’ asked the Master.

  ‘In intelligence gathering, there are many components,’ Haji resumed his explanation. ‘There’s the information collected or bought.’

  ‘That I understand.’ The Master was inpatient.

  ‘And there’s the information deduced,’ Haji continued.

  ‘What do you mean? I don’t understand what you are saying.’

  ‘We, as do any group of individuals, have certain behaviour patterns,’ explained Haji. ‘I’ll get up and walk around the room every ten minutes due to a gammy leg. You will look out the window absent-mindedly every five minutes or so. Others will whistle or hum, even fart, but we all have distinctive characteristics that are unique to us.’

  ‘I’m not following you.’ The Master was confused.

  ‘When Durrani makes a suicide vest it has his signature on it.’

  ‘Signature? He certainly doesn’t write on it.’

  ‘No, I mean the way he constructs it. How the wiring is run, how the explosives are packed.’

  ‘Yes, but he does that for efficiency and quality,’ the Master said.

  ‘I’m not criticising. What I’m saying is that someone else could, after the bomb has been exploded, tell whether it was the same maker as the one before.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ the Master acknowledged.

  ‘They could also hazard a guess as to improvements he may make.’

  ‘That’s possible, but what’s that got to do with what we were discussing?’

  ‘It has everything to do with the original discussion,’ said Haji. ‘We have formulated a plan of escalating activity, more strategic targets, ultimately culminating in our final act.’

  ‘But how can anyone know our plan? It is carefully guarded.’

  ‘They don’t, but they know our signature, how we operate.’

  ‘Are you saying they can predict our plan?’ the Master asked.

  ‘Not accurately, but if they’re smart enough they can make an educated guess.’

  ‘This is what they did in York?’ the Master asked.

  ‘It’s a strong possibility. It’s what we did in East Pakistan.’

  ‘It was successful?’

  ‘Not always, but we managed to stop some attacks from India.’

  ‘Are you suggesting we change our plan?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Haji. ‘They may well pre-empt us on that as well. We keep to the plan, but we remain aware that others may be watching and not passively.’

  ***

  Parliament had been recalled early following the successful prevention of the terrorist bombing at York Minster. Clifford Bell was delighted. Anne Argento was not so sure.

  ‘Prime Minster, the Opposition feels it is in order to congratulate those who prevented the attack in York.’ The Honourable Leader of the Opposition, Ernest Bakewell, in a moment of magnanimity, agreed with the Government.

  ‘It is clear proof that the measures in place are starting to have an effect. It has been three weeks since the last attack on the general public.’ The Prime Minister was quick to seize a momentary statement of goodwill from Bakewell, even if it had been spoken through clenched teeth.

  ‘Our congratulations are for those who prevented the attacks. It is not for the Prime Minister unless he was personally involved.’ Opposition Leader Bakewell could not resist the opportunity to obliquely criticise the Prime Minister.

  ‘I am aware of who was involved. I was regularly updated as the action unfolded.’ The Prime Minister had told a lie. He hoped that he’d get away with it.

  ‘Can the Prime Minster please explain how he was kept involved when, from our understanding, it all occurred in the roof of the cathedral?’ Ernest Bakewell had started with a compliment, but the Prime Minister had left himself open to ridicule and criticism. The Opposition Leader could not resist the opportunity.

  ‘This is not a time for politicking, scoring points in the electorate,’ the Prime Minister replied.

  ‘You’re willing to claim credit,’ Bakewell continued. ‘Yet, to my knowledge, you were in London, and the action was in York. Unless you somehow have a magic carpet, you couldn’t have been in both places at the same time.’

  ‘The Leader of the Opposition uses a moment of national rejoicing to engage in mud-slinging.’ Prime Minister Clifford Bell attempted to maintain control.

  Anne Argento was pleased with the debate in the chamber. Yet again, Clifford Bell was under pressure and feeling the heat, when it should have been a time for him to bask in the glory, whether he had been there or not.

  Three months and she knew she’d be taking the flak from the Opposition Leader, the Honourable Ernest Bakewell, a slimy piece of nothing in her estimation. He’d put the hard word on her at a Christmas party in Westminster, the first year she had been elected. It was a time when, in the spirit of true democracy, both sides of the House got together for a few drinks and a few laughs.

  Bakewell, government school educated with a penchant for bad language and whores dressed as schoolgirls, thought the party had been a chance for him to get a leg over the new backbencher. He smelt of whisky and sausages, she of eau de cologne and the new member from an electorate up north was more to her taste. The Leader of the Opposition was rebuffed after she had called him a drunken slob of a man when, round the back of the room, he had brushed past, his hand held high enough to take a squeeze of her left breast.

  He never forgave her, as she, him. She was going to slaughter him when she was Prime Minister. She was going to make him feel the abhorrence of her vindictive tongue, the way she had felt abhorrence at the salacious gestures he had made in the intervening years.

  ‘I ask the Prime Minister,’ Ernest Bakewell, full of fire and brimstone continued, ‘what his involvement in York was.’

  ‘I have been in consultation with members of the police force. They have acted on my full authority.’

  Clifford, Clifford, you’ve given him an opening to ask questions you can’t answer, the Deputy PM thought.

  ‘What authority does the Prime Minister have that does not require the agreement of the House?’ Ernest Bakewell asked.

  ‘I have discretionary powers in accordance with my leadership of this nation.’

  ‘Prime Minister, you’re evading the question. I agree that you have certain powers, but which ones have you used here? Did you give them permission to kill one of the terrorists? Did they have your authority to shoot if necessary?’

  ‘I would remind the honourable member,’ Clifford Bell stood firm. ‘No one was shot.’

  ‘Someone was killed. Was it an assassination?’

  ‘It is to my knowledge, an accident. The dead person had attempted to push a member of the police force off the scaffolding where they were standing.’

  ‘What do you mean “to my knowledge”? You’ve just told us you were in charge.’

  ‘I said that I was fully informed.’

  ‘Sit down, Clifford, before you get
into more trouble,’ Anne whispered in his ear.

  ‘The matters pertaining to the successful outcome in York are subject to confidentiality. I am not at liberty to say any more on the matter.’ Prime Minister Bell took her advice.

  ‘Shame, shame,’ was heard from the Opposition.

  ‘You’re meant to be my deputy. Why didn’t you leap to my support?’ the Prime Minister angrily whispered.

  ‘You were doing a good enough job on your own of shooting yourself in the foot.’

  ‘I thought you were meant to support me in public and in the House. That was our agreement!’

  ‘I’ve honoured our agreement. You can’t debate Bakewell without giving him facts, which will impact on what Isaac Cook is up to. You know that.’

  ‘How do you know Isaac Cook?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘It’s my job to know everything, including who you screwed last night.’

  ‘I was at home with my wife,’ the Prime Minister said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I’ll never use it. But it’s an unusual use for a feather duster.’

  ‘Anne, sometimes I think you’re the most devious politician in the House.’

  ‘Sometimes, Clifford?’

  ‘Always then,’ he replied. ‘And you’re after my job.’

  ‘You know I am.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to let you have it without a fight.’

  ‘Feather dusters at dawn, is that what you want, Clifford?’

  ‘You said you wouldn’t use that.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t. We’ll always be friends. But politically, we’re as different as chalk and cheese.’

  ‘Friends, one day we may be,’ the Prime Minister conceded, ‘but not at the present moment.’

  ‘Clifford, you have made the most astute statement of your career.’ Anne Argento smiled.

  ***

  Farhan Ahmed was the best close-in surveillance person in Counter Terrorism Command. He had been tasked with following Haji after his meeting with Seb DeLeon.

  ‘You followed Haji from Willesden?’ Isaac Cook asked.

  ‘I did, but he knew how to shake a tail.’ Farhan Ahmed came to the department as a senior constable, anxious to prove his mettle in the cut and thrust of anti-terrorism.

  ‘He gave you the slip?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘He nearly did.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He’s been trained in keeping to the corners, ducking around cars, disappearing down alleys,’ Farhan said.

  ‘Yes, but what does this give us?’

  ‘It makes him almost impossible to follow.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s simple. He ducks down an alley, and if I follow he’ll spot me. If he heads into domestic English suburbia, an Asian dressed in a suit will stand out. It’s the same as a white man in a ghetto in Jamaica.’

  ‘It’s a topical analogy,’ Isaac agreed. ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I had already set it up with a few colleagues. We figured his possible exit routes and then installed certain people in certain areas.’

  ‘People who wouldn’t stand out?’ Isaac asked. ‘Do you think he suspected you were behind him?’

  ‘No, we’re better than that.’

  ‘So, what and who is Haji?’

  ‘We’ve got an address where he visited and a name,’ said Farhan.

  ‘Firstly, the name,’ Isaac asked.

  ‘His name is Fraz Wahlah.’

  ‘Any more detail?’

  ‘He came to this country in his late thirties. Ex-major, served on the East Pakistan border during the conflict with Indian in the early seventies.’

  ‘Let me guess, intelligence?’ Isaac said.

  ‘That’s right. The military records of the period are very detailed. Our man has a proud record of achievement. He’s not a little old man aiming to make a few pounds. He’s a major player.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘We found the voice on the phone. At the address, Fraz Wahlah visited.’

  ‘Did you hear the voice?’

  ‘Not at the address. It was a house, by the way. But later, we phoned up one of the resident’s businesses and the voice was on the answering machine.’

  ‘This is a major development,’ Ed Pickles said. ‘Isaac, where do we go from here?’

  ‘I’m not sure. We need time to follow through. Taking out some of the key players will only delay. They always have someone ready to take up the slack, maintain the fight.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ Ed asked.

  ‘The Master?’ Farhan said.

  ‘Yes, of course, the Master,’ Ed reaffirmed his question.

  ‘His name is Faisal Aslam. He’s a wealthy guy, owns supermarkets.’

  ‘Why’s he messing around with a group of extremists then?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Who knows? Does it matter?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Probably not, but if he’s in it for power or religion, it may have some influence on how we intend to neutralise him.’

  ‘You’re right, Ed,’ said Isaac. ‘We better get Vane and Martin on to this. How are they, by the way?’

  ‘Andrew’s alright, but Frederick’s looking over his shoulder all the time,’ Ed replied.

  ***

  Seb DeLeon, after his reprieve by the Counter Terrorism Command, was back at work inside Her Majesty’s Prison Belmarsh. It had been quiet for some weeks, and he had put the damp cell and the questioning by Detective Inspector Pickles behind him. He had hoped that his life would continue as before, and the meeting with Haji in the rundown café in Willesden was the last involvement he would have with either Isaac Cook and Ed Pickles and, hopefully, Haji, although he still needed his money for the restaurant. His hopes were shattered when Haji phoned him early one morning.

  ‘I’m sending you a small package by post.’

  ‘And the money?’

  ‘It’s in the package.’

  ‘Who do I deliver it to?’

  ‘The Prof. Is that okay?’ Haji said.

  ‘He’s as good as anyone. This will be my last job for you. I’m getting out of the prison service.’

  ‘Do this well and we’ll have no further need of anyone in Belmarsh.’

  ‘Haji, I can’t say I support your cause, but you’ve always played fair by me. I wish you well and a long life.’

  ‘Seb, I wish you a long life as well.’ Haji was not a sentimentalist and, whereas he may have admitted that Seb DeLeon was not a bad person, his life was to be measured in days, not years. Besides, he had never made any reference to the Islamic State before. He realised that Seb DeLeon was either smarter than he seemed or someone had told him something.

  Security was rigid yet flexible the day Seb DeLeon brought the package into Belmarsh. A quick phone call from Isaac and Ed had resulted in a change of guards at the heavy, foreboding gates to the prison. It was thirty minutes later, at the start of his shift, that Seb confronted the Prof.

  ‘I’ve got something for you,’ the prison officer said behind the security of a partially open cell door on the second floor of the cell block.

  ‘Thanks, some more memory for my laptop?’ the Prof replied.

  ‘I only deliver. What’s in it, I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Wise man,’ said the Prof. ‘That’s the way for a long life.’

  ‘Do you know what’s in it, Prof?’

  ‘Something that’s going to make me very ill, I hope.’

  ‘That’s a strange wish.’

  ‘If it gets me where I want to go then I don’t mind.’ It was clear to Seb DeLeon that the Prof knew what the package contained.

  Methamphetamine, the technical name, crystal meth the name on the street. The Prof had used it once before when he was free and successful and before that bitch, Diana, had dumped him. It should have given him an extreme high followed by a manageable low, but his reactions had not been as expected. The lows were psychotic, suicidal, and it was only a hospital’s inter
vention and a straitjacket that had saved his life.

  Once he was away from prying eyes and behind his cell door, he administered the drug. The only other time he had tried it, he had rolled it into a hollowed-out cigarette, the tobacco discarded. This time, the instructions were clear: two tablets. He only hoped the person who had prepared the dosage knew what they were doing. The Master had said that there was nothing to worry about.

  The Prof fearful of what he was doing, swallowed the tablets. He took the drug and felt the elation suitably delayed as the tablets dissolved inside his mouth. The next thing he remembered was the comedown and then the jolting of the ambulance as it headed to the hospital with him strapped down and Seb DeLeon on guard duty. He should have been off duty, but there had been a last-minute change in the roster.

  ‘Hey, this is not the route to the hospital,’ DeLeon banged on the separating compartment between him and the driver.

  ‘It’s a short cut. We don’t have time for the long way.’ The driver’s voice was heavily accented and sounded as though it belonged to a strong man.

  Ten minutes later and five kilometres from the hospital, the ambulance came to a stop.

  ‘What are we stopping here for?’ shouted DeLeon. ‘This man is seriously ill. He needs a doctor immediately. He could die.’

  ‘Seb, he’ll not die. It’s only a weak dose that he’s been given,’ a voice emanated from the front cab’s passenger seat, a voice that he knew.

  ‘Haji, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m completing my task.’

  ‘What task is that?’

  ‘I am to ensure that the Prof is delivered to the Master and that there will be no evidence.’

  ‘What do you mean by evidence? I’ve done my part.’ Seb DeLeon realised the situation was dangerous.

  ‘Yes, you have done your part well, and hopefully, you believe in martyrdom.’

  ‘You have no right to do this. I have always played fair by you.’

  ‘As I have by you, but there are times when a greater sacrifice is required. Unfortunately, Seb, you are part of that sacrifice.’

  ‘You have no right to do this.’

  ‘I have the right of a benevolent God. What do you have?’ Haji asked.