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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Lovely person, she was head girl in her last term here.’ Virginia Langley, no relation to the illustrious founder, had been headmistress for ten years, and it was obvious that Sara Aslam had been one of her favourite students.

  ‘What was she like, politically, religiously?’ Farhan asked. It had taken ten schools, ten headmistresses before he had encountered Langley Ladies’ College. He had intended not to come as it just seemed a little too far out of London for Sara Styles to have been able to make the weekend trip back to London. Set in resplendent grounds with deer roaming freely, it was at least two hours by bus and train back to London.

  ‘She was Muslim, although she never took it too seriously,’ the headmistress said. ‘Politically, I’d say very moderate. Concerned about the plight of the Muslims generally in the Middle East, but it was certainly not extreme.’

  ‘What happened after she left? Did she keep in contact?’

  ‘She came up for every open day, although I’ve not seen her for a few years now. Why are you interested in Sara?’

  ‘I told you. I’m from the Counter Terrorism Command.’

  ‘But what’s that got to do with Sara? Is she involved?’

  He felt it was best not to be too open with the headmistress. She had not been security cleared and may react adversely if told the truth. ‘She may have come into contact with someone we are observing.’

  ‘You’ve nothing to worry about with Sara. I’d trust her implicitly. She’s as English as I am.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you would keep our conversation confidential,’ Farhan said.

  ‘And if Sara contacts me?’ the headmistress asked.

  ‘Please keep this to ourselves. There’s no need to cause her unnecessary concern.’

  ***

  Ayub Askar, the willing Somali martyr, had been destined as the instrument of destruction at York Minster. His opportunity had been forestalled by the prompt and decisive actions of Alex Hainsworth of Counter Terrorism Command and Sergeant Bhardwaj of the North Yorkshire Police. He was still anxious to serve Allah and the Islamic State and the thought of seventy-two willing virgins, an erection always ready, filled a pimply youth with both lust and devotion.

  ‘I wish to commit myself to martyrdom,’ Ayub said in the small room that Durrani occupied at the rear of the Master’s house.

  ‘It is unfortunate that you were unable to complete your task in the north. We have another target for you,’ Durrani replied. ‘There is a diversionary bombing that is required. It would be ideal for you.’

  It had been Yasser Lahham who had seen the obvious target during a conversation with the Master and Durrani the previous week.

  ‘Master, our planned attack on police headquarters will be enhanced if we cause some confusion elsewhere in the city,’ Lahham had said. ‘It is somewhere of such significance that the police will initially panic.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ The Master listened to Yasser, one of the few people whose advice he respected.

  ‘The Houses of Parliament,’ Yasser Lahham said.

  ‘Are you planning an attack inside the building?’ Durrani asked.

  ‘That is not necessary. Outside, as close as to the building as possible, will be fine. We want panic and a proportionate response from the police.’

  ‘We can use Ayub,’ Durrani suggested.

  ‘Yasser, what do you believe the response will be at New Scotland Yard? How will this assist us?’ the Master asked.

  ‘Master, even the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, will be involved. We’re hitting one of the mainstays of the British democratic system. The police response will be rapid and, for a few minutes, there will be total confusion. It is then that our two martyrs will enter through the security barriers.’

  ‘Durrani’s explosives may succeed in taking out the Counter Terrorism Command and the Commissioner of Police?’ the Master said.

  ‘That’s what I am saying. The diversion will give sufficient time,’ Yasser Lahham said.

  ‘How many dead at the Houses of Parliament?’ Durrani asked.

  ‘It’s only a diversion,’ replied Yasser Lahham. ‘There will be some tourists, probably not many. It is the police that we want this time. The politicians can wait for later.’

  ***

  Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin pondered the situation. So far, their analysis had not been as detailed as they would have preferred. Their deductions and hunches had been based on experience and a study of human behaviour, both terrorist and Islamic fundamentalist. However, they saw no reason to change the way they worked.

  Their concerns over security for themselves had abated and, in the last few weeks, they had relaxed considerably. Andrew’s wife was even talking about coming back home from New Zealand. However, he had talked her out of it, based on Isaac Cook’s statement that the situation was far from secure and, if the terrorists wanted to target both him and Frederick, his wife would have been the easiest leverage point.

  They had successfully evaluated an attack on the military but had failed to prevent a nuclear submarine being lost. They had correctly ascertained an attack on the Church, which had resulted in the saving of York Minster, but had failed to protect a number of parish churches around the country being hit. They clearly had seen that the police were to be next and that New Scotland Yard would be the preferred target, but could not see how it could be achieved. They were, for once, in error in underestimating the ability and determination of Yasser Lahham.

  ***

  Midday on a Thursday, the weather was mild and the number of tourists waiting for a guided tour of the Houses of Parliament in Westminster, moderate. It was only a thirty-minute wait before the next tour. Ayub Askar, armed with an iPhone taking the inevitable tourist snaps, was one of those waiting.

  Yasser Lahham, a smart dresser, had taken care to ensure that the normally sloppy dresser Ayub wore a good pair of jeans, a polo shirt, a new pair of Reeboks and his wispy, adolescent beard had been shaved off. He would have passed for a tourist from Spain or Italy, apart from the bulge hidden loosely under the jacket that he wore.

  The ticket for the guided tour, booked online, entitled him to stand in the queue for entry. It would, however, not allow him to get past the stringent security checks, but that was not on his agenda. His instruction was to get as close to the entrance as he could, to surround himself with as many people as he could and then, at fifteen minutes past the striking of twelve on the clock at Big Ben, to detonate the suicide vest on his body.

  It was Isaac’s prompt action that saved his life on hearing of the bombing at the Houses of Parliament. Ed had stayed back to maintain the office, there was no point in the two rushing to the site, and there was always the possibility of further attacks around the city.

  It was obvious to the two Islamists waiting not far from New Scotland Yard, that the attack at the Houses of Parliament had been successful; the increased activity of the police, a clear testament to that fact. As instructed, five minutes later, they used their magnetic cards and passed through unchallenged into the main building at New Scotland Yard.

  Ahmed Yousef was quick in entering the first available lift and moving up to the fifth floor. Fouad Abdulla, the less intelligent of the two, could not find a lift and quickly ascended the stairs to the fourth floor. It had been remarkably easy, too easy, and both had succumbed to a feeling of invulnerability.

  Back at the Houses of Parliament, the only part of Ayub Askar that remained was his head, which had been blown off at the moment of detonation. The other fatalities, at least fifty by Isaac’s initial evaluation, were mostly unrecognisable. All streets leading to the Houses of Parliament were rapidly being closed off, due to an overtly excessive response by the police and the emergency services.

  New Scotland Yard was chaotic, with police officers and civilian employees moving around quickly trying to ascertain the situation, to evaluate other possible targets. Ten minutes after Ayub Askar had departed this world to meet with his
seventy-two virgins, and five minutes after Yousef and Abdulla had entered the building, the security at the police headquarters was tightened.

  It was Police Constable Ben Cameron’s second day watching the surveillance cameras and monitoring the magnetic access cards. It was he who first noticed that two cards had activated the barriers which were not registered in the system.

  ‘We’ve been breached,’ he said over the phone to his superior officer Detective Inspector Kate Ladd.

  ‘You know what to do. Lock the place down, sound the alarm,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve already locked it down, but they’re in the building somewhere.’

  ‘Find them and quick,’ she said, her voice elevated in tone.

  ‘I’m on to it. I’m checking the public areas, the lifts, but I’m on my own. If they’ve passed through, I’ll have to look at the recordings. It may take time.’

  ‘We don’t have time,’ she said. ‘If it is related to the attack at the Houses of Parliament, then we’re in trouble.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ PC Cameron replied, ‘but in the meantime, we need to check everyone in the building is secure. They need to move to areas deemed safe.’

  ‘Constable, you’re right, but where is safe?’

  Ahmed Yousef moved steadily from the lift exit on the fifth floor and towards the Commissioner’s office. It was no more than sixty metres, and he had covered the first fifty with no issues. The final barrier was manned by two armed police officers.

  ‘Drop to the floor!’ the first of the officers shouted.

  ‘I’ve come to see the Commissioner,’ said Ahmed Yousef calmly.

  ‘What is your business here?’

  ‘My business is with the Commissioner. It is a personal matter.’

  Constables Hampshire and Ellingham were both following the normal procedures. Shooting a civilian without due warning was prohibited by regulations and the individual standing in front of them was, on initial appearances, both unarmed and harmless. They had failed to understand the seriousness of the situation, although they had received the warning of unknown individuals in the building.

  Aware that he had gone as far as he could, Ahmed Yousef made a rush for the final barrier. The barrier proved to be only a wooden door. It was another three metres before both constables levelled their pistols and shot him in the back. It was too late for them, however, as Yousef pressed the switch and martyred himself.

  The two constables died in the resultant explosion and the Commissioner, Sir Richard Hardcastle, sitting at his desk, was hurled backwards against the wall in his office by the blast. He survived, but not without some severe bruising, a broken wrist, and damage to his pride that he, the head of the premier police organisation in the country, had nearly been killed by a lone suicide bomber.

  Fouad Abdulla, on the fourth floor, had not been challenged, and he entered Room 202 with no difficulties. Ed was on the phone with Isaac discussing the situation when Abdulla pressed his switch. Detective Inspector Ed Pickles died instantly.

  ***

  Clifford Bell, the Prime Minister, suffered another slump in his approval rating, which was now down to sixteen percent, as a result of the attacks on the Houses of Parliament and New Scotland Yard. Anne Argento had not fared better, her seventy per cent had dropped by three points to sixty-seven. She was clearly the preferred leader, but the confidence of the people in even her ability to resolve the situation had been shaken. She had been in the Houses of Parliament at the time of the bombing. It was pure luck that she had avoided the blast.

  ‘Clifford, you’re the Prime Minster. When are you going to resign?’ she shouted in the party room at an extraordinary meeting two days later.

  ‘You are showing gross disloyalty.’ The Prime Minister was a man lost, with no clear direction, no solution and no senior adviser of substance.

  ‘I have every right to do so,’ she continued the attack, attempting to force him to declare his position open. ‘You have shown no leadership to this party, or this country. The situation worsens, yet you still procrastinate.’

  ‘You just want to declare war.’ the Prime Minister fired back at his disloyal deputy.

  ‘It is war,’ shouted Anne. ‘The sooner you resign and let me get on with it, the better this country will be.’

  ‘You will isolate the vast majority of Muslims in this country,’ the Prime Minister continued to argue with his deputy in the party room. ‘They are a peaceful people.’

  ‘I am not isolating anyone. They need to make a decision. They’re either with us, or they’re not.’

  ‘How can you say this, or do this?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘Prime Minister, I must say, and I must do. You’re incapable of recognising the seriousness of the situation.’

  ‘That’s a slanderous comment. Your way will only inflame the situation.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she continued. ‘It will inflame the situation initially. The peaceful, law-abiding majority of the Muslim population will need make a decision as to who they are with. They came to this country for its democratic values, its peace and its buoyant economy. They have to decide whether to choose an Islamic extremist and barbaric organisation or the democratic system that we offer.’

  ‘Your approach is too simplistic. It just won’t work,’ the Prime Minister stated emphatically, but without any true conviction.

  It was Angie Butler, the blue-blood daughter of an aristocrat and now reluctant supporter of Anne Argento, who made the suggestion. ‘Prime Minister, it may be preferable to declare your position open.’

  ‘I will not do that. We need unity in parliament. To declare my position open, two days after both Westminster and New Scotland Yard have suffered deaths, will show disunity within the leadership of this country. I will agree to a ballot two weeks from this date, but you know what will happen if you vote in the wrong direction.’

  ‘I am in agreement,’ Anne Argento replied. ‘We will wait for two weeks.’ She had to agree that two days after another Islamic State bombing was premature for a leadership battle.

  ***

  Mohammad Sohail Shafi was a broken man. The rogue with the cheery, optimistic disposition had been replaced by a sullen, devout and obedient servant of the Master.

  ‘Shafi, I have a job for you.’

  ‘Yes, Master. What is it that you wish of me?’

  ‘I want you to contact the Counter Terrorism Command.’

  ‘I no longer serve them. I serve only you and the Islamic State.’

  ‘That is why we want you to contact them. We want to know what they are involved with, what they are planning.’

  ‘I am told that we attacked them,’ Shafi had not contacted Isaac Cook or Ed Pickles since his conversion.

  ‘It was a great success. We killed one of your contacts,’ the Master declared.

  ‘DCI Cook?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘No, the other one.’

  ‘DI Pickles.’

  ‘Yes, he is dead. Does it concern you?’ The Master looked for a reaction from Shafi, a sign that his conversion was not total.

  ‘Master, he was an enemy of the cause. It is good that he died.’ Shafi was in a dilemma. Ed Pickles had been a decent man. He felt some lingering affection for his enemy, but he did not understand why.

  Isaac was a sad man when Shafi met him in a café on Tottenham Court Road a few days later.

  ‘I am sorry to hear about DI Pickles,’ Shafi said.

  ‘It is hard to believe. They managed to get into our office. How did they do this?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Shafi, are you on the inside now?’

  ‘They have trusted me with some work so far, but they are not convinced that I am a true believer.’

  ‘Are you a true believer?’ Isaac Cook was concerned with the changed manner of his undercover operative.

  ‘It is hard to convince them when I am not sure as to their cause.’ Shafi had been versed by the Master to be cautious in his response
s. His brain was convinced, as was his heart, but he still had his doubts. Any attempt to rationalise would cause him to remember the pain that he had endured, the pain that he did not want to revisit.

  ‘You have some doubts?’ Isaac Cook asked again.

  ‘Doubts, no. But they’re continuing to take control of this country, or at least certain areas.’.

  ‘I know, and we seem impossible to stop it.’

  ‘What is it that you want from me?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘You were absent, out of contact for some time. Where did you go?’

  ‘I was up north, arranging some deliveries.’ It was a rehearsed answer.

  ‘Why did you not answer your phone?’

  ‘They monitor my calls. They would have seen if I had spoken to you.’

  ‘These deliveries, are they of significance to us?’

  ‘No, it was purely related to the Master’s business,’ Shafi said.

  ‘You’ve met the Master?’

  ‘Yes,’ Shafi replied.

  ‘Is it the same person as the voice on your phone?’

  ‘No, he is not the same person,’

  ‘Then who is he? What’s his name?’

  ‘I do not know. I met him at a warehouse in the East of London. Apart from that, I know no more.’ Shafi gave another of his rehearsed answers.

  ‘What’s his nationality? What does he look like?’

  ‘He’s Egyptian, a tall man in his late thirties.’ Yet again, the Master had counselled him in what to say. A complete denial of anything related to the Islamic State would have been more suspicious than giving misleading facts.