“Okay Ralph, convalescence time is over. Hand me that cup. It’s time to get the show on the road.”
_____________________
Chapter 3
Commander Robert Harris was in a foul mood. Being told that one of his officers had been shot without having a chance to defend himself struck at the core of his beliefs and values. He had called the meeting at Scotland Yard of senior officers from SO15 in order to review prime terrorist targets in London.
His staff were ready to brief him on six areas where they believed terrorist groups would try to cause maximum disruption to businesses and inflict indiscriminate harm on civilians; all aimed at bringing publicity to their nefarious causes. The briefing began in a conference room whose walls were adorned with space age display screens. The only slight nod towards the past were the mugs of tea and plates of biscuits that occupied the space in front of each officer.
An aerial picture of the Thames Barrier with a diagram showing key access points was first on the agenda. They reiterated arguments that had by now become almost routine. They detailed how, if the Barrier were put out of action large swathes of London would be at the mercy of a tidal flood; how it would threaten eight power stations, thirty five tube stations and the whole of Whitehall plus hundreds of residential properties to the East and West of Tower Bridge. They could almost recite the planned response to such an attack in their sleep.
They turned their attention to Canary Wharf. If a bomb were detonated in one of the prestigious office blocks or in the crowded precincts it would cause massive destruction and disrupt operations to one of the largest financial operations in the world. This was another scenario that they had considered and rehearsed in collaboration with civil and military organisations. Commander Harris found this particular nightmare impossible to expunge from his mind even though the rehearsals had shown how all vital financial systems could be restored within 24 hours.
A number of their advisors had pointed out that terrorists would see London’s history as a determining factor when seeking a target that would get the attention of the world. Greenwich Observatory, the location for zero longitude and the place that the rest of the world set their clocks by, was a perfect example. They had agreed that it was an easy target and appropriate steps had been taken to set up surveillance and protection there.
Relatively new on their list was the O2 arena just across the river from Canary Wharf. It would be a perfect target, particularly if an attack occurred when one of the popular groups such as The Who were holding a concert. Fortunately the organisers made their bookings way in advance, which made it relatively easy to screen ticket-holders and police the venue.
The Crossrail project was seen as particularly vulnerable; many contractors, large complicated boring equipment that required regular maintenance, and hence, hundreds of people going in and out every day. The main construction sites such as the new rail stations were highly secure. But as much of the tunnel ran under prime areas of London, it was likely to be high on the hit list of the more sophisticated terrorist organisations.
They had managed to consume two or three mugs of tea and the plates of biscuits were empty when Commander Mike Renton walked across to the small rostrum at the centre of the room. It was a familiar ritual as his responsibility was the operational deployment of officers and undercover personnel. The ‘dark forces’ as one wag had described them. Renton tapped the rostrum.
“As you can see gentlemen we have our usual targets but there is a sixth item on the agenda. The Tall Ships Festival which will be held at the beginning of September.”
They had all read the dossier. Up to a hundred boats of all sizes sailing right in to the heart of London and mooring up in the quays around Canary Wharf. A manmade nightmare and a boon to the machinations of an erstwhile terrorist.
“Sounds as though we’ll have our hands full with that lot, Commander Renton,” said Harris as he eased his right leg in to a more comfortable position. An Argentinian had managed to fire a shot at the frightening figure of a British soldier charging over the top of the trench he was defending on Goose Down in the Falkland Islands. It was the last shot he would ever fire. Harris had cursed as he thrust with his bayonet and his men overran the enemy position. Harris never mentioned that he had been awarded the Military Cross for his actions. He liked Mike Renton. He recognised him as the type you could rely on in a tough spot.
“It’s probably stating the obvious, Mike, but the one that bothers me the most is the Tall Ships,” said Harris as he scanned the computer graphics on the screens that were scattered around the room. The others we can put more men on, and we already have a lot of experience through our planning and execution during the London Olympics. But people coming in on boats from all over Europe or in some cases from even further afield, that’s a new one. What can you tell us about it?”
Commander Mike Renton was typical of the sort that reached high places in Scotland Yard. He was seen as a bit of a maverick and not popular with his colleagues. Many saw him as a man who took too many risks. Most of them had so far paid off, but there were those who just waited for him to get it wrong. Bob Harris was not among them. He knew that if he needed some-one to think outside the box then Mike was the one most likely to come up with the break through idea.
“It was one of my men who was killed last night, Sir. He was shadowing Brandt Kessler. We’ve been watching him for some time as he has links with militant groups. He uses them to get inside information about local actions that are being orchestrated around human rights abuse and such issues.”
“What has that got to do with Tall Ships Mike, or is it just another of your stories,” quipped one of his distractors. There were many in the room.
“Look. One of our colleagues was killed last night. So let’s cut out the wise cracks, Gentlemen,” cautioned Commander Harris. “Carry on, Mike.”
“What we don’t understand is why and by whom officer Richards was shot. He was hit in the back of the neck and the bullet severed his spine. He must have died instantly. We found his weapon and it had not been fired. So my guess is that the bullets were not intended for him. It’s possible that they were after Brandt Kessler. We put out that bulletin to keep the media at bay.”
“So how does this link to the Tall Ships, Mike? And who is this Brandt Kessler”? Even Bob Harris was becoming a bit impatient.
“We’ve had a tip-off that one of the terrorist groups is planning something big when the ships arrive here from Falmouth in Cornwall, where the race starts. Kessler has been seen in Falmouth recently and he’s had meetings there and in Birmingham and Cardiff with leaders of some of the more extremist Muslim groups. We think that he’s acting outside Amnesty International and for some reason intends to carry out some sort of demonstration, with the help of the extremists, when the ships get to London.”
“But Kessler’s main area is corporate abuse of human rights,” interjected Ron Jacks, the officer responsible for the surveillance teams.
“I had two of my men covering that conference over at Greenwich the day Richards was killed. They told me that Kessler and a colleague of his were ranting on about that clothing factory business in Bangladesh. I can’t see how or why he would be trying to set something up on his own? And he’d be crazy to think that the Muslims would help him. It just doesn’t make sense. You’ve fallen off your perch on this one Mike.”
“I don’t know what his motives are but our inside contact at Amnesty told us that he is ‘persona non grata; as far as his bosses are concerned. I think that he has some personal grudge against someone or something at Canary Wharf and means to cause trouble under cover of the Tall Ships event. I believe that the group that targeted him last night is the one that he’s been talking with and they wanted to kill him because they intend to take over his plans for their own cause. They probably decided that he might get cold feet and tell the authorities what was likely to happen.” Mike Renton knew that there was a lot of supposition behind his assertions b
ut his hunches had paid off in the past.
“So your theory is that he was being duped or used and now they want to ditch him. Which groups do we have in the frame?” Asked Commander Harris.
“It’s puzzling but not our usual suspects. We are pretty sure that they are part of this new Al Qaeda faction, ISIS.”
He flicked the remote towards the screen where it displayed an organisation chart showing ISIS as the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant in Syria. Renton spoke to the screen as various police photographs of likely ISIS suspects living in the UK were shown.
“ISIS recruit from all over the world and have had a lot of success finding students and other young Muslims in Britain who seem willing to become Sunni Jihadists. They go out to Iraq, Somalia or Syria and learn all the terrorist skills. Then it’s easy for them to come back in to this country, as they hold British Passports, and take up ordinary lives until they are ready for action here. We know who most of them are and which ones have been seen with Kessler. What we don’t know is how far he has progressed with his plans and what they are. What we do know is that Brandt Kessler is a marked man. If we brought him in he might not talk and then we would just have to keep trying to infiltrate or get to the terrorists before they can execute their plan.”
“Is there any way that we can get close to Kessler?” Asked Commander Harris. “You’ve had him checked out, Ron. Is there anyone he spends time with that we have on our books?”
“He’s pretty much a loner, Sir. Married. No kids. One of his colleagues at Amnesty is Owen James, a known hothead who was arrested for attacking a police officer a few years back. And we have a report from the local police that Kessler was treated for a hand injury at the Royal London Hospital last night after the shooting at Canary Wharf. He’d been at the Greenwich conference and then he was seen drinking at a pub with a Professor Ralph Chalmers. He was the one that’s reported to have tried to help Officer Richards after he was shot.”
“I recognise that name,” Mike Renton interjected. “Some of my blokes came across him in that business with that Italian that Colonel Stigart from MI6 was involved with. The Colonel said he was thinking of recruiting Chalmers into his outfit.”
“Alright we seem to have got somewhere in all this. Mike why don’t you give Colonel Stigart a ring. And touch base with the boys in MI5 first. We don’t want to ruffle anyone’s feathers in ‘the establishment’. So don’t even think of bypassing the system, Mike. And that’s an order. If this Chalmers can be enlisted to find out what Kessler is up to, then that could be the breakthrough we need. Time’s not on our side, Mike, so make this a priority if you will.”
Renton just grunted. It seemed that everything was a priority nowadays. But he recognised the tension in his boss’s voice and knew that his next action would be to contact Colonel Stigart and get this Chalmers on board. He was not looking forward to it. He had a natural aversion to academics and other civilians when it involved seeking their collaboration in what he considered to be police business.
*****
“Gypsy Hill campus was at its best in the summer. Ralph had his office window open and could hear the squirrels squawking as they scurried around among the roots of the azalea bushes looking for the nuts that they had buried during the autumn. A breeze rustled in the tall pines and even the sound of student chatter as they moved between classes seemed natural. His secretary, Janice knocked on the door and came in with afternoon tea. Most of the other secretaries found Janice’s behaviour towards Ralph both peculiar and objectionable. They saw themselves as administrators and not secretaries. Since word processing, email and the processing of records had been allocated to the computer, academic staff now did 80 or 90 percent of the work that used to be within the purview of the secretaries. Making someone’s coffee or tea had been deleted from their job description. That meant that they spent almost all of their time as an extension to central administration. The record keeping had grown like Topsy. It just got bigger and bigger. Janice was ‘old school’. She somehow managed her new duties without breaking the traditions that she viewed as essential to her role as Ralph’s assistant. Ralph never asked her to provide those little extras, of course. She did them because she liked him and because it suited her to feel that it kept up the standards.
“The Dean asked if you could see him this afternoon, Professor Chalmers. Shall I tell his secretary when you are free?”
Ralph knew that Janice protected both his status and her own within the school by ensuring that anyone who wanted his time or attention must go through her to do so.
“That’s okay, Janice I’ll go along when I’ve finished these corrections for my publisher. I expect that Dean Granger wants to know how the conference at Greenwich went.”
“I heard on the radio about the shooting over there, and that poor officer who was killed. I was quite worried about you. Everyone was. Were you actually shot?”
Ralph also knew that Janice liked to hold court with the other secretaries when she did her rounds to check out the latest gossip. So much as he prided himself on his honesty, sometimes he held back just a little so that his activities would not finish up as grist for the gossip mill.
“No, nothing quite so glamourous. It was just a piece of tile that must have chipped off the wall when the bullet ricocheted. The doctor just put in a small stitch for cosmetic reasons. He said it wouldn’t even be noticeable in a week. But thanks for asking.”
“Those terrorist groups are everywhere. It’s a fine thing when one can’t even go around London without having to worry about some catastrophe or other happening. I just hope that these young people that we are educating here appreciate decency and democracy for what it is. Perhaps some of the foreign students will go home and help to bring about some changes in their own countries once they’ve had a taste of what it’s like to live in a civilized country.”
Janice had views that nowadays would be classified as racist. Ralph smiled as he wondered how she would reconcile her view of England as the model of civility with the methods the British had used when they dealt with Gandhi, or the Mau Mau in Kenya, or a host of similar incidents over the past 100 years. Britain certainly was in no position to throw the proverbial stones in any glass house. He went along to the Dean’s office. Granger’s secretary, Margaret, said he was free, and gestured towards his office door.
“Come in, Ralph. I heard from my counterpart at Greenwich and it looks as though we are all set for a deal. We want to set up a joint Masters Programme and share resources on a series of activities aimed at the big corporations around Canary Wharf. So well done. How’s the cheek, anyhow? It looks a bit painful.”
“It’s fine. Just a scratch.”
“What on earth was that all about, anyhow, Ralph? I spoke to Brandt Kessler this morning and he says it was a near thing.”
“We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have happened to anyone, anywhere.”
Ralph said nothing about the conversation he had had with Brandt or about the fears he had expressed about being targeted by a mafia type mob because of his campaign over Rana Plaza in Bangladesh.
“Well, it’s water under the bridge now anyhow. But I’ve something I want to run past you, Ralph.”
Granger had a way of moving on when he had lost interest in someone or something. It was a fairly common style that people adopted when they had difficulty focusing on more than one thing at a time.
“The VC called a meeting of the Deans last week. It seems that he’d been at the Annual Conference of University VC’s and they raised a general concern. By the way this is off the record, Ralph.” Ralph was always amused when people referred to something as being off the record. If it was off the record, then why say it at all. If you were meant to keep something in confidence, then the minute you told anyone else it was bound to spread around like butter on hot toast. But if whatever the Dean had to say did get out, it would not be through him. So he was prepared to play the game.
“Of cou
rse,” he replied.
“Well it seems that the authorities are asking Universities to prepare a list of students who are likely to be or have been recruited into ISIS. You are familiar with them, I presume?”
“Yes, of course, at least I know what I’ve read about them in the papers and seen on the news. But presumably we’ve refused their request?”
“Well yes and no.”
“What do you mean, by yes and no?”
“The conference agreed to submit the names of all those students who have taken a ‘gap year’ and to tell them which ones have failed to continue their studies afterwards.”
“But surely that’s an invasion of privacy, and under the Freedom of Information or the Data Protection Act we’re obliged to tell the individuals involved what information is being requested and by whom. I think they have to then give their approval before it can be released.”
“Look Ralph, I’m not asking for your barrack room legal advice on this. Just listen and hear me out,” the Dean said in an annoyed tone.
On the one hand, Ralph was shocked by what he had just heard. But he was also conscious that the Powers that Be were quite capable of ignoring the law when it suited, if they thought that they could get away with it. No doubt this whole business had been mooted at a high level in government, and if any of the universities refused to cooperate then they would parade out statutes and laws that supported their position that the information they sought was ‘in the interest of national security’. We aren’t quite a police state yet, but we’re getting closer by the day, he mused.
“So the VC asked me to appoint someone in the school to take this one on and I put your name forward. And before you raise any objections, let me tell you that it’s because of the sensitive nature of all of this and your ability to be fair and have integrity that I chose you to take this one on.”
Murder at Canary Wharf (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 8) Page 3
