TARGET BRITAIN: a political thriller

by Owen Bennett-Jones

  “You worked with the sheikh in Kashmir?”

  “You know I did,” the major said.

  “And what sort of a man did you find him to be?”

  The major looked at the servants but figured there was nothing he had to say that, if passed on, would offend the sheikh. “Brave. But he’s Baluch so that was no surprise.”

  “Resourceful?”

  “Yes, definitely, Allah be praised.” The major tightened his eyelids as he thought back to their time in Kashmir. “No doubt of that. Could think on his feet.”

  “Good judge of men?”

  “He led those boys to their deaths. And they didn’t complain.”

  “So?”

  “So?”

  “So trust him. If the sheikh says Ravi is OK, that’s good enough for me.”

  The servant walked in with the poached eggs and with a flourish of his napkin placed them in front of the colonel. The colonel inspected them and saw some of the albumen was still translucent.

  “I said four ...” But the servant, perhaps sensing trouble, was already disappearing through the door.

  “Any problem colonel?” The sheikh was entering the room. As usual he was the last to arrive.

  The colonel was tempted to hold forth on the theme of how to poach an egg. He had given the matter much thought over the years and was even able to make a mental calculation adjusting the cooking time according to his altitude. But he wondered what would happen to the cook if he complained. “No, no. All’s well.”

  The three men fell into a silence broken eventually by the major.

  “How difficult would it be to get Jaz’s phone to London?” he asked.

  “Could be there tomorrow. Why? I thought we agreed it was a security risk.”

  “What would happen if its signal came up from let’s say a pub? What would the Brits do?”

  The colonel, trying to find parts of the egg that were cooked, looked on as the two men talked.

  “They would surround the pub and look for him.”

  “And what would the drinkers say. The people inside?”

  “They’d complain. But not much I should think,” The sheikh said slightly tersely, irritated at being taken through the scenario as if he were a schoolboy.

  “But what if you put it in Finsbury Park Mosque?” the major asked.

  The sheikh looked more interested now and spoke more thoughtfully. “If the police went there the people would react for sure. They’d complain of victimisation. The media would be all over it.” He was turning to the colonel when the major spoke again.

  “Actually we could do better than that,” he said.

  The sheikh: “How do you mean?”

  “Look at it from the police’s point of view.”

  Unwilling to play another game of being led to the correct answer the sheikh said: “Come on Major. Spit it out.”

  “The people the police most want on their side are the normal Muslims. The mainstream. They don’t go to Finsbury Park Mosque. They go to their local mosque and the most important ones, the most influential go to Regent’s Park Mosque. Why not put it there?”

  The colonel raised his eyebrows acknowledging the cleverness of the idea.

  “Very good Major,” the sheikh said loading his plate with food. “That’s jiu jitsu. Very good indeed.” He turned to one of the servants. “Get me Mohammed Altaf. Now!”

  *****

  According to the timetable agreed with the major, and approved by the sheikh, Jaz had a lot of tasks to complete before he returned to sleep in his flat and they would take all day. That he would be caught on CCTV at Heathrow was inevitable. But what about travelling into London? Heathrow Express, tube, bus or taxi? They’d reached the conclusion that taxis were the worst and the others all as bad as each other. It made no difference.

  As he sat on the tube heading into London he tried to gather his thoughts. He had been so careful. They had all been so careful. That was the whole idea. Security above everything else. The sheikh, the major, the colonel and Ravi. Just four of them. What’s more, he clearly could trust them because otherwise he’d be in a cell right now. He hadn’t even done anything yet. So far it was just talk. He worked through alternative possibilities. The authorities had a tip-off about drugs. They were looking for a jihadi. They were targeting whole flights on a random basis. Whatever. Something.

  He left the tube at Holborn: collar up, eyes down. Kneeling down on the pavement looking away from the station’s CCTV he opened the bag that he had put in the plane’s hold, took out the empty rucksack and put it on his back. He would need it for the food. For the next six days and then for three weeks after that. With a day or two’s supply in reserve.

  Just as Ravi had told him, there was a Sainsbury’s on Kingsway right across the road. Jaz started with the fluids putting some 2 litre Coke bottles in the trolley. They would also do for the bombs. Next, the solids. He trawled the shelves looking for anything that did not need cooking and which wouldn’t perish and found biscuits, vacuum-packed meat, tinned tuna and chocolate. He also took the chance to buy some of the things he was due to buy tomorrow: nail polish remover, flour and glue. Having paid cash at the checkout, Jaz packed the rucksack, wrapping the bottles in a red chequered keffiyeh to protect them and, surprised by its weight, heaved it onto his back. He needed just five more items: a bike with panniers from a shop Ravi had found on a street parallel to Kingsway, a hand drill, a pair of pliers, a can of white spray paint and a pay-as-you go mobile phone. By the time he reached Waterloo Bridge three hours later, he had all four.

  He was near his flat now. It was located in Quentin House, a ’30s brick-built tenement block with balustraded balconies on each of its three floors. Avoiding Webber Road, where Quentin House was located, he found the car two streets away, where he had left it nearly two months before. He brushed away the leaves that had caught behind the windscreen wipers, let down the back seat, loaded the luggage including the bike and sat in the front seat taking a deep breath. He just prayed to God the battery was still charged. It was. Just. With a whine the engine turned over and sparked into life and he was on his way.

  They always knew the next decision involved a balance of risk. Jaz needed to change the number plates and the major had at first favoured going to some lock ups or a quiet street nearby and doing it there. As soon as possible. The danger was that someone might see him and report him for stealing a car. The alternative was to drive out of the city, accepting that the journey would be recorded on ANPR. Once out of the built up areas he could find a country lane and make the switch unobserved.

  The major eventually decided on the countryside option. He reckoned they wouldn’t be searching for him on ANPR at this point. Later on they might go through the back-data, but by that time he would be using different plates.

  He eased the car away from the pavement and headed for Birmingham on the A roads. So far, so bloody good. Jaz allowed himself a smile. He was on track.

  He took his chances when they came. He passed a small garage with a sign advertising that it could do MOTs. Confident that they would have no CCTV in such a remote place he decided to buy the car batteries he’d need there. He bought two. Ten miles later as he drove through a village he saw a hairdresser – Top Cut - about to close. The owner was at the door locking up.

  Jaz stopped the car right beside her. She looked startled.

  “Happy Christmas,” Jaz said.

  “Happy Christmas,” she replied a bit reassured. She was wearing a bright red puffa jacket and held a bottle of wine in her hands.

  “Just before you close I was wondering if you had any hair dye.”

  “Hair dye? Well, yes.”

  “It’s just that some mates at work and me have a bet on that we’ll all have blond hair by the time we are back in the office after New Year.”

  “Right,” she smiled. “Raising money for charity?” Her hand was still on the key to the door as if she was uncertain whether to go back in or not.

&
nbsp; “Yeah. For the British soldiers abroad. You know. The injured ones.”

  She looked a bit surprised. “Well, you’ll have to buy it quick if you want it before Christmas.”

  “Yeah. There are four of us.” He was going to say six but at the last minute decided to play safe with four. And then regretted it: “One of them has long hair.”

  “All boys no doubt!” the woman laughed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well that will be four bottles then.”

  “Make it five just in case we mess it up. Or if someone else wants to do it. ” She looked back to indicate that she’d heard, pushed on the door and then came back out carrying the bottles under her arm.

  “It’s 25 pounds.”

  Jaz found the money and held it though the window.

  “You take the bottles,” she said, adding as she handed them over, “Happy Christmas. Hope the bet goes well.”

  “And you. Thanks.” He drove off, closed the window and made a yelping noise. Still on track. In fact, ahead of schedule.

  They had worked out his destination – a wood on raised ground 20 miles north of Birmingham - using an online Ordnance Survey Map. It was isolated and because of its height, they presumed, had a view. The sat nav showed that he was just a mile away now and Jaz started looking for trees. They were to his left, a dark mass surrounded by grassy fields and Jaz slowed, trying to find somewhere to park. Ten minutes later he was climbing a fence.

  It was then he heard the dog.

  It was moving fast on the hard ground, barking in excitement at having picked up Jaz’s scent. He heard the owner: “Here! Come on! Come here!” The dog didn’t stop.

  Jaz burst into life. Ripping the rucksack off his back he ran up the field and then 20 yards into the wood. Hang it high, the colonel had advised or something will try to eat it. His eyes darted left and right as he looked for a suitable branch. The dog sounded closer now and Jaz fumbled as he tried to undo the back straps of the rucksack so that he could attach it to something. Jaz had never believed the idea that British dogs weren’t rabid. He could see the dog now, its teeth reflected in the moonlight, saliva dripping from its mouth. He gave up on the strap, undid the rucksack itself and reached for one of the packets of cold meat. With the dog just feet away and preparing to launch itself, Jaz tore at the plastic packaging. Unable to open it he let out a groan of frustration and holding the packet in both hands thrust it onto a dead branch on the ground beside him. At last the plastic tore and hopeful the dog would pick up the scent he hurled the packet of food at the animal, running back as he did so. The dog stopped in its tracks uncertain what to do. And then Jaz saw its nose twitch. The animal leapt on the packet ripping the plastic apart with its mouth and paws.

  Taking his chance Jaz undid one of the back straps. He was working better now, more fluently. He reckoned he would have a good two minutes before the dog would separate the meat from the plastic.

  As the strap came free, Jaz moved another 20 yards into the wood and found a conifer. It provided much better cover. Pushing the branches apart he thrust his way towards the trunk and, reaching up, strapped the rucksack to the highest branch he could manage. As he moved away from the tree his hands were sticky with sap and smelt of pine. He rubbed his palm on his trousers to wipe it off.

  The owner was at the wall now. “Come here boy, come here!”

  He’d think the animal was chasing a hare, Jaz thought, recalling his own hunting expeditions as a boy. Leave them to it. Skirting left, he headed for the field several hundred yards away from both the dog and its owner, slid over the stone wall and keeping low, sprinted back to the car.

  By the time he reached it he was breathing hard. Sitting in the front seat, steam from his breath clouding the windscreen, he opened the windows so that he could hear if anyone was approaching. But apart from the breeze passing through the leafless branches there was nothing. Time to switch number plates he thought. Better safe than sorry.

  *****

  Rosie was awake now. Natasha held her, leant against the cot and looked in the mirror. God, she looked so, so tired. And with Rosie awake there was no chance of a shower. She edged her way around the tiny room, closed the curtains and, lying down on the bed with Rosie at her side, fell to sleep.

  *****

  Jaz had never felt so awake in his life. He was approaching the village of Sindlesham in Berkshire when he saw how seriously the National Grid’s control centre was defended. He slowed down so he could take in the floodlit entrance area. There were 15-foot high remotely controlled metal gates and then beyond them, steel barriers, cameras and, he noticed, not a single sign to indicate what facility was being protected.

  He kept driving without stopping and looked for the pub that he reckoned should be half a mile ahead on the right. And there it was. The Walter Arms. Ravi had shown them a National Grid internal email saying there would be a Christmas party there. A couple of outdoor bulbs attached to the walls lit up its Victorian red brick. Despite the weather there were still wooden tables outside the front door. One had a small, plastic statue of Father Christmas holding a brown sack over his shoulder. The way in was through a sharply roofed small lobby, rather like the entrance to a church and Jaz presumed it had CCTV but, for once, wasn’t too bothered. After all, the guilt factor should mean that none of the people who picked up the memory sticks would be rushing to own up.

  The bar itself, decorated with tinsel, was quiet, but to the left Jaz could see a middle-aged man with a distended stomach pressed tight against his shirt in intense conversation with a woman five or ten years younger than him. On the table in front of them were two empty glasses and a nearly finished bottle of red wine. On the other side there was a group of four men, perhaps some of the ones he was after, drinking beer.

  “What can I get you?”

  Jaz couldn’t place the accent. Eastern Europe maybe.

  “Orange juice, please”

  He took the drink to a corner table and wondered how long he could leave it before going to the gents. Within a minute and a half he’d run out of patience and made his move.

  The gents was more than he could have hoped for. Shelves everywhere. Over the toilet, above the soap dispenser and by the windowsill too. Scattering a couple of the memory sticks on each of the surfaces, Jaz paused only to look at a poster on the wall explaining that The Walter Arms was named after Sir Thomas Walter, founder of the London Times. The information meant nothing to him. He stepped back into the bar and out of the door. Next stop, Hyde Park.

  *****

  Natasha woke when he knocked.

  Lifting herself from the bed, trying not to disturb Rosie, she moved to the door, opened it an inch and saw Monty. Stay calm, she told herself; calm and composed. She could be working with this man for weeks.

  “Sorry, I was asleep.” How come people without children could never understand?

  Monty stood with plastic bags in his hands and what he hoped was a winning smile.

  “No. I am sorry to wake you but you must be hungry. I have a picnic supper. Juice as well as wine. All from Fortnum’s. And I rather need some help re Yasir.”

  At last he had her attention.

  “What help?”

  “Take your time. I’ll be back in 10 minutes. If that’s OK. No need to wake ...” his rising intonation hung in the air.

  “Rosie.”

  “Yes, Rosie. I called my sister by the way. Children everywhere. House full of them. She would be very glad to help.”

  “Look. I can cope.”

  “Understood. Just an offer. Remains on the table. The sister is in fact quite safe. But understood.”

  She watched him turn away and start to walk down the corridor and wondered why she hadn’t already shut the door.

  But she hadn’t. “Oh for God’s sake I am awake now. Tell me what’s happening,” she said. “Have you anything on Yasir at all?”

  *****

  He was cycling to Hyde Park. The major had told him it would b
e closed but that the fence was low and should present no difficulty.

  London was full of light. Jaz passed a brass band playing carols, a saxophone case in front of them filled with coins. He smelt roasting chestnuts and, looking for the source, saw a man huddled over a brazier. Even this late in the evening the pavements were packed with shoppers so preoccupied with their last minute presents they barely noticed the decorations around them. But the children, their eyes looking upwards, saw little else. There were so many coloured lights they formed a blanket above the roads obscuring the sky and seemed to pour down the sides of the shops almost to the pavement.

  Jaz grimaced. He knew more than ever now that he would never be part of all the hypocrisy. The wealth, the blinkered, sweet grins of children built on murder and mayhem abroad. There was no way back.

  As he approached Hyde Park he found a railing to attach his bike to, scaled the fence and tried to find his bearings. Using Google Earth he and Ravi had identified the precise tree where the money would be left. The starting point was the statue of Achilles. The sheikh had made the selection and, Jaz had noticed, for some reason seemed amused by it. But Jaz was happy enough: with its huge human figure carrying a shield aloft in the air, it should be easy to find.

  Moving well within the park now, Jaz saw Achilles, worked out the angles and saw the tree he had first looked at on a computer screen thousands of miles away. The money drop was not due for over 30 minutes and he hung back adapting to his environment, consciously slowing down. Then with three minutes to go he headed to some shrubs for a front-row seat.

  Above him the stars, duller here than in Baluchistan, filled the sky. Even though clouds obscured the moon there was enough ambient light for Jaz to see around him. Brittle branches brushed against his side, snapped and fell to the ground. The bark of a silver birch looked bright in the moonlight and beyond he could see an endless stream of red brake lights flowing past Hyde Park corner and up to Knightsbridge. Together their engines and tyres made a continuous low drone. Across the park he could see people skating, their gliding figures picked out by blue floodlights that coloured the ice, heightening the sense of cold. A massive perfectly symmetrical Christmas tree with white, red and yellow lights towered over the rink.