TARGET BRITAIN: a political thriller

by Owen Bennett-Jones

  It wasn’t until two minutes before the appointed hour that anything moved. Then Jaz heard something and he tensed up, alert and straining to see. A faint shadow moved. It wasn’t where the money was going to be dropped but it was close. Then he saw first the nose and, a moment later, the head of a fox, testing the air as it moved, its ears pricked up, alert and twitching at every sound.

  Jaz’s shoulders slumped as he relaxed. But his own movements as he had watched the fox seemed to have disturbed something behind him. He caught a whiff of stale urine and looked back wondering whether there was another fox when suddenly the bushes became full of movement. A cold clammy hand reached out and grasped at his face. Confused, Jaz tried to take in what was happening. But it was incomprehensible. There was shouting now too as the fingers of his attacker clawed at his nose. Jaz rolled onto his back and with his knee now in the air above his head, jabbed it back with all the strength he could find.

  Chapter Eleven

  “The arrangements for bulk clinical waste handling were observed in 26 UK hospitals. Storage of waste carts in areas freely accessible to the public, and failure to lock individual carts was common.” -- Standards of clinical waste management in UK hospitals, J.I. Blenkharn, December 2005

  23:00, 22nd December, Hyde Park, London

  The second time Jaz forced his knee back it connected with something solid and the fingers on his face released their grip. He breathed out trying to work out what was happening. Then the ground behind him started moving.

  Jaz twisted over and saw a man with thick grey stubble on his face. Most of his teeth were missing and those that remained stuck out at alarming angles. The stench of old piss now overwhelmed him.

  The man felt the ground all around him until he located an old can of Special Brew. He put it to his lips and tilted back his head in the hope of some dregs.

  Jaz knelt back. “What the …?”

  “Ye fucking sat on meself.”

  Before he replied Jaz caught sight of something in the corner of his eye, almost behind him and to his left. It was by the tree where the money was going to be dropped.

  “Just don’t move,” Jaz said to the tramp. And turning to look at him: “Alright?”

  “Ay.” But by then Jaz was on his feet straining to see if anything had been left under the designated tree. He caught a glimpse of a figure moving away, deep into the park.

  It all happened so fast. When Jaz later tried to piece together the sequence of events he reckoned it was just after he saw the man disappearing that the police car, headlights on beam, came into view. Confusingly, it was within the park, on one of the tarmac tracks. It was heading straight for Jaz and the tramp.

  “It’s the peelers. Looking for the likes o’ meself. Look what ye fucking done.”

  Lifting the tramp by his clothing, Jaz forced him to stand and thrust him staggering towards the car. The man tripped towards the headlights tripping and swearing.

  Hoping that would buy him at least a few seconds, Jaz ran over to the tree and saw a shadow by one of the roots. Bending over on the move like a rugby player, he scooped up the package and veered towards the fence.

  The police were out of the car now and, ignoring the tramp, chased after him.

  “Stop! Police! Stop there!”

  Jaz looked back and saw that one, fitter than the other, was running hard, closing the gap.

  But his lead was too great. Jaz leapt over the fence, careered over the pavement and, without slowing, ran across the oncoming traffic. Some of the cars swerved and honked but as he reached the other side he looked back to see one of the policemen out of breath leaning on the fence. The other was talking to the tramp. Jaz looked for a crowd of people into which he could disappear. Having found a group he walked with them wondering how long he would have to leave it before going back to retrieve his bike. He’d be needing it.

  Back in the park the drunk was complaining bitterly to the policeman. “Laddies and lassies these days. Reckon they can kip anyplace.”

  *****

  Within five minutes of getting back to his flat Jaz was in a deep sleep. But the jet lag soon kicked in and by six he was wide-awake and out on the street. He knew exactly what he wanted to do.

  The major had taught him the trick. And after the scares at Heathrow and Hyde Park, Jaz reckoned the time had come to try it.

  He passed the derelict church building at the end of Webber Street. It was boarded up, its windows covered in slabs of rain-stained chipboard. Just before he’d left for Pakistan, the police had raided the basement and found some Polish drunks apparently unaware that one of their group had died and was decomposing under some blankets right beside them. It was drizzling as he made his way to the nearest phone booth.

  He produced a blank piece of paper from his pocket and pretending to read it, hit the phone’s number pad. He then made movements as if he were putting money in the slot, pretended to speak and to listen for a few seconds and hung up. He squashed the paper into a ball, dropped it to the ground, left the phone, walked 200 yards down the road and turned into a side street. As soon as he rounded the corner, he doubled back and leant against the wall peeking back at the phone booth to await developments.

  “It’s just irresistible,” the major had told him. “Anyone following you will not be able to help themselves from going to retrieve that bit of paper. Just give it 10 minutes. You’ll see.” He gave it 20. Nobody came.

  *****

  The email about the meeting had come late in the evening and since Natasha’s MI6 Blackberry wasn’t yet hooked into the MI5 internal messaging system, she would never even have known about it if Monty hadn’t called her at the hotel. She, in turn, called the agency to ask the nanny to arrive two hours earlier than arranged. And at precisely half past six there was a knock on the door.

  Natasha, already awake and feeding Rosie, went to answer it.

  “Oh. No thanks. Can you come back later?” Natasha said shutting the door.

  But before she could close it: “Mrs Knight?”

  Confused Natasha opened the door again. And then she realised. It was the nanny. In uniform.

  “I am so sorry,” Natasha said putting her hand to her mouth. “I thought ...”

  The nanny, her mouth set firm: “You said six thirty I think.”

  “I did. I did. Thank you so much for coming.” Natasha put out her hand. “Natasha.”

  The girl shook it: “Miss Coatesworth.”

  “Well come in, come in.”

  And as she surveyed the scene through Miss Coatesworth’s eyes, Natasha groaned. Unironed clothes lay all over the bed. Because of the cot it was almost impossible to see any of the carpet.

  Natasha tried to tidy up. “It’s a rather short notice thing, I’m afraid. Problem at work.”

  Seeing that she was making no headway, Natasha tried another tack. “Meet Rosie.”

  Rosie started crying. But at least now Miss Coatesworth was on familiar territory.

  “The longer you stay the more she will cry,” she said. “And you’ll be needing a shower. We’ll go down to the lobby, Rosie, and see what’s happening shall we? Has she had her breakfast?”

  “Yes, just finished.”

  As the girl left the room with Rosie in her arms Natasha had surprised herself by finding the uniform strangely reassuring. And she surprised herself even more by reaching Thames House on time, looking just about presentable.

  *****

  The director general of MI5 was standing at his office window on the sixth floor of Thames House, his hands clasped behind his back, looking over the river. To his left commuters raced past the Houses of Parliament. Big Ben was striking eight. On the far bank he saw Lambeth Palace and not for the first time wondered whether he would have been better off joining the church after university. His atheism might have counted against him, even in the Church of England, but the accommodation was so much better and the competition for jobs, he suspected, rather less cut-throat. Bishop Daniel Last, he mused
. What might have been.

  He heard a cough behind him. The sort of cough that meant, “Having told us to be here this early please don’t keep us waiting.” He turned, surveyed the oblong mahogany table and waited for the chatter to subside.

  There were nine people. Strictly speaking only three of them came from MI5: Craig, and the heads of Counter Espionage and Counter Subversion. The fourth person at the meeting, the head of the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre, ran a separate outfit, but as he worked in Thames House and was ultimately answerable to the DG, he was to all intents and purposes on the MI5 payroll too. The outsiders were Keane from MI6, and the deputy head of the police’s Counter Terrorism Command. Apart from a minute-taker sitting behind the DG, the only other two people in the room were Natasha and Monty, invited to support Keane and Craig respectively. They sat away from the table, on seats against the wall.

  The DG sat down. “Good morning gentlemen …” and then looking at Natasha … “ladies. What do we know?” He looked at Craig.

  “That according to a call from central Baluchistan to Islamabad made on ...” he looked down at his papers, shuffled through and held up one sheet, “... on 20 October someone called Yasir was due to return to London yesterday.” He looked at the sheet paper again and corrected himself. “That was when he was, quote, ‘going back to London’.”

  As he put down the sheet of paper the DG intervened. “Which is a problem because ...?”

  Craig raised his head and looked at Natasha. “Well since we are lucky enough to have Ms Knight here, perhaps we should hear it from the horse’s mouth so to speak.”

  “Why not?” the DG said in a tone that suggested he could think of lots of reasons. Monty noticed Keane frowning.

  Natasha, who had been sitting with both hands clasped behind her neck now sat up straight and moved her chair forward a couple inches. “Some of you don’t know me so perhaps I should introduce myself. Natasha Knight, MI6, normally based in Peshawar. The call was made in Chamak. Apparently by a colonel …”

  “What sort of colonel?”

  “Sir?”

  “I mean was he Pakistani?”

  “We think so yes. We have a first name. The High Commission is working on it.”

  The DG inclined his head to indicate she could pick up where she had left off.

  “The call came from central Baluchistan. I was there last week,” Natasha said, pausing to let the others contemplate that the furthest they had been over the last seven days was well within the M25. “I have evidence that a retired ISI officer was also in Chamak and I came across a sheet of paper in Chamak with a list. CCTV, ANPR, DNA, MOBILE and COMPUTER.”

  “Where was the sheet of paper?” the DG asked.

  “It was by someone’s bed.” Natasha watched eight pairs of male eyes viewed her with renewed interest. “Any questions on that?” she dared them with a poised smile. The eyes changed their focus to the middle distance.

  The DG again: “But he didn’t arrive?”

  “We checked flight lists from all Pakistani cities and the Gulf and stopped young males at Manchester and Heathrow. Nothing,” said Craig.

  “Why just Pakistan and the Gulf?” the DG asked. Sensing trouble Craig looked at Monty as if it was for him to reply. The faintest twitch played on Keane’s mouth as he enjoyed Craig’s discomfort.

  “Seemed to be the most likely places he would use,” Monty said.

  Without warning Natasha put her hand up in the air like a school child wanting to speak. Without waiting for permission she blurted out: “We’ve been looking for Yasir. Y-A-S-I-R. But we only have the CIA’s word for it. It was in the transcript, but God knows who transcribed the conversation. Could be ‘Yaseer’ with a double ‘e’.” She recalled the Google search. “Or Jasir with a ‘J’.”

  The DG looked at Monty for confirmation. He shrugged his shoulders in acceptance of the possibility.

  “So search J’s. And double e’s. And for all incoming flights yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that if need be. Anything else?”

  “Could you ask IT to prioritise it?” Monty asked.

  “How many Priority Ones have are we running today?” Priority One. Immediate threat to life.

  “Five,” said Craig.

  The DG shook his head. “How the hell are we supposed …?” But he did not complete the thought. They’d all heard it before. “And at Christmas of all times.”

  The head of JTAC raised a pencil to indicate he wanted to speak. “I am not inclined to recommend the home secretary put up the threat level. We are currently on ‘substantial’ – an attack is a strong possibility. Next up is ‘severe’ meaning attack is highly likely. And we are not there yet.”

  The DG shrugged his shoulders: “Make it Priority One. Call people in from home if you have to.” And as they were getting up to leave he added: “I don’t like the sound of that list. CCTV, ANPR and so on. Are there any links at all to existing investigations?”

  “Not yet,” said Monty.

  “Still it speaks of sophistication. A new level. Anything you find, tell me.”

  Monty put his hand on Natasha’s back to guide her through the door. “Bedside table, eh? I’ve always wondered about how far you MI6 girls ...”

  “Don’t go there,” Natasha cut him off. But she was smiling.

  *****

  It was the bomb-making day. The major had said he should make 12. Each in a two litre plastic bottle, detonator and alarm clock attached.

  But first Jaz had business to attend to. He peeled off thirty £50.00 notes from the cash he had picked up in Hyde Park and put it a pocket. In another pocket he stuffed more cash for the remaining supplies.

  By nine he was out of his flat again and knocking on a door on the first floor of the block. A woman answered. She was wearing a high necked, baggy shirt reaching down to her thighs and jeans sprinkled with silver glitter.

  “Hi – is he in?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Jaz. From the third floor.” He pointed towards his flat.

  Half shutting the door, she went back indoors. Jaz stamped his feet to keep out the cold. His breath came out as mist.

  “Hallo stranger.” The landlord arrived with tousled, greasy hair surrounding a bald patch. His suit was unbuttoned revealing a vest. Jaz could hear his wife shouting at a dog inside the flat.

  “Yeah. A death in the family.”

  “Thought you done a bloody runner. I was about to let your flat out.”

  “Look I’m sorry it’s late. But I have the rent. For October, November and this month. £1500.”

  Jaz took the money from his pocket and handed it over. The landlord started counting.

  “Rich man was it?”

  Jaz looked at him uncertain.

  “The one who died. Leave you a little nest egg?”

  “Oh yeah. No not really. Well ...”

  The landlord put up his hand: “Not my business. As long as you pay, you’re OK with me. But next time you’re late, you’re out. Got it?”

  “Yeah. Got it.” As Jaz moved away he could hear the click of the latch on the man’s door.

  He’d decided against doing the last bits of shopping locally. He’d use his bike and head further east to Southwark. The shopkeepers there were more used to recent immigrants including Pakistani men who, reluctant to let their women folk out, often did their shopping for them.

  Ten minutes later he was pedalling hard, the cold air rushing past his face. He passed the fish and chip shop in Waterloo Street used every night by the cab drivers. He remembered the evening he had tried to join them saying he drove a cab too. But when he’d said it was a minicab they’d turned their backs and he’d eaten alone and watched crowded tables full of laughter and noisy complaints about road works. He’d never gone back.

  He headed left at Elephant and Castle and went past a charity shop, its window crammed with thick glass ashtrays and bowls, most of them in various shades of brown. Jaz wondered whether it might h
ave one of the items that bothered him most: an alarm clock. Maybe, he thought, but it would be better to go to a Dixons and use the story he had come up with: he was running a youth group and was sick of the boys and girls always arriving late. It was his Christmas present to them. An alarm clock each. Give them a bit of a laugh. And get them out of bed.

  *****

  It was ten o’clock and Oliver Craig had made it be clear he would not be postponing his weekly management seminar. “The urgent,” he had told Monty, “must not crowd out the important.” Natasha was welcome too, he’d said. In fact it would be good to have her there. Cross-fertilisation and all that. By the time they arrived Craig had already begun, and finding a couple of spare places at the back, they sat next to Anderson, a secondee from GCHQ.

  “Today I am sharing with you the future direction of the Counter Terrorism Department. The vision is to improve our culture, structure and processes to enable them to become even more global. That’s why I’m calling this interactive session ‘Becoming more global’.”

  Craig was standing in front of about 25 people seated in rows. Some were trying to scan paperwork whilst feigning interest. The wall behind him was covered with an illuminated chart filled with various Venn diagrams and arrows. Underneath was the legend: INTER DEPARTMENTAL FLOW CHART.

  “At my recent staff sessions I shared my ambition for Global Counter Terrorism to flourish as a truly multi-disciplinary, cross-departmental, global ideas factory,” Craig said. “In particular, I talked about what I call ‘cross-over’, finding and then exploiting any overlaps that exist between different parts of the security services. There are many potential cross-over opportunities.”

  Anderson leant over towards Monty: “It’s a deep and wonderful cipher,” he whispered.

  “I will be holding hour-long creative synergy sessions here in Thames House to share thinking, test ideas and seek further inspiration from colleagues about becoming more global.”