As he passed them keeping his eyes on the pavement, he saw what he was looking for: a collection of yellow wheelie bins. When Ravi had told him they would be there right by the road neither Jaz nor the major had believed him. Even the sheikh had, for once, doubted Ravi. But Ravi had held his ground and used Google Earth to back up his claim showing them lines of bins like Lego blocks totally unguarded and unsecured.
But then as the colonel had pointed out: “Who the hell wants to steal diseased organs? Couldn’t give them away I should think.”
Jaz moved closer. Each had a warning sign printed in a triangle: “Infectious Substance. Clinical Waste. No Metal Please.” Jaz wheeled away and headed for a doorway about 20 yards away that gave him a view of the wheelie bins. An empty old coffee cup and some leaves at the foot of the door suggested it was rarely, if ever, used and, looking up, Jaz saw a black and white sign NO ENTRANCE. Jaz leant against the concrete wall and waited.
Above him, at road level, he could see a woman moving from left to right pushing a pram. Her face was lined and Jaz wondered if she was the grandmother or the mother. Behind her there was an old man with a tattered, thin coat. But both were focused on the way ahead of them and didn’t look down towards the hospital. Next Jaz scanned the area around the bins but there was no one about. Presumably, he thought, that’s why they left them here in the first place. Not exactly the thing you would want at the front door. With a final check to see the coast was clear he lowered his chin into his shoulder blades and walked to the bins.
Within a few seconds he was there and taking a deep breath, he held the air in his lungs, and opened the yellow bin nearest to him. It was filled with heavy duty, slightly opaque plastic bags with sturdy green nylon clasps. As he lifted them out Jaz looked at the labels. Each one had the date written in felt pen. Surprised by just how many bags there were Jaz decided to take only the freshest ones from the last couple of days. And he couldn’t help speculating about what was inside. Out came a heavy bag full of glutinous, red material. Probably placenta he thought. But he wanted smaller ones too. They’d be easier to work with. One bag reminded him of the goats he had helped slaughter as a boy back at home. Bowel. Then a distended kidney and in separate bags two yellowing, swollen, livers. He delved deeper and came up with a mangled finger, so pale it was almost blue. Grimacing he put it in his rucksack slipping it between the soft tissue in the other bags. He had enough. More than enough. And it had been effortless. Only three minutes after he had started, he was back on his bike and heading back home.
Chapter Twelve
“I find them wives. It’s the best way to control them.” -- Saudi general describing how he de-radicalised former Guantanamo detainees, 2007
11:30, 23rd December, outside Thames House, London
“So do I tell ACSO or don’t I?” Monty had said he wanted some air. They were moving away from Thames House, approaching Vauxhall Bridge. Flurries of light snow spun in eddies behind the traffic.
“ACSO?” The upper reaches of the police hierarchy were well away from MI6 territory.
“Assistant Commissioner Specialist Operations. Head of Counter Terrorism Command. The man the press love to call the anti-terrorism tsar. He is the only one who can actually order an arrest.”
“Well call him and have them put Yaseer Ahmed into custody.”
“But we have nothing on him. Nothing.”
“Not your call. It’s Craig’s. If he persuades the police to do it then that’s his problem. And theirs. But not yours.”
They were leaning on the railings of Vauxhall Bridge looking at the Houses of Parliament floodlit in the gloom. The London Eye, decorated with Christmas lights, stood out brightly in the half-light. A seagull dipped low and landed on the water. A boat chugged upstream, a little island of light, filled with office workers on their Christmas party. What a nightmare thought Monty. Once you’re on board there really is no escape.
“But it is. Literally. My call. I have to phone ACSO. Come on Natasha, you know what happens. It wouldn’t be the first time. By the time the 10 o’clock news comes on we could have riots in East London.”
“But you can’t just ignore Craig.”
He stood straight and turned back towards Thames House. “You’re right. I can’t. Keep working on Jasir Khan and I’ll see if there really is anything untoward about Yaseer Ahmed and we’ll take it from there.”
“If you’re sure.” She was nervous for him, she realised. Which was crazy because it really was nothing to do with her.
“I’ll call ACSO,” he said, “and tell him to put SO10 on standby. I’ll tell Craig we are discussing the best time to mount the operation. That should give us an hour or two.”
They were back at the entrance now and Natasha looked up at the vast archway that led into Thames House. On one side there was a statue of Britannia and on the other one of St George and above both a Latin inscription. She read it out: “Imperii Dirige Civitatem.”
“Rulers Guide the People”, Monty pretended to translate. He had learnt it off by heart.
“Nearly,” Natasha laughed. “Actually it’s a sort of pun on the mottoes of the Cities of London and Westminster. Domine, Dirige nos: O Lord Direct Us and Custodi civitatem, Domine: Lord Guard the City. So, Imperii Dirige Civitatem: Direct the City of the Empire.”
“What do they teach you MI6 types at university?”
“I read fine art.”
She looked at Monty wondering what she thought of him. Tall, dark and handsome. Granted. Fit? Very, by the looks of it. Hygienic? Acceptably so. Steady? Yes. Too steady? Maybe. Too posh? Definitely. Spoken for? Probably. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
“Where did you go to school Monty?”
“Dorset.”
“Boarding school?”
“Yah,” he said, attempting self-deprecation.
“Aged?”
“Well seven I guess. But that was in Sussex.”
“You couldn’t have communicated with Pakistan then.”
”What?”
“Some repressed Islamist bureaucrat recently decided to purge all the ISPs and decreed there should be a block on the word sex. Pakistanis with relatives in Sussex have been complaining ever since. To no avail.”
Monty smiled, shaking his head.
“Emotionally damaged?”
“Sorry?”
“You Monty. Being rejected by your parents at the age of seven.”
“Gosh no. Picture of mental health.”
“Monty?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever washed one of your own shirts?”
His eyes narrowed as he tried to think back.
“Always had matron?”
“Um …”
“Enough said. Anyway none of my business.”
Unsure what she was thinking Monty tried to parry her questions:
“And where did you go to school Natasha?”
“A bog stand comp. In Essex. It was great.”
“I’m sure it was.” Despite his best efforts he didn’t sound convinced. “An Essex girl …”
She shot him a withering glance.
When they reached Monty’s office they found Shami putting something on his desk.
“Heathrow,” she explained. “Sent over by Special Branch.”
The pictures showing the two men at passport control had the times imprinted in orange at the bottom. They arrived, Natasha noticed, within half an hour of each other.
“Presumably Yaseer Khan was questioned by Customs. If he came from Karachi,” she said.
“Must have been. Or should have been,” Monty corrected himself. “But if nothing suspicious came up there won’t be a paper record. Should have CCTV though. For what it’s worth.”
“I’ll ask Shami.”
“And tell her to send Yaseer Khan’s picture to CTC. If we do arrest him it would be nice if they picked up the right bloke.”
Natasha was about to dial when the phone started ringing. She answered it
and then waved at Monty. “Indian Defence Attaché,” she said, passing over the handset.
*****
Mohammed Altaf took the tube to Regent’s Park and walked. As he waited at the traffic lights to cross Marylebone Road he once again ran through a mental checklist to make sure he had followed the sheikh’s instructions to the letter. Before he flew from Karachi he had purchased the phone. He had gone to one of the sheikh’s Karachi homes, taken it out of its packaging wearing gloves, charged the battery, switched it off, inserted Jaz’s sim and put the phone in a sealed plastic bag. All done.
He saw some other bearded men, wearing thick coats to keep out the cold, moving towards the mosque. He went towards them and merged into the group. It was a gloomy winter’s day and he felt fairly confident that when the police examined the CCTV images it would be hard to make out any individual faces.
His eyes strayed down to knee height as he looked at the bags people were carrying. Most people had attaché cases which, being fastened shut, were no good to him. But ahead, just approaching the entrance of the mosque, he saw what he needed: two men carrying a Tesco plastic bag each. Lowering his head he accelerated until he came within a few feet of them.
It was years since Mohammed Altaf had been to Regent’s Park Mosque and he could not remember the precise layout of the entrance area. To his left there was a long low bench where people handed in their shoes receiving a numbered token in return.
Beyond the bench was a line of taps. “Bismallah,” Mohammed said as, by reflex, he prepared himself for prayer. The two men had already handed in their shoes, rolled up their sleeves and were washing their hands three times up to their wrists. Their Tesco bags were beside them on the floor, getting splashed.
Mohammed saw his chance. Hurrying he took off his shoes and held them up high to catch the attention of one of the attendants, handed them over and thrust the token he was handed in his pocket. As he did so he put his other hand in his trouser pocket and pressed a finger into the plastic bag that was sealing the phone and created a hole. He moved his finger in widening circles until the hole was big enough to allow the phone to slip from the plastic bag into his pocket. Then using the bag as a glove so that he did not have to touch the phone he took it out and as he passed the row of taps, kicked one of the Tesco bags.
“Sorry! So sorry!”
Mohammed knelt down to help retrieve the cans of food that were rolling in all directions. Others helped too as the bag’s owner dried his hands on his trousers.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry.”
“Here!” Someone handed the man a tin of baked beans that had run into the open drain beneath the taps. It was dripping wet. As the man looked at the tin contemplating what to do with it Mohammed put the phone in the bottom of the bag. Within a few seconds various others had filled it with more food items. The phone was out of view.
Turning his back on the small crowd Mohammed, his hands slightly shaky, rolled back his sleeves and put his hands under the tap. He’d be glad to pray after that. To offer thanks. He looked up and saw the two men moving away towards another low bench where people left their bags before going in to the mosque itself.
*****
Jaz didn’t see the note until he put down the body parts. It was on lined paper in neat hand writing in biro and had been slipped under the door of his flat. “Been wondering where you are. What about the football? Aysha. XXX.” And in case he’d forgotten, she left her mobile number as well.
He looked at the X’s. Three of them. And he slumped on the floor. But within a minute he was on his way to the phone box. He dialled the number on her note.
“Aysha?” He noticed he was out of breath and tried to move the handset so she couldn’t hear.
“Jaz?”
“Yeah sorry. I’ve been away.”
“You took your time.”
“Yeah sorry. Nothing I could do. Honest.”
“Well you going to say sorry for ignoring me or what?”
“No. No. I mean yes, sorry. Look, I was wondering if you want a drink. Tonight. Like before you know.”
“Yeah, could do. I could come round if you like.”
“No. No.” Jaz said. Far too quickly. “Let’s go to a pub. But not the one we met before.”
“Alright. But not the one we went before. Remember what happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Nearly happened then,” she laughed. “There’s one just across the road from that one. Let’s try that.”
“OK”
“What time?”
He looked at his watch and thought of the bombs he needed to make. “Let’s say eight.” He figured he should be done by then. And then he wondered how he would wash away the smell of the bleach.
*****
The information was flowing now.
From Delhi they had further confirmation of Jasir Khan’s passport number and another picture, this time showing him at passport control at the airport there. It was enough for a judge to issue a warrant, which was what the banks needed to help. Within minutes of sending them the legal paperwork the details of Yaseer Ahmed’s account flashed up on Monty’s screen. He scanned it looking for any large transactions and not finding any, forwarded the whole file to Craig asking him to assign it to the financial specialists. There were still no details of an account for Jasir Khan, although Monty noticed the banks were now saying that if he opened the account long enough ago they might not have a record of the passport number in which case they would be left with hundreds of Jasir Khans to search through.
But it was the mobile phone company that provided the breakthrough.
“Kerching!” Monty tightened his fist. “Jasir Khan. He sent a text from Pakistan on October 16th and hasn’t used it since. We fucking have him.”
“Pay as you go?”
“No, he has an account.”
Natasha skipped round the computer screen to look as well. “Where does he live?”
“Quentin House, Webber Street SE1. Sounds like Waterloo to me.”
Monty was all action now. He called CTC: “Forget Barking I have another address for you. Webber Street, SE1. Craig will sign off on it. Don’t worry. And make room for two passengers from our side.” Then not bothering with the phone, he called through the door: “Shami! Tell Craig I need to see him. And I want that picture from Heathrow, and the Delhi one, to go to CTC. Of Jasir Khan.”
“What did the text say?” Natasha asked.
Monty scrolled down the message from the mobile phone company. “ ‘Had to go away. Hope to see you soon’ Very touching.”
“Any reply?”
“Can’t see one.” And then in a louder voice: “Shami ask O2 to look for a reply to this text.” He sent the file to her computer.
“Hold on.” Natasha sat at the computer the wrong way round on her chair so that her legs were apart and the back of the chair rested against her chest. She was at the computer now scrolling down through other numbers Jaz had called previous to the text. “Look, most of his calls are to one number. Nearly all of them.” She dialled the number on her mobile.
“AA minicabs.”
“Oh hallo,” Natasha said. “Where can I find you please?”
“Waterloo Street. Where to?”
“Actually could I just speak to your manager.”
“What about?”
“It’s the police.” Sort of true.
“Hold on.” Natasha waited as the line clicked.
“Hallo, who’s this?”
“Natasha Knight. For the police. Can I just ask if you have a Jasir Khan working with you?”
“Did have. Vamoosed a couple of months ago. Death in the family he said. Went in a flash. Haven’t seen him since. He rang to say he was going to have to stay out there longer. What’s he been up to?”
“Just making a few enquiries. Sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Mathew Dove,” he said.
“Mr Dove I’ll need to send some people round to you. To
ask a few questions.”
“Not much I can say. He’d only be with us a short while. Don’t know much about him to be honest. Quiet fellow. Didn’t seem like the type.”
“Didn’t seem like the type ...?” Natasha prompted him.
“To do whatever you want him for I suppose. Taxes is it?”
Natasha said nothing.
“Anyway send your people round. I’ll put the kettle on.”
*****
Having arrived in the UK in 1979 as a recently qualified, Karachi-trained doctor, Dr Iftikhar Chaudhry had joined a Pakistani-run medical practice in a two-up, two-down in Wembley and stayed put ever since. When he arrived 90 per cent of the practice’s patients had been from the local Pakistani community and he found, somewhat to his surprise, his consultations were more often in Urdu than English. But as the years had passed and more tolerant attitudes took hold, the ratio had changed. Now about half his patients were Pakistanis and the other half from various communities including some white British. Although he realised the change reflected developments in British society as a whole, he also liked to think that he had played some role in opening up his practice to the wider local community.
As an active member of the British Medical Association he had sat on some committees looking at the issue of immigrants’ access to the NHS – work which had led on to involvement in the post 9/11 British government initiatives to reach out to moderate Pakistan opinion and bind it more tightly to the UK. But although he had dabbled in national-level medical politics Dr Chaudhry’s main love was Wembley. Not the football stadium which, although he could see it from his bedroom window he had never entered, but the people. He liked them for their ordinariness, their humour, their struggles and their little victories. As he had become more experienced he had come to the view that he was not so much a technician treating ailments, but a man responding to his patients’ whole personalities. Which is why, he thought, they rewarded him with their continued attendance at his practice and in a few cases, even their friendship. He had always planned to return to Karachi for his retirement, but increasingly had come to believe that Wembley was his home, where he belonged and the place he would stay until the end.
TARGET BRITAIN: a political thriller Page 21
