TARGET BRITAIN: a political thriller

by Owen Bennett-Jones

  “Where could he be by now?” the commissioner asked.

  “M6, M5, M54. You can get anywhere from Birmingham.

  The commissioner looked at the men and women standing round him. “Well get to it. Find that bloody car.”

  He went back to his office to tell Number 10 that they were closing in on him, but that the DNA suggested number of bombers may just have gone up from five to nine.

  *****

  Natasha was with Monty in his office in MI5 looking at the police reports from Bradford when she too saw the memo that matched the DNA of one of the bombers, to Mohammed Asif, a convicted drug dealer who, according to the NHS databases, was less than a mile away in St Thomas’ Hospital. Maybe he had a terminal illness she thought. Go out in a blaze of glory. She picked up the phone and dialled directory enquiries. She was met with a single tone as if she had been cut off.

  “Directory enquiries is still 118118 isn’t it?”

  “Sure is,” Monty replied. “But the lord and master Craig blocked it in one of his cost-saving drives. Says we should use the phone book. Natasha took out her mobile and dialled the same number. She shrugged her shoulders. “Idiots. It’ll cost more on this.”

  “St Thomas’ Hospital, Westminster. And put me through please.” Within a few seconds the phone at Tommies was ringing and she was talking to admissions.

  “Hi it’s the police and we can come over with all the paperwork you need, but just so as to not waste a journey do you have a Mohammed Asif with you?”

  She heard the tinny clicks of a rather ancient keyboard being hit with what she suspected was unreasonable force. “Yup. He’s on Becket.”

  “Mohammed Asif of Newham Way, East Ham?”

  More clicking. Single strokes this time. “Yup”

  “And he is alive and well?”

  The woman sounded offended. “Who is this?”

  “It’s the police. It’s urgent. And I am not being funny. Can I ask what is wrong with him?”

  “Sorry, patient confidentiality.”

  “OK. Who is his doctor?”

  “Sorry, patient confidentiality.”

  Natasha felt her chest tightening with the frustration. “Look …” But she knew it wasn’t worth it. Monty had left the room and she wasn’t sure how MI5 dealt with such obstacles so she called the duty officer at M16 to provide the access she needed. Within five minutes her mobile was ringing.

  “Hawker. Tommies. You wanted to talk.”

  “Doctor,” she said surprised how quickly it had happened.

  “Actually no. I’m a surgeon.”

  “Right. Well thanks for getting back to me so quickly. I am interested in a Mohammed Asif. Are you treating him?”

  “Operated on him three days ago. Removed part of his spleen.”

  “And he still with you?”

  “There were complications. He is not in the best of shape. Obese, diabetic and I suspect an habitual drug user.” And then he remembered who he was speaking to. “Not that he has said that. It’s just my supposition.”

  Natasha was thinking out loud. “It’s very strange. A bomb victim in Bradford has a match with his DNA.”

  “You have his DNA on record?”

  “Yes. He was convicted of drug dealing in 2008.”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  And then suddenly, she worked it out.

  “Oh my God! What do you do with his spleen?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His spleen. You removed it. Where do you put it?”

  The surgeon spoke with care as if it was something he had not often thought about but did not want to get wrong. “It gets bagged in theatre and taken away for incineration. You would have to talk the administrators for the procedures. But we produce a lot of human waste here. Obviously there is a system.”

  “So it must be stored on site somewhere?

  “For a bit yes. Must be. Yes”

  “Doctor …”

  “I’m a surgeon.”

  “Oh sorry, Mister …” she searched for his name. But failed

  “Hawker.”

  “Yes. Thank you very much.”

  Monty had come back into the room bearing two plastic cups of tea which he held between two outstretched fingers. The heat made the plastic too pliable and with his fingers pushed into the cups he had displaced the tea and was spilling it. “No sugar am I right?”

  “He’s been stealing body parts.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “We’re all over the place in Dagenham and Bradford on the number of victims right? The numbers keep changing. That finger in the pub. It’s because he has somehow placed stolen body parts at each crime scene.”

  Transfixed by what she was saying Monty was still holding the two cups with his bare fingers. He suddenly became aware of the heat and roughly placed them on his desk spilling even more the tea. They were now slightly less than half full.

  “Is this a perversion sort of thing? Necrophilia? Something like that?”

  “No, it’s to confuse us. To make it look like a big plot.”

  “What, you think he is working alone?”

  “Maybe.”

  Monty started work on the computer. “Let’s have a look at those bombers again…” he searched through the Bradford emails. “Shami!”

  “She’s not here today.”

  “Oh right.” He dialled her on his mobile instead. “Shami, Happy Christmas. Or whatever you get up to. Happy holidays. What would you think if I came up with a Pakistani called Peter Haq? Why does that sound odd?” Two seconds later he was hanging up with a “Thanks, Shami.”

  “He’s a Christian.”

  “Christian suicide bomber?” It was Natasha’s turn to be confused.

  “No, victim. Must be. Unless he’s a convert.”

  “Victim? So who killed him?”

  “What did Bradford say about how they travelled up north?”

  “Who?”

  “The victims.”

  “Four of the bombers went on the same coach.”

  “And the others?”

  Natasha was looking through her papers trying to find various lists of names. “Well one of them was Mohammed Asif and he is in Tommies. So he didn’t travel at all.”

  And for the second time in under an hour Natasha had a flash of understanding. “They ARE victims. He planted bombs on them. They never knew what they were carrying.”

  “And Mohammed Asif?”

  “Fuck me! Bombs and body parts. Wow! How good is this guy? He’s got everyone confused!”

  She sat back amazed at her own conclusion and watched Monty try to come up with objections. But he couldn’t. Instead he was looking into the middle distance making a rueful nodding motion. Bloody sharp these MI6 types. Pleasure to do business with.

  *****

  In breach of all the rules about smoking indoors the DG had lit a pipe and Monty was delighted to see it. It meant the old man, just back from COBRA, was in a good mood.

  And then he found out why. “The home secretary looked sick as a parrot. Made my Christmas. Have you seen the latest from CTC?”

  “The Didcot stuff? Yes.”

  “And that the police say he was on the M54. He’ll be on the A roads now so it will be harder to track him now.”

  “But they are still covered?”

  “Sure. But not as many cameras obviously.”

  “We think we have made a bit of breakthrough, sir”

  “Go on then.”

  Monty explained Natasha’s theory and after only a few minutes of disbelieving scepticism found the DG coming round to the possibility.

  “So he may be on his own? A lone wolf?”

  “Could well be.”

  “And what about the targeting? BNP, Muslim students and so on.”

  “Haven’t really worked that one out yet. But he’s a clever one. He’ll have his reasons.”

  The DG picked up his telephone. “Griffith, bring us a UK map please. Green cupb
oard.”

  The DG’s normal secretary was away for Christmas and Griffith Jones was standing in for her. He wore a polyester suit and a brightly coloured tie. The DG surveyed him with scepticism wondering how old he was and where he had come from. The map he brought in was laminated and already had some felt pen markings on it.

  “Should I wipe it?” Griffith Jones asked.

  “There’s a cloth over there,” the DG said looking at his desk and unfurling the map himself holding down one corner with a heavy glass ashtray and another with a copy of Who’s Who.

  The three of them looked at the map.

  “This bridge here over the Menai Strait? It’s the main land route to Ireland” Monty suggested.

  “Anglesey cut off. Hardly a major blow against Western civilisation,” the DG replied.

  “There’s a nuclear plant there,” said Monty. “Wylfa. They were going to close it down but I think it’s still operating.”

  “Tell the Nuclear Constabulary to be up their threat level. To the maximum.”

  “What about Chester Cathedral?” said Natasha.

  “Sir?” Griffith Jones was standing uncertainly with the cloth in his hand.

  The DG made room for him.

  “It’s just that I come from around there. From near Dinorwig you know. The electric mountain.”

  All three looked at him.

  “Electric mountain?” Natasha said.

  “It’s massive.” He seemed a bit proud.

  The DG looked at Monty and Natasha to see if he knew what he was talking about. They didn’t.

  “Where’s Dinorwig?”

  Griffith Jones pointed to an area where there were few roads on the map.

  “In Snowdonia?”

  “That’s right. They say it’s the biggest hydro-electric plant in Europe.” he hesitated wondering whether he’d overstated it. “So they say anyway.”

  The DG looked at Monty. “Better check it out. And see if you can come up with anything else. But make Dinorwig a priority – if none of us have ever heard of it it’s probably totally unguarded.”

  As Monty and Natasha left the room he added: “and you better put our people in North Wales and Belfast on standby. Just in case.”

  Monty and Natasha left the DG’s room and walked back through the open plan office. One of the desks had a TV monitor still on and, on the screen, a man in a prison cell sitting on the floor was throwing a baseball at a wall and catching it as it bounced back.

  “The Great Escape!” Monty said. “It must be Christmas.”

  Natasha looked at the TV and leaning over the desk switched it off looked at Monty with a slightly triumphant expression. She raised the pitch of her voice giving it a playful air: “You know your family is quite strong on quantity. But when it comes to quality ...”

  He gave her a look of mock offence.

  “Well take Aunt Jessica for example. With the angina. What does she do?”

  “What does she do? Not a lot really. Breeds geese I suppose.”

  “I knew it. Not the most useful thing.”

  “Odd thing to say at Christmas. Natasha where is this going?”

  She carried on as if he hadn’t spoken.

  “Whereas my one and single uncle is a retired professor of electrical engineering. London University. I think we should pay him a visit.”

  Monty looked reluctant. “Where does he live?”

  “He’s in the choir at Westminster Abbey. And it’s Christmas Day remember. When would the Christmas Day service start?”

  “Ten thirty. Maybe eleven.”

  “We may just catch him. I better not call. Knowing him he won’t have switched his phone off. Come on, it’s just five minutes from here.”

  Wrapped up in coats and scarves they went past the metal bollards protecting Thames House from car bombs. A Union Jack was flying above the roof. On the other side of College Green, Big Ben struck 11:45. Beneath it Parliament looked quiet: all except a couple of its windows were dark. They walked left into Parliament Square and as they approached the Abbey’s main entrance heard the cadences of the choir floating through the cold air.

  “Have you always lived in London? Apart from when you were incarcerated at school.”

  “It wasn’t like …”

  “Only teasing. So have you?”

  “Yes. London born and bred. When did you leave Essex?”

  “For university.” She paused. “Cambridge. You?”

  “Bristol.”

  “Studying?”

  “International relations. Politics. And a bit of philosophy.”

  “Waste of time?”

  “Well I suppose it was really. Didn’t learn much that a thorough reading of the quality press wouldn’t have taught me.”

  “Debauched parties?”

  “Drunken rather than debauched.” He sounded slightly regretful.

  “Morning.” A uniformed policeman on the door looked at them inquisitively. “It’s tickets only. But it’s nearly over anyway”

  Simultaneously Monty and Natasha showed him their work IDs. The policeman nodded and held out his arm inviting them in.

  Inside, the Abbey was packed. The congregation sat under ornate stonework in ancient wooden stalls on each side of the vast space. Soft lamps shone in front of each seat forming lines of light along each side of the Abbey.

  Beyond them, closer to the altar, the choir stood in red and white gowns studying sheets of music on stands in front of them. The boys’ crenelated ruffs high around their necks seemed to accentuate their ill-matching black, brown and red hair. Monty grinned as he saw one of them unselfconsciously pick his nose. And then he grimaced as the boy put the finger in his mouth.

  Without warning, the choirmaster standing in the middle of the church gave a signal and a wave of music washed over the congregation. The low registers of the men mingled with, and then chased the boys’ pure voices and the Abbey’s soaring, echoing vaults were filled with sound. Overwhelmed by the beauty of the moment Natasha momentarily forgot herself and leant her head on Monty’s shoulder. He stood stock still not wanting to break the spell.

  Professor Cuthbert Knight spotted his niece standing near the entrance and, surprised she was back for Christmas, wondered whether he was also looking at Rosie’s father. Curious, he willed the choirmaster to pick up the pace. But then he returned his mind to the rhythm of the music. If they’ve been doing it at this speed for a thousand years, he thought to himself, it was unlikely to be any quicker today.

  They met up after the service was over, the professor still in his robes.

  “Natasha! What a surprise. And a pleasure.”

  She kissed him on both cheeks trying to aim above his beard. He looked at Monty expectantly.

  “Oh no!” Natasha said, shocked at the thought. “A colleague from work. Monty meet my favourite uncle.”

  “Your only uncle you mean.”

  “We are rather short of time,” Natasha said looking at her watch.

  “I’ve just got to get back home for lunch,” he said looking at his. “Don’t worry. Come on, we can sit in the pews.”

  They shuffled along the narrow gap between the rows of seats.

  “It’s a worldly matter I’m afraid.”

  “There’s a surprise.”

  “What would happen if you blew up Dinorwig power station?”

  “Always straight to the point, Natasha.” The professor stroked his beard, thinking. “Depends what time of day.”

  “Explain.”

  “Dinorwig has two natural lakes. One is a third of a mile or so higher than the other. In the day the water falls from top to bottom making electricity. At night when all our nuclear plants are still working and there is too much electricity around, and demand is low, so the water is pumped back up the mountain.”

  “Ready for the next day,” Natasha said.

  “Exactly.”

  “So if you blew it up in the day...”

  “You would have power cuts. Look, the
electricity you can see in those lights,” he pointed at the choir stalls, “was made one second ago.” He was becoming animated now. “The great thing about Dinorwig is its speed. You can switch the whole plant on and have power in just 12 seconds. So if Game of the Day finishes ...”

  Natasha put her hand on the professor’s arm. “Match of the Day, uncle.”

  “As I say, it finishes and the kettles start going then you can switch on Dinorwig, the water flows down and 12 seconds later its tea all round.”

  “So it gives flexibility,” said Monty.

  The professor looked at him with benevolence, as if he were a promising student.

  “But what about at night?”

  “That’s where it gets interesting. At night the UK’s surplus power is going to Dinorwig pumping the water up hill. But if that became impossible because ...”

  “Because someone blew it up,” Natasha helped him,

  “... then that power would have nowhere to go and you could have a cascade. Is this a current possibility?”

  “Well ... I guess that’s a bit classified.”

  “It’s just that it would be a good time to do it.”

  “Why?”

  “If there’s too much power in the system then all the factories find their machines running just a little bit faster. It has a dampening effect. Built in tolerance really. But being Christmas week a lot of those factories will be closed I imagine.”

  “And what happens if the ones that are still working run too fast?”

  “Well eventually some will catch fire.”

  The Abbey was emptying now as middle-aged and elderly couples shuffled out of their seats and headed for the door. Some women were moving wooden chairs at the back and, with most people now gone, the noise echoed through the vast space around them. A member of the choir walked past them and waved. “See you on New Year’s Eve. Have a good Christmas!”

  The Professor waved. “And you!”

  “Keep going,” said Natasha.

  “Well take the north-east US in 2003. A high power cable sagged and touched a tree. It shorted. The cable went down and tripped. So what happened to the electricity in that cable? It went to the next cable. Which overloaded. And then tripped. So the electrons moved on to the next cable. And so on. A cascade. In seven minutes 50 million people lost power. Cost six billion dollars.”