TARGET BRITAIN: a political thriller

by Owen Bennett-Jones

  “One day I will do that. And the water?”

  Several of the tribesmen began to speak at once.

  “Fine.” “Good just now.” “No problem.”

  “In fact the well by the crags seems to be less brackish than normal.”

  “My camels took water there just two weeks ago. And they never used to drink there.”

  “I saw some Rais there with camels too. Twenty days ago now. They were heading east.”

  The sheikh was concentrating; absorbing all the information being relayed to him. He could never tell when it might come in useful. Staying in touch with life in the villages was one of the pillars of his rule.

  “Your livestock thrive?”

  “All in good health.”

  “And your women?”

  The men smiled to indicate their answer was the same.

  “So what can I do for you?”

  “First of all we brought you these.” It was the head of the village. Tribesmen from outlying areas still held to the tradition that when they met the sheikh they should bring some gifts to express their loyalty. One of the men got up and laid some intricately carved walking sticks and fans made out of date leaves in front of him. The other 14 men murmured their approval as he did so.

  Barely glancing at the objects the sheikh waved a hand towards a servant to indicate that he wanted them taken away. “I appreciate your gifts very much,” he said.

  There was a pause. “We thought we should tell you that some government people are in our area surveying for gas.”

  “Now?”

  “We found them six days ago now. We came straight away.”

  “North of us. In the hills.”

  “There were three in civilian clothes and six police protecting them.”

  “Were they camping?” the sheikh asked.

  ‘Yes. They don’t move the tents.”

  “They are trying to hide. We would never have found them if some goats hadn’t broken away from the flock.”

  “Have they been there long?”

  “Not by the look of it. One of our boys went to the tents during the day when they were doing their work and looking at their rubbish he reckoned they had been there just a few days.”

  “Are you following their movements?”

  “They can’t fart without us smelling them!”

  “What do you think we should do?” the sheikh said smiling.

  “Last time we killed them.”

  “That was three years ago now”, another man said.

  “And what do you want to do this time?”

  “Kill them!” four or five men said at once.

  “They want our gas. Why should we let them be?”

  ‘Anything else?”

  The village head: “No. Just this matter.”

  “You have my blessing. But not the police. I don’t want to upset the government just now. Just the scientists and then hopefully their colleagues won’t follow them. At least not for another three years. “

  In the normal course of events the sheikh would have carried on talking to the villagers for at least another hour, squeezing every last drop of information from their community and, just as important the villages around them. But he had noticed Ravi and, curious, beckoned him over. He could see from the boy’s expression that it was good news.

  “Tell me!” the sheikh instructed as Ravi drew close and knelt on the ground.

  ‘He’s on his way! On board. Karachi in 15 days.”

  The sheikh looked Ravi in the eye and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Great news! Call the colonel and the major. I just need to finish this.” He glanced towards the tribesmen in front of him. “I’ll join you in the eyrie in 30 minutes.”

  Ravi’s white teeth glinted in the sunlight as, smiling, he ran towards the fort to carry out the sheikh’s instructions.

  *****

  Apart from drilling holes there was nothing for Jaz to do. At first he found it difficult to know if it was day or night. He worried about the impact that could have on his mental state and, once he had worked out which corner of the container would let in the most light, he spent a full day drilling a hole the size of a large coin. He returned to the task a few times planning to make it bigger but found that as the days went by he lacked the energy to do the work. Still, with what he had already drilled it meant that with just a glance he could see if another night had come: another milestone taking him closer to his destination. From time to time he stood by the hole examining the wounds on his skin.

  Desperate for distractions that would help pass the time, he sat in every seat of the Land Rover manipulating all the moving parts he could find. Having opened and closed the back seat windows over a hundred times – he counted – Jaz thought about taking the door apart so that he could see how the mechanism worked. But there was not enough light. Instead, he once again moved to the front seat and played with the indicators and the car stereo controls cursing himself for not having brought some CDs.

  On the second day he worked out his daily rations of food and water allowing for an extra day just in case they were held up by bad weather or stuck in Karachi harbour. When he saw the small piles of food he abandoned his plan to exercise for half an hour twice a day. It would only use up calories that he would not be able to replace. He also worried about hygiene. Although he could piss in the empty fuel tank he wondered if he had enough plastic bags to hold all his shit. He thought about enlarging the hole so that he could get rid of it but decided against in case one of the crew might see something and realise there was a stowaway on board.

  As the journey progressed he adjusted by sleeping more and more. Even when he was not asleep Jaz often lay semi-comatose in the back of the Land Rover barely noticing whether the hours were passing or not. Alone with his thoughts he at first replayed the events of the last week in his mind. He wondered what was happening in Britain now; what his neighbours would be saying in Quentin House. And then he went further back, to his time in London and before that to his childhood with Mahmud. And running through all his thoughts were images of Aysha. He imagined her in bed, playing football and walking by the Thames. He found himself putting her in settings that were pure imagination: on a beach; cooking in a kitchen and playing with children in one of London’s parks.

  At first Jaz took no notice of the sounds around him. But to his annoyance he found he could not help but become increasingly aware of the creaks and bangs of the ship as it dipped up and down through the waves. Although the containers were too tightly packed together for anyone to be able to move between them Jaz started to think that the noises were in fact soldiers or police somehow searching through each one, trying to find him. He tried blocking his ears but he sounds were too loud. He couldn’t keep them out. The more he thought about how to make them go away the more they preyed on his mind.

  And so the days passed, in an atmosphere both rank and sterile at the same time.

  *****

  The clearing agent’s nose, and the immediate area around it, protruded from his face as if it had been punched from behind. The affect was accentuated by his moustache shaped like an oblong sticking plaster on his upper lip and the inverted angle of the top row of his yellow teeth. He sat at a wooden desk covered in piles of paper, a telephone and a large glass ashtray filled with cigarette stubs. In front of him attached to the wall above the door was a TV with a Pakistani news channel on, its sound just audible. Behind him were four grey metal shelving units with yet more paper held in loose cardboard files bound with string. The whole arrangement threatened at any moment to topple over and engulf him in a sea of ancient documentation.

  “Mohammed, you are expecting us I hope?” It was the major who had recommended the clearing agent to the sheikh. He knew him from his ISI days. He walked in, not bothering to shake the man’s hand, and was followed by the colonel, the sheikh and Ravi. Mohammed could not conceal a thin smile. Presuming they were trying to import drugs, he anticipated a very profitabl
e day.

  “It hasn’t arrived yet has it?” the major asked.

  “The Rhossyn? It has – but they won’t be unloading yet. You are on time.” He looked up to see if the major wished to say anything more.

  Reassured, the major looked around for somewhere to sit. Against each wall, facing each other, there were two decrepit sofas with dirty foam sticking out through holes in the plastic upholstery. The major put out his arm inviting the sheikh to sit in one while he and the colonel occupied the other. All three of them sank further down than they anticipated so they had to look up slightly to make eye contact with Mohammed.

  Ravi stood by the door.

  “Tea or soft drinks?” asked Mohammed.

  The sheikh spoke for the first time.

  “Good morning. Thank you for letting use your office this morning. We find you well?”

  “Well sir. Thank you.”

  “You look like an experienced man. You have worked here long?”

  “Twenty-three years,” Mohammed replied with pride in his voice.

  “And you are from Karachi?”

  “Born and bred. My father came over from India. Uttar Pradesh.”

  “You have children?”

  “Two boys.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you sir. I hope one day they might take over this business.”

  “They are fortunate indeed.”

  “Thank you sir.”

  After a pause the sheikh, apparently satisfied, said: “Tea for me. Thank you.” He looked at the colonel and the major. “Make that tea for three and a cold drink for the boy.”

  Mohammed picked up the phone to make the order and putting it down asked: “How exactly can I be of assistance?”

  The major: “There is a container on the Rhossyn which we would like to take possession of. Or at least it contents.”

  Mohammed sucked in a breath.

  “Difficult, difficult.”

  “It is something you have done for us before Mohammed. Many times.”

  “Yes but in this day and age, the security is so much worse.”

  “But it is possible?”

  “Anything is possible.”

  The sheikh broke in. “Perhaps we could save time if you were simply to tell me what consideration you would expect for this valuable service.”

  Mohammed looked at him, uncertain.

  “May I ask what you have in the container?”

  Unsure whether Mohammed would be present when the container was opened up in his warehouse, the sheikh saw no point in concealment.

  “A person. A friend of mine who has performed a service for me.”

  Mohammed doubled the sum he had in mind. “Ten thousand dollars,” he said.

  The major leant forward and was about to object but the sheikh spoke first.

  “I accept,” he said. “I will have the money sent from my house later today. Providing all goes well of course. Do you agree?”

  “Of course sir,” Mohammed said slightly excitedly, unable to conceal his delight. “A man such as you need not pay a deposit. Your word is your bond.”

  The sheikh eyed him with distaste.

  “Do you have the cargo manifest?” asked Mohammed.

  The sheikh sat back, letting the major, who was squeezed between the colonel’s stomach and the arm of the sofa, take over the arrangements.

  “We do not.”

  “But you have the container number?”

  “No but ...”

  Mohammed looked at the sheikh. “But I can’t do this if you have no information. How can I find the container you want?”

  The sheikh, barely looking at him, made no reply.

  “… but the container is marked,” the major continued.

  “Marked?”

  “Yes. With white paint. The boy here can spot it for you.” He looked towards Ravi.

  “I see.” Mohammed said lifting the telephone. “The Rhossyn. When is it unloading?” He held on for a few seconds. “Thanks,” he said replacing the phone on its cradle.

  Mohammed looked at the sheikh. “I normally have a number, but don’t worry. It’s up to your boy.” And then turning to Ravi he said: “What’s your name?”

  “Ravi.”

  “Ravi?”

  “He is with me and …” the sheikh said with a trace of exhaustion in his voice.

  The major interjected. ‘Don’t worry Mohammed. He is a Hindu but he’s fine. We vouch for him.”

  “Of course. Of course.” Mohammed looked doubtful. “Ravi have you a phone?”

  With a rather sour expression, Ravi produced one from his pocket.

  “You will need these too.” Mohammed delved into a drawer of his desk and held up an ancient pair of black binoculars. “How is the container marked?”

  “With white paint on one of the corners,” said the major.

  “Painted words?”

  “No just a patch of paint. Sprayed on.”

  Mohammed shrugged his shoulders. “Ravi what I need is the number at the top of the container. On the door.” He handed over the binoculars. “Do you need pen and paper?”

  Ravi nodded. Scrabbling around his desk, lifting piles of paper and looking under them, Mohammed eventually found both and handed them over too. Then without warning he shouted: “Zuhair!” through the open office door and after a short delay a scruffy man in his 20s appeared yawning.

  “Take this boy to watch the Rhossyn being unloaded. Keep him out of view. Any problems call me OK?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Mohammed turned to Ravi. “When you have the number call me straight away and show Zuhair here which one it is. Got it?”

  Ravi gave a sulky nod.

  The major reassured Mohammed: “He’s fine.”

  And then to Ravi said: “Off you go. We’ll wait here.”

  Mohammed had one last instruction. “Zuhair, when he has seen it I want that container in our shed. You will need to get it through customs. Ikram is there and will sign it off. He is expecting you.”

  “What if he is on a break?”

  “He won’t be. I have told him to stay until it comes. All day if necessary.”

  Nodding, Zuhair led the way out with Ravi following.

  Mohammed’s office was in the middle of the terminal and as Ravi and Zuhair walked out there was activity all around. The dockworkers wore brown uniforms. Some had sandals. but many walked bare foot on the concrete docksides. All around, containers were being lifted by cranes and placed on the hand-painted trucks that would move the cargo north to Pakistan and in some cases through the Khyber Pass to Afghanistan. The containers themselves were every colour Ravi could imagine, many of them covered in writing. Ravi looked at concrete wharves and the oily, dark seawater between them. As he got closer he saw the ships were far bigger than he had realised and he had to crick his neck back to see to the top of the towering stacks of metal boxes. The cranes reached into the sky and their legs were so far apart that, he thought, you could fit a cricket pitch between them. He tried putting the binoculars to his eyes to see if he could make out where the numbers were written but Zuhair stopped him.

  “Not here.”

  Complying with the instruction, Ravi ran a few paces to catch up with Zuhair who pointed to a derelict shack. Looking around to make sure they were not observed Zuhair put his hand on Ravi’s back and steered him inside. Then he went in himself.

  They were out of the sun now but through a broken window they could see a docked ship.

  “That’s the one. The Rhossyn,” Zuhair said, pointing at it.

  Ravi felt a surge of excitement. They were so close now.

  Zuhair cleared some old paper and other debris from a corner of the shed, sat down on the concrete floor with his back leaning against the wall and closed his eyes. “Wake me when you see it.”

  *****

  Having drunk four cups of tea and read through all the papers twice, the sheikh was sitting impassively when he heard something about the
UK on the TV.

  “Could you turn it up?”

  Mohammed looked for the remote control on his desk and, having located it, pointed it at the TV, pressing the volume switch.

  A correspondent, microphone in hand, was standing in front of a huge tunnel that led into a mountain. She was already half way through her report.

  “... the blackstart operation a success. And with Dinorwig now up and running the government says the rest of the National Grid should be functioning within the next 48 hours. For millions of Britons life is about to start getting back to normal. Joan Williams, BBC News, Dinorwig.”

  “Took their time about it.” It was the colonel. “How long’s it been now?”

  “Over two weeks,” the major said.

  The presenter was now talking to someone in the studio.

  “…security expert, Nick Martin. Thanks for coming in.”

  The man wearing a tweed jacket and yellow tie nodded.

  “How much has this cost the UK?”

  “In terms of lost production and unfulfilled export orders, billions of pounds. If you look at the stock market you will see that in fact ten billion pounds has been wiped off the value of shares although presumably many of those stocks will recover now with the electricity coming back on. And that’s not to mention, of course, the loss in terms of human life.”

  “Was this an intelligence failure?”

  “The government have taken a big hit in the polls suggesting that British people think there was failure at some level, but intelligence agencies insist that the man chiefly responsible for the attacks only came onto their radar screen very shortly before the attack and that they nearly foiled his plot. One intelligence officer said to me: ‘he got lucky’.”

  “Could it happen again?”

  “For as long as Britain is active round the world deploying troops in the Middle East then it will remain a target and further attacks are always possible, yes. The government says it is increasing the budgets of MI5 and MI6, the two main intelligence agencies, by no less than 50 per cent - and that follows other recent increases – but I guess that can never guarantee that someone else doesn’t get lucky.”

  “Not very reassuring, but Nick Martin, thank you. And now the memorial service for the youngest victim of the attacks, Becky Cowling. Her school friends today gathered at the church where she was killed to remember their friend …” The pictures showed a group of young girls holding hands and hugging each other, many of them weeping.