by RJ Mitchell
Thoroughgood talked out loud to no one in particular as he leafed through the pages of the filofax. “Nope I’d say this has something of a terrorist flavour to it and the one thing you can bank on is that our friend Mustafa ain’t working alone. These fuckers always set up shop as a cell and you can bet your bottom dollar that he’s foot soldier and not commander. I’d say, dear faither, that there is a strong chance the shit is going to be hitting the fan big time somewhere soon, and probably somewhere bloody well on our doorstep.”
Hardie re-emerged from the kitchen. “Kettle's on but all I could find by way of milk was that soya crap. Still, better than straight black; three sugars should soften the blow,” announced Hardie, apparently oblivious to his superior’s concerns.
“Feck me, faither! Never mind the bleedin’ coffee! Did you hear one word of what I just said?”
Hardie’s baggy features immediately straightened out and he nodded his head in admission that he knew exactly what the implications could be for Glasgow or any other of Scotland’s major cities.
Thoroughgood continued. “It’s hard not to to let your imagination run away with you on this one. But,” Thoroughgood pulled out the ivory-handled dagger that Mohammed had tried to impale him with, “what do you make of this nasty piece of work?” and he handed his mate the blade.
Hardie’s attention had been caught by something on the handle.
“What have we here? Some kind of inscription, written in Arabic I presume. We will need to get that translated, methinks. Anyway, I’ll crack on and see what else I can turn up and leave you to the filofax,” said Hardie, placing his mug down on the cheap coffee table next to the settee.
Taking a sip from his own mug Thoroughgood winced. “Bloody hell, how can it be that we put a man on the moon forty years back yet we still can’t get a decent substitute for milk? And this stuff is supposed to be good for you. Aye, like a hole in the heid,” then added as an afterthought, “By the way, I’ve already requested that the Western emails a jpeg of Mohammed across to Tomachek’s office.”
Hardie shook his head as the implication of what they had just turned up apparently sank home. “It makes you wonder though Gussy boy.”
Thoroughgood’s features creased in agreement. “Listen, I don’t want to be jumpin’ the metaphorical fuckin’ gun but the ramifications are obvious. This could be the type of terrorist activity that'll make 7/7 London seem like an amateur night out.
“Better crack on here mate and get back to Tomachek ASAP. Wait till the old man hears what his boring little missing person enquiry has turned up. We better get an ambulance booked for him because he'll be a coronary waiting to happen!”
Hardie smiled but his mate’s humour was, they both knew, a poor attempt to introduce some levity into a situation that had catastrophic potential.
10
THEY ENTERED Tomachek’s office at 12.30 pm on the nose, armed with several interesting pieces of evidence taken from Dr Mustafa Mohammed’s flat. Thoroughgood had phoned ahead to prepare his superior for their arrival.
The impact of the tobacco smoke from the Old Man’s permanently smouldering pipe always surprised Thoroughgood, almost as much as the fact that Tomachek somehow continued to get away with his blatant flouting of Force Health and Safety procedures.
His treasured walnut pipe wedged in his mouth, Tomachek indicated for Thoroughgood and Hardie to resume position in the two seats they had vacated just over 90 minutes previously.
The superintendent pulled a watch from the waistcoat pocket of his customary three piece tweed ensemble and clicked it open. Hardie shot Thoroughgood a warning glance and the two detectives prepared for the hairdryer.
“Balls and buggery, Thoroughgood! Just how the feck do you do it? I put you on some bog standard Missing Person enquiry and all of a sudden it's turned into a terrorist Arma-bloody-geddon scenario!” Tomachek slammed his right fist onto his desk and a pile of papers in his in-tray shot into the air.
The Detective Super removed his pipe and jabbed the mouth piece at Thoroughgood. “Well, get on with it man!”
Thoroughgood took a deep breath and began his report. “You know the details of my foot pursuit and the attempt the man we believe is Mustafa Mohammed made on my life.”
Thoroughgood then produced the ivory-handled blade and pushed it across the desk to Tomachek, the jewels encrusted in the ivory glinting, as if to underline his point.
The superintendent examined the blade. “Dear sweet Jesus H Christ! Just how can it be that you manage to turn a bally doctor into some kind of terrorist, knife-wielding maniac, right in the middle of the city?” He stopped in mid flow and had a look at the writing on the handle. “What have we here? I hope you're going to have this inscription translated the minute you leave this office?”
Thoroughgood nodded. Tomachek’s right hand shot out and he waved it at Thoroughgood through the fog of pipe smoke, signalling the DS to restart. Thoroughgood complied in relief.
“The filofax is rammed with sets of asterisks which are obviously a cover for potential terrorist targets although of course we don’t have a Scooby Doo what types of targets, given they have used the asterisk code. That means not only do we not know the nature of the targets but geographically speakin’ we are talking needle in a hay stack.”
Producing the leather wallet Thoroughgood leafed through the pages showing the concise lines of asterisks. “I’ve been thinking about it on the way over,” the noise of a throat being cleared in the background interrupted Thoroughgood.“ Sorry, we’ve been thinking about it on the way over and I wonder could that mean we are talking shopping centres? They would be premium targets for Mohammed and his mates and given we don’t know what order they would be prioritised, or for that matter are able to confirm it is indeed a list of shopping centres, in terms of an attack it’s going to make it almost impossible to police them pre-emptively speaking. Otherwise, why the need for secrecy?”
Thoroughgood continued. “What was also interesting was the number of credit cards that Hardie uncovered in the flat. Mohammed has five major cards and has borrowed up to five grand on nearly every one. In fact his platinum Barclaycard is at its limit of ten grand.
“The obvious question is why does he need that kind of finance or who is he procuring the cash for, and obviously what for?”
Hardie couldn’t help himself from interjecting. “In any case gaffer, it stinks to high heaven but that was not all we found.”
This time it was Hardie’s turn to produce evidence and shove it across the table at the superintendent.
Tomachek steepled his hands and stared down at the offering, at first refusing to dirty his mitts with the documents. But the look of disgust on his craggy features was perfectly articulate.
“Passports? Forged, eh? What’s this? More Arabic literature? That is a picture of the Twin Towers if I am not mistaken!”
Tomachek was forced to remove his pipe from its usually permanent location at the right side of his mouth.
“Dear Mother Mary! I don’t believe it, this takes the bloody biscuit!” and he quickly grabbed one of the leaflets for closer scrutiny, clearly astounded by the evidence of his own eyes.
“A leaflet called ‘How to make the perfect bomb’?” Tomachek grabbed at another of the leaflets. “Blow me bloody senseless! This one’s called ‘What to expect in Jihad’!”
Thoroughgood nodded in agreement. “Yup. We'll get the inscription on the dagger translated but you don’t have to be Albert bloody Einstein to figure out that it’s the language of hate or the call to Jihad. It’s there in black and white in front of you gaffer, and we found it in a Glasgow flat.”
Thoroughgood stroked his chin as silence descended on the room; the fading smoke from Tomachek’s pipe almost supplying an ethereal quality such was the feeling of doom that settled on the detectives; a doom pulsing with a sense of foreboding that radiated through their beings.
But there was more to come and Thoroughgood knew that the best form of
delivery, just like that of a death message, was brutal and sudden. He ploughed on regardless.
“We have also taken possession of a computer with a couple of interesting emails, apparently all in code. Here is the one that is the standout though,” Thoroughgood shoved a piece of printed paper towards Tomachek.
The superintendent read it aloud. “‘Hi buddy, I am sure my email will find you in good health and that all your family members are enjoying themselves. My affair with Vena is now turning into family life. I have met with her family and both parties have agreed to conduct the
Nikah.’” Tomachek stopped and added approvingly, “Which I see you have had translated as wedding, ‘after the 15th and before the 20th of this month.’” Tomachek continued to read. “‘I have confirmed the dates with them and they said you should be ready between these dates. I hope you can be here to enjoy the party.’”
Tomachek paused for a minute and pushed a hand through the remnants of his receding grey hair. “In the name of the wee man, this just goes from bad to worse. ‘You should be ready between these dates? I hope you can be here to enjoy the party?’ The bottom line is, as I am sure you know, that there is some kind of terrorist atrocity coming straight at us.”
Tomachek turned round and pulled his Strathclyde Police calendar from the wall and slapped it on the desk in front of Thoroughgood and Hardie.
“This is Monday 8th November, as I am sure you are well aware. That means that on any day from next Monday onwards, until or before Saturday week, we are at risk of something very nasty. Something that our dear friend Dr Mustafa Mohammed and his colleagues, because let’s face it there will be more than one of them, have cooked up for us.” Tomachek stuck his pipe back in his mouth, leaned back in his swivel chair and let out a long slow whistle.
Thoroughgood interjected into the silence: “Boss, I have to say I think we should be alerting MI5 and the regional terrorist centre. This is way too big for Strathclyde Police to cope with.”
“You think I don’t know that dear boy? The minute you leave my office I will get on the blower to Five’s OIC, Sir Willie Stratford. Hopefully we can get things moving quickly with them. Because by the rood; if we don’t, carnage is going to ensue somewhere in Scotland or anywhere else in the rest of the UK, for that matter.
“Right now though, you two have work to do. I want all the evidence you removed from Mohammed’s flat. Make sure the building is fine-combed by forensics, and it looks like you need some translation work done. I’d like to know what the Arabic on that bloody kebab skewer says. It looks like it could have some sort of ceremonial importance and you never know, there could be a lead in that line of enquiry.
“There is something else, however, you need to be aware of,” said Tomachek and slowly he slid a photo image across the desk to the two detectives. “Recognise this bugger?”
Thoroughgood looked at the photo and then glanced quizzically at Hardie but his features were blank. “Let me guess gaffer; that is the Western Hospital personnel pic of Dr Mustafa Mohammed?”
“Correct.”
Thoroughgood cleared his throat nervously. “Want the bad news or the good, boss?” he asked.
“Just spit it out Thoroughgood, would you?” snapped the detective superintendent.
“The male I pursued from St Vincent Terrace had a nasty squint in his left eye and a black beard in the making. There is not the slightest resemblance between him and the good doctor here.”
With that Thoroughgood fished out his mobile with the picture he’d snapped of Green Jacket displayed on the screen.
Tomachek picked it up and with contempt spreading across his face, said; “Nasty bastard. That eye makes him look like one real evil amigo. Aye, you did well not to get spitted by that blade of his. Have you done anything about this visual?”
Thoroughgood nodded. “Yep. A jpeg has been fired through to Interpol, and the Regional Terrorist Centre, so MI5 and six will be alerted and hopefully there will be an Ident available to us ASAP.”
“Good man,” mumbled Tomachek and then lowered his head into his left hand and began to rub furiously at his temple with two fingers before removing the pipe from his mouth with his free hand.
Thoroughgood and Hardie readied themselves for the incoming broadside.
“Listen to me Thoroughgood, and you too Hardie, this is quite obviously a bally bloody timebomb — no pun intended — we're sitting on. We may only have days to save the lives of thousands. We are going to need all the help we can get from Five and the anti-terror boys but I want you shaking down your informants and pulling out every stop.
“One of the first questions I need an answer to is just who the knife-wielding maniac was, and where and what has become of Doctor Mustafa Mohammed? Amongst others, it must be said.”
Drawing himself up in his chair as he recovered some composure Tomachek continued. “Time is indeed of the essence gentlemen. |Now get to work. I will be in touch and you should do likewise if anything tasty comes your way.”
Thoroughgood and Hardie sat in the CID Mondeo in the back yard of Stewart Street nick, in momentary silence. Hardie was first to speak.
“Listen Gus, I know it’s a long shot but I’m wondering if the man we should be talking to is our little Indian waiter friend. By the time we wade through all the stuff from Mohammed’s flat and start putting the word out on the street we aren’t gonnae be that far short of calling time for today. What are you thinking mate?”
Thoroughgood rubbed his fingers over his chin. “Yeah, let’s face it, the Muslim community in Glasgow can’t be that big. I think the old man may be onto something with that dagger. He could be right, it looks like it may have some sort of ceremonial significance; that has got to link it to religion, which is what this is all about, bottom line. That probably means it has come from a mosque.
“I just think this is all too much of a coincidence. That, and Sushi’s desperation to talk to us means it ain’t likely to be a case of ‘fail to pay’ at India’s. That makes meeting up with the wee man tomorrow’s priority I’d say.”
“Absolutement, mon gaffeur,” agreed Hardie.
11
0900HRS. HE stared in the mirror and finished trimming his beard. It was neat and tidy just like everything else about his appearance.
He stared at his reflection; the brown eyes his patients had told him were so full of kindness and so appropriate for a doctor. A frown spread across his forehead as he considered all the pain and suffering he had eased over recent months, all the people he had cared for, the joy he had gained from a profession he believed he had been born to enter.
It never ceased to amaze him how readily he had been accepted into his new community. But then it was the same for a physician in any society, people always elevated you, knowing that in many cases the healer possessed the power of life and death over his patient.
He supposed that being a member of a caring profession had played a large part in his acceptance and in truth he enjoyed the status and the respect that came with being a doctor. Once people knew you practised medicine and were there to help them it was amazing how they were prepared to trust you with that almost mythical power of life and death.
Their secrets poured out as if you were a trusted member of their family. His patients had wanted to please him, with some even showering gifts upon him. From the bottles of whisky which seemed to be the ultimate indication of gratitude in Scotland, to offers of clothing and even sexual gratification from some of the female patients who had found his smouldering yet soulful brown eyes hypnotic.
He replaced his spectacles. In truth he had no need of the glasses but they helped to make him seem that bit more studious, perhaps even vulnerable. Today he needed to appear the victim, not the victor.
Breakfast was something he was looking forward to that morning with particular relish.
He would wash the nashta down with kahwah; he welcomed the first drop as he scraped the roof of his mouth with his tongue and realised that nervo
usness had left it dry as the desert.
He took a bite from the khatchapuri and savoured its familiar charms as he waited for his omelette to cook. If this was to be his last breakfast before he entered paradise then he would make sure he left this world with a full belly. After finishing his food and washing it down with the last of the green tea he took an apple from the bowl and placed it in the pocket of his gown.
The satisfaction at having a full belly with which to go about Allah’s work saw more memories of his stay in Glasgow flood back. Yet his chosen path beckoned. The path to paradise.
This was Allah’s work and it had to be done.
Washed and cleansed, he walked back into the bedroom and dressed in simple shalwar kameez and placed his taqiya on his head. The only prayers from him today had been those said in private at dawn. But he would not answer the muezzin's call this Friday afternoon at the mosque. Instead he hoped prayers would be said for him by those who mattered. The true believers; the devout followers of the Imam who knew that what he did, he did for Allah.
Hassan Ressan took a glance at the chest of drawers in front of him and his eyes swept over the name badge belonging to Dr Mustafa Mohammed, S.H.O. A&E, Glasgow Western Infirmary. The man he had been for the past 18 months. Strange how he had begun to take pleasure in a life built on a tissue of lies; enjoyed the conventions that had come with his revered position in Western society. In truth he’d lived a double life but now at last he would find eternal truth. The deception would be over.
He had been careless leaving documents, and of course the filofax, at the other address but really, what did it matter? Here, ten storeys up in the Red Road flats, he was part of a burgeoning asylum community, anonymous and irrelevant: the two most important qualities for a man about to execute an act of Jihad.
1530hrs. Hassan wandered through the automatic doorway, his manner humble and non-threatening. He kept his eyes downcast in a manner that would ensure anyone taking the time to look at him would feel sorry for him rather than view him as a threat.
