by RJ Mitchell
“The old man’s going at it fast and furious this morning,” Hardie remarked.
“No bloody wonder, what the fuck is this all about? Four more dead and apparently sweet FA to go on. It’s everybody’s worst nightmare. We don’t even know 100% if it’s terrorists, criminals or just some madman with a grudge against society. As for Braehead, I just can’t get my mind around that.”
As they entered the room the Detective Superintendent swivelled his chair round to face them. “When I ask you to be in my office at 4pm that’s when I want you here!” he barked. “It’s 4.03 – you’re three minutes late.” Tardiness was Tomachek's pet hate.
“The biggest act of terrorism on Scottish shores since Lockerbie. Murder and mayhem in the West End and you two bastards don’t think it is important enough to attend a meeting with your senior officer on time? It’s bally plain old buggery. It’s also dammed disrespectful. Anything you want to say to that DS Thoroughgood?”
“Sorry gaffer. It’s chaos in the backyard. We had to park outside on the street and then battle our way in past everyone and his granny. The media are crawling all over the place.”
But Tomachek’s irritation had passed. He waved his hand to waft the smoke out of his way, turned his world-weary eyes on his subordinates and gestured for them to take a seat. Leaning forward and placing his elbows on the edge of his side of the desk, he said “Sit down boys, we have a major problem.”
Thoroughgood shot a sideways glance at Hardie and then looked back across the desk at his superior officer. “We’re all ears boss,” was the best he could do.
“Before I fill you in on new developments, Hardie, can I say I’m damned glad your missus came through Braehead with just a few cuts and grazes. Truly I am.”
Tomachek slapped a copy of Monday afternoon’s Evening Times onto his desk and pointed at the headline filling the entire front page. Friday: Braehead blown up. Saturday: West End carnage. Tomorrow: who knows? Glasgow in Terror.
“We have the media camped outside the office and it gets a whole lot worse because they don’t know the fuckin’ half of it, dear boys.”
He tossed a single sheet of paper across the desk to Thoroughgood. “The first copper on the scene at Dowanhill found this pinned to the old boy who had his brains blown out while watering his flower baskets. Makes you think twice about taking care of your tulips don’t it?”
Thoroughgood shrugged his shoulders and flattened the note out on the desk in front of him. Hardie took a look at it too before commenting “I’m not too fluent in the old Arabic, boss.”
Tomachek exhaled a billow of smoke. “Indeed. And it isn’t just bog standard Arabic, my dear Hardie, it is a code and we need to get it cracked tout suite.”
Thoroughgood interrupted his boss. “I notice it’s a photocopy boss. I assume Special Branch, MI5 and MI6 don’t know about this duplicate?”
“Just so, Thoroughgood. I’ll doff my bonnet to them in public but what my men get up to in private is another matter.”
Thoroughgood could feel Hardie’s eyes burning into the side of his face and he knew exactly what was going through his mate’s mind. Friend Sushi and his tip off, should they tell the old man or not?
He threw Hardie a warning glance.
“Okay boss,” before adding in a rush, “Is there anything else we can help you with?”
Tomachek’s eyes almost popped at the question. “Of course there bloody well is! Firstly, I want to know exactly where some religious nut job got his hands on a specialist Soviet sniper’s rifle. There could be a trail there.”
Thoroughgood nodded in agreement but there were questions he needed answered. “Religious nut job? I take it that is the flavour of the poisoned prose before us?”
Tomachek inclined his head. “You can take it as bloody well read Detective Sergeant.”
Thoroughgood met his superior’s hardening gaze unblinking but it was Hardie who spoke. “While we’re here do we have any intel’ on White Eye from yesterday, boss?”
The question did little to lift Tomachek’s spirits. “No we do not. The obvious conclusion is that he may not be from these shores. Ironic that, given his unusual appearance, we haven’t got the slightest clue who he is. Which reminds me, do we know anything about the blade he tried to slice you into square sausage with?”
It was Thoroughgood’s turn to provide information. “Aye boss, we've had the inscription on the handle translated.” Thoroughgood hesitated, aware that what he was about to say was likely to send Tomachek into orbit.
The senior officer erupted. “In the name of the wee man will you spit it out Thoroughgood, before I have a seizure?”
Thoroughgood felt his lips curl as the words came out. “The translation is ‘The true believer will taste ever lasting happiness in the death of every infidel.’”
“Great. Just bloody brilliant. What the bally hell we’ve got here the Lord God only knows,” said Tomachek.
“Well if that’s all, we better get goin’ boss,” Thoroughgood said. He started to rise but Tomachek gestured for him to remain in his seat.
“Not so fast, Detective Sergeant. The note was just the aperitif. Get ready for the pièce de resistance!” said Tomachek.
“At around 2.30pm on Saturday afternoon the businesswoman - I’ll call her that for want of a more appropriate description - Vanessa Velvet, was taken from a hotel room at One Devonshire Gardens. By force.”
Hardie couldn’t help himself. “But wasn’t she at that lingerie launch, the one with models playing volleyball on a fake beach in George Square? ‘Bitch’ or something I think she’s callin’ it. The missus told me about it the other day but I wasnae really listenin’, as per . . .”
Tomachek surprised them. “Aye, ‘Bitch. For the woman who doesn’t give a damn.’”
Astonished at their superior officer’s knowledge of Bitch lingerie, Thoroughgood and Hardie exploded with laughter as the tension engulfing the room fleetingly lifted.
“All right, all right, calm down. There’s more …”
Thoroughgood could not help himself interrupting. “Surely not boss! Has VV posted a YouTube clip and it was all a publicity stunt?”
Despite himself the DS grinned. Then he shook his head in dismissal of his subordinate’s suggestion before continuing. “VV, as you call her, wasn’t in the hotel room on her own. She was accompanied by none other than the leader of Glasgow City Council, the man Labour expect to lead them to the political Promised Land, Jim Fraser. The man they’re callin’ the next Tony Blair. Needless to say he has also disappeared without a trace into the bleedin’ bargain, although I’d be prepared to speculate that dear Vanessa had well and truly put the va va voom back into his life before they were taken.”
He picked up the remote control lying on his desk and pointed it at the TV. “Fasten your seatbelts and meet our new friends from ‘The Spear of Islam’.”
Thoroughgood and Hardie’s eyes locked in on the TV screen in silence. The film that followed was brutally to the point.
It showed Jim and Vanessa kneeling in submission, partially clothed, in front of two men wearing the same Bush and Blair masks as used in the Dowanhill attack. The men were dressed in combat clothing and armed with vicious looking curved swords.
The figure masquerading as Bush made an emotionless and monotone speech in Arabic which Tomachek translated from a pre-prepared sheet. He threatened that if an activist known as Ismail Khan was not released from Guantanamo Bay within 72 hours, one of their captives would be decapitated.
The film ended with Vanessa pleading for the demands to be met. As she did so ‘Blair’ forced her chin up with the point of the blade re-iterating, this time in English – “Free our brother or the bitch and her pimp will lose their heads.
“We will provide filmed proof of their executions,” he continued malevolently. “Be warned infidels, it is time for you to find out what the consequences of Jihad in your godless country are. We, the Spear of Islam, will make that happen. You have
my word.”
Then the screen went blank.
Tomachek was first to break the silence. “This film was posted on the Al Jazeera Arabic network yesterday evening. Your thoughts?”
“Have we got a make on it, a point of origin or anything like that from the Special Branch boys?” Thoroughgood asked.
Tomachek lent back in his captain’s chair and shook his head. “No Gus, they’ve been too cute. We failed to get an IP address and we haven’t been able to analyse the backscatter from one upload.
“They have us very much at a disadvantage. And because of the content of the broadcast we have the whole shooting match involved, from Special Branch to MI5 and 6 wanting to evoke their specialist procedures and to hell with good old police work.”
Hardie was first to penetrate the prevailing awkwardness. “The design on the cloth at the back of the shot looks familiar. It’s a similar geometric design to one I saw in an article a few weeks back investigating radicalised Islamic students.”
Tomachek took another puff on his antique pipe and looked up at the ceiling. “Radicalised students, Hardie? Hogwash. This lot know exactly what they are doing and they have intelligence about the city that is helping them achieve their means. How the hell else did they get to know about the leader of Glasgow City Council meeting our highest profile businesswoman for lunch and extras to follow?”
Hardie retreated behind a grunt.
“And I thought dealing with that murderous bastard Meechan was bad. This mob are going to make him look like the proverbial pussycat. I tell you dear boys, this is it. Hell’s bells are tolling.”
Hardie pitched in. “Nice touch with the Bush and Blair masks, very fuckin’ cute. So, let’s get this straight, this ‘Spear of Islam’ lot, they’ve not come right out and taken responsibility for Braehead or Dowanhill have they? Obviously the masks seem to tie them into the latter. But this film is threatening to wage some type of Holy War in the UK, correct?”
The answer came from Thoroughgood. “Listen old mate, I’d say from the events of the last few days that we are already at war. The question is not can we stop them from inflicting Jihad. It’s how quickly can we bring it to an end.”
Taking their seats in the Focus parked outside Stuart Street Police Office, Hardie was first to puncture the troubled silence that had prevailed since they left Tomachek’s office. “Looks bad Gus, don’t it? The old man is right though, this has potential for disaster on so many fronts. I never thought I’d say it but thank fuck for friend Sushi. Do you think it was the right call not to mention what he told us to Tomachek?”
Thoroughgood arched an eyebrow. “You kiddin’ Kenny? No chance. Listen, even if we had followed up on Sushi’s concerns there is no way we could have pre-empted this mess. Right now I need to make a phone call to a certain waiter because we need a meet as soon as possible.”
19
THE GUESTS took their seats for an exclusive dinner none of them had thought would ever take place, but one which all hoped would pave the way to a powerful and profitable future.
Only one man in Glasgow could have hosted this particular gathering. The roof-terrace marquee had been specially reserved for a meeting that, it was hoped, would unify the city’s drugs trade under the rule of that man. His name was Johnny Balfour.
Balfour had moved swiftly to fill the power vacuum left by the departure of Glasgow’s underworld overlord and put an end to the never-ending battle for supremacy of the underbelly of Scotland’s biggest city.
Since Declan Meechan had fled the city, and his nominal over-lord Jimmy Gray had died, the encroachment across the Clyde from the Southside had been incessant. Balfour’s tactic had been simple. Divide and conquer. As the constant warfare between the local ‘firms’ had drained their strength he had exploited their weaknesses, playing them off against each other. Meanwhile he decided who he could work with and ultimately absorb into his organisation and who had to be eliminated.
Now Balfour stood at the head of a luxuriant dinner table on the roof-terrace at the private members club 29, on the cusp of complete dominance of Glasgow’s drug trade.
The exclusive nature of the premises was ideal for discreet dining and Balfour, the son of an accountant, had never been one for ostentation and grand gestures - until now. Slowly, the 52 year-old surveyed the six men he had summoned to the meeting at which he planned to carve up the city almost as clinically as he intended to slice up the superb fillet steak that was 29’s tour de force.
A ripple of a breeze whistled under the marquee but the weather was dry and decidedly better than usual for this time of the year. The autumn sunshine cast a pale shadow on the roof-top, an ideal setting for his guests to enjoy a smoke while they ate, drank and conducted the business at hand.
With entry to the roof-top sealed off by both club security and his own henchmen, privacy was guaranteed. Yet the unease among some of the assembled cast was palpable.
As he stood, the thought crossed Balfour’s mind that some of his guests still did not appreciate what was at stake, what he was working towards. “Gentlemen, thank you for your attendance. I assure you that your presence today will benefit all of us in the weeks, months and years to come. You have my word on that.”
The response was lukewarm, underlining the size of the task that awaited Balfour and his vision. But he received warm backing from an unexpected quarter. Frankie Green, the balding owner of a string of bookies and a private-hire taxi firm, got to his feet flashing an insincere, gold-glinting smile.
“Aye boys, it’s time for us to put our differences behind us and unite. There is only one man who can do that and map out a future which will benefit us all.” There was a vehemence in his words that was not lost on his fellow diners as he added, “Johnny Balfour is that man. This is our time boys, and with Meechan gone, if we don’t seize the opportunity now it may be gone forever. I pledge my allegiance to Johnny Balfour. I suggest you boys do likewise.”
At the opposite end of the table Balfour looked startled by this astonishing development but Green was not done. “If you don’t mind Balfour, I’d like to propose a toast, ‘To new beginnings!’”
To Balfour’s relief and deep satisfaction the rest of the company scraped their chairs back and took up the toast.
The information that Balfour was planning a summit meeting at 29 had been confirmed only 24 hours earlier.
Checking the ropes and the claw-hammer grappling gear that would be used to scale the building, the man with the discoloured eye smiled grimly at the memories this mission was bringing back. The countless raids on embassy buildings and barracks which he had executed serving Sheik Osama, in the countries that Bin Laden would one day soon unite, flooded back.
Slipping a mask onto his head he held his hand up in the air with all five digits aloft. Turning around he looked at his companion to assess his readiness. Masks on heads, AK-47’s slung over backs, ropes and grappling gear ready to be launched, he counted down his fingers in silence.
The concentration of cigar smoke had turned the air in the marquee an almost pastel shade as Balfour assessed his company. He pushed his chair back and raised his newly replenished glass of Chateau Neuf du Pape.
“My friends; a final toast before we get down to the business of the moment. I give you the reason we are all here today – dominance!”
As Balfour’s glass reached his lips and his eyes shut momentarily, awaiting the satisfaction of glasses clinking together, he heard a series of metallic clunks. Opening his eyes and sweeping his gaze over his guests’ faces, he saw their looks of concern turn to panic.
He turned to the source of their terror. Two figures had appeared at the edge of the roof and now quickly vaulted over the immaculately manicured mini hedgerow before ripping open the transparent doors of the marquee.
The intruders’ features were hidden by Bush and Blair masks. Balfour felt a hot surge of anger and took a step forward. But as they gained their footing on the roof the figures unslung AK-47s from
their backs, levelled them at Balfour and his company and advanced with obvious lethal intent.
Panic engulfed the company who, by mutual agreement, had come unarmed and had sent their henchmen to enjoy a drink in the bar below. Balfour signalled to Green to make for the door to the main restaurant and turned to face the gunmen. As Green started to move the area was filled with the sound of gunfire. He was mowed down in a staccato of lead which felled him three yards short of the door.
Balfour addressed their attackers. “Listen, I don’t know who you are but we are all extremely wealthy men. Whatever you want we can make it happen . . .”
He got no further. ‘Bush’ let his AK-47 do his talking in a hail of bullets that ripped through Balfour and threw his corpse onto the table.
The other diners scrambled for the doorway but the second intruder had already made his way around the table. Dropping onto one knee he unloaded the entire contents of his AK-47 magazine into the four surviving men.
The man with the white eye lifted the mask from his head and pulled a glinting blade from an inside pocket before drawing it across his throat in mock instruction of what was to happen next.
The Blair caricature, his mask resting on top of his head, smiled viciously. The duo went from man to man systematically slitting their throats to the bone.
Their instructions had been that every guest must be confirmed dead. The survival of any one of the men would not be accepted by their backer. He had demanded the liquidation of Balfour and his intended crime cabal as the price for helping the group realise their dream.
The bloody work was done in seconds and White Eye savoured a job well done. Looking up into the clear sky providing a serene ceiling over the city centre roof-tops he said, “I promised you when I left your side that your will would be done, Sheik Osama, and now that day has come much closer. I, Naif, pledge to make it so. Allahu Akbar!”
Slipping his mask back on Naif gestured to his companion to do likewise. Then he typed a two word text on his mobile and pressed Send.
