by RJ Mitchell
The pair grabbed their ropes and swung through the air back to the roof they had launched their bloody mission from, leaving Balfour and his confederates bleeding out across the roof-top of Glasgow’s most exclusive eatery.
Meechan sat in the Adagio City Aparthotel room and contemplated the twists of fate that had brought him there. The building was close to the famous Sacré-Cœur
Basilica, in the famously bohemian Paris district of Montmarte. With 76 rooms the hotel was big enough to provide the required measure of anonymity.
He ran an index finger round the rim of his grande tasse as he waited for the text message that would determine if he could set a chain of events in motion that would allow him to wreak the revenge he burned for. His slate-grey eyes took in the Soviet-make Makarov PM pistol in front of him which would help him take the first steps towards that cold revenge.
He raised the coffee to his mouth and sipped, glancing at the metallic attaché case which contained the deadly vials. Their seven figure value was the reason he was in France.
Meechan awaited clients who were far from ordinary, but then the wares he was hawking, on behalf of his new employers, the Rising Sun, were extraordinary too. The men he was waiting for were from Mossad, the ruthless security agency of the Israeli government.
If the text he waited for failed to materialise, he would do business with the Mossad – a deal that would remunerate his new employers and enhance their control over the former Soviet block underworld. It would also pave the way to a potentially lucrative business relationship with Mossad.
Meechan was all too aware of the chips that were being stacked on his imminent meeting. Yet, should he receive the text message he longed for, he would renege on the deal and embark on a venture that would place his own life in continual peril and leave him hunted both by his employers and the Mossad. But it was a price he was prepared to pay.
His mobile’s message tone punctured the silence of the room and he lifted the phone and checked the screen. Two words appeared: ‘Subjects terminated.’
Quickly Meechan pocketed the mobile and took to his feet hoping he had the time to exit his room before the Mossad agents arrived. A rap on his room door indicated he did not and an accented voice followed it.
“Monsieur Marsaud, votre familie arrivez.”
The coded phrase confirmed his worst fears. Meechan grabbed the Makarov and the case. He slipped the latter under the bed and took up a stance that would place him behind the door when it opened.
Pistol levelled, he said, “Trés bien mon ami. Entrez vous.” The door swung open.
As the first dark-suited figure entered the room Meechan thudded in two shots, one high one low, ensuring at least one bullet would be debilitating. He immediately fired another double discharge through the door itself, which splintered pleasingly.
The first man toppled forward onto the floor, blood spilling from his mouth, the head wound inflicted by Meechan’s first shot apparently lethal. But his attention was drawn back to the door as the vicious retort of returned fire scythed through it.
Meechan had anticipated not taking out the second man and was in the process of diving onto the deck as the bullets ripped through the door. He noted they came from an upward trajectory that meant the shooter was adopting a low firing position.
As he hit the laminated floor Meechan’s momentum took him skidding across it to the cover of the bed. In a moment of fear he realised how close he was to the case containing his deadly cargo. Raising his head above the bed he saw that the second agent had taken cover in the hall. From the cursing coming from the corridor Meechan realised he had injured him.
Assessing his situation Meechan knew he had two options. One was to make his escape over the balcony and take a chance on the 12 foot drop to the cobbled courtyard. This option would leave his back momentarily exposed.
“No-brainer,” he said to himself. He had to take the second agent out or at least disable him. He pulled the case out from under the bed, sprung the locks and pocketed the two vials, slamming the case shut again.
“Pour vous mon ami!” he shouted and skidded the case across the floor towards the doorway.
He was already on his feet and sprinting for the doorway as a hand dropped down to grasp the case. Off-balance, the agent was taken by surprise. Meechan’s size 10 smashed into the agent’s jaw and as he crumpled to the ground Meechan fired his remaining shot at point-blank range into the the man’s head.
Meechan grabbed the case and the agent’s gun and charged back into the room as his ears filled with screams from the corridor. He replaced the vials in the metallic lead-lined attaché case and made for the window. Ripping a curtain from its pole he tied it to the balcony railings, tested it would hold, then shimmied down to the courtyard.
Walking out onto the Place Charles Dullin, Meechan smiled ferociously. The game was afoot and there was no going back.
The stakes were life and death and Meechan did not care whose.
20
BY 6PM Thoroughgood and Hardie were closeted with Sushi in the DS’s lounge as Sushi spilled everything he knew about Tariq. The detectives hung on his every word. Handing Sushi the note which had been pinned to one of the shooting victims Thoroughgood asked, “Any ideas who could help us decipher this, Sushi?”
The waiter examined the note intently. “It is definitely coded, boss. Something about a wedding planned for the middle of November but as for the rest of it you need to speak to Professor Farouk. If anyone can set you straight on it he is the man.
“I’ll phone him and tell him you’ll be heading his way if you want boss. I think he’ll be relieved to see you.
“I told you Mr Thoroughgood, Tariq wants Jihad and now he has begun he will not stop until Glasgow is in the middle of a religious war. Dowanhill and Braehead are just the start. It is not only yours but the Muslim community in the whole UK’s worst nightmare and it’s happenin’ now.”
Thoroughgood nodded in agreement then cleared his throat because he had something to else to say and no idea as to how Sushi would take it.
“How well do you know the Imam, Sushi? How hard it would be for you to make yourself useful to him and gain his trust?”
Sushi dismissed the idea with a shake of his head. “The Imam knows me through the mosque but his inner circle is a tight group. I would not know where to even begin to try and become close to him.”
Hardie spoke up. “I may have the beginning of a cunning plan.”
Thoroughgood flashed a sarcastic smile and then motioned for him to proceed. “The floor, my dear Hardie, is all yours.”
“OK here we go. We already have in our possession something that friend Tariq treasures almost above all else, and which we could use to help put Sushi in this maniac’s trust.”
“The dagger,” interjected Thoroughgood stealing his sidekick’s metaphorical thunder.
“Indeed. You’ve already nearly had the life strangled out of you by one of his henchmen in an attempt to keep it. It obviously has great significance to him,” continued Hardie.
“My plan is that we provide Sushi with the location of the dagger at a set time. He in turn furnishes Tariq with that info and we wait and see what transpires. Obviously we are up against the clock given Jim Fraser and VV have less than 72 hours before they part company with their heads.
“Plus we won’t know what the contents of this note are until Professor Farouk translates. So I think friend Sushi has to be chapping at someone’s door tonight with the info we need to get to Tariq.”
“So Sushi, are you up for it?” finished Hardie.
Sushi’s agreement was total. “Whatever it takes boss, innit,” he said with his trademark nervous sign-off.
Thoroughgood added, “I take it that we will retain possession of the dagger? One other thing Sushi … you realise that by the very nature of what we are trying to do, you won’t see it but back-up will be around, believe me.”
Hardie’s grim nod provided further confirmation
to Sushi that appearances in this case would most certainly be deceptive.
At 7pm Thoroughgood and Hardie drove into University Gardens heading for a meeting with Dr Basil Farouk at the Department of Middle Eastern Studies. The department was half way along University Gardens - a terrace of three-storey sandstone buildings almost all occupied by Glasgow University’s various history departments, with the Department of Middle Eastern Studies being the exception. Thoroughgood and Hardie walked along the pavement looking for number 10.
“It’s a bit bleedin’ ironic Gussy boy, if you ask me, that we are going to meet some boffin to decipher a code left by a Tony bloody Blair lookalike, and the boffin resides at number 10,” commented Hardie with an amused chortle.
“Hilarious, absolutely feckin’ hilarious. Listen faither, you might try and show some respect for the professor. Not only is he absolutely vital to us but he is also an elder in the Central Mosque, a respected figure in Glasgow’s Muslim community and a senior academic at Glasgow University. My Alma Mater, to be precise! You with me?”
The serious note in Thoroughgood’s voice told Hardie that he had no option but to comply with the request. As they reached the door bearing Professor Farouk’s name Thoroughgood reinforced his point with a burning stare at his colleague before he knocked on the oak-panelled door.
After a moment an accented voice replied, “Come,” and Thoroughgood and Hardie entered the room.
The professor sat behind a huge antique desk. He held out his hands to beckon the detectives to fill the two empty seats on the opposite side from him and assessed the pair for a moment before letting his gaze linger on Thoroughgood. “Well, Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood, I presume?”
“Professor Farouk.” Thoroughgood offered his hand to the academic and was met with a firm grasp. “I’m pleased to meet you. This is my colleague DC Hardie.”
Farouk inclined his head to Hardie.
“Gentlemen, forgive me, but from speaking to our mutual friend young Suleiman, I feel the situation we find ourselves in demands expediency, does it not?”
Thoroughgood was disconcerted by the way the professor had taken control of the meeting but was in no position to bridle.
“Absolutely Professor,” he replied pulling out the note. “This was found pinned to one of the two men shot dead in the West End. It appears to be in some kind of code which has baffled our translators. Sushi was confident you would be able to translate it and also that you would help back up his suspicions that the Imam Tariq is behind the recent atrocities.”
Farouk placed a pair of half moon spectacles on his nose, before turning his intense gaze on the note. After a long moment he spoke.
“This is very interesting indeed. What we are looking at is a code cipher that was used in the Middle Ages wherein a message in one language was written using the alphabet of another to disguise it.
“I dare say that to your translators this message appears to be written in Syriac, but they would be quite mistaken.”
Hardie’s eyebrows shot up in bafflement. “Forgive me sir, but my knowledge of Islam is pretty basic. Can you provide an idiot’s guide?”
Thoroughgood cleared his throat in a reminder to his colleague to show respect, but he need not have worried. A smile formed on the professor’s face followed by a husky laugh that seemed incongruous with the academic’s refined features and mannerisms.
The professor explained. “Tariq is a Shi’ah, so the obvious choice for his message would be Arabic. But what we have here is the use of the Jacobite script to encode an Arabic message. In layman’s terms that means for every letter in Arabic he has used the corresponding letter in Syriac. Translated literally it means very little, but if each letter is turned back into Arabic then you have your message. Gaining a meaning from it is another matter.”
Thoroughgood and Hardie remained nonplussed by the professor’s comments and their vacant features warned Farouk that further elaboration was required.
“We know that it is written using the Syriac alphabet but must be reversed into Arabic before being translated into English to get the intended meaning.” The professor took a sheet of paper from a drawer in his imposing desk and scrawled an Arabic translation. “Now let me turn it into English and we will see what we have.” Minutes later the translation, if not the meaning, was complete.
‘The day is coming when grief must at last break out across this godless land.
“There will be many days of celebration for the believers of the true faith. We have experienced the first of these and we look forward to our act of ultimate joy.
The grains of sand are slipping away like your hope. A feast awaits that will start your atonement for the evil and unjust war of imperialist greed.
Before the feast however will be staged a number of events that will bring joy to us but only despair and pain to the Godless.
For every day until the great day there will be an outbreak of grief and the Hurting will go on and on.
Know this, infidels, you are powerless to stop us in our purpose. Count your days.’
After he finished reading the professor frowned. “The warning appears to be of a whole series of atrocities causing uncontrolled panic and the deaths of hundreds. And make no mistake, time is not our friend.”
“Too bleedin’ right Professor,” agreed Hardie. “Count your days, grains of sand slipping away and an act of ultimate joy! It sounds like a bombing campaign.”
“Indeed it does, Detective Constable Hardie, and if we don’t stop it we, and I say ‘we’ because my people will bear the brunt of the backlash, are facing our worst nightmare.”
Thoroughgood broke the silence which descended on the room. “Do you think that Tariq is behind this? Is he capable of carrying out what happened in the West End and Braehead? If so we will need more of your help, Professor.”
Farouk, his consternation obvious, slowly nodded. “I have no doubt he is. Tariq is a man who burns with the fire of the righteous. There is no grey area with him, everything is black and white and in his mind his cause is the only true one.” The professor took a deep breath, apparently having inwardly resolved to embrace his decision to assist the detectives.
He continued, “I have been aware of the increasing zeal in Tariq’s preachings for some time, as have several of the other elders. Recently we have also become aware of strangers attending his preaching. Furthermore he has been preaching to select small audiences of mainly younger believers at a bookshop here in the West End called The Half-Moon.”
Hardie exchanged a knowing look with his DS and Farouk’s keen eyes did not miss it.
Farouk continued, “I can see that you are not surprised by any of this.”
A momentary silence hinted at a slight reluctance in the professor to continue, but after a pause he spoke. “Last night I visited The Half-Moon looking for evidence to confirm my concerns over Tariq. The evidence was there – and a hundredfold, gentlemen.
“Tariq delivered an impassioned oratory on Jihad against the West. There is no other way to put it. But what confirms to me that he has the ability and the determination to carry out the atrocities we’ve seen was the presence of men armed with AK-47 assault rifles. So you see gentlemen, there can be no doubt that Tariq has both the desire and the capability to carry out more atrocities.”
Hardie’s inelegant summation of the situation broke the silence. “What a feckin’ nightmare.”
Farouk levelled his gaze squarely on Thoroughgood. “But now Detective Sergeant, I think you have information that you should share with me.”
Thoroughgood shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “OK Professor, I appreciate all of the information you have shared with us and, yes, we have not been as candid with you.”
Hardie cleared his throat, uncomfortable with his superior’s planned course but Thoroughgood felt he could trust the academic and was not about to hold back now.
The DS said, “You know all about Braehead and Dowanhill. But you possibly don’t know t
hat hostages have been taken and their captors have posted a film on an Al-Jazeera website calling themselves the Spear of Islam. The film demands the release of a terrorist with links to al-Quaeda from Guantanamo Bay, or the hostages – the leader of Glasgow City Council and a high-profile Scottish businesswoman – will be executed.”
Thoroughgood ploughed on. “What you won’t know is that a doctor Mustafa Mohammed has gone missing from the Western Infirmary and when we went to his flat we uncovered literature about waging Jihad and bomb-making and a filofax full of what we think is info about shopping centres. I chased a man with a blemished left eye from the flat – who almost carved me up with – this.”
Thoroughgood set down the ivory-handled dagger on Farouk’s desk. He could tell by the academic’s reaction that he had seen the weapon before.
The professor lifted the blade and stroked his index finger lovingly along the cold steel ending with the wicked curve.
“This is the ceremonial dagger worn by the Imam on great days. It is said to belong to the greatest Sultan of them all, Saladin. The legend is that when Jerusalem fell to Saladin in 1187, this is the dagger he used to inflict the first wound on Raynald de Chatillon, the Crusader butcher of Muslim caravans.
“I have heard it said that Tariq believes that whoever possesses it will succeed in his Jihad against ‘the Crusaders’. I must warn you that if Tariq finds out you have the dagger he will stop at nothing to take it back.”
Hardie opened his mouth to speak but Farouk indicated he had more to say. “You say that a man with a blemished eye tried to kill you with the dagger.” Farouk turned the finely weighted blade in his hand and the steel glinted from the weak sunlight filtering through the office window. “One of Tariq’s guards at the bookshop last night had such a blemish. I know that Tariq is capable of anything. I think his actions could cause the Muslim community throughout the UK great harm. I will do anything I can to help you. But … he is a clever man. He will know that the doctor’s flat has been raided so he will be aware that you are in possession of information that will help you thwart his ambitions. That means, Detective Sergeant, that you must move with all haste.”
