by RJ Mitchell
This time Hardie could not help himself. “Amen to that.”
Ignoring his sidekick, Thoroughgood asked, “Okay Professor let’s cut to the chase. Where can I find Tariq?”
“Officially Tariq’s place of residence is the Imam’s house next to the Central Mosque but that is no longer where he stays. Over the past few months it has become a matter of some irritation for the elders that Tariq is never available when required. The best suggestion I can come up with is that he may be staying at one of his followers’ houses.”
Before Thoroughgood could speak further the door of Farouk’s office opened and a vaguely familiar female voice from behind the startled detectives said, “Sorry, Father, I did not realise you were busy. Please forgive me I will . . .”
As Thoroughgood turned his head around to take in the speaker the look of surprise on his face was mirrored by hers. “Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood,” she said, “What a small world it is! It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Farouk looked uncomprehendingly first at his daughter, then Thoroughgood and finally at Hardie who shrugged his shoulders in equal mystification.
Thoroughgood smiled warmly at the nurse he had saved the day before and found himself inexplicably happy to be speaking her name. “Aisha, the pleasure is all mine.”
After she had explained their previous encounter to the professor, Farouk adroitly asked his daughter if she would make his guests a coffee and the conversation quickly returned to the matter in hand.
“So gentlemen we are agreed that the sooner Tariq is confronted the better?” asked the academic.
Thoroughgood was once again disconcerted by the professor’s directness but he knew that after Fraouk’s revelations about the meeting at the Half-Moon, time was of the essence.
“Professor, we have a plan to lure out Tariq and also help us integrate Sushi into his trusted group of followers,” said Thoroughgood.
The professor’s eyebrows raised an inch and he indicated to Thoroughgood to carry on.
“You have just underlined the significance Saladin’s dagger carries for Tariq. We plan to give him the information, through Suleiman, as to where he can locate it. We’ll try to trap him or whomever he sends to get it. It’s a gamble but if, as the note suggests, we are facing an ongoing bombing campaign and a race against time to save the hostages the stakes are high enough to demand we make it. What do you think Professor?”
“I can see the plan’s merits. I am not sure that you will hook the fish you seek to catch through it, as Tariq is a shrewd and cunning man. But your idea of helping Suleiman gain entry into Tariq’s favour may be more successful. There is no doubt that Tariq sets great store by the dagger.”
Thoroughgood cleared his throat. He knew his plan had implications but right now what really bothered him were the revelations of the coded message the professor had just cracked.
Glasgow was now in the middle of a concerted campaign of terror and things were only going to get worse.
Apart from this lone long shot, Thoroughgood didn’t have a clue where to start.
21
THE ROOM stank of damp, and scuffling and scuttling noises coming from the semi-darkness indicated that Jim and Vanessa were not alone.
The hostages were gagged, bound and strapped to chairs. Only the flame flickering from a small candle on a table at the side of the room provided any illumination. It was a scene worthy of anyone’s worst nightmares. Fraser tried to provide some kind of encouragement to Vanessa with a strangled smile but saw that it was a waste of energy, failing to have any impact on the sobs racking Vanessa’s body.
He looked at the old brickwork walls and what he could make of the ceiling. Despite the agony of his headache he took in every possible detail of their environment and had a feeling that they were underground. His last memory had been of the lights going well and truly out before he was presumably slammed in the boot of the car.
The men had spoken mainly in Arabic when they had taken the hostages. Their English, although spoken in a thick accent, was better than half the population of Glasgow’s, thought Fraser with bitterness.
He returned his gaze to Vanessa’s dishevelled and swollen features. Fraser’s mind flashed back to their passion earlier that day. A rendezvous that had promised so much and now would have disastrous implications for both of them even if they escaped with their lives.
Vanessa had been so beautiful, the object of all his desires. He had hoped the rendezvous might develop into an ongoing affair. What he couldn’t understand was just how the gang had found out about their liaison. Who had tipped them off?
Fraser was also still in the dark over where Vanessa had been taken earlier. Time was now a blur, but he believed they may have been held overnight and that this was the second day of their enforced captivity. The truth was, he could not be sure of anything.
Fraser ached with hunger but his determination to escape from this disaster burned even stronger within him. After all he wasn’t just anybody . . .
As a student he had once entertained ambitions of a career in the intelligence community although his lack of personal discipline, poor judgement and an opinionated mouth had rendered that no more than a pipe dream. Ironically, Fraser now supposed he would be relying on operatives from that very intelligence community to save their souls. This was way above the remit of Strathclyde Police.
Now he again tried to give a shred of comfort to Vanessa by rubbing his foot against hers, hoping the slight physical contact would somehow offer her a shard of solace. Sure enough it drew her attention to him and her eyes locked on his imploringly, searching for some reassurance. Just then the door burst open.
Fraser immediately focused on the man who entered the room. His face was unfamiliar but his voice was not and the councillor had no doubt that he had been one of the men who had taken him and Vanessa captive.
The man was carrying a tray with two bowls placed on it which he put on the table with the candle. The flame flickered with his movement. A squeal from the semi-darkness once again made the hostages aware that not all the occupants of the room were human.
The man, dark-haired and swarthy, strode over to Vanessa and removed her gag. Into the silence her sobs broke and as she opened her mouth the guard backhanded her with a vicious swing of his hand. The ferocity of the blow knocked her and the chair over and she crashed to the floor.
For a second Fraser thought the man was going to kick her, his face, flickering in the candlelight, providing a study in cruelty. Then he bent over Vanessa, grabbed her chin and spoke.
“You listen, bitch. You do what told, give me no trouble. If you are good girl you get bowl soup to drink. Understand?”
Lying on her side, still tied to the chair, Vanessa managed to croak “Yes.”
The man then pulled her to an upright position in the chair.
He moved towards the table returning with the bowl and held it to her lips. She drank hungrily, her desperation for liquid seeming to dull her senses to the scalding heat of the brown soup.
“Good bitch, good bitch,” said their captor. He removed the empty bowl and snapped the gag back in the lingerie tycoon’s mouth.
He replaced the bowl and returned to Fraser with the other one. Pulling the politician’s gag down he proffered the bowl. Fraser curled his mouth round the rim and drank, ignoring the sting coming from his burning lips. The soup registered as similar to the Oxtail soup his mother had made him drink as a kid.
As the guard removed the bowl Fraser spoke before his gag was snapped back. One word echoed out. “Why?”
The guard registered surprise at the question. He spoke in his mother tongue. “La ila ha illa llah.” He paused before translating in his thick English. “There is no god except the one God, infidel. You need have no worries because soon enough, dog, you will die. But first,” and he gestured at Vanessa, “you will watch your bitch die.” He drew his finger across his throat to leave the two hostages in no doubt of the fate that awaited them.
Fraser mustered the last shreds of self control and spat straight at his tormentor’s face. “Fuck you!” he rapped as the soup bowl smashed into his face and the lights went out for a second time.
As Fraser and his chair toppled over onto the uneven, stony floor the door to the room opened again and a voice resonating authority uttered one word. “Out.”
The guard left the room.
Vanessa stared at the door as it slammed shut behind their tormentor.
She looked over at Fraser lying inert in oblivion and a shiver of raw fear ran down her spine.
22
THOROUGHGOOD AND Hardie left University Gardens, their moods darkened by the conversation with Professor Farouk but their resolve stiffened to apprehend Tariq before he unfolded any further carnage on the streets of Glasgow.
Their journey back to Thoroughgood’s flat was spent planning their next meeting with Sushi. He would be fully briefed over his new role as informer and trap-layer. But there were other pressing concerns to deal with, the first of which was bringing Tomachek into the picture with their plan and Sushi’s role in it, as well as his background.
When they arrived at Gardner Street, Sushi was leaning against a lamp post across the road from Thoroughgood’s flat, fag in mouth. Alighting from the Mondeo the DS signalled Sushi to follow them in.
As soon as they were inside the flat Thoroughgood opened proceedings. “Okay Sushi son I’m assuming you have been busy? Do we have a conduit for our ‘information’ for Tariq?”
The waiter’s face lit up with a grin that could only mean he had had a productive evening in that regard. “Yes boss. Tonight is the Half-Moon’s late opening, so I paid a visit while you were at the professor’s office.”
Sushi took a deep drag of his cigarette and continued. “It is owned by a man called Ahmed Omar, one of Tariq’s biggest supporters. He knows me from the Mosque, where we are on nodding terms. I told him that I have information for the Imam’s ears only, concerning the location of Saladin’s dagger.
“I could see straight away that I had his attention and although he was cautious he agreed that one of Tariq’s men will meet me later tonight. The location I suggested for that meeting was the outside the Conservatory at the Botanic Gardens.”
“He warned me that if this was a trick I would face expulsion from the Mosque and eternal damnation and that Saladin’s dagger was of massive importance to the nation of Islam; one of its greatest treasures. The bottom line is that we are meeting at 12 midnight tonight.”
“Well blow me,” gasped Hardie unable to contain himself, “Religious artefacts, a Jihadist death squad and a suicide bomb campaign. It’s like something out of the Da Vinci feckin’ Code, ain’t it? You don’t bloody well hang about Suleiman. The Botanics will be under lock and key by then but there are ways to get in. Ain’t that right gaffer?”
Thoroughgood took time to find his voice but eventually responded. “Sushi, there are a lot of implications regarding this meeting. This might be the time to make you aware of them.”
But Sushi held his hand up. “Listen boss, I know what they are; physical, mental and spiritual. But Glasgow is my home and if I can do anything to help you stop Tariq then how could I kip in me bed at night if I hadn’t bothered me arse?”
Hardie responded by jumping up and shaking the waiter by the hand enthusiastically.
“Don’t worry Sushi we will get your script sorted and remember you will have us watching your arse.”
As soon as Sushi left Hardie brought the other pressing matter to a head. “OK Gus, so we have a point of contact with these nutters and a plan of sorts. But, and it is one hell of a big bleedin’ but, what about the old man?”
Thoroughgood regarded his mate with a disdainful look designed to let him know full well he was aware Tomachek would take some convincing.
“Very good faither! How is it that for 90% of our time I feel like you are the boss man but every time there’s
an awkward phone call to make, a death message to be
delivered, or the need to run the gauntlet of
Tomachek . . .” Thoroughgood got no further.
“Privileges of rank mon gaffeur as I always say at these moments, when you are forced to earn your corn. Privileges of bleedin’ rank. But hey, I’m happy to give you my thoughts on the matter . . . if you have a need for ’em?”
“Fuck off faither why don’t you?” was the best Thoroughgood could come up with through gritted teeth.
“Drink?” asked Hardie.
“Aye, why not? After all if Tomachek doesn’t leave me with my head in my hands then the chances are it will be removed from my shoulders when the clock strikes midnight and we are poncing about in the bloody Botanics . . .”
Hardie went on, “Listen, I know you're going to take shite from the old man but what else does he have right now? The other thing that concerns me, gaffer, is what the fuck are the intelligence services doing about all of this? Don’t you find it strange we haven’t been called in to a joint meeting and a ‘thank you lads but no thank you – there’s a pair of good little plods now’?”
Thoroughgood’s eyebrows rose in an admission that the thought had crossed his mind. “Exactly. But time is short, so you pour the drinks and I’ll do the talking. Captain Morgan’s and coke will do the job.”
“Absolutement,” was the reply from Hardie.
“OK, here we go. We have kept the auld man in the dark about Sushi but he knows we've been workin’ on something. If he had anything better up his sleeve himself we would know about it by now surely? We’ll be offering him something that will strengthen his hand and I think after the usual verbal arse kickin’ he’ll be crackin’ open that bottle of Glengoyne he keeps in his desk.”
His Gettysburg address rehearsed, Thoroughgood sat down in his armchair and accepted the glass of frothing dark liquid Hardie had offered him.
“Get that down you gaffer and then bell the old buzzard. Personally speaking I think we have him by the balls. One thing I would suggest is that you push him on the intelligence services. I just cannae get my heid around the fact they haven’t had any intel’ on Tariq.”
After a final slug of his Morgan’s Thoroughgood picked up the phone and keyed in the digits of Tomachek’s home number. A thought crossed his mind.
“Feck me, it has just occurred to me that I know the auld man’s number better than my own bleedin’ number. How sad is that?”
The other end of the phone clicked into life and a voice boomed, “Valentino Tomachek. That you, Thoroughgood?”
“Yes gaffer. Sorry to bother you but I needed to talk with you urgently,” said Thoroughgood.
“Balls and bleedin’ buggery Thoroughgood! Get on with it then, I was almost in the land of nod,” barked the detective superintendent.
Thoroughgood gave his commanding officer the bottom line. “Okay, boss. We’ve established a point of contact with Tariq’s gang of Jihadists and we have a meet tonight, 12pm at the Botanic Gardens.”
A bout of coughing broke out at the other end of the phone. “Bally hell, you’ve done what? How by the rood’s name did you manage to do that?”
Thoroughgood felt somewhat disconcerted that he was going to have to admit to his earlier economies with the truth.
“I mentioned to you that we had someone in the pipeline who may be able to help us with translations. Well it turns out he has been able to do a good bit more than that. Are you ready for the full Monty, gaffer?”
“Blow me senseless, Thoroughgood, at this stage I wouldn’t want it any other way. Now get a bally move on man.”
“The Spear of Islam are being masterminded by the Imam Tariq who is the main man at the Glasgow Central Mosque. His preaching has become increasingly radicalised recently and he has sought to develop influence over the younger, more suggestible members of his congregation.” Thoroughgood halted for breath.
“Carry on,” came from the other end of the blower.
Thoroughgood did as
he was bid. “We have intelligence that leads us to believe he has also recruited a group of terrorists fresh from the al-Qaeda training grounds in the south western frontier of Pakistan.
“Tariq has been holding meetings for his radicalised followers at the Half-Moon bookshop. Earlier this week, witnessed by an informer, he preached Jihad. After he had done so he was joined by five of his brothers from abroad brandishing AK-47s.
“Although the two males who committed the Dowanhill atrocities wore masks, the description of their gear that day fits with that worn at the meeting by Tariq’s Jihadist death squad. That is also the case with the terrorists who appear on the hostage film.”
Thoroughgood finished the second part of his command performance and waited for reaction.
“In the name of the wee man . . .”
The detective sergeant quickly forced his voice into the silence left after Tomachek’s reaction and proceeded. “We now have an informant who has made contact with the gang through The Half-Moon bookshop and used Saladin’s dagger as bait to arrange the meeting with a member of the Imam’s gang tonight.
“Our man will provide the location of the dagger in an effort, firstly, to lure Tariq – or at least some of his gang – out.
Secondly, we will try to ingratiate our man within Tariq’s inner circle. Our man has been warned that he must come alone and he knows the risk involved but it is one he is willing to take.”
“In the name of Mother Mary, tell me that is it?” pleaded Tomachek.
Thoroughgood could only disappoint his superior officer. “Nope. We have had the note attached to the Dowanhill corpse translated. We believe it suggests that the Braehead bombing was only the start of a concerted bombing campaign that is going to continue possibly at shopping centres all over Scotland and maybe even the UK. We do not have a bloody clue where or when the next atrocity will come.”
