by RJ Mitchell
She cradled his head in her hands and kissed his forehead and for once in his life Gus Thoroughgood was at a complete loss over what to do next. Her brilliant, azure eyes penetrated his and she could have done with him what she wanted at that moment, so laid bare had he become.
He became aware that she was speaking softly, adding to the sensuality of the moment. “Do you want me to leave you alone tonight Gus?”
Staring into her eyes he moved closer to Aisha and her lush ruby lips. They kissed.
In the background Morten Harket sang Summer Moved On.
He woke that morning alone but with the smell of her still fresh on his sheets. Squinting at the red figures on his alarm clock he saw that it was 9am. In just two hours he faced one of the most important meetings of his career – if he still had one.
A debrief in which he would have to fight a rear-guard against an incandescent Tomachek reeling at the embarrassment caused to Strathclyde Police by the Botanic Gardens incident and Sushi’s murder, in front of the Head of MI5, Sir Willie Strafford, one of the most powerful figures in British intelligence.
The creak of his bedroom door opening brought him back to the here and now. With it came the almost overpowering presence of Aisha. She was carrying his Partick Thistle mug filled with steaming coffee and a plate with a couple of slices of toast.
But it was what she wore that threw him. She was wearing his shirt from the night before, just as Celine had always done, and his initial smile faded fast. This wasn’t lost on Aisha as she set the mug and plate down.
“Is it the shirt, Gus?” she asked in the slightly accented voice that added to her allure.
He decided, in the wake of what they had shared last night, that honesty was the best policy. “Yup. Why is it that the women I go for always take ownership of my shirts like some kind of trophy?”
She smiled and leant forward, cupping his jaw in her hands and kissing him – lightly at first but with a slow increase in pressure that forced him to use all of his powers of self-control.
She drew back, picked up the mug and took a sip of his coffee, perching on the side of the bed, legs crossed in a pose that sent his senses through an emotional stratosphere.
“Is that what I am to you Detective Sergeant, one of the women you go for?” she asked.
He chuckled, enjoying the fact he didn’t feel guilty for the moment of mirth. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Staff Nurse Farouk, but surely it was you who went for me?”
With time against them, he felt he needed to firm up just where last night had left them.
“Aisha, I’d love to see you again. But I have a nightmare debriefing this morning and I just don’t know how things are going to go for me after the Intelligence boys at MI5 take over the enquiry.”
She leaned back and sighed: “So what you are telling me Gus, is that you would like to see me again but don’t know when you will have time?”
Thoroughgood cleared his throat awkwardly. “I guess that is the bottom line, and all because of this little baby.” He pulled out Saladin’s dagger, the superb ivory and bejewelled handle crowning the vicious curved blade.
He placed it on the bed between them and they both looked at it.
Aisha was first to speak. “Wal, the ceremonial dagger. 800 years of history lying on your bed. Do you know this dagger was used by Saladin against the butcher Raynald de Chatillon? I guess its role in destroying Chatillon and the winning of the battle of Hattin which allowed Saladin to reclaim Jerusalem and the Al-Aqsa Mosque are why it is so revered.”
She picked it up and held it in the palms of her hands in obvious awe, reading the carved words on the handle out loud. Immediately Thoroughgood chorused them with her. Then, as she grimaced when their meaning hit home he said:
“Somehow we have got to stop Tariq taking any more ‘infidel’ lives and make sure he never takes possession of the dagger.”
Aisha nodded. “That is so. Yet at the same time the dagger is your best hope to lure Tariq into daylight. It is a dangerous and difficult game you are playing Gus.”
25
THE DOOR to Tomachek’s office was open and the smoke billowed out into the corridor as Thoroughgood and Hardie entered. Tomachek was not alone. In the corner, leaning nonchalantly against the archaic filing cabinet and drinking a mug of coffee was Sir Willie Stratford, head of MI5.
As Thoroughgood entered he took stock of Stratford’s imposing figure, his immaculate pinstriped navy blue suit and his Harlequin’s Rugby Football Club tie which hinted at a sporting past. He exuded casual authority.
“These must be the two fellows I have been hearing so much about. Pleased to meet you,” drawled Stratford in a smooth English public school accent.
Stratford straightened up and, adjusting his double fold cuffs, strode over to greet Thoroughgood and Hardie. Tomachek, his subordinates noticed, sat silently fuming on his walnut pipe which was blowing smoke at an incredible rate.
Stratford offered his hand and his introduction in unequivocal fashion. “Sir Willie Stratford at your service, gentlemen, and damn good to meet you both at last.”
After a round of handshakes that would have graced any masonic lodge meeting, Thoroughgood and Hardie took their customary seats opposite Tomachek aware that their superior officer, relegated to the role of subordinate by the imposing presence of Stratford, had still failed to find his usual voice.
That soon changed. Tomachek removed his pipe and tapped the head onto his ashtray.
“As you know gentlemen, this matter has now gone well beyond our remit. Sir Willie is here to take overall control of the enquiry. I have brought him fully up to date with all of the events since the Braehead explosion, right up to the Botanics last night.”
Tomachek belched like some venerable silver-backed Gorilla, intent on making a statement of primal reaffirment that this was still his turf. Then he ploughed on: “But now you need to hear what Sir Willie has to say from his side of things.” With that statement Tomachek appeared almost satisfied at his walk on role and gestured for his visitor to continue, “Sir Willie if you care to take things on?”
Sir Willie slurped on his mug of coffee and placed it down. “Don’t mind if I do, Tomachek. Well, we have a real problem here as I’m sure you are aware and one I am not going to be able to offer much positive input to.
“At present we have thirty-five Islamic terrorist networks within London alone and sundry others throughout England and Wales, while in Scotland right now there are twelve.
“The terrorist threat level is currently severe, the second highest on the Reichter scale, so to speak.” Sir Willie rubbed his hand over his shiny dome a couple of times then levelled grey eyes that had a hint of cruelty in them at Thoroughgood and Hardie.
“Most of these networks comprise of two or three activists, with a few numbering up to six. The members become radicalized and melt into their own communities as sleeper agents, maintaining contact with each other at Friday mosque prayers and waiting for instruction.
“Their deep cover is protected by the normality of their daily jobs as academics, doctors, schoolteachers etc. All the time they observe our society for weaknesses and flaws they can capitalise and exploit.”
Stratford took another slurp of coffee and carried on. “These are the networks that spawned the ‘shoe bomber’ Richard Reid and the London 7/7 bombers. Some of them train in Pakistan before returning to Blighty as sleeper agents.
“These people are resourceful and they pursue training on these shores in remote areas like the Brecon Beacon Mountains and suchlike to be ready for their big day. I fear most wholeheartedly gentlemen, with all due respect to the victims of Braehead, that we have an even bigger ‘day’ coming in Glasgow.”
Thoroughgood cleared his throat, acutely aware that to interrupt a man of Sir Willie’s stature was risky, and spoke into the temporary void he had created. “If I may?”
Stratford nodded.
“I take it that you have analysed all the data and evid
ence from the atrocities at Braehead, Dowanhill and the cache at St Vincent Terrace?”
“Indeed,” Stratford replied curtly.
Despite the dismissive tone of his reply Thoroughgood continued, “Don’t you have most of the mosques in the UK under surveillance? Why didn’t you know about the increasingly radicalised nature of Tariq’s preachings and his growing followers?”
Stratford sipped his coffee slowly to underline the fact he would provide an answer on his terms. “My dear fellow if only it were as easy as that,” he said in a slightly patronising tone before continuing. “Look Detective Sergeant, I see what you are driving at, but even when you know a Jihadist cell is in operation, taking action against it is not an easy thing, pre-emptively speaking.
“You do know – I sincerely hope – that neither MI5 nor MI6 have the power of arrest?”
Hardie interjected. “Buggered if I did, Sir. But surely in an age of global surveillance you must be able to keep your suspects under scrutiny 24/7?”
Stratford turned his slate grey eyes on Hardie, clearly irked at the blunt nature of his question. “The intelligence community works closely with the police to ensure arrests are made but then you have these infuriating human rights lawyers challenging every arrest on the slightest bloody pretext.
“So the process, gentlemen, is exhaustive and expensive in terms of both manpower and finance. As for surveillance, every predominantly Muslim area in the UK including Glasgow is subject to surveillance from cameras using fibre optics that can pick up to 50 individual traits and track a potential terrorist along a street or in and out of a building.”
Sir Willie was in full flow now. “We have one network devoted to automatic licence plate recognition that goes from snapshot to target recognition in the blink of an eye.”
Hardie snapped, “So, if you’ve got all of that technology, all of that global surveillance, then how in the name of the wee man did a team of Jihadists wash up in auld Glasgae toon without a hint or a trace on your feckin’ radar?”
Thoroughgood added his dissent. “And how has Tariq been able to recruit and develop terrorists in our city? Surely he must be known to you? You must monitor all cellphone use, emails etc. and share intel’ with the CIA, Mossad and the like, especially after all the bad press that MI5 had.”
Stratford’s face was a mixture of anger and frustration. “That is just it gentlemen; we thought we were well versed on what Tariq was up to until very recently. Our man on the inside has disappeared and so has our intel’. In any case it would now appear that intel’ was for the most part fabrication.”
“Rogue?” boomed the previously calm Tomachek.
“We have been aware of Tariq for around six months and an agent was inserted to ensure a steady flow of information. We got just that initially but of late it became irregular then went dry and our man has, or should I say had, disappeared off the map.”
A previously gnawing concern now suddenly made sense for Thoroughgood. “Of course! Your man on the inside was Doctor Mustafa Mohammed who has been identified among the dead at Braehead.”
Stratford nodded resignedly. “That is the case. It appears that Tariq had managed to wave his messianic spell over Mohammed. Clearly it is vital we find Tariq and his henchmen quickly but we also have two other pressing needs.”
Stratford placed the filofax from St Vincent Terrace onto Tomachek’s desk before continuing. “Firstly, when you add the ‘Nikah’, begging your pardon, or wedding email to the anonymous location, you have two parts of a jigsaw of terror. Gentlemen, we are running out of time to work out the location and date of the impending nuptials.
“Secondly, we have two high-profile hostages with very little time left and at this precise moment we don’t have the damnedest clue where they or their captors are. So you are correct gentlemen. Despite this age of global surveillance, we do not have a foggy where Tariq is.”
It was all too much for Tomachek; his colour had been rising as the seconds passed and at last he blew. “I don’t believe my own ears. You have millions of pounds worth of technology at your fingertips and you wouldn’t have known if your own agent was alive or dead without a lucky break with his dental work. Well I have news for you, Sir William.” The use of the intelligence chief’s full name was not lost on Thoroughgood or Hardie. “It is obvious to me and my colleagues that your man in the field did indeed turn rogue and had been shovelling you a pile of shite. And we’re left in the middle of a chain of terrorist atrocities in Glasgow just because you lot think the world ends at London’s city limits.”
Stratford stammered nervously in the face of Tomachek’s onslaught. “I can assure you Superintendent Tomachek, all measures are being taken and we will have the matter in hand as soon as possible.”
Thoroughgood tried to press the intelligence chief from a different angle. “If you’re not picking up sufficient chatter from Tariq’s team via cellphone, email and the like, then they must be communicating by other means surely? Have the mosque and Tariq’s apartments been bugged? Surely you have something that will help us locate him or identify someone who can?”
“That is not the case, largely because our man on the inside fed us a diet of duff information.”
Hardie chipped in, “What if there are two parts to Tariq’s group? Firstly the home grown Jihadists; cultivated young, sent away to train then returning to take their place in apparently normal domestic life – like your man Mustafa? Secondly, guns for hire, 24 carat Jihadists using specialist equipment to take out punters on the streets.
“If that is the case,” Hardie continued, “then as well as trying to locate Tariq we have another twofold investigation and very little time.”
Thoroughgood continued where his sidekick had left off. “Listen, there are two ways forward. Firstly our contact Professor Farouk is an elder on the mosque council and views Tariq’s rantings as anathema, and he may well not be the only one.
“Tariq is likely to have sympathisers on the council and I’m pretty sure that Farouk will have a good idea who they are. So we locate them through Farouk and then it’s over to your agents, Sir.”
Stratford nodded his approval while a slight smirk appeared at the corners of Tomachek’s mouth.
The DS continued. “Secondly, Farouk attended a meeting at The Half-Moon bookshop earlier this week at which Tariq basically announced Jihad and flaunted his AK-47 toting terrorists.
Farouk will be able to give us names of those in attendance and the bookshop owner. With your surveillance vans in situ’ surely to God we would get something.”
Hardie interjected, “There is another angle that I think has real potential. The kidnapping at One Devonshire Gardens was obviously based on inside information. My betting is that background checks will point to at least one member of staff there being part of a sleeper cell. After the checks they can be brought in on anti-terrorist legislation and we can surely get a spin-off.”
Stratford looked unconvinced. “I’ll have every member of staff at the hotel vetted and once we have some sort of association they will be placed under surveillance. But I would suggest they would be more use to us being monitored in the field rather than in the cells at Govan Police Station saying nothing and with briefs and human rights activists crying wrongful arrest, injustice and racial harassment.”
Tomachek pitched in, “I concur with Sir Willie on that one. We have to maximise the chances of turning over a lead that will take us to Tariq. It is vital we have as many riders and runners to pursue over the course as possible.”
“We also have the dagger,” added Thoroughgood.
“I propose to take it with me on a visit to the Half-Moon and let them know I have it in my possession. That should allow us to draw out some kind of response.”
Sir Willie lifted his coffee cup up and peered into it for a moment before putting it down. “Well, gentlemen, time is against us but this is how I propose we go forward.”
“Detectives, you will liaise with Professor Farou
k immediately and obtain a list of those who may be associated with Tariq and privy to the information we need. When you get that list I want it emailed to Chief Intelligence Officer Malcolm Etherington ASAP. He will forthwith be the main liaison officer between our two organisations.
“Then I want the Half-Moon visited and once more gentlemen, everything you have from that visit emailed to Etherington. At 6pm today we will have a further meeting in this office.”
Sir Willie continued, “In the interests of time I have taken the liberty of having this meeting recorded. Our surveillance operation officially starts from now and before you get to the bookshop we will have a van situated near by monitoring it.
“I must also advise you that there is a conduit opened with the anti-terrorist branch at Scotland Yard. Every potential terrorist target in your city is now under our scrutiny. You have my word that the protection and safety of the citizens of Glasgow are firmly at the top of Her Majesty’s Secret Agents’ agenda.
“If there is nothing else gentlemen, I suggest we be about our business. It is a pretty mess and we are going to need the help of the Almighty and more than a bit of good fortune to clear it up in time.”
Hardie couldn’t help himself. “You can say that again.”
Sir Willie walked out the office leaving the three detectives in a state verging on shell-shock.
26
TARIQ PACED the damp confines of the room that had become his HQ, listening to the words of his trusted lieutenant. The intelligence services had arrived in Glasgow. It was Tariq’s intention to have their whereabouts and activities monitored by the army of informants he had cultivated from his days of street corner preaching.
He knew that he had inspired great loyalty in his men but he was also acutely aware that they did not have the training to defeat the technical capabilities that would now be brought to bear against them.
Beside him, Naif appraised the Imam. “There was a meeting earlier today in the city centre police office between local police and Sir William Stratford, the Head of MI5. We are now going to have the full force of the infidel unleashed against us.
