by RJ Mitchell
28
THOROUGHGOOD AND Hardie had just finished an impromptu pit-stop for ‘light refreshment’ as Hardie put it when they heard the news bulletin on Radio Clyde detailing the attempted suicide bombing in Buchanan Street.
It didn’t take long before they were piecing together the implications. Hardie was first to offer his thoughts. Almost before completing a large mouthful of the McDonald’s quarter pounder meal he said, “Fuck me, that must have been a close one. I bet that Sergeant Shuggie Campbell must have been on the verge of a serious Code 21 brown broadcast. Took a few chances didn’t he though? I mean what are the odds on shredding the cabin of the delivery van with lead and not one bullet making it through to the payload of explosives?”
Thoroughgood, his window down, sat with one arm dangling over the rim of the driver’s door staring aimlessly into the passing traffic.
“Tariq is cute though. That video broadcast basically warned the Muslim community that if they were at prayers they would be safe. 10.30am Friday is the holiest time for the devout to be about their business at the Mosque,” advised Thoroughgood.
“Makes you wonder what’s next on the hit list don’t it?” demanded Hardie. “I mean that’s a shopping centre, street assassinations, and now an underground in the busiest pedestrian shopping street in Scotland. So much for the targets all being shopping centres. It would appear there is no pattern to them other than maximum impact and the only way to find out what they are is to decipher the asterisks in that bleedin’ filofax.You’ve got to admit the bastards have done their homework. But where the feck does Johnny Balfour and his bum chums fit into all of that? For me that is one piece in the jigsaw that just don’t fit.”
Thoroughgood met Hardie’s inquisitorial gaze with a nod of agreement.
“Aye, yer right on both counts. Regarding Balfour, the only thing I can come up with is that he must have intimidated the Muslim community in some shape or form, or maybe he was contaminating it with a supply of drugs? The bottom line is that we’ve got to start turning the heat up on Tariq. He’s the one setting the agenda and we aren’t doing enough to disrupt him. It isn’t gonna be easy with Vanessa bleedin’ Velvet and Jim Fraser set to lose their heads in 24 hours time. We need a break and fast, but we’ve got to do more to make it happen…” Thoroughgood cut off his summation of where they were as his attention wandered to a figure at the corner of the street.
Hardie’s eyes followed his gaffer’s until they too rested on a beggar. “Bloody beggars, seem like they're everywhere these days,” opined the DC.
The beggar in question was a swarthy male wearing a faded Adidas tracksuit. As his gaze met that of the two detectives he scuttled around the corner into Maryhill Road and blended in with the pedestrian traffic.
Hardie’s eyebrows shot up quizzically. “Bit strange that one gaffer. Call me paranoid but did the beggar boy there seem to be taking a bit more than a passing interest in us, or was he just scavenging for scraps of my McDonald’s?” Hardie emptied the last remaining French fries from his poke into the cavern that was his mouth.
Thoroughgood remained nonplussed. “You’re losin’ it you old git. Just because I refused to order you a Happy Meal and you’re missing out on the toy the whole world is against you. He’s just another junkie with a sheriff’s warrant to apprehend on his head who’s just woken up to the fact he’s been eyeballing ‘the Rozzers’. We’ve got a lot more important things to be worrying about right now. . .”
But Thoroughgood got no further because his ring tone erupted into life. His mouth turning up in a frown, he picked up. “DS Thoroughgood, who calls?”
It was Professor Farouk. Within 10 minutes they were sitting in the academic’s office having answered their invitation to talk by the distinguished scholar.
“Gentlemen, I heard about the attempted suicide bombing in Buchanan Street. I have to be honest and say that I thought Tariq may have planned something this morning but in some way I still couldn’t believe he would.”
Thoroughgood seized an opportunity to take the moral high ground. “You mean our mutual friend tipping off the true believers that if they remained faithful to the shahada at the appointed time they would remain safe?” Thoroughgood’s green eyes burned straight into Farouk’s.
Observing his gaffer’s intensity the thought struck Hardie that his superior officer was at last returning to the detective he would ride shotgun through the gates of hell for.
Farouk, guilt written large over his features, cleared his throat. When he spoke his voice was soft and clearly weary. “I’m impressed Detective Sergeant. My daughter has told me that she believes you can help us save the Muslim community in Glasgow from the disaster that Tariq is bringing upon it. Perhaps she is correct.”
Hardie, mystified by this unforeseen interlude, went on the attack. “Now wait a minute Professor, with all due bleedin’ respect, if you suspected there was some sort of coded warning in Tariq’s broadcast then what the fuck were you doing sittin’ on your hands?”
Farouk was now firmly on the defensive. “I am sorry but. . .”
“You would be a whole lot more sorry if that Sainsbury’s van had detonated and taken everyone in Buchanan Street with it. Don’t you know a party of school kids en route to the Modern Art Museum came out the underground entrance just as the bomber put his foot to the floor and went for it?” fired Thoroughgood.
“I’m sorry, I truly am. But I have not, as you say Detective Constable Hardie, been sitting on my hands this last hour or so. I think I may have uncovered the route that will take you to the Imam and bring this lunacy to an end before there are more lives lost and there is not a street in Glasgow a Muslim can feel safe on.”
Hardie remained unconvinced. “And that would be?”
Farouk steepled his hands. “It is something called Hawala.”
Hardie barked a laugh out loud: “Forgive me Professor but I haven’t seen that one on the menu at India’s recently.”
“For crying out loud faither, let’s hear what the professor has to say. Before we think about bringing him in on anti-terrorist legislation as aiding and abetting an act of terror,” added Thoroughgood threateningly.
But Farouk had recovered his resolve. “Hawala, detectives, is an ancient system in the Muslim world which provides money transfers which leave no trail.
“I assume that you have failed to trace any financial transactions to Tariq that could be used to pinpoint either him or his confidantes?”
The silence was all that Farouk needed by way of an answer. He continued. “This is a financial system that is hundreds of years old and is the perfect means for Tariq to receive a continuous flow of funds from every Muslim that has answered his call to support jihad. It is also used widely by the World Islamic Front and Osama bin Laden.”
Hardie’s elongated whistle penetrated the room, underlining the importance of the information that the professor was giving them.
Farouk moved swiftly on. “It is a simple system and foolproof. It was created by Arab traders on the Silk Road, stretching . . .”
Thoroughgood interrupted impatiently, “From China to Europe. For your information Professor, I was a Medieval History student so if we could keep the history lesson to a minimum that be great. May I remind you that for a variety of reasons time is not on our side.”
Rebuked, Farouk carried on. “Indeed. At the system’s centre are the hawaladars. Every Muslim community has its quota of these ‘brokers’. They come from a variety of occupations be it taxi driver, shop keeper or indeed even Imam. But all are sworn to secrecy and no one can be admitted to the system until he is vouched for by another hawaladar.
“The key, gentlemen, of the system’s secrecy and dependability is that there is only one rule. Trust. Substantial sums of money are transferred through it. The slightest breach of trust and the breaker of the bonds is expelled and branded a disgrace and a traitor within his community. His reputation blackened beyond redemption in short, unforgivable,” Faro
uk took a break for breath.
“Bloody hell, the possibilities are endless,” opined Hardie.
“Indeed they are Detective Constable. It seems likely that the majority of Tariq’s funding, and al-Qaeda’s for that matter, comes via Hawala and through the acts of the hawaladars.
“All Tariq or his minion would need do is to make a visit to a hawaladar, hand over the sum of money he wished to donate and leave his name and the location of the recipient. The hawaladar would then add his fee – maybe half a percent of the sum to be transferred - then contact a hawaladar at the destination using his personal code. The recipient’s broker then knew that next time he and his correspondent broker did business, when the process would be reversed, he would recover the money he had paid out.”
Aware that the two detectives were hanging on his every word Farouk ploughed on. “This is a system, gentlemen, that operates on such a high level of trust that no formal banking system can come near it. It offers, as you now understand, complete anonymity within the system.”
Thoroughgood tried to keep his excitement in check.
“Okay the opportunities this could bring us are endless. But first we need to know who is acting as Tariq’s hawaladar. If we can get his identity then we can force Tariq to set up a meeting and we’ve got him. But given what you have just said about anyone breaking the code being effectively ostracised from your community how are we going to get someone to run the gauntlet? Basically you are talking about someone being prepared to be shunned by his community almost a form of excommunication from the Muslim faith.”
Farouk’s brow creased in a frown. “We are now at a stage Detective Sergeant where if we do not do anything about this then the Muslim community in Glasgow, perhaps even throughout the United Kingdom, will no longer be able to exist. It is my belief that if I can bring all of that to bear we may be able to convince the hawaladar in question to break the code for the sake of his fellow 30,000 Muslims here in Glasgow.”
Hardie interjected, “It’s a big ask of anyone. But I’m sure you can make the person in question see that the price for doing nothing is even greater. You will be aware, Professor, that there are already reports of racially aggravated violence on Muslims in the city starting to escalate. The unease is only going to grow. I shudder to think how bad it would be if that delivery van had detonated in Buchanan Street this morning.
“You know who Tariq’s hawaladar is, Professor, if I’m not mistaken?”
Farouk hesitated slightly before answering. “I think I do know who the hawaladar is, yes, although I can not confirm it, as yet. Surely if you have him watched his actions will confirm my suspicions?”
Thoroughgood was not convinced that Farouk was telling them everything he knew and he was in no mood to hold back. “You’re right, Professor, there is now a strong MI5 presence in Glasgow and if you give me the identity of the man you believe is acting as Tariq’s financier we’ll have him put under surveillance immediately.”
Farouk shrugged his shoulders. “This is not something I do lightly but I know it is for the best. His name is Dhiren Rahman; he is a banker with the United Arab Emirates Central Bank. I believe he may also have links to the Russian Mafia and Tariq and his group may have been armed through him. I believe there may be something even more sinister that Rahman has helped finance.”
“This just gets better and better. The Russian Mafia, feck me, what next – Osama bin Laden making a guest appearance with half the bleedin’ Taliban in tow marchin’ down Sauchiehall Street?” said Hardie in disbelief before adding, “Stone the soddin’ crows. I just cannae get my heid round this.”
When he spoke the anger in Thoroughgood’s voice betrayed that he had got his ‘heid round it’. “Let’s cut to the bottom line, Professor. I think you know a whole lot more than you are letting on. That right? If it is then you need to spill or we will be walking out your door and you can kiss your cosy little life in the bosom of alma mater goodbye.”
Farouk’s composure at last deserted him.
“Detectives you must realise that I am an honourable man and that is why I am speaking to you at this moment. But I find myself feeling that whatever I say I will betray someone.”
But Hardie’s patience had snapped. “For fuck’s sake will you just spill? With respect Professor, of course.”
Farouk knew that he had no alternative. “Last week I arrived early to the mosque for a meeting of elders so waited outside the meeting room. I had heard voices within the Imam’s chamber which is opposite the meeting room; The Imam was talking to Rahman.”
Farouk took a breath then added, “Large sums of
money were discussed and I believe they were talking about material that could be used to make a ‘dirty bomb’ with a target in Scotland in mind. At the time I thought it was all talk but as each day goes by with each new atrocity I now believe they may have the capability and the materials here in Glasgow to carry that out.”
“You’ve got to be having a laugh Professor. Why the fuck haven’t you said anything before now?” demanded Hardie.
Farouk’s shame was clear. “I was in denial, I could not bring myself to believe the evidence of my own ears. But after Braehead, Dowanhill, the death of Sushi and what almost happened this morning I had no option to tell you before it is too late.”
“Too fuckin’ late? Too late for whom? Those who lost their lives at Braehead, the four killed in Dowanhill or our friend Sushi who had his bloody brains blown out because he had the balls to do something about that maniac Tariq and didn’t give a damn about being ostracised. Because that is the bottom line Professor, you put your own position and self-importance before the lives of the innocent and even preserving the Muslim community’s place within our society.”
A proud man, now humbled, Farouk held his head in his hands and begged for forgiveness over and over again. “I am so sorry, may Allah forgive me.”
29
“IT IS barely believable fine fellows, barely believable, I tell you,” said Sir Willie Stratford in a state of apparent bewilderment.
Into the silence that followed Chief Intelligence Officer Etherington spoke.
“If you forgive me, Sir. I am afraid it is more than believable. Do you remember the intelligence we came across via our friends in the French DST internal intelligence service that suggested Mossad had been secretly trying to buy up fissionable materials from the Russian Mafia – namely the Rising Sun gang?”
“I do indeed Etherington. If memory serves, that was just before the July bombings in London. But I thought that was all squared away between the frogs and our friends in the Mossad?” said Stratford.
Observing the relationship between the two intelligence service members from the other side of Tomachek’s office, Thoroughgood had to admit to himself he was impressed by the candour with which Etherington, from under the shock of a blonde thatch of hair that reminded the DS of the Tory dandy Boris Johnson, addressed his boss.
“That bombshell, if you pardon the pun sir, came to light shortly after a raid on a Paris apartment by the DST. That came via an intelligence source we now believe to have been a double agent from within the Rising Sun that five grams of enriched uranium and possibly a quantity of another even more lethal substance called Caesium 137, which is both extremely soluble and reactive, had been removed from the building by the Rising Sun gang’s operative. Who, of course, was the double agent behind the tip off.”
Turning to the detectives, Etherington swept them with a cold assessing stare and continued to explain, “Detectives, the bottom line here is that the quantity and quality of this substance is enough to make a ‘dirty bomb’.”
“Balls and buggery!” exploded Tomachek: “What you mean is between Farouk’s info and the fact that some enriched uranium and what not has gone missing, it could be tucked up nice and cosy under the mad Imam’s pillow somewhere in Glasgow?”
Etherington applied the straight bat. “Exactly Superintendent.”
“Would you
mind if I provided you with some background to the impasse I now believe we find ourselves in?” he asked, coolly.
“Be my guest,” said Tomachek.
“The Rising Sun are the most powerful gang in what is loosely referred to as the Russian Mafia, and they don’t care whether they supply Israel or al-Qaeda with fissionable material. It is strictly business with whoever is the highest bidder.
“But before Mossad could buy it ‘out of the market’, so to speak, the DST swooped and that was where the role of Mossad started to emerge.
“What we later learned was that although the DST acted upon intelligence that correctly informed them of the presence of the enriched uranium, though the presence of the Caesium 137 was never confirmed, the substance was never truly intended for the Mossad – they were double-crossed.”
Hardie’s incredulity was revealed in one word. “What?”
Etherington offered a faint smile. “Yes, I know it sounds like something out of a Le Carré novel but I’m afraid that is the world in which the security services operate.”
“Hold on Mr Etherington,” Thoroughgood interjected, “Correct me if I’m wrong but you’re saying the Rising Sun had set up a deal with Mossad they never intended to honour? So would it be fair to suggest it was the Rising Sun operative who tipped off the French intelligence service with information concerning the location and substance that was up for grabs that was also less than wholly accurate?”
Etherington nodded. “Indeed they did Detective Sergeant. What we now suspect is that the Rising Sun tried to make it look like they had managed to get the uranium smuggled out ahead of the apartment being raided by the DST. Further that they had done so after acting on information received via a tip off themselves. But we believe it has since been sold to and was always going to be sold to al-Qaeda.”
