by RJ Mitchell
Watching Etherington, the detectives clearly saw a cruel grin curl at his mouth but the intelligence officer said nothing. He swept Omar with a gaze intent on assessing whether the detainee was truly genuine in his state of distress.
As Omar’s rasping subsided and his face was wiped clean, the room was filled with another pungent aroma. Omar had emptied his bowels. This was confirmation enough for Etherington that his man was broken.
He produced a tape recorder and held it close to Omar’s face. “As you know we don’t have time for a formal interrogation; that will come later, believe me. I want you to answer all my questions clearly and concisely into the tape recorder. Do you understand me?”
Omar nodded.
“Okay, I am going to stick to the essentials. Where is the Imam Tariq at present? Does he still hold the hostage Vanessa Velvet with him?”
Omar’s eyes shone defiance but his mouth opened. “He is in Glasgow. I do not know where, but I believe he is underground. I believe the bitch is still with him, awaiting her death.”
Etherington smiled thinly. “A half-truth if ever there was one, Omar. We will come back to that. Does the Imam have another atrocity planned for Glasgow, or anywhere else?”
Again the hatred burned from Omar’s features but evidently his fear of repeated torture was compelling. “He does. But I know not where or when, other than it is in Glasgow and that it is referred to as the Nikah.”
“The ‘wedding’; how very cryptic. I warn you Omar, you are not giving me enough and that will mean a second session. Next, have you any knowledge of a male called Declan Meechan or of the Hawalidar Dhinir Rahman. Do you know what they have been contracted to bring into Glasgow by Tariq?”
“I know nothing,” said Omar and spat with all the force he could muster, straight into Etherington’s face, “and if I did, you devil, I would rather burn in hell than tell you.”
Omar looked over at Thoroughgood and shouted, “The police pig who has Saladin’s dagger! Your days will soon be at an end, unbeliever! You commit sacrilege by possessing a relic of such importance. You will pay with your life.”
Stunned by the tirade directed at him, Thoroughgood remained silent. He did not know what else to do.
Etherington took a step back and the suits moved forward, grabbing Omar by his arms. The chief intelligence officer pulled a monogrammed hanky from his trouser pocket and wiped the spittle from his face. “Restrain him gentlemen,” ordered Etherington calmly.
Before the subordinates sheathed Omar’s head once more in the sodden hood he spat more defiance, “I tell you nothing, Satan spawn! You will count the bodies piled high before this week is out and the Imam Tariq will have claimed vengeance on behalf of Islam.”
Etherington’s eyebrows rose sardonically. On the bench the bookshop owner writhed in a desperate attempt to avoid being tied down for his second bout of waterboarding.
“Why don’t you take a couple of minutes to think about all of that Omar? I’ll be back shortly.” Etherington gestured for Hardie and Thoroughgood to follow him out of the cell.
Standing on the rusted steel flooring in the corridor Thoroughgood was first to speak, “So the next atrocity is due before the week’s out and the bodies will pile high. Plus he says Tariq is underground.”
“Interesting information,” chimed Hardie.
Etherington smirked. “Indeed gentlemen, with more revelations to come I promise you. It’s a distasteful business, waterboarding, but a mixture of the sensations of drowning and being asphyxiated is a powerful persuader and one our friends at the CIA have put to good use in Guantanamo Bay and beyond.
“Nevertheless, we now have two lines of enquiry which you can pursue while I complete Omar’s interrogation. I believe we are not far away from snaring our quarry, but speed is of the essence.”
Thoroughgood offered his hand in gratitude. “We’ll stay in contact via mobile, as and when. I think the underground aspect could be crucial. Where to start is the question.”
Shaking the DS’s hand Etherington underlined his belief in Thoroughgood’s ability to provide the answers. “I have every faith in you both.
“Happy hunting, gentlemen.” Etherington returned to Omar’s cell.
“Mitchell Library?” asked Hardie as they took their seats in the Mondeo.
“Where else?” Thoroughgood levelled the accelerator. As he did so he felt the ivory handle of Saladin’s dagger handle protruding into his ribs and the replay of Omar’s words it triggered sent a shiver down his spine.
39
RAHMAN WAS met at the disused tunnel entrance by Aaban, the man Tariq had appointed to organise the street beggars and rag-tag army of the homeless and the desperate whose lives had been given purpose by their conversion to Islam following Tariq’s street sermons. But now through Aaban’s efforts they were a silent and well organised, all-seeing but unseen, group. An army of the shunned who were positioned throughout the streets of Glasgow, ignored and despised but whose job it was to inform the Imam of the authorities’ every step.
Aaban smiled. “You have it!” He gestured at the silver case with the handgun held tightly in his hand and Rahman nodded. The sentry opened the gate replacing the handgun in his tracksuit pocket which did little to reduce its visibility. The implied threat was very real; Rahman knew that the group Tariq referred to as ‘my eyes and ears’ were all armed and ready to deal with any circumstance with utter ruthlessness.
The stench of urine was nauseating as Rahman followed the beggar in his grimy white tracksuit along the tunnel, holding tight to the precious case.
As he followed his silent guide, despite his queasiness, Rahman marvelled at the strong columns that had been used to stabilise the tunnel. It had been a masterstroke by Tariq to use the long forgotten city institution to once again outsmart the authorities. One that brought an extra satisfaction to the hawaladar.
Absorbed in appreciation of this glimpse into a forgotten world Rahman staggered as his foot landed on an old drain which gave way slightly. It crossed his mind that his foot must have been the first one to disturb the spot since the building was built over 100 years before. Cursing, he exhaled, “Allah be praised.”
Alerted by Rahman’s stumble and then his exclamation Aaban turned in alarm. “You are good?” he asked, his stilted English not surprising the hawaladar, given his guide’s Yemeni origin. Rahman replied with a thumbs up but felt himself clutching the case even tighter, aware of the potential disaster that could erupt if he dropped his deadly and unstable cargo.
The constant dripping of water became more and more disconcerting and Rahman heard a scraping sound close by. His guide turned and flashed a smile. “Rat. Don’t worry, not long now, maybe 100 metres.”
As Aaban led Rahman round a bend in the tunnel the acoustics changed remarkably. The sounds of the modern world above dulled down. A glimpse of light up ahead proved the beggar guide to be correct.
As they approached the light Rahman noticed other silent figures in the shadows. One of them offered a greeting. “Assalamu alaikum.”5
5 “Peace be with you.”
Aaban flashed a smile and replied. “Wa alaikum assalam wa rahmatu Allah.”6
6 “And to you be peace, together with God’s mercy.”
Rahman felt pride swell his breast as he continued in Aaban’s footsteps. In his hands was the means to the end that they had all worked for. The ultimate act of vengeance on behalf of their brothers, all those thousands of miles away.
Rahman’s chance association with the Rising Sun, leading to his meeting with Meechan and their hatching of a plan that would allow both parties to achieve their mutual goal of mass destruction, had elevated his status in Tariq’s Spear of Islam organisation.
When this was over and they had made good their escape they would be received and revered as the men who had achieved what al-Qaeda had failed to do in the toothless years since 9/11; the procurement and detonation of a dirty bomb in a major city in the West. For that, in no sm
all amount due to Meechan, Glasgow was perfect.
Sunlight flooded through the open vents above and bathed the ethereal underground world in a wan glow. Rahman followed his guide up a set of stairs. Rickety rotten wood had been reinforced in places with fresh wood, no doubt down to the current occupants. They arrived at a raised cement platform that he realised with satisfaction must sit only a few metres below Great Western Road. Rahman marvelled at the silent, abandoned world from the past from which – within a matter of hours – would come a deadly attack on the present to scar Glaswegian society forever more. Rahman could see that the platform he stood on still showed signs of fire damage inflicted by some long ago inferno. The staircase was not the only part of the man-made cavern that had been the subject of fresh renovation. There were also new doors on anterooms he assumed must have a new purpose replacing their previous Victorian use.
His reverie was punctured by a familiar voice and there at the top of the stairway stood Tariq. “At last Dhinir, Salam akhee! So you have come with the most important present for our Nikah I see. The family will be so glad.” Then Tariq laughed long and loud, the sound reverberating across the platforms and seemingly down the tunnel into the darkness.
Rahamn watched wide-eyed as a line of figures ran out and stood erect on an opposite cement bank. The air was filled with voices shouting, “Allahu Akbar!”
Tariq had turned at the top of the stairs and began to speak to his gathering.
“My friends, the time is almost upon us when we will fulfil the destiny of our Jihad and repay the infidels for the pain and hurt they have inflicted on our brothers in Afghanistan and Iraq. The time when the Crusader pigs will know the meaning of hell and all its agonies.” Turning to Rahman, Tariq gestured for him to pass the case. Taking hold of it he lifted it above his head. “At last I have the prized present for the Nikah. The means to bring the faithful the joy we crave. Allahu akbar!” finished Tariq and his shout was chorused once more by the figures on the opposite platform.
The Imam raised a hand for quiet and the believers were stilled instantaneously. “Now I want those who will be attending the Nikah to return to your homes and families and prepare for tomorrow and the answer to our prayers. The rest of you know what is required of you. May Allah and the prophet Mohammed be with you.”
The gathering began to melt away down the tunnel, back into the shadows, and Rahman tried to puzzle out where they would be in relation to the modern world above. Two worlds running in parallel lines with only one aware of the other.
Rahman felt a strong hand take grip of him. “Come Dhinir we have much to talk about and little time left to do it,” and Tariq guided him thorough a door into a room that could not have been inhabited in 70 years until, like the rest of this forgotten world, it had been given new life and purpose by Tariq.
Tariq placed the case on the table at the centre of the dimly lit room. He ran his fingers lovingly across its silver surface. “Small enough to fit into this do you think?” He lifted a black rucksack onto the table and slotted the case inside. “Excellent. Fit for purpose is the appropriate saying, I believe!” The elation on Tariq’s face was something that Rahman had never seen before and found strangely at odds with his usual unreadable countenance.
“Tell me Dhinir, how was Meechan?” asked the Imam.
Rahman flashed his thin smile. “Burning for revenge on this city and certain individuals within it, and grateful for payment; yet a man who knows that the sands of his life are slipping away fast, Imam.”
“Explain,” demanded Tariq.
“He has paid a high price for the revenge he has manufactured for us to wage, Imam. The double-cross on the Mossad has led to the sanctioning of a Kidon squad. Not even the Rising Sun can save him.”
“Indeed,” said Tariq. “Does that make him, in your opinion, a danger to us? Could he lead the Kidon squad to our door?”
Rahman shook his head. “No, Imam, Meechan does not know where that door is.”
Tariq smiled benignly and rose slowly pulling the rucksack off the table and in so doing revealing the revolver in his hand. “I am sorry Dhinir but we can have no weak points.” Rahman’s eyes opened wide in shocked realisation that his end was nigh. That he was expendable. He started to push the chair back but the Imam was already around the table at his side and pushing him down with the aid of that vice-like grip. He felt the icy cold of the revolver’s barrel end placed against his temple and before Rahman could beg for his life Tariq pulled the trigger.
The hawaladar’s head exploded and his body smashed down onto the table where his precious cargo had been just moments before.
Leaning over the inert form, Tariq said a brief prayer and finished with one word. “Gratitude.” On the eve of his longed for triumph no chances could be taken.
Tariq watched dispassionately as Rahman’s body was dragged out of the room. He sat staring at the shiny metallic case which he had retrieved from the rucksack. He opened it, aware that the thrill was akin to that which he had experienced as a small boy, receiving a longed for present and not quite being able to believe it was his. His mind surfed tidal waves of elation as his eyes slipped over the key components of the bomb, marvelling at the intricacy of the wiring. At last he had acquired the dirty bomb that had been sought so desperately by al-Qaeda all over the globe. They had failed, but now he had the lethal prize sitting right here in front of him. A cargo of death located metres underground and no one knew he had it. No one except Meechan, whom he now knew had no knowledge of its, or his location. He examined the two 20 cm vials intently. They were sheathed in lead for added protection. One was labelled RA 226 the other C137.
He knew that it was the latter’s powdered state and solubility that made it more dangerous than the uranium, and smiled malevolently at the thought. It was worth exposing himself to the radioactivity for the few seconds of deep satisfaction it had afforded him. He eased the case shut.
As he looked at his watch he saw that they were within 24 hours of detonation and with it his elevation to a position that would place him only behind the Sheik Osama as the pre-eminent Jihadist and champion of Islam against the tyrannies and corruption of the West.
A small smile played across his face at the thought of the triumph he was now so close to savouring. But, the job was not done . . . yet. The complication caused by the pursuit of Meechan by a Kidon was something he had not foreseen. That was why Rahman, Meechan’s only link to him had had to be terminated. There were still other loose ends to tie up. Most importantly, how to dispose of Vanessa Velvet to maximum effect and what to do with Professor Farouk’s daughter Aisha.
Try as he might to dismiss the latter as soiled and immoral, Tariq had been captivated by her from the moment he had first set eyes upon her and knew full well he was not the only one at his mosque who had come under her spell.
Tariq wondered where she was and how she was coping with the grief caused by her father’s death. She was wanton and would not adhere to the fundamental tenets of Islam he demanded from the devout and this angered him. But she had been helpful. . .
The Imam was quickly shaken from his thoughts by the door opening. Aaban entered, slight and inconsequential, his dark skin shining.
“Asalaam Alaykum,” said Tariq and Aaban responded in pre-conditioned kind. “Wa ‘Alaykum Asalaam.”
“Sit,” said Tariq, “and I will give your instructions.” Tariq pushed the case within the rucksack towards Aaban and levelled his most intense glare upon him.
“The day that we have been waiting for is almost upon us. In that rucksack is the means to bring about the result we have all dreamt of. The chance to realise the dream of Sheik Osama.You are the man who will turn that dream into reality.
“I trust that no suspicion has fallen upon you and the other brothers, and that you will be able to take your place within their ranks as normal?”
“It is so, Imam,” responded Aaban.
“Before I go further tell me, how is the girl?” asked
Tariq.
“She grieves for her father, Imam. They were close and she has no other family. She . . .” the male faltered.
“Go on akhee (my brother),” demanded Tariq.
“She seems to have come under the spell of the kafir detective Thoroughgood. She has stayed the night at his residence on more than one occasion. This is the infidel pig who killed Naif and the other brothers at the Mosque. The one who we believe still possesses Saladin’s dagger.”
Tariq was saddened by the confirmation of the intelligence that had already been hinted at by his network of beggar informants. “Then her fate is interwoven with his and the die is cast. I trust the others have been tasked with making their arrangements?”
“Your will, as always Imam, is my command. The arrangements are made and the dagger will be in your possession once again Imam. God’s will.”
Tariq stroked his beard for a moment and silence dominated the room as he struggled to control his conflicting emotions. He did not want her to die, yet there was no other way for she had cheapened herself and defiled her religion by her behaviour. There was no other option. Tariq forced himself to focus on what was important and banish his human frailties.
“You know the exact location and time to deposit the rucksack and how to detonate it?” he demanded.
“I do Imam. A call from the disposable cellphone you have given me will be the means by which the bomb is detonated. Allah alim.”
“Your place in paradise will be guaranteed and your passage there will be instantaneous, praise be to Allah. Take the rucksack and guard it with your life Aaban, until it is ready to serve its purpose. May Allaah have mercy upon you, Akhee, and rain down his mercy and blessings upon you such that were each a mere raindrop from the sky, the world would be flooded many times over. Amen.”
Aaban stood and strapped the rucksack to his back, just another beggar about to walk the streets of Glasgow. “Ma’assalama,” he said.
