by RJ Mitchell
“Your words are hollow, kafir. Give me the blade before I kill you,” ordered Tariq holding out his free hand.
“My pleasure,” said Thoroughgood and smashed the blade upwards into Tariq’s hand. Thoroughgood threw himself at the Imam, knocking him over.
As they hit the ground the DS grabbed Tariq’s pistol-holding hand and repeatedly smashed it into the ground. Their free hands were locked in a deadly battle for the dagger.
The revolver eventually broke from Tariq’s grip and scudded across the trackbed. Both men put everything into gaining control of the dagger.
Being on top, Thoroughgood had the benefit of his body weight pressing down on the Imam but Tariq was the bigger man. The cleric’s hate seemed to give him extra strength. The dagger began to inch closer to Thoroughgood’s face forcing him backwards and upwards.
“Now I gut you, kafir pig,” spat the Imam and he surged upwards in a powerful movement that knocked Thoroughgood off him, slamming the cop down on his back and wrenching the blade from his grip.
Tariq advanced on Thoroughgood who attempted to slide back across the ground but he was soon brought to shuddering halt when his back hit the solid concrete of the platform side.
“Nowhere to go, policeman. Now at last, after all this time, Saladin’s blade is once more to be used for its true purpose. Time to take your place in hell,” the Imam spat and lunged at Thoroughgood, the blade glinting in the flames that raged around them.
Thoroughgood spotted metal glinting on the track bed and in a movement given extra speed by his desperation ripped an iron linchpin from the debris on the ground. As Tariq loomed over him he rammed the wicked two pronged railway remnant into the Imam’s eyes.
Tariq staggered backward screaming and holding his face. The force Thoroughgood had exerted had rammed the twin two-inch pins deep into his face and the Imam toppled onto his knees, dropping Saladin’s blade on the ground.
Thoroughgood grabbed the ceremonial dagger and screamed, “Go to hell you murdering bastard!” but before he could administer the coup de grâce with the Imam’s cherished blade, Tariq’s throat gave a final gurgle and the cleric pitched forward and lay face down on the soil, motionless.
Thoroughgood staggered back. He sat on the edge of the platform and placed the bejewelled dagger down staring through it unseeingly. Although Tariq was dead his plans for Armageddon to hit Glasgow were very much alive. And what of Aisha?
He pulled his mobile from his pocket but he had no reception and felt a wave of helplessness wash over him. Whatever she had been guilty of he had no doubt that Tariq had used every means in his power to coerce her. Almost certainly he would have used the life of her father as a means to get her to do his bidding.
A voice spoke his name and he looked up to see the dishevelled figure of Vanessa standing three feet away. “You made it Gus. You got him,” she said.
Thoroughgood looked into her face and felt tears roll down his cheeks, his emotions in turmoil. “I may have got him but this is far from over, Vanessa, believe me. Are you okay?”
She smiled a smile that made all the grime, ripped clothing and her stress-worn face fade into insignificance. She took his face in her hands. “I owe you my life, Gus.” For the second time that night she kissed him.
This time there was no rushing their parting.
The morning dawned, cold and grey, and Aisha knew she had to get over to Thoroughgood’s place and make everything all right with him.
Her mind was in meltdown, her grief raw with the death of her father and the shock that it had been murder. She had been wrong to betray Thoroughgood to Tariq but what could she have done with her father’s life on the line?
Thoroughgood, the man she had tried to lure into a death trap, had turned out to be the type of man she had hoped fate would bring her. His haunted melancholy and sadness was similar to her father’s after her mother had been taken by cancer five years back. With Thoroughgood there was also desperation, anger and a vulnerability she found amazingly appealing.
She knew that he was still cut up over the death of Celine. She knew he had contemplated, if not actually attempted, suicide. The evidence of the revolver and the bible on his mantle-piece proof that he was far from fully healed from the agonies inflicted by her murder.
Aisha found herself increasingly wanting to be there for him. To be the one to make his hurt go away and aid his mental healing. Was she falling in love with him? She didn’t know, Aisha had never loved anyone but her father.
Riven by guilt over her father’s murder, knowing that he had been right about Tariq months back when he had branded him ‘a killer and a religious despot’, Aisha knew that she too was vulnerable to heightened emotions.
As she descended the stair of her tenement flat an ongoing worry niggled her. ‘How can I compete with a ghost if he is still in love with Celine?’ But she knew she had to try, had to make things good between them.
As she came out of the tenement door she saw little Jimmy from across the landing sitting astride his bike and smiled at him. “Be careful, Jimmy, no cycling on the road. Your mum letting you go to the paper shop on your bike?”
“It’s my first time cycling there Auntie Aisha. You goin’ to the hospital?” the ginger-haired 10 year-old asked.
Aisha smiled. “Something like that Jimmy. You take care.” As she watched him cycling down Oban Drive’s steep hill she couldn’t help thinking about the possibility of having her own kids. But first she had to make Thoroughgood believe in her.
She opened the Fiesta door and sat in the driver’s seat, fastening the seat belt and smiling sadly to herself as she inserted the key in the ignition and turned it.
The explosion ripped through the car and instantly shredded the vehicle. It was suddenly nothing but a hollow melting metallic shell.
At the bottom of the street Jimmy heard the blast and felt the heat sear the back of his neck, the air trembling. He turned and saw wide-eyed that where the car Auntie Aisha had been sitting in moments before there was now nothing but flames.
He screamed.
43
HOURS LATER, sitting in the Mondeo, Hardie brought Thoroughgood up to speed with the chief constable’s briefing from which he had been excused. Thoroughgood shook his head in disbelief. “In the name of God, why, when we have the intelligence that Tariq has the means to cause devastation and the perfect event to stage it, has the Old Firm game not been called off?”
Hardie cleared his throat awkwardly. “That’s just it though Gus, we don’t have a specific admission from anyone that Ibrox is that target, despite the fact Etherington has been interrogating Omar around the clock.”
“What about the filofax? Braehead was just a decoy, like Sushi said, it was only the first act but the grand finale was still to come. We have been duped into thinking it was going to be a series of bombings in shopping centres when all along the ultimate target was Ibrox. That is why they had the words asterisked out, so that we would go barking up the wrong tree after they blew up Braehead! It all fits now, faither. Surely you rammed that down their throats? For fuck’s sake are you so desperate to see the Queen’s eleven blown to smithereens and Ibrox incinerated? ‘Cause that is what we are talkin’ here,” raged Thoroughgood.
“Come on Gus, don’t shoot the messenger. Don’t you think I made that case this morning, with Tomachek backing me to the hilt? You know what it’s like. The idea of an Old Firm game being cancelled in Glasgow because of a terrorist threat? You’d think it would be the end of civilisation itself. Christ, we got the whole ‘the show must go on’ stuff. I thought the Chief Constable was gonna break into a rendition of The White Cliffs of Dover and Vera Lynn was about to serve us tea. You’d have thought I was the bloody bomber the way they reacted.”
“But we’re talking 50,000 lives on the line . . . it just beggars belief,” said Thoroughgood in a resigned voice.
“They just kept coming back to the bottom line. The only person who knows the target now is the bomber
and we don’t have a fuckin’ scooby who he or she is. Therefore, there is no conclusive proof Ibrox is the target. So ‘the show must go on’,” Hardie mocked.
Before Thoroughgood could interject Hardie was off and running again. “Oh, and here’s the icing on the cake. The First Minister will be in the director’s box to oversee the whole anti-bigotry campaign!”
After an incredulous silence the DS recovered his voice. “What about the search of Tariq’s hideout, surely they must have found something evidence wise? Bomb-making material or something?” he asked.
“Not yet. The search hasn’t finished but if the dirty bomb exists, it’s on its way to the target or already there. Who took it and how it got there are details we don’t know,” admitted Hardie.
“I don’t suppose we have had any sightings of Meechan?” the DS enquired.
“Zero. But never mind that, the top brass are none too happy that you killed Tariq, self-defence or not. You know what they’re like, arseholes who don’t know or remember what it’s like to walk a beat. But the bottom line is Tariq had answers we needed that are now gone forever,” said Hardie.
As Thoroughgood searched for an indignant answer Hardie held his hand up. “Sorry, that was out of order, but there’s something else I need to tell you mate, before we head for Ibrox.”
“I’m all ears,” said Thoroughgood.
Hardie took a deep breath and delivered the death message in monotone. “It’s Aisha. She was blown up in her car this morning.”
Thoroughgood desperately searched Hardie’s face for some clue that he had misheard or misunderstood his words.
“There was no suffering. Death was instantaneous. Look, I don’t know what was goin’ on between you but we both know she was involved with Tariq and his organisation. Virtually everyone that has come in contact with the bastard has ended up dead. She was gonna have some pretty tough questions to answer mate,” Hardie said.
Thoroughgood whispered, “I’m not sure what was going on with us either. Maybe she was just usin’ me …” he trailed off.
Hardie put his hand on Thoroughgood’s shoulder. “Just maybe there was something there for you. I’m sorry Gus, I really am.”
“It’s no’ your fault, faither.” Thoroughgood rested his head on the window pane.
“Gus, you were exhausted. You can’t go blamin’ yourself, you got the bastard that’s been holding Glasgow to ransom, and you can’t be in two places at one time.”
“No, I guess not.” Thoroughgood’s voice was barely audible.
Their conversation was interrupted by a text message alert on Hardie’s phone. The DC relayed the message. “It’s Etherington. He has something important for us. We’re to meet him at the Albion car park at Ibrox, pronto.”
“One hour before kick-off? Whatever it is, he’s cutting things a bit fine. Still. . .”
“We better get our arses over there, you never know what MI5’s finest has turned up. Let’s just hope he’s got some kind of lead out of our friendly local book dealer,” said Hardie adding, “It never ceases to amaze me, but the minute the brass think that some kind of Armageddon act is going to take place they seem to want to be there. Like moths around a flame. I tell you, if Ibrox is the target then we are going to have half the senior command of Strathclyde Police wiped out!”
“Listen mate, most of them are taking their seats there every other weekend so what’s the difference whether they’re on or off duty,” replied Thoroughgood.
As they made their way to Ibrox the increased police presence was clear. “Don’t know about you, Gus, but I’ve never seen so many armed cops in my puff. Didn’t even know we had that kind of capability. The brass were right, if someone is going to try and penetrate the ring of steel they’ve erected around Ibrox they’ll have worked a miracle,” said Hardie.
“You’re no’ jokin’,” replied Thoroughgood though his mind was clearly elsewhere as his eyes stared aimlessly out of the window.
Aaban took his place among the ‘yellow jackets’ and waited for his briefing. The rucksack was nestled safely between his feet as he sat in the main stand. Within
moments his baggage would be deposited at the target site, ready to wreak destruction and death here in Glasgow and immortalise the Imam Tariq and his followers when it detonated.
It had been hard to remain focused on the job when he had heard the news on the radio of Tariq and the other’s deaths. Aaban knew that his mission was even more precious now.
He was the last of Tariq’s followers left and so the most important, entrusted with ensuring that the last act of the Imam’s Jihad was a signal to the western world that no city was safe from those who waged Jihad.
He checked his watch, 11.45am, less than an hour before the first Old Firm derby of the season was scheduled to kick-off.
Aaban said silently, “Allahu akbar.”
Thoroughgood and Hardie arrived at the Albion Car Park which had been commandeered by Strathclyde Police. They located the green Land Rover Etherington had described in his text and parked next to it.
They climbed into the back of the vehicle.
“Detective Sergeant, well done with your heroics last night,” said Etherington in his usual plummy tones before adding, “I’m afraid it’s too early to break out the champagne. The game is still very much afoot but, at last, we have a lead!” he revealed.
“Thank Christ for that,” said Hardie in evident relief.
“Yes and no, Hardie. The problem is that we have a lead but we’ve had scarcely any time to follow it up. Correct me if I’m wrong, 28 minutes to kick-off?” asked Etherington.
“Yup. Go on, sir,” responded Thoroughgood, shivering from sheer physical and mental exhaustion.
“Indeed. You will notice heightened security around the ground. I’m confident that should there be an external, secondary threat we will deal with that, and credit to your lot on that front.”
Etherington continued, “Unfortunately, information from Omar strongly suggests the threat will come from an internal source. We believe there is a bomber already at large within the stadium posing as an employee. We don’t have any more than that because friend Omar was not in Tariq’s inner sanctum.”
Hardie responded, “Okay, if your target is maximum impact you want access-all-areas if possible. You need to be in a position where you’re under the radar of natural suspicion.”
“Hardie’s correct,” agreed Thoroughgood. “The bomber has to be a member of the emergency services on duty today.”
“Exactly,” Hardie interjected. “Shouldn’t be too hard to get the various duty rosters checked to bring up backgrounds on everyone on duty.”
“First class,” said Etherington. “Logan!” Instantly a man appeared at the vehicle door. Etherington issued him with orders to liaise with the Police, Fire and Ambulance services and obtain the required backgrounds.
Etherington pulled out his mobile. “Please attend at the vehicle, Major.”
Seconds later a male in his mid forties, prematurely greying and wearing army fatigues climbed into the Land Rover. Taking a seat he shook the hands of all three occupants. “Major Niall Munro, counter terrorism unit. Pleased to meet you, gents.”
They nodded and he got straight down to business. “A lot of what I’m going to say is hypothetical. We don’t know how big the bomb is and what it consists of explosives-wise. A dirty bomb is a crudely-made device that combines a simple explosive with radioactive material. The idea is that the blast disperses the radioactive material willy-nilly. You with me so far?” asked Munro.
The rapt attention of his audience was answer enough.
The ATO continued. “The dirty bomb is perhaps the least understood of all terror weapons. It is sometimes called the ‘poor man's nuclear weapon’. Whereas the aim of a nuclear bomb is instant and outright destruction, a dirty bomb would have an entirely different effect. It wreaks panic in built-up areas, contaminates large areas and results in long-term illnesses, such as cancer.”
Thoroughgood interrupted. “Sorry Major, but may I ask what the worst case scenario is?”
Munro frowned. “If such a dirty bomb was exploded at Ibrox, there would be massive panic and disruption. Obviously the more conventional the explosive used, the bigger the initial blast. Thereafter radioactive dust would settle on people, buildings, and roads. Wind, rain and air conditioning in buildings would spread the radioactive dust even further. Although the radiation would not be effective in killing people directly, it could cause a huge public panic leading to potentially fatal accidents. Living conditions in the area would be contaminated indefinitely and there would be disruption to the local economy.”
“Sweet Jesus, your worst feckin’ nightmare,” groaned Hardie, putting everyone’s thoughts into words.
“Thank you, Major,” said Etherington adding, “How many of your men are on duty in the stadium?”
“There will be four of us, one situated within each stand and all linked via headsets. We also have two sniffer dogs trained in nosing out conventional explosives.”
“Excellent,” said Etherington, handing comms equipment to the detectives, “We’ll be on the same secure communications. Salmond’s aware of our internal op. I’ll remain in close liaison with the police match commander who has also been briefed. Is there anything further we need to discuss before assuming our positions?”
Thoroughgood grabbed the opportunity, “I think it’s odds on the attack will be in the main stand. If the First Minister’s sitting in the directors’ box, that has got to be a target.”
Munro responded, “That’s true, Detective Sergeant. We have 24 minutes before kick-off and I anticipate hearing from the dog handlers momentarily on the search results. It’s a pity we had such short notice.”
“Too feckin’ right, Major. You’ve no idea what it’s like dealing with the brass when their pride is in danger.” raged Hardie.
Munro nodded in a world weary way that confirmed he knew all too well what Hardie meant.
