‘How long do we wait in the public house before we leave?’ Amr Yaseen still struggled with the concept.
‘Mustafa, you better take this one. Any problems, you know what to do.’
‘It will be my pleasure. I’ve brought a blunt knife.’
At precisely nine in the evening on the Saturday, the twelve entered their nominated locations. Khalid and Mustafa had not used their knives, although one of the twelve had tried to run down the road just before entering the door of the public house in Twickenham. Akram, his minder and a dedicated follower of Islam and the Islamic State, had cornered him, punched him hard in the face and put him in a seat by a corner in the window. Standing up in the middle of the bar would have been better, but it would suffice. There were sufficient explosives in his vest to destroy three-quarters of the building, as well as kill all the drinkers inside.
***
Across town in two locations, one in the front room of a nondescript suburban house, the other an office at New Scotland Yard, two conversations were taking place based on the one subject: where was Seamus Gilligan?
‘We still need to find him,’ Isaac Cook said in the offices of Counter Terrorism Command, while he made a cup of coffee for himself and Ed Pickles. No sugar for Isaac, three for Ed.
‘Where do we look?’ Ed asked.
‘He’s got no money, no home and he’s probably not feeling overly cheerful.'
‘You’ve done the courses, what do you think?’ Ed Pickles was always a little critical of the modern method of policing, where skills were learnt in a classroom in simulated exercises. He still felt that out on the street, doing the leg work was where you gained experience, where you learnt to understand how the criminal mind worked.
‘He’ll go where he feels secure. That’s what the manual would say. It’s the normal behaviour in times of severe stress to head back to the nest.’
‘I could have told you that without the psychoanalytical nonsense,’ Ed Pickles said scathingly. ‘He’s going back to Ireland – Donegal, to be more precise.’
‘He’s walking into a trap.’
‘He’s desperate. He’s not thinking straight,’ Ed replied.
‘We’ve got to find him first,’ Isaac replied.
‘Do you think the voice knows where he’s heading?’ Ed put forward a rhetorical question.
‘We must assume he does. Maybe he’s there already?’
‘No, his people are not there yet,’ Ed replied.
‘How do you know that?’
‘I asked a contact of mine with the Irish police to keep a lookout on the place. Told him it was related to a bank robbery in London and that Gilligan had double-crossed his accomplices.’
‘Good work,’ said Isaac. ‘Do you think they’re up to surveillance without being seen?’
‘I’d reckon so. They’ve had years of dealing with the IRA.’
Isaac Cook and Ed Pickles wanted Seamus Gilligan alive. Across town, another group of individuals did not. They clearly wanted him dead.
‘Gilligan did not give me a forwarding address,’ Faisal Aslam said.
‘Is that a concern? He did what was asked of him,’ said Fuad al-Jabouri. The owner of a chain of takeaway kebab shops throughout Greater London, he was disturbed by the seduction of the Islamic youth to the Western standard of moral decadence. He had arrived in England thirty years previous with no English, a limited education and a determination to make good. The suburbs of Baghdad were both corrupt and unpleasant when he had left. In England, he saw the possibilities. Vibrant, dynamic and well-organised, he embraced the Western lifestyle while maintaining the better parts of his Islamic tradition. He had married late, ten years after his arrival.
Fuad al-Jabouri’s conversion to Islamic fundamentalism was as inevitable as it was unexpected. His son, a good student, doing well at school, had succumbed to drugs – cocaine first, ultimately heroin. He now lived in a squat down near Camden, lost to the world.
His daughter, a bright-eyed, pretty woman with dark eyes and the spitting image of her mother at a similar age, was totally Westernised and living with a boyfriend down close to the Thames in Putney.
‘You have become a slut,’ Fuad attempted to dissuade his daughter.
‘Ken’s a good person,’ she had replied. ‘You said so yourself. Besides, no one gets married these days.’
‘I brought you up in this country to respect the ways of our forefathers, to follow Islam and the teachings of the Prophet.’
‘Dad, this in England. I was born here. What do I want with something medieval?’
‘It is your heritage, your religion, your future.’ Fuad Al-Jabouri attempted to reason with his daughter. ‘Why won’t you listen to me?’
‘It’s your future,’ his daughter replied. ‘My future is here with Ken, and he doesn’t want anything to do with religion, and neither do I. Sorry, but that’s the way it is. I’m over eighteen, and it’s a free country. I wish you’d understand, but if you can’t, then there’s no more I can say or do.’
He had no alternative but to accept his daughter’s decision. He even paid the rent where she lived in sin, but he failed to accept that there was no hope of redemption. He came to see that the installation of Islam as the predominant religion in the United Kingdom would bring back laws renouncing unmarried relationships, and enforce the modest behaviour of women. It may even save his son, Jalal, but he wasn’t sure that was possible.
‘Gilligan knows my voice. If they get to him first, they could trace me,’ Faisal Aslam said.
‘Who are they?’ Fuad Al-Jabouri asked.
‘Counter Terrorism Command and they don’t play by the rules.’
‘They all play by the rules. That’s why we get away with our activities here.’
‘These guys don’t, and if they get a whiff of who I am, then we’re in for real trouble.’
‘So, we get Gilligan. Where do you think he is?’
‘Back home with his mother,’ Faisal Aslam said. ‘Or, at least she’ll know where he is.’
‘You have a plan?’ Al-Jabouri asked.
‘Of course I do. We’ve already put some people in place checking the ferry ports here in England, and then we have some people in Ireland. The moment he shows his head, we’ll put it on a spike.’
‘Spike? Literally or metaphorically?’ Al-Jabouri asked.
‘Fuad, I realise your English is better than mine. No, it will not be a spike, but he’ll be dead.’
‘He could take a plane,’ Al-Jabouri suggested.
‘Unlikely, as they’ll ask for identification,’ said Faisal Aslam. ‘He’s almost certainly aiming to keep his head down.’
***
South West Wales on a blustery day was not the most agreeable of places, but it was there that the two opposing groups congregated. One was on the ground, the other was monitoring the numerous CCTV cameras throughout the town and at the ferry terminal.
Hamza Sheikh was a Welshman through and through. He even spoke the ancient Celtic language of Wales. Religion had not been an overriding force in his life as a child and as a teen. There had just been too many other pursuits: school, which he loved, and then, in his teens, a few too many girls. He had been on the rugby team at school, even played for the Welsh Juniors when they beat the English in a close final some years previous. He was a big, strapping lad in his early twenties, but a broken marriage, a child who had been fatally injured when he’d run out in front of a bus, had left him distraught and demoralised. It was Mullah Adnan who had shown him the reason for his troubles.
‘You have placed your life in the hand of the infidel. You have embraced their lifestyle and neglected Allah,’ the Mullah would say.
‘I have committed to my prayers. I have stayed true to my religion,’ Hamza in reply would say.
‘But when you pray, is it with a true commitment, or are you just mouthing the words?’ asked the Mullah.
‘It is true,’ said Hamza. ‘Sometimes, it has been to satisfy my father.
There have been times when my mind has been elsewhere.’
‘Then you cannot expect Allah, peace be upon him, to care for your life and that of your family.’ With constant repeating and looking for answers, Hamza became a born-again Muslim. To serve his people was all he required and it was the Mullah who directed him to the service of Islamic fundamentalism.
It was Islamic fundamentalism that drove him to maintain a vigilant look-out at the ferry terminal on a wet and unpleasant day, with a wind that cut through the body like a knife. He would have stood outside for a better view, but the car had a heater. The visibility, restricted as the wipers slowly moved across the windscreen, did not hamper his ability to recognise Seamus Gilligan as he walked across the parking area, heading in the direction of the ferry.
‘It’s him. I’m one hundred percent certain,’ Hamza Sheikh said.
‘Good, you have served the cause well. We will ensure that he is met on the other side,’ the mysterious voice said over the phone. Faisal Aslam did not reveal his identity.
In London, there was a similar declaration from an eager operative sitting at a console monitoring CCTV footage from Wales.
‘I’ve got him. Facial recognition has confirmed his identity.’
‘Ed, we need to get to Ireland,’ said Isaac. ‘Your contact, can he meet us on the ferry’s arrival?’
‘He’ll be there. What about the stake-out at the mother’s house?’ Ed asked.
‘We better leave it in place,’ replied Isaac. ‘Monitor her, look for any unusual behaviour. We don’t want to lose either Gilligan or the mother now.’
***
The Honourable Anne Argento savoured her ministerial office from the first day. However, it had been four months, and she had seen enough of muddy fields, chicken processing plants and smelly farm animals to last her a lifetime. Then there was that buffoon sitting up in Number 10 making a right hash of the current bombings around the country.
Four months previous and the title of The Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs had been sufficient for a daughter of Italian peasants. In politics, one day is a long time and, for Anne Argento, it had been an eternity, and somebody had to save her country, England, from the scourge of Islam.
Clifford Bell had been a good Prime Minister, even she would agree, but overseeing the improvement in the economy, the strengthening of the pound and the introduction of a range of improved social services was not going to deal with the decaying situation in England, let alone Europe. She could see that Prime Minister Bell’s consensus management of the situation, the willingness to engage in meaningful discussion, an embracing of all religions and all peoples, wasn’t going to work. It needed someone tough, someone ruthlessly tough. It needed Anne Argento, and she was not reticent in saying it to herself and any others who were willing to listen.
She was a politician, a tough, no-holds-barred type of politician and she was going for the top job. No one was going to stop her.
There had been a couple of potential husbands, now discarded, and an on-going affair with the editor of a major newspaper, but neither the media nor the public showed much concern over her unusual sleeping arrangements with the journalist, senior as he may have been. What concerned them were her sultry looks, her firm yet still curvaceous figure, and the fact that she was tough and a consummate politician. There had already been speculation in the press of her making a run for the top job, a future Prime Minister, but she always stood firmly behind her dear friend Clifford.
Secretly, she was shoring up her position, biding her time. But it was clear that, if her dear friend Clifford didn’t stop the rash of bombings, then he had three months at most and then she’d sort out the bombings herself. The teachings of Machiavelli guided her in her march, almost a run, towards Downing Street. He would also guide her in the resolution of the scourge of Islamic fundamentalism, the madness that was consuming England and Europe.
Chapter 6
The media portrayed it as the worst bombing attack on London since the Second World War when the German Luftwaffe attempted to bomb England into submission. To Durrani, it was a validation of his bomb-making skills, to Faisal Aslam, his logistical skills.
‘We have struck a great blow for our cause,’ Faisal Aslam said. ‘Our Islamic brothers will be rejoicing. We have shown the infidel, the crusader, that we are a force not to be ignored. Soon they will bow to our will. Soon we will take this country for Islam.’
‘It is a night for giving praise to Allah. He has guided us on our jihad,’ Durrani agreed. ‘Praise be to Allah.’
The Dog and Duck in Richmond, an old coaching house, had been built four hundred years previous. Even a King of England, a few centuries earlier, had stopped there as he passed through on his way to one of his hunting lodges. All that remained after Amr Yaseen had achieved martyrdom was the blue metal sign that had been attached to the outside wall by the local heritage society testifying to the illustrious visitor. The bar, full of horseshoes and farming implements, even old newspapers framed and attached to the wall, attracted great numbers of people. That night there had been over one hundred and fifty standing close to the counter, or sitting on a chair if one could be found. There were another four or five tables outside and, even though the night had been cool, they were all occupied. A few stiff drinks and even the most underdressed for the weather felt impervious to the biting wind.
It was to be another three days before a final tally of fatalities was released to the media. One hundred and sixty-two confirmed dead, no survivors. Even if any had survived the explosion, the second and third floors, along with the roof collapsing, would have completed the task. Amr Yaseen was duly identified and his parents, good if simple people, informed. Their lives destroyed by a son who neither understood the reason for fundamentalism nor the fact that the wanton death of innocent people, Muslim or Christian or Hindu or Jewish, was a sin as put forward by Mohammad in the Koran. Yaseen’s death had neither been honourable nor religious. It was murderous, and his parents were left with a dead son and a community that would treat them as social outcasts.
The Old Belle in Hampstead and the Ship Inn in Mayfair showed similar devastation. Deaths at the Old Belle were close to two hundred, while at the Ship Inn, a smaller pub, just over ninety. It was confirmed two weeks later, from some blood on the wall, that the final tally at the Ship Inn was ninety-three, including a baby in a cradle, four months old.
Three more public houses, a total of three hundred and ten died, as well as a horse that was tied up round the back of one of the pubs. It had been the favourite of the publican’s eldest daughter, a comely young woman of nineteen who was sleeping upstairs when the bomb went off. She died as well.
The situation was repeated at the remaining six public houses making a total of one thousand and fifty-two people, including some refugees from Afghanistan. They had just arrived in the country and were out for an evening stroll when they walked past the front of a pub in Bayswater. They had survived a lifetime of suicide bombings and wanton killings and were marvelling at the safety of England when a bomb from one of their own people that blew them across the road and into the front of an oncoming bus. They were dead before the bus hit them.
***
Seamus Gilligan felt a new man as he walked off the boat and onto Irish soil in Rosslare, County Wexford.
An Irishman is not an Irishman unless he is on Irish soil, he thought. It’s good to be home. It will get better from here and no more gambling.
His optimism was to be short-lived. He had phoned his mother, spun a story about taking some extended leave, reevaluating his options and she, the ever-dutiful mother, had believed him. He had not seen that eyes were watching him, in fact too many eyes. Faisal Aslam had his people there, as well as Isaac Cook and Ed Pickles, who had taken a late afternoon flight out of Heathrow They all clearly saw Gilligan as he exited the port area.
Paddy O’Flynn was an old-style policeman, same as Ed Pickles. A member of Garda, the Ir
ish police force, for thirty plus years and close to retirement, he looked forward to a quieter life. He was even taller than Isaac, with a downbeat sense of humour, a strong Irish accent, and a love of Guinness. He had a full moustache hanging over his upper lip, complemented by a set of shiny white teeth.
‘Just got them the other day. They’re false, you wouldn’t know it,’ he proudly declared as he introduced himself.
‘Please to meet you, Detective O’Flynn,’ Isaac said.
‘Paddy’s the name, policing’s the game. We’re not too formal here.’
‘I’m Isaac and Ed, you know.’
‘Ed, of course, I could tell you a thing or two about the capers we got up to. The villains we chased, caught a few, but they were real slippery. Same as this guy, I suppose.’
‘No, he’s not slippery, but those that are after him are,’ Isaac said.
‘You mean those two guys staking him out down to the left of us, about one hundred metres?’ Paddy replied.
‘I never saw them,’ Isaac commented.
‘You would have if you had spent a few years manning the border with Northern Ireland, watching out for the IRA going in and out.’
‘Must have been tough?’ Isaac said.
‘It was. About the same as you’ve got it back in England now,’ Paddy said.
‘We could do with you over there,’ said Isaac. ‘Interested?’
‘Me? Not a chance,’ replied Paddy. ‘I’ve done my spell chasing villains, been shot a few times, lucky to be standing here today. I’m not taking any more risks. I’ll leave it up to you younger men.’ He laughed. ‘Do you want me to grab them in the car?’
‘No, we don’t want them to know we’re on to them. Not yet anyway,’ Ed said.
‘How about Seamus Gilligan, can we pick him up?’ Paddy asked.
‘We certainly want him, but we don’t want the other side to know,’ Isaac said. ‘Can we make him disappear, at least to those following him, and then pick him up later? If they know we’re onto them, their organisation will go further underground. We want the person controlling them. Those in the car are just the rank and file. They’re of little use to us.’
Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5) Page 6
