‘Disappear?’ said Paddy. ‘I’m sure we can arrange that. We’ll put a tail on those following him, let them move freely for now.’
‘That’s exactly what we want. Maybe a car accident and then we can take our Mr Gilligan in for a little chat,’ Isaac said.
‘Consider it done,’ Paddy said. ‘Let’s have a drink. It’ll be a few hours before there are any developments, and there’s nothing to do until then.’
Neither Abbas nor Abu were proficient drivers. Abu had passed his test two weeks earlier, and now he was trying to keep up with a little old lady, Seamus Gilligan’s mother, who drove as if there was no tomorrow.
‘Keep up Abu, or we’ll answer to the Master,’ said Abbas.
‘I’m trying, but we’re in this clapped-out heap. She’s got a new Ford Focus,’ Abu responded. He had been born in Ireland, spoke with the accent of an Irishman, even when speaking in the tongue of his forefathers.
He had been disadvantaged by a system that was prejudiced against him and his friends. It was nothing to do with lack of education or poor attendance at school ‒ it was all to do with the Irish hatred of Islam. That’s what their Mullah had told them - it was a common theme in the conversion of the disillusioned, and both he and Abbas believed him implicitly. They had joined the cause with a fervour some months earlier, and this was their first assignment. There had been a training camp in the Middle East where they had received some instructions, mainly in surveillance, very little with weapons, which had been their primary interest.
‘We need people who can go undercover, blend in with the infidels. Men with guns, we’ve got plenty.’ Their instructor was a battle-hardened warrior who had been in the front line as the Islamic State had cut a swathe through Iraq and Syria and then Turkey until they were now placed within striking distance of Europe. There were a hundred thousand Western troops on the European side of the Bosporus, but they were only small in number compared to the Islamic State and their three hundred and fifty thousand, and they were toughened in combat and ready to fight.
Abu failed to see the Toyota Landcruiser that pulled out rapidly from a side road.
‘What the hell, stupid woman driver!’ he shouted, but the brakes on his old car barely worked. He hit the rear side of the offending vehicle fair and square. His vehicle was un-drivable, the Landcruiser barely a scratch.
‘I’m so sorry. It was my fault,’ said the attractive, middle-aged mother, who promptly exited the four-wheel drive vehicle. ‘I was late picking my son up from school, you know how it is? I just wasn’t paying attention. Give me your details, my insurance company will pay. It’ll cost you nothing,’ she added nervously, feeling guilty as a result of her bad driving.
‘You stupid fucking woman!’ Abu, who had a limited vocabulary, and an ardent disrespect for women, used the only words he could. ‘It’s getting home I want, not standing here by the side of the road arguing with a woman. I’d ban you all from the road if it were up to me.’
‘Abu,’ Abbas pulled him to one side, ‘the time is coming. For now, we need to follow the other car.’
‘Okay,’ Abu said, looking at the lady, ‘give me your phone number, and I’ll contact you in the next day or so.’ With that, Abu and Abbas walked quickly up the road looking for a car to steal. They had learnt how to do it in training. They would not get far before being pulled over and arrested for driving a stolen car.
‘Congratulations, job well done,’ Paddy said on his mobile while downing his third Guinness. Sergeant Penny O’Hearne had accomplished her task.
‘We’ve got a few hours. We’ve already got a tail on the mother’s car. She’ll not see it. We’ve got time for another Guinness,’ Paddy said to Isaac and Ed.
‘It’s a long way,’ Isaac said, almost pleading to get out of the pub. ‘It must be three hundred kilometres.’
‘Closer to four,’ said Paddy. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve got a helicopter. We’re civilised over here, take us a couple of hours and a pick-up five kilometres from the mother’s cottage. It’s all arranged.’
Khalid and Mustafa were enjoying the delights of Ireland as well, although not from the comfort of a warm bar with a pint of Guinness, but from a hilltop overlooking Gilligan’s destination.
‘The fools have been arrested. It’s up to you two,’ Faisal Aslam said on the phone to them.
‘What happened?’ Khalid asked.
‘They had an accident and then tried to steal a car. That’s the problem, we’re forced to use idiots.’
‘We will not fail, Master. What is it you wish us to do?’
‘Kill Gilligan and get back here as fast as you can.’
‘The mother, what do we do with her?’ Khalid asked. ‘She’ll be close by.’
‘I don’t want witnesses. Martyr her to her God if you have no option. Make sure you’re not seen.’
Khalid and Mustafa were good at concealment, but they weren’t as good as Aileen and Brian O’Garrity, Donegal Garda, constable and senior constable respectively and a married couple when off duty. They were pretending to be a courting couple out on the downs for a pleasant day of walking and kissing and cuddling. The two part-time wrestlers had seen them, discounted them as a couple of promiscuous locals looking for a quiet spot.
***
It was dark by the time the Ford Focus drew into the driveway that led up to the cottage owned by Seamus Gilligan’s mother. Standing alone and partially hidden from the road, it had been easy for Mustafa to slip up close and enter through the unlocked back door after she had let the cat out.
‘If I don’t let him out, he’ll only scratch the furniture,’ she said.
‘It’s good to see you, Mum,’ Seamus said.
‘It’s good to see you, too. I only hope you know what you’re doing.’ His mother, ever concerned, knew of his weaknesses.
‘I do. A career change will do me good. You don’t know how hard it is looking after the garbage of society in Belmarsh. They’re really the dregs. Kill their own grandmother for a cigarette, some of them would.’
‘Yes,’ his mother said. As with all mothers, especially Irish, she could not resist offering advice, ‘but you had the possibility of promotion. You could have bought a little cottage back here in time. Mind you, this will be yours when I’m gone, which won’t be too long.’
‘Don’t talk like that. You know it only upsets me,’ Seamus said.
‘Well, if you came here more often, then I wouldn’t need to say it.’
‘But I’m here now. Let’s not talk about death and such morbid subjects.’
‘What would you like to eat, your favourite?’ she asked.
‘Yes, a good meat pie would be great. Do you have one made?’ His mother’s meat pies were famous, even won prizes at the local church fete.
‘I made one special for you just yesterday.’
The O’Garritys, newlyweds, only five months, had been distracted for fifteen minutes. A car, a cosy environment and with not much happening, they had turned to some harmless lovemaking. It had been harmless to them, but harmful for Seamus Gilligan and his mother. The amorous couple had failed to see the figure creeping along behind an old fence close to the cottage five minutes earlier.
‘Are they still there?’ Aileen asked at the conclusion of their romantic interlude.
‘Yes, I can see the occasional lit end of a cigarette. They’re still there,’ Brian replied.
‘What about Gilligan and his mother?’ she asked.
‘In the front room from what I can see. Just talking and watching television, although it’s hard to see from this distance.’
The three Guinness drinkers, even Isaac had drunk more than normal, were waiting down the road. It was not five kilometres, more like ten, but it was a still night, and there had been the possibility that a helicopter’s engine may have been heard if they had landed any closer.
‘Do we know who they are?’ Isaac asked referring to the Islamic State persons sitting up on the hill overlooking the mother�
�s farm.
‘None at all,’ said Paddy. ‘We can’t go closer. Otherwise, our cover is blown.’ He was sitting close to a fire in the local pub, but no drinks this time. He was on police business and drink and policing didn’t work, not in his books anyway.
‘Then how do we get Gilligan?’ Ed asked.
‘That’s the question. They can’t stay there forever. We’ll just have to wait them out,’ Paddy said, although the wait was not to be for much longer.
Mustafa had chosen his moment, and this time, it was not to be a knife. Faisal Aslam had ensured he had a Beretta 92FS pistol with a suppressor mounted on the front. He’d have preferred a knife, but he had to ensure clean, single shots to each of the persons. Slowly, he opened the door to the main room and entered.
Seamus Gilligan was quickly on his feet.
‘What the hell …’ He fell quickly with a bullet to the chest, just low of the heart. Mustafa had failed to compensate for the weight of the suppressor.
The mother froze in the comfy chair that she always sat in, or at least whenever she could get the cat to move.
‘What have you…’ His shot was better this time, a static target and he had made a mental adjustment. Both were on the ground, both were dead, but it had been drummed into him to always finish the job with one bullet firmly in the temple of the head. He remembered his training and executed the final shots.
‘My God, there’s been a shooting,’ Aileen screamed. ‘We’ve got to get down there.’
‘Remember our instructions, maintain cover at all costs,’ her husband, now Senior Constable Brian O’Garrity, said.
‘That doesn’t apply now. We’ve got to see if we can help,’ Constable Aileen O’Garrity replied.
‘It still applies. I’ll make a phone call, get some advice.’
‘Detective O’Flynn, there’s been a shooting.’ Brian O’Garrity made the difficult phone call to his boss.
‘Where are you?’ Paddy O’Flynn asked.
‘We’re still undercover. We haven’t moved,’ O’Garrity replied.
‘Then don’t move. Just stay where you are, and whatever you do, don’t break cover.’
‘The vehicle up from us, it’s on the move. Will you deal with it?’
‘We’ll follow it. Once we know it’s clear you can check out the farmhouse.’
‘They may still be alive,’ Constable O’Garrity said to her husband.
‘No, they’re dead.’ Paddy O’Flynn had heard her voice over Brian O’Garrity’s phone. ‘As long as your cover is intact, then nothing’s lost.’
‘Apart from two lives, that is,’ Brian O’Garrity said, more for the benefit of his wife than for Paddy O’Flynn.
‘Sorry to sound callous,’ Paddy said, ‘but we’re playing for big stakes here.’
‘Okay, maybe we don’t know the whole story. We’ll not move until you give us the all clear,’ Brian O’Garrity confirmed.
‘Fine, now let me get on with following the car.’ Paddy ended the phone conversation and turned to the two detectives from Counter Terrorism Command.
‘Isaac, Ed, bad news. It’s fairly certain that Gilligan and his mother are dead.’
‘We’ll deal with the how later,’ said Isaac. He saw no reason to conduct an investigation. It had gone wrong, time to move on. ‘We need to follow the car.’
‘We’re on to it. They’ll not give us the slip,’ Paddy replied.
‘I hope not. One cock-up a night is enough,’ Isaac said. ‘Gilligan may have known something, but now we’ll never know. We need to get back to London. And remember, we need to find out who is in the car, where they headed. Don’t pick them up.’
‘Once the assassin’s car is clear, I’ll get you a ride to Belfast. No trouble with flights from there,’ Paddy said.
Faisal Aslam did not share Isaac Cook’s disappointment. He was elated, and he thanked Khalid and Mustafa profusely.
‘Allah be praised. Were you seen?’
‘Master, no one saw us. It was most satisfying,’ Mustafa answered.
‘Get back here as soon as possible,’ Faisal Aslam said. ‘Our plans are moving forward.’
Chapter 7
Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin had seen some benefits as a result of their earlier meeting with Bill Gardner, the Director of the Office of National Statistics. They had been relocated from the glorified broom cupboard and moved to a better office. Equipped with new laptops and as many paper clips as they wanted, it was still missing one vital component, inspiration.
‘How do we apply statistical analysis to terrorism?’ Frederick Vane asked when their boss came into the office to check on how they were progressing.
‘We’re not sure how to go about this,’ Andrew Martin added.
‘You’re the boffins, the whiz-kids. We’re looking to you for answers,’ Gardner replied brusquely.
‘Who’s implied by the “We”? Any names?’ Andrew Martin asked.
Bill Gardner, who had a bombastic style of talking down to his subordinates, replied. ‘I’m not told everything. I’d make a fair guess at the government, MI5, MI6, Counter Terrorism Command, but mainly Counter Terrorism Command. At least, that’s who I gave your names to. They’re all confused as to where this is heading. They’re clutching at straws, and you two are the straws.’
‘It a tough one,’ Frederick Vane said.
‘I know it’s tough, but I’ve total confidence that you’ll come up with a solution,’ said Bill Gardner. ‘Whether they’ll be willing to act on your recommendations is another issue, but they’re desperate.’ With that, he turned around and walked out of the office.
‘He was remarkably cordial today,’ Andrew commented.
‘Of course, he was,’ Frederick replied. ‘He wants something from us. You see how he ignored everyone in the corridor when he left.’
‘Any ideas as to what we can do here? Frankly, I am at a loss as to where to start.’
‘I’m the same as you. I suppose the best we can do is put some facts together and see where it leads us.’
‘He’ll be here tomorrow looking for something,’ said Andrew. ‘We better plan on a late night.’
It was two in the morning before the more salient facts were in place. There were no conclusions, but that would wait until the morning.
The next day they met in the office canteen. ‘What do we have?’ Frederick asked over an early morning cup of tea.
It was Andrew who summated what they had agreed on the night before. ‘Firstly, the Islamic State acts with impunity and will continue to do so while this country is dogmatically held rigid with political correctness, excessive bureaucracy and restricted budgets. We, I mean the government, are letting them call the tune.’
‘Is that what we are saying?’ Frederick went over what they had discussed. ‘That we throw out what this country has cherished, what forms our stability, and act as they do?’
‘If we want to defeat them.’
‘They’ll never go for it. You know how entrenched the system is. They’ll not change.’
‘Then we’re doomed. Would you agree with that prognosis?’ Andrew asked.
‘I agree, but how can we convince others?’ Frederick could not see how their superiors would agree to the course of action required.
‘We need details,’ Andrew said. ‘We need facts to convince the people of influence that they have no option. It’s either fight back, fight dirty, or else the Islamic State will commit to escalate their campaign until they destroy the economy of this country. Even now you’ll barely find anyone out on a night in London. The public houses, the theatre district, they’re like ghost towns.’
‘Next, it’ll be business, the airports, the ports,’ Frederick continued. ‘They’ll close this country down. They’ll render this country virtually ungovernable. Even now, the major finance houses, the banks are pulling out to New York. Canary Wharf is planning to construct a barrier, the same as the Israelis did.’
‘It’ll be another Berlin Wall
,’ Andrew said.
‘Except ours is not about preventing people leaving; it’s about people entering.’
‘There’s mention of closing the underground if this continues for much longer,’ Frederick said.
‘What numbers of people does the Islamic State have here in England?’
‘I’ve no idea, but we should be able to hazard a guess.’
‘How do we do that?’
‘It’s clear. We need to think like them. We need to be Islamic fundamentalists in this room,’ Frederick reasoned.
‘And how do we do that?’ Andrew asked. ‘We’re not of their culture. It’s impossible for us to hope to understand how their minds work. We need someone to advise us.’
‘Do you have any idea how we get someone at short notice?’ Frederick asked.
‘We’ll ask our illustrious leader, the presently affable Director of the Office of National Statistics, to fix it,’ Andrew said.
As predicted, at precisely midday, when they had just sat down for lunch, the director put his head round the door. ‘Have you figured it out yet?’
‘It’s not that easy. It’ll take time,’ Frederick replied, mildly annoyed that the director cared little that both he and Andrew were taking a break.
‘We don’t have time. How much do you want?’ the director asked.
‘At least a couple of weeks,’ replied Andrew. ‘And then constant updates as to who is where and doing what on the enemy’s side, as well as ours.’
‘That’s a tall order. What do you need first?’ the director asked.
‘We need someone not from the Islamic State, but close in. Someone who can tell us how they think. We need to get our minds synchronised with theirs,’ Frederick stated.
‘It seems an unusual approach, but if you’re certain, then I’ll find someone,’ Bill Gardner acknowledged.
Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5) Page 7
