‘Are we a threat?’ Frederick asked a question for which he knew the answer.
‘I’d say we are,’ Andrew replied.
‘We need to talk to Isaac Cook and Ed Pickles.’
‘I agree,’ Andrew acknowledged, ‘and the sooner the better. We’re still moving around relatively easily, yet the most we’ve got in the way of security is a couple of policemen keeping close surveillance.’
‘Anyway,’ Frederick returned to the subject, ‘what’s next?’
‘What do we have?’ Andrew mulled the situation. ‘There have been shopping centres, tourist resorts, churches and a submarine.’
‘Are you saying they’re all clear now?’ Frederick asked.
‘Not at all and their attempt at the Church failed.’
‘They’ll have another try?’ Frederick said.
‘It seems inevitable.’
‘They will hit the Church again?’ Frederick asked.
‘Any church or churches would do now.’
‘How can we ascertain which ones?’
It was Andrew who summed up the situation. ‘We can’t. We can only forewarn. It only needs one suicide vest at a Sunday morning service. It’s just impossible to stop.’
‘Are you recommending that all churches close their doors immediately?’
‘It seems to be their only protection.’
‘And how many do you think will listen?’ Frederick answered his question. ‘None, and if they do, the Islamic State has won. They’ve suppressed our religion in favour of theirs.’
‘What about the military?’ Andrew asked.
‘They’ve taken out a nuclear-powered submarine.’
‘But how did they do it? Nobody has any answers.’
‘We need to conduct our own analysis,’ Frederick said. ‘It seems unlikely they’ll recover the submarine anytime soon.’
‘Then who was responsible? How was it done?’ Andrew asked.
‘We need to compile a list of the crew,’ said Frederick.
‘Could it be a member of the crew?’
‘It’s possible,’ said Frederick. ‘They managed to get a sympathiser involved in the structural repairs at York Minster. Don’t you think they could get to one of the crew, maybe coerce?’
‘You mean that one of the crew was willing, or unwillingly forced, into taking out the submarine?’
‘Why not?’ Frederick answered.
***
It was unprecedented in the history of the party. The deputy leader had a rating of seventy per cent as preferred leader of the country compared to the twenty-five percent of the incumbent, or at least that was what the opinion polls continued to state. Clifford Bell continued to ignore them, continued to state to the media that the only poll that mattered was at the electoral box and that he had the full support of his party.
Anne Argento, meanwhile, continued to proclaim her full support for the Right Honourable Clifford Bell, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. At least, that’s what she said in parliament, on television, and to the newspapers. Nobody believed her, but the comments were always favourable in that she showed loyalty in the face of blatant incompetence by her leader. She was pleased with how the numbers were falling in her favour, Even the toffee-nosed Angie Butler was confidentially offering her support if she had a run for the top job, with none too subtle hints that a junior portfolio would be an appropriate reward.
Ernest Bakewell, the honourable leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition, continued to make disparaging remarks in parliament and outside. The choice between an incompetent prime minister and a devious deputy was his regular catch cry. Some of his comments outside of parliament referred to the deputy’s alleged promiscuity. One of the comments, made at a meeting of church leaders, verged on slanderous. However, Anne Argento decided not to exacerbate the situation by responding to his comments, or even giving him further airtime by his rebuking her denials and then offering up proof. She was a woman in a man’s world, a woman who, outside of politics, needed affection the same as everyone else. The Prime Minister had his bit on the side, as did Bakewell. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, she thought.
Besides, once in the top job, she would bring Bakewell to heel. She knew of his perversion for young-looking tarts. She had even set him up with a few, and she had the photos.
‘Rohan, you know the Prime Minister’s finished?’ Anne asked in the calm of her office.
‘I offered him my full support, you know that,’ Rohan Jones said.
‘Just as I do in public.’
‘He’s also a friend,’ Rohan Jones continued.
‘A friend who should not be the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.’
‘I’m not ready to change sides yet.’
‘But you will be soon.’
‘He’s your friend as well, are you willing to take him down?’ Rohan Jones, the Prime Minister’s senior adviser, asked.
‘He’s always been my friend, will remain so, but this is politics.’
‘And politics can be dirty?’ Rohan responded.
‘Rohan, please be careful in your comments. Your eminent skills as an adviser will not allow you to enter into scurrilous comments about my character.’
‘My apologies. I was not offering any direct reference.’
‘I’ll accept your apologies,’ said Anne. ‘But remember, as a friend I am loyal; as an enemy, I’m intense.’
‘I’ll remember.’
‘Are you with me?’ she asked again.
‘I’m still with the Prime Minister.’
‘And when there is someone else in that seat?’ she continued directing Rohan Jones towards a statement of intent.
‘I’m still with the Prime Minister. I told you that once before.’
‘You know I’ll be in his seat soon enough. It may be to your advantage to start helping me now. Counter Terrorism Command, what do they know that I don’t?’
‘You met with DCI Cook?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘What did you think?’
‘About him or what he told me?’
‘Him, what did you think?’ Rohan smiled to himself. He knew Anne Argento well enough.
‘He kept addressing me as the Deputy Prime Minister, not Anne.’
‘You liked him then?’
‘You knew that I would.’
‘He’s your kind of police officer.’
‘Police officer or whatever, he’s my kind of man.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘Not a lot. I need to know more,’ she said. ‘Where’s he getting his information? How did they manage to curtail the bombing at York Minster?’
‘He didn’t tell you much then?’
‘Other than he’ll keep me informed.’
‘And has he?’
‘Not really. We talk on the phone sometimes, but apart from that one meeting, we’ve not met since. Rohan, where’s he getting his information?’
‘Confidentially?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course it’s in confidence.’
‘Apart from the normal policing methods, he has a couple of analysts.’
‘Analysts? What do they do?’
‘I’m not totally in the loop on this,’ replied Rohan, ‘but I believe that they take all the facts given and then endeavour to think like terrorists.’
‘Is that possible?’
‘That’s what I’ve been told. They figured out there’d be an attack on a church, even said for Cook and his people to look at major structures with some restoration work going on.’
‘The success was not due to the police, but by a couple of analysts, and certainly not by our Prime Minister as he foolishly claimed in Parliament.’
‘That’s how I understand it.’
‘I want to meet them.’
‘I can’t give you their names.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know who they are.’
‘Then who does?’
‘DCI Cook
would,’ Rohan Jones said.
‘Would he tell me?’
‘Probably not, but when’s that stopped you?’ He knew full well that, if anybody could find out from Isaac Cook, it would be her.
‘Okay, give me some hints about these analysts.’
‘All I know from the Prime Minister is that they were responsible for the report on global warming, which scared the government and has now been filed, never to be found again.’
‘I remember that. If implemented, would have put the United Kingdom into a severe recession.’
‘That’s the one. You find that file, and you’ll find them.’
‘Thanks, Rohan. I can see that I’m going to need you when I’m sitting in my rightful chair at that house in a side street off Whitehall.’
‘I’ll be there when you arrive. I’ll even open the door for you,’ he said.
***
‘Master, we meet again.’ Yasser Lahham, recovered from his overdose of crystal meths had been invited to the house of Faisal Aslam.
‘You have proven yourself to be a good servant of Allah and of the Islamic State,’ said the Master as he reclined in a leather chair, smoking.
‘I am honoured that you have felt the confidence to bring me to your home.’
‘Did you know who I was and where I lived before Haji brought you here today?’
‘In all honesty?’ Yasser Lahham asked.
‘Yes, of course. You are among friends here and honesty is always required.’
‘Master, I have known from soon after our first meeting.’
‘And you chose to tell no one?’ the Master asked.
‘No, why would I do that?’
‘Why, indeed. You realise there are some in the community who would pay well for that knowledge, yet you chose to serve your sentence in prison without informing.’
‘I value the cause. I will not sell out for money and a reduced sentence. I also had faith that my time in there would be short.’
‘Then our trust is well placed in you.’
‘What it is you require of me?’ Yasser Lahham asked.
‘You are proficient with computers?’
‘Yes, I designed the website for you.’
‘Hacking, it is a word I hear used often. What does it mean?’
‘It means the ability to look into other peoples’, other companies’, other governments’ computers and to take their knowledge, or place yours if necessary.’
‘That is what I understood it to mean. Can you do it?’ the Master asked.
‘If I have access to suitable computers, bogus IPs, and a solid, untraceable server to log in through.’
‘Can you hack into the police?’
‘Their security will be the best, but I believe that I can.’
‘Then you will be given all that you want.’
‘What am I looking for?’
‘Anything relating to the Islamic State firstly, and then see if it is possible to infect their systems with false information.’
‘Any particular area I should concentrate on first?’ Yasser Lahham asked.
‘Try and access the Counter Terrorism Command, and then the London Metropolitan Police,’ the Master said.
‘New Scotland Yard, police headquarters? You want me to hack them?’
‘Can you do it?’
‘It will be difficult, but if Allah guides me, it should be possible.’ Yasser Lahham was not sure. As a programmer, a website builder, he knew he was par-excellence. As a hacker, he was not so confident.
‘Master, why the police?’
‘It is time for them to feel the might of the Islamic State.’
***
The return of Ray Styles’ widowed wife, Sara, was not as any of them had expected. His parents had started to adjust to their son’s death and, whereas not completely healed, they had started to function as a family unit again. They had even managed to go out to the local pub for a few drinks and a meal without feeling totally distraught.
It was true that they had spent most of the night talking about Ray, his childhood, his growing up, his first girlfriend, and the pride they felt when he had joined the Navy. They had often spoken about his lovely wife, Sara, although apart from a brief phone call, they had heard little of her for over three months. It came as a complete surprise when an email arrived in Len Styles’ inbox stating that she would be arriving on a flight from India that Saturday.
As surprised as they were that she had not come back immediately after their son’s death, they insisted on picking her up from the airport and driving her down to their house.
‘I am sorry that I did not come back before.’ Sara, dressed in traditional Indian clothing, was both beautiful and sad when she exited immigration.
‘We can talk later. We are just glad to see you again,’ Mavis, Ray’s mother, said.
‘It must bring back sad memories for you, my being here?’ Sara said.
It was a quiet drive down to Devon, and neither Ray’s parents nor Sara felt entirely comfortable with the situation. His mother was still susceptible to the occasional bout of crying, while his father, Len, was stoic in his resolve. Sara was glad to see them, but torn between her duty to her father and her religion and the people she had come to love, the people she was yet again to deceive. She was the murderer of their son, her husband, the man she loved.
‘Where were you, Sara?’ Len Styles asked in a manner that could not be described as overly friendly.
‘I couldn’t come back,’ she replied. ‘Emotionally it would have been too much for me. There were no answers, no submarine.’
‘And no body,’ Ray’s father said bluntly, which caused Mavis Styles to break down in another fit of sobbing. It was Sara who leant over to comfort her.
‘I had a nervous breakdown. I loved him so much,’ Sara said.
‘And then what?’ Len Styles weakened his previous hard stance against the woman who he felt had deserted his son, who should have at least been at the dockside in the north waiting for news that was never to come.
‘My parents placed me into an Ashram.’
‘What’s that?’ Mavis Styles asked. Her sobbing had subdued, and she did love Sara dearly as a daughter.
‘It’s a spiritual hermitage, a monastery,’ replied Sara. ‘It’s a place for inner contemplation, for inner peace.’
‘Why not put you in a hospital?’ Len Styles asked.
‘It’s part of our tradition. A hospital will heal the bodily ailment, not the mental condition.’
‘But your place was here,’ Len Styles said.
‘I wanted to come, but once it was announced that there had been a terrorist attack on Ray’s boat, I collapsed.’
‘Did the Ashram help?’ Mavis Styles asked.
‘It helped, but it doesn’t heal the pain in my heart.’
‘Then maybe I should visit your Ashram. I have no resolution apart from sleeping pills and sedatives,’ Mavis Styles said.
‘I can show you some meditation practices. They may help,’ Sara said.
‘Thank you, Sara. You are welcome here in our house for as long as you like. Your parents, they are well?’
‘They are well, but they will not be returning. My father has taken leadership of our extended family there. It is a great honour for him.’
‘They were good people,’ Len Styles said, finally calm with Sara. He had been to India a few times with the Royal Navy and he was aware that their traditions and customs, alien as they were to him, were no doubt of use to Sara.
‘Thank you,’ said Sara. ‘I would like to stay here with you both for as long as I can. It is as close to Ray as I can ever be. It’s as if he is here with me.’
‘You can have his room,’ Mavis said. ‘It hasn’t been touched since you were here last.’
Chapter 2 0
It had not taken long for Anne Argento to find out who were the analysts that Rohan Jones had mentioned.
Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin had been walking out of t
he office on a Tuesday night at ten past eight when they had received the summons to be at the Deputy Prime Minister’s office the following morning at eight o’clock sharp. They had been wrestling with what to do with Shafi, and how the escape of Yasser Lahham from Belmarsh would impact on the plan. They were becoming adept at thinking like a fundamentalist, and it was starting to frighten Frederick.
‘I read your report on global warming.’
‘Deputy Prime Minister, the facts are correct. It is what will happen if action is not taken.’ Andrew, an ardent admirer of the Honourable Anne Argento, was both pleased to be in her company and a little nervous. Judging by her reputation, she did not suffer fools gladly.
‘Do you expect any government, any country, to take note of what you’ve reported?’ she asked.
‘They should, but the truth is unpalatable, hard to implement and horrendously costly,’ replied Andrew.
‘It’s unpalatable to everyone,’ the Deputy Prime Minister replied, ‘whether they’re government, industry or the voting public. You do realise?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Andrew. ‘We stated the results of our analysis on global warming. What we put forward as a possible scenario will eventuate. It’s inevitable.’
‘Then what the Islamic State is involved in will not make much difference in another seventy to a hundred years. Is that what you are saying?’ She adroitly changed the subject.
‘The Islamic State?’ Andrew felt it appropriate not to disclose their involvement with the Counter Terrorism Command. ‘We don’t know about them, but we know about global warming. No action now and the consequences will be severe.’
‘Mr Vane, Mr Martin, let’s not beat around the bush here,’ Anne Argento said. ‘I know that you’re working with Detective Chief Inspector Cook.’
‘That’s correct, as analysts,’ Frederick replied.
‘And the Counter Terrorism Command, or at least DCI Cook, is passing on that information to the Prime Minister,’ Anne Argento said.
‘We wouldn’t know that. We’ve only spoken to DCI Cook and DI Pickles,’ Andrew said.
‘I’ve met DCI Cook. He seems a good man, but he kept quiet about you two,’ Anne Argento admitted.
Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5) Page 23
