The analysts at the Office of National Statistics were another issue to consider. He wished he could save his daughter, but realised that it was only her who could achieve what was required. It was to be an attack that would signal that no one, and certainly no organisation in the country, was safe and that the Islamic State was coming.
‘Please let me go. Stop hurting me, I have told you all I know,’ Shafi pleaded with his captors.
‘It is for the Master to decide when you are suitably repentant. Until then, you will suffer.’ Khalid had enjoyed his time with Shafi, as had Mustafa.
‘Tell him that I am ready to embrace Allah, the Islamic State. I am willing to serve the Master.’
‘I don’t think he will believe you yet,’ Khalid said. ‘After a lifetime of whores, of drug dealings and petty crime, you will need more conversion.’
‘No, please don’t beat me anymore,’ Shafi pleaded.
‘Maybe not beating,’ said Khalid. ‘We need you unmarked for when you rejoin the Counter Terrorism Command.’
‘I will not go back to them. My place is with the Master.’
It was another two days before the Master came to see Shafi and he was pleased with the work of Khalid and Mustafa.
‘Shafi, are you ready to embrace the cause?’ the Master asked.
‘I am ready. Please tell them to stop.’
The Master turned to Khalid and Mustafa. ‘Have you administered the final treatment?’
‘Master, we have waited for you,’ Mustafa said. ‘We felt that you may wish to say a few words to our friend before and after the final treatment.’
‘You are right,’ the Master replied before turning to Shafi, who was once again strung to a beam, his arms bent backwards and secured with his feet barely touching the ground.
‘Shafi, every time you feel inclined to deviate from the cause, or attempt to betray us, you will remember what Khalid and Mustafa are about to do to you.’
‘Master, please don’t let them hurt me anymore. I will only serve you.’
‘You will while you are in pain and fear, but once released with food in your belly and your prick inside a whore you will forget.’
‘No, I won’t,’ Shafi said.
‘Unfortunately, I do not believe you, and neither does Haji. After the treatment, the thought of its pain will prevent you betraying us, and if you screw any more whores, you will be back here. Is that clear?’
‘Master, it is clear. Please don’t let them hurt me anymore.’
‘Khalid, Mustafa, the final treatment please, before we release our newest recruit back into the world.’
‘Master, it is our pleasure,’ Khalid replied as he connected an electrode to the tip of Shafi’s penis, then wrapped a copper wire around the big toe on his left foot.
‘Master, please stop them.’
‘No, Shafi. It is for your benefit.’
It was Mustafa who wound the crank of the generator. It was Shafi, whose body arched, forced almost to unconsciousness.
‘Stop, Mustafa!’ the Master screamed. ‘He’s only to be punished, not destroyed.’
‘I was only making sure he did not forget.’
‘True, but that was enough. Cut him down. Bathe him and feed him, then bring him to me at my house when he is sufficiently rested. I will talk to him there.’
‘Shafi,’ the Master addressed the barely conscious man. ‘You will remember this day for the rest of your life. If at any time, you attempt to betray us, then you will return here, and I will not give the command for Mustafa to stop. Is that understood?’
‘Master, it is understood. I will not betray you,’ Shafi whimpered.
***
‘There is no record of a Vikram and Vinodhini Shenoy migrating to this country,’ Ed Pickles said.
‘Were they born here?’ Farhan asked. Now back in the London office, he was following up on the only promising lead that Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin had identified.
‘It doesn’t seem likely, either,’ Ed said. ‘From what we’ve ascertained, they both had retained strong regional accents indicative of being born in present-day India or Pakistan.’
‘Sara Styles had apparently been born here,’ Farhan added. ‘She spoke with an English accent.’
‘That may be the case, but who is she?’
‘No records for her either, I assume?’ Farhan surmised.
‘There are records for her,’ said Ed, ‘but they only go back for one year, employment and tax records. Before that, we can’t find her mentioned anywhere.’
‘Surely we can find her, though? She must have been educated here,’ Farhan said.
‘We’ve managed to secure a recording of her wedding, so we can hear her voice. It should direct us to an area and a possible school. It’s a bit of a needle in a haystack, though.’
‘Maybe it’s best to disregard her parents – assuming they were her parents – and focus on Sara Styles?’ Farhan said.
‘That’s how we see it,’ said Ed. ‘We’re bringing in a linguistics expert to evaluate her speech. We should have an answer by tomorrow. Do we know where she is?’
‘She’s staying with her late husband’s parents, down in Devon.’
‘So where was she for the last few months?’
‘She came in on a flight from India,’ said Farhan. ‘Apart from that, there’s not much we can tell you. Is there any advantage in following up in India?’
‘We’re not sure who we can trust there,’ Ed said.
***
Peter Downsford had been used by Counter Terrorism Command before. In his fifties, thinning on top with a goatee beard, he was one of the foremost coaches for English regional dialects and accents. If you were an American actor looking to speak English, or an English actor aiming to crack the movie scene in Hollywood with a solid range of American accents, he was the first choice. He was also adept at identifying the myriad regional variances in England, and it was for this reason that Ed Pickles had called him in. Vetted by security and cleared under the Official Secrets Act, his discretion was assured.
‘What do you want from me?’ Downsford asked.
‘We have a recording of a female. We need you to tell us all you can about her.’
‘Fine, let me see what I can do,’ he said. ‘Tell me no background history. I need to hear it clean.’
Thirty minutes later, Peter Downsford was ready with an initial evaluation. ‘It’s a London accent with a trace of the Indian subcontinent.’
‘What do you mean by the Indian subcontinent?’ Ed asked.
‘I’d say the speaker is fluent in either Urdu or Hindi.’
‘Can you be more precise?’ Ed asked.
‘Given time, I could probably get closer, but let’s clarify,’ said Downsford. ‘Is this person from the subcontinent?’
‘Yes, but we believe she was born, or at least raised, in this country.’
‘That’s clear,’ said Downsford. ‘Her English accent is too well-developed. She probably learnt to speak English as a young child.’
‘Can you isolate the area in London? Is there any sign of a West Country accent?’ Ed asked.
‘West Country? By that, I assume you mean Somerset, Devon, Cornwall. Which one are you interested in?’
‘Devon?’ Ed replied.
‘Devon would be difficult.’
‘Okay, let’s try for London,’ Ed said.
‘I’ll rule out East London. She shows some cockney, but her raised vowels and London vowel shift are subdued.’
‘Don’t explain what that all means, just give me your results.’
‘Cockney is at its strongest in East London. I’d say she was more likely to the west and north of the central business district, and there is good diction in her speech as well.’
‘What does that mean?’ Ed asked.
‘I’d say there are three clear distinctions in her voice. One, she is a fluent speaker in either Urdu or Hindi. Secondly, she was born or came to this country as a very young
child…’
‘And thirdly?’ Ed impatiently asked.
‘She either went to a private school, boarding probably, or she’s had speech training.’
‘Which one do you favour?’ Ed asked.
‘I’d go for a boarding school, probably close to London. She most likely came home weekends or the subcontinent accent would be more subdued. A speech trainer would have suppressed the Indian accent.’ Paul Downsford looked up into the air, apparently thinking before replying. ‘Yes, I’d definitely go for a boarding school.’
***
New Scotland Yard, located on Broadway, was heavily secured with surveillance cameras, armed policemen and security barriers. Yasser Lahham had hacked the building. He had seen the flaws in its security, flaws that the Master intended to take full advantage of. Ahmed Yousef and Fouad Abdulla were to be the martyrs.
‘Is it clear what the plan is?’ Durrani, the bomb maker, asked of his latest protégées.
‘Yes, we know what is required,’ Ahmed Yousef, the brighter of the two, answered. A gangly youth of nineteen from a broken home, he had changed from crime to devotion to the cause as a result of a Firebrand Mullah, who lectured at the Mosque he frequented in the North of England. Fouad Abdulla, the second of the martyrs, was neither bright nor devoted. He had just come along because his mate, Ahmed, had said it would be cool.
‘We’re going to die?’ A short, pimply youth of eighteen, due to a deprived upbringing and living six to a room, Fouad Abdulla was virtually uneducated, barely knew the Koran. Literate to no more than the level of a ten-year-old, he blamed his life on the infidels, not on his stupidity.
‘No,’ Durrani said. ‘You’re going to be martyred.’
‘And the virgins?’ Fouad at least knew something from the teachings at the Mosque he had frequented with Ahmed Yousef.
‘They will be yours.’ Durrani was tired of the increasingly stupid martyrs. Fouad appeared at least capable of the task and, with his babyish features, he would be unchallenged as he entered the most important police station in the country.
‘Ahmed, explain the plan to me?’ Durrani was anxious to ascertain that at least one of the martyrs knew what was expected of them.
‘At ten o’clock tomorrow morning, we will walk up Caxton Street…’
‘And then?’ Durrani asked.
‘I will turn to the left and Fouad will turn to the right on Broadway.’
‘And what do you need to watch out for?’
‘We should aim to keep to the opposite side of the road to where the cameras are.’
‘Correct, and then?’
‘At fifteen minutes past ten, we are to both walk towards the vehicle security gates located at either end of the building. Mine is on Broadway, and Fouad’s is on Dacre Street.’
‘Fouad, and what do you do then?’
‘We use the magnetic cards that you’ve given us, and the barriers will open,’ said Fouad.
‘Correct,’ said Durrani. ‘We must thank the Prof for those.’ Yasser Lahham had managed to hack the department that controlled the security passes. It had been the most difficult challenge of his career, but it had enabled him to get some passes manufactured that would give entry to the building - the names on the cards, fictitious.
Security surveillance software at New Scotland Yard would soon pick up the anomaly, but the two intended martyrs only needed two minutes to enter into the main part of the building, ten if they were going to hit the Counter Terrorism Command and the Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police.
‘And once you are in the building, what then?’ Durrani asked them both.
‘I’m to take the lift to the fifth floor using my swipe card,’ Ahmed Yousef said. ‘That’s assuming I’m unchallenged.’
‘And if you’re challenged?’
‘I move as fast as I can into the building and detonate the explosives.’
‘And if you’re not challenged?’
‘I head to the right after exiting the lift and move quickly to the Commissioner’s office. I aim to get as close as I can to the Commissioner and then I martyr myself.’
‘Fouad, what about you?’ Durrani asked.
‘I head for the fourth floor, turn to the left and locate office 402,’ said Fouad. ‘I enter and commit myself to martyrdom.’
‘Fine, that’s the office of the Counter Terrorism Command. You both understand fully what is required? Allah be with you.’ Durrani felt that they were both capable of the task. He was optimistic for a successful result.
Chapter 2 3
Langley Ladies’ College had a proud heritage dating back to its founder, Elizabeth Langley, in the 1880s. It was progressive then as it was now. It was an unusual place for Farhan Ahmed to be. The college prided itself on its encompassing of students from all cultural and religious backgrounds and, of the three hundred and fifty students, over two hundred and eighty were from overseas. There were the two daughters of a Saudi prince, who drank like fishes if given the chance, two daughters of an American movie star known for her many lovers, a Russian billionaire’s daughter, as well as a good selection of the financially well-heeled in London. It was here that Sara Styles, or then known as Sara Aslam, had once attended.
‘Lovely person, she was head girl in her last term here.’ Virginia Langley, no relation to the illustrious founder, had been headmistress for ten years, and it was obvious that Sara Aslam had been one of her favourite students.
‘What was she like, politically, religiously?’ Farhan asked. It had taken ten schools, ten headmistresses before he had encountered Langley Ladies’ College. He had intended not to come as it just seemed a little too far out of London for Sara Styles to have been able to make the weekend trip back to London. Set in resplendent grounds with deer roaming freely, it was at least two hours by bus and train back to London.
‘She was Muslim, although she never took it too seriously,’ the headmistress said. ‘Politically, I’d say very moderate. Concerned about the plight of the Muslims generally in the Middle East, but it was certainly not extreme.’
‘What happened after she left? Did she keep in contact?’
‘She came up for every open day, although I’ve not seen her for a few years now. Why are you interested in Sara?’
‘I told you. I’m from the Counter Terrorism Command.’
‘But what’s that got to do with Sara? Is she involved?’
He felt it was best not to be too open with the headmistress. She had not been security cleared and may react adversely if told the truth. ‘She may have come into contact with someone we are observing.’
‘You’ve nothing to worry about with Sara. I’d trust her implicitly. She’s as English as I am.’
‘I’d appreciate it if you would keep our conversation confidential,’ Farhan said.
‘And if Sara contacts me?’ the headmistress asked.
‘Please keep this to ourselves. There’s no need to cause her unnecessary concern.’
***
Ayub Askar, the willing Somali martyr, had been destined as the instrument of destruction at York Minster. His opportunity had been forestalled by the prompt and decisive actions of Alex Hainsworth of Counter Terrorism Command and Sergeant Bhardwaj of the North Yorkshire Police. He was still anxious to serve Allah and the Islamic State and the thought of seventy-two willing virgins, an erection always ready, filled a pimply youth with both lust and devotion.
‘I wish to commit myself to martyrdom,’ Ayub said in the small room that Durrani occupied at the rear of the Master’s house.
‘It is unfortunate that you were unable to complete your task in the north. We have another target for you,’ Durrani replied. ‘There is a diversionary bombing that is required. It would be ideal for you.’
It had been Yasser Lahham who had seen the obvious target during a conversation with the Master and Durrani the previous week.
‘Master, our planned attack on police headquarters will be enhanced if we cause some confusion elsewher
e in the city,’ Lahham had said. ‘It is somewhere of such significance that the police will initially panic.’
‘What do you suggest?’ The Master listened to Yasser, one of the few people whose advice he respected.
‘The Houses of Parliament,’ Yasser Lahham said.
‘Are you planning an attack inside the building?’ Durrani asked.
‘That is not necessary. Outside, as close as to the building as possible, will be fine. We want panic and a proportionate response from the police.’
‘We can use Ayub,’ Durrani suggested.
‘Yasser, what do you believe the response will be at New Scotland Yard? How will this assist us?’ the Master asked.
‘Master, even the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, will be involved. We’re hitting one of the mainstays of the British democratic system. The police response will be rapid and, for a few minutes, there will be total confusion. It is then that our two martyrs will enter through the security barriers.’
‘Durrani’s explosives may succeed in taking out the Counter Terrorism Command and the Commissioner of Police?’ the Master said.
‘That’s what I am saying. The diversion will give sufficient time,’ Yasser Lahham said.
‘How many dead at the Houses of Parliament?’ Durrani asked.
‘It’s only a diversion,’ replied Yasser Lahham. ‘There will be some tourists, probably not many. It is the police that we want this time. The politicians can wait for later.’
***
Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin pondered the situation. So far, their analysis had not been as detailed as they would have preferred. Their deductions and hunches had been based on experience and a study of human behaviour, both terrorist and Islamic fundamentalist. However, they saw no reason to change the way they worked.
Their concerns over security for themselves had abated and, in the last few weeks, they had relaxed considerably. Andrew’s wife was even talking about coming back home from New Zealand. However, he had talked her out of it, based on Isaac Cook’s statement that the situation was far from secure and, if the terrorists wanted to target both him and Frederick, his wife would have been the easiest leverage point.
Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5) Page 27
