Instinct hc-17

by Nick Oldham

  Donaldson thought briefly about his earlier meeting with Henry Christie, who was obviously still reeling from Kate’s death. It was early days and Henry, though often brittle at the best of times, was pretty resilient. He’d come out the other side, Donaldson guessed. Hoped.

  They hit another set of lights at New Bonny Street. At the next set, Chapel Street, Bill would turn left and loop around to the lower ground floor of the police station to drop Donaldson off at the public enquiry desk. Then Bill would head back to the stake-out area and hope something would happen.

  Donaldson yawned and stretched. The lights seemed to stay red for ages. He turned his head lazily to the left, rolling his neck muscles, and he looked slightly back over his shoulder.

  As the lights turned green and Bill, who happened to be at the front of the line of traffic, moved the Vauxhall forwards, Donaldson suddenly shot upright.

  ‘That’s one of them,’ the American uttered, craning his neck as he tried to keep track of the youth.

  ‘What?’ Bill said.

  ‘One of the two we’re after.’

  ‘You certain?’

  Donaldson shot him a withering look. ‘Pull in here, let me out — and get on your radio. Let everybody know we somehow missed them leaving the flat.’

  Bill swerved, mounted the kerb. ‘I’m coming too. We need to keep in touch somehow.’

  Donaldson was already out, walking briskly back to the lights about fifty metres away, his senses, his instincts, whirring. Bill scuttled behind him, abandoning the car with three wheels on the pavement, causing a slight blockage on the prom.

  Donaldson weaved through a sea of day trippers and holiday-makers, all of whom seemed to be walking in the opposite direction to him. All of a sudden he had a flashback. Just for an instant he was transported back a few years, to that time when, on foot in Barcelona, he was chasing a terrorist. Although Blackpool was no Barcelona, then as now, the streets had been crammed with people. On that occasion he’d been pushing against the tide of bodies washing up Las Ramblas like a human tsunami and today he was on Blackpool promenade. A culture away — but still the same fear stalking the streets.

  He paused briefly on the kerb at New Bonny Street, remembering to check right before stepping out. His conditioning, even after more than a dozen years of UK living, was to glance left for vehicles first.

  He rushed across to the central reservation, then diagonally across from there, striding purposefully towards the town centre, a large amusement arcade on his left. Bill was a few paces behind, gabbling into his PR to alert people to the change of events. He had no details as yet.

  Bill was shocked when Donaldson stopped, turned quickly and dragged him up to the building line, hissing, ‘No radios now — unless it’s covert.’ Meaning hidden, able to be used without anyone realizing. Which Bill’s wasn’t. He was holding the PR up to his mouth as he transmitted and it was as large as a house phone, so no discretion there. ‘If we catch up and he spots us and we spook him, it’s game over. Could be game over anyway,’ Donaldson said bleakly.

  ‘What game?’

  ‘Suicide bomber game.’

  It had been a fleeting glimpse, seconds only, but long enough for Donaldson to do two things. First, to ID the young man. Second, to take in all the points that suggested — nay, screamed — he was a suicide bomber.

  First the ID. Donaldson had spent over twenty years looking at faces, memorizing them, remembering names. One of his pastimes, if you could call it that, was to peruse the Wanted Persons files and put names to faces. It was a basic skill of being an FBI agent, learned and constantly updated. Even on quick reveals Donaldson was one hundred percent certain he could identify someone in a crowd.

  As in the case of Zahid Sadiq, one of the two faces he’d seen only for the first time that morning at Beckham’s iffy briefing. Donaldson had taken in the face, the eyes, the ears, the nose, the forehead of a young good-looking Asian boy.

  And he was sure he’d seen that same lad walking along the promenade. Even though he was now clean-shaven, Donaldson recognized him. Which led to point two.

  Suicide bomber.

  Only that brief glimpse as he passed in the car had told Donaldson that.

  First the beard — or lack of it. The boy, who was only nineteen and who had a pretty crappy beard anyway, as shown on the photograph at the briefing, had shaved it off, a procedure that had the effect of lightening the skin in the shaved area, under the nose, on the chin, on the side of the face. He had also shaved his head to the bone. Although he was wearing a skullcap, Donaldson had clearly seen that the head was devoid of hair. That was just one of the many things that Donaldson took in and processed.

  Next was the three-quarter length coat, bulky and inappropriate for a day that was getter hotter by the minute. Everyone else on the prom had shed their coats and was down to shirtsleeves and light clothing. The lad’s hands were thrust deep into his pockets and Donaldson also caught sight of a white wire coming out of the right-hand pocket and up the sleeve. He saw only a half-inch of it. But he saw it. Initial thought: was this hand gripping a detonator, thumb on button? Why was the coat extra bulky? Were explosives strapped to the boy’s torso? The lad was also staring dead ahead as he walked, as though he was walking down a tunnel, another classic sign of a suicide bomber. And he was mumbling to himself, lips moving

  … praying?

  The thought that he might be completely wrong was in his mind, too. Perhaps the lad was chilly. Had a few pullovers packed on and was simply listening to his iPod. Donaldson hadn’t seen an earpiece, though.

  But he also did not care if he was wrong. Better that than the other.

  Bill fumbled in his own earpiece, connected it to his PR and shoved the radio in his pocket. ‘I need to tell ’em something,’ he said, pointing to the PR, meaning he’d alerted comms and they now needed more information.

  ‘Tell them Zahid Sadiq is walking into the town centre and he could be carrying a bomb.’ Donaldson said it matter-of-factly, then spun away from Bill and started walking quickly, turning the corner into Central Drive hoping he hadn’t lost Sadiq, but spotted him immediately. It helped being a few inches taller than most of the people around him. Sadiq was about seventy metres ahead, walking straight on to Adelaide Street, the big McDonald’s on the corner to the right, then into Bank Hey Street, which ran along the back of the Tower, where the main entrance to that attraction was situated.

  Donaldson rushed forwards, wondering how best to deal with the situation. Sadiq was entering an area chock-full with people, but was that the target? A suicide bomb on a shopping street? Just by standing there and detonating it outside WHSmith he would probably kill over fifty people, wound another fifty and cause a huge amount of damage. Easy. But as a target, a statement? Donaldson doubted that would be the case.

  Perhaps the Tower itself?

  Getting inside and detonating a bomb. Now that would be something. A real statement of intent that would show how vulnerable British society was. Blowing up the heart of a traditional holiday resort. Working class people from all over the country murdered. Not politicians, not cops or the army. A strike to the heart. Everybody at risk.

  Donaldson powered on. Bill scuttled behind him, talking into his PR via the microphone attached to the earpiece.

  Resources were moving quickly as all patrols dropped everything and converged on the town centre, controlled by a comms operator who was becoming increasingly hysterical.

  Sadiq was forty metres ahead now. On Bank Hey Street, slowing right down near to the Tower entrance. A queue was already snaking out of the door as people waited to get in. Sadiq stopped and was looking around.

  Donaldson swore. He knew he was right. This was the target.

  Then another thought struck home.

  Where the hell was the other guy, the other target for the day? Suicide bombers were often accompanied by another who often also had a trigger device, such as a mobile phone which could remotely detonate the bomb for
those times when the bomb carrier’s courage failed and the enormity of what they were doing struck home: not just blowing others to smithereens, but themselves also. Even the most fanatical could find that a tough step to take, or a hard button to press, and they often needed help from a remote source. Many suicide bombs in the Middle East were detonated by a third party.

  Donaldson stopped, as did Bill, who had also focused in on Sadiq, a young man who now looked confused, uncertain and afraid.

  ‘He’s got to have a partner,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘What do we do?’ Bill asked.

  Donaldson shrugged. He knew the blood had drained from his own face and that he was feeling scared now.

  Sadiq moved, joined the end of the queue into the Tower. His eyes moved continuously, he mumbled to himself — trying to refocus, Donaldson thought. Prayers, incantations, mantras.

  Sadiq wasn’t really looking at anyone in particular, even though his eyes seemed to be searching. Donaldson used this to his advantage and said, ‘Let’s just stroll along together,’ to Bill who glared at him, horrified. ‘You know you want to.’

  ‘Actually I don’t.’

  Donaldson swung a big arm around Bill’s shoulders and looked at him grinning. ‘Do you see any other way?’ Bill shook his head. ‘The first six virgins are mine,’ Donaldson quipped and they started to walk along like two mates, chatting innocently.

  ‘The next eighteen are mine.’

  The pair were perhaps ten metres from Sadiq, who now had people behind him in the queue and was getting closer to the Tower entrance. Donaldson noticed a sign saying there was a lunchtime performance in the Tower circus, and this was obviously attracting lots of families with young kids.

  Sadiq’s head started to rock back and forwards, his lips continued to mumble their prayers.

  Five metres.

  Bill was saying something into his radio.

  Then a police car with blue flashing lights turned on to the pedestrianized street.

  ‘Shit,’ Donaldson said.

  Four metres.

  Sadiq spun, saw the cop car.

  Then another police car screamed up from the opposite direction.

  Sadiq saw that one, too. Panic seared across his features. Suddenly trapped, he reacted in a way that gave Donaldson a chance of survival. Sadiq’s knees sagged slightly and his hands came out of his jacket pockets in a response to being caught, like an escaping prisoner in a spotlight, but holding nothing.

  Donaldson bowled sideways at him. Hard and low, enveloping him with a bear hug, pinning his arms to his side and smashing him down on to the ground. As the American connected, he felt the hard outline of packed explosives strapped to Sadiq’s body underneath his coat and knew his call had been justified.

  Donaldson worked quickly and expertly. Sadiq was nothing more than a thin, skin and bone youth, with hardly anything to him, whereas Donaldson was big, fit, strong, agile, a man with years of physical training and operational experience behind him.

  Within moments Sadiq was face down, hands trapped behind his back, his wrists cuffed by Bill who had moved in to assist.

  There had been no fight in the lad. He’d just succumbed to the assault.

  Bill leaned into his ear and called him the worst name in the English language, but just through relief rather than anything else. The last couple of minutes had seemed like hours of stress.

  Bill held him down as Donaldson stood up and looked around. Cops on foot and in cars were converging. The public were shocked, confused and excited, but it would only take moments for the police to take control, push them back and form a sterile ring around Sadiq. But Donaldson knew this was no time to relax because there might be a back-up plan in place. The number two guy with the mobile phone on speed dial, ready to press send. Donaldson didn’t know enough about bombs and electronic pulses even to think of trying to dismantle whatever concoction was underneath Sadiq’s coat, but he knew everyone needed to be on full alert and the lad had to be neutralized as soon as possible.

  He guessed that if there was a support bomber in place, that person would either have to have a line of sight on Sadiq to keep a check on progress, or be waiting nearby for a particular time. Such as giving Sadiq half an hour to do his stuff, and if a blast hadn’t been heard by then, press send-and-boom remotely.

  Obviously Donaldson did not know for certain, but he did know that these were critical moments.

  A bomb disposal expert was needed on scene quickly to disable Sadiq’s body pack.

  The public had to be herded away a serious distance. A perimeter had to be established of at least two hundred metres and everyone had to be out of line of sight.

  One hell of a job, he thought, as he looked desperately around. Some cops had arrived and, acting on Bill’s shouted instructions, as he held Sadiq down, were moving people away now. But more officers were needed.

  Donaldson spun around. Mobile phones were at people’s ears, in their hands, folk were making calls, some were doing their best to take photos as they were pushed back. Panic surged into his gut. He twisted and knelt down by Sadiq’s head. ‘Who’s with you?’ he demanded. Sadiq’s cheek was crushed into the paving and he looked up at Donaldson with one eye, like a flatfish. Spittle dribbled out of his mouth. He sucked it back in. ‘Who’s with you?’ Donaldson repeated.

  Sadiq’s half-face laughed. ‘Allah,’ he said.

  Donaldson suppressed a serious urge to slam a fist into his head and smash his jaw to pieces, but he fought it, then rose again, his sharp eyes taking in everything that was happening around. The cops working urgently, Joe Public now getting the message, more police arriving.

  Bill gripped the rigid bar of the handcuffs, angling them slightly so that they dug into the nerve endings in Sadiq’s wrists, and kept the lad down. ‘Next move?’ he asked.

  Donaldson didn’t have an answer. His eyes were constantly roving up and down the street, desperately searching for the accomplice.

  Then he saw him. A man moving against the tide of people. The support act.

  Curiosity had drawn him out. If he hadn’t been dark-skinned, Donaldson probably wouldn’t have zeroed in. But he did, and he recognized the face instantly. But it wasn’t the face of the other youth from the briefing, the one who was Sadiq’s friend.

  This was Jamil Akram, the man Donaldson had been hunting for over a dozen years.

  Realization hit Donaldson hard as their eyes locked. Akram immediately saw that he had been recognized and began to fumble through his pockets as Donaldson surged into a run.

  There was another roar from Donaldson’s throat. People spun round to see what was approaching and a path opened in front of him. Akram pulled out his phone but it seemed to dance through his fingers as if it was burning hot, or had a life of its own, and it fell to the ground, splitting into several pieces on impact, the battery and the back panel going in separate directions.

  Akram turned and ran into the crowd.

  Donaldson was only metres behind him, his arms punching like huge pistons. But Akram moved with the agility of a deer. His head went down and he weaved and cornered around people like a skier hurtling down a slalom.

  Donaldson had no finesse in his speed, no grace, and he shoved individuals roughly aside. He was taking the direct route and everyone had better get out of his way.

  Akram, though, was getting further away. Keeping low, he entered Hounds Hill shopping centre and disappeared into the covered mall. Donaldson cursed as he ran in and found himself faced with a dilemma. The mall was a large, curving semicircle, which split to the left and right. There was no sign of Akram, who could have gone either way and ducked into a shop, then used another exit, or a fire escape.

  Donaldson spun on the spot.

  Bill Robbins came up behind him.

  ‘Lost him,’ Donaldson gasped. ‘Is Sadiq still pinned down?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bill assured him.

  ‘And has the phone been seized?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bill repea
ted.

  Two more cops rushed in behind, armed and in uniform, wearing peaked caps with chequered bands, and brandishing H amp;K machine pistols.

  ‘Who’s the guy you chased?’ Bill asked.

  ‘Akram — the guy I was telling you about.’

  ‘Jamil Akram? Shit,’ Bill blurted.

  ‘Yeah — and he’s gone to ground here — but he won’t be hiding long. He’ll break cover.’

  ‘I’ll get more people, get the exits sealed.’

  ‘Make sure you tell ’em to take care. He’ll be armed,’ Donaldson said. ‘And dangerous,’ he added, not caring if it sounded cliched.

  ‘Description?’

  Donaldson gave him a glance. ‘I know this sounds racist, but any Asian male, thirty to fifty, in this vicinity needs pulling and slamming down. But he is wearing a black zip-up wind jammer, blue jeans, grey trainers and he’s got a black moustache.’

  ‘Understood,’ Bill said, and he transmitted this through to comms.

  Donaldson indicated to Bill that he was going to start looking and moved into the mall.

  He prowled slowly, like a predator, but felt that Akram was now likely to be on the other side of the shopping centre or maybe in a car — at which moment Donaldson spotted a sign pointing to the Hounds Hill multi-storey car park, adjacent to the mall. It was only a guess, but Akram had appeared at the scene having come from the direction of the shopping centre, so maybe he was simply retracing his steps to get back to his escape vehicle.

  Donaldson looked back at Bill and the two firearms officers. Bill was still talking urgently into his PR but Donaldson managed to get his attention, pointed at one of the firearms officers and then placed the flat of his hand on the crown of his skull in the old military signal. Come to me.