‘Can I use a computer, Rose?’ asked Harper.
‘No problem, Mr Lex,’ she said. ‘Take any.’
Harper sat down at the furthest terminal from the counter and logged on to Yahoo Mail. He had memorised the email address and password, but had never sent a single email from the account. Its sole use was for communications with his MI5 handler, Charlotte Button, the only other person who knew the password. They sent messages to each other using the drafts folder – a technique first developed by al-Qaeda terrorists, allowing instantaneous communications that bypassed even the most hi-tech surveillance systems. The National Security Agency in the States and GCHQ in the UK had the capacity to eavesdrop on every phone call and email anywhere in the world, but using the drafts folder trick meant that the emails were never actually transmitted and therefore could not be flagged up by anyone monitoring his communications. Only if a spook had discovered the existence of the email account and hacked into it would the messages in the drafts folder be compromised, and even then, they’d have to be quick because Button and Harper’s SOP was to delete every message as soon as they had read it.
A single message had been added to the drafts in the last couple of hours: LOCATION ONE. SOONEST. TEXT ME WHEN IN SITU. Harper smiled to himself as he deleted the message. Even if someone really had hacked into his account, the message wouldn’t tell them much. Location One was London. He waved over at Rose. ‘Rose, coffee, black. Two sugars.’
‘Coming, Mr Lex.’
‘And a bottle of water.’
Harper went back online. There was a KLM flight due to leave Bangkok at two thirty in the morning. He booked himself a business class seat and a connecting flight to Dublin. Rose brought him his coffee and Harper thanked her.
‘And when I’ve finished this one bring me another, and another. In fact, if you can put me on an intravenous drip, that would be great.’
Rose frowned, not understanding.
‘Just coffee, Rose, and keep it coming.’
He sighed and looked at his watch. At this time of night it wouldn’t take much more than an hour to get to Suvarnabhumi airport. He had plenty of time to get a couple of coffees under his belt before heading home to grab what he needed.
There were two of them sitting in the back of the van, and the ventilation wasn’t the best. The air quality wasn’t helped by the continuing flatulence of Jamie Brewer, Spider Shepherd’s number two on the surveillance operation.
‘I’m sorry, mate, really,’ said Brewer after breaking wind for the third time. ‘I had a curry last night.’
Shepherd wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘That is awful. Really.’
‘Mate, I’m sorry.’
Shepherd would have loved to open the rear doors but that wasn’t possible, not when it was packed with transmitting and recording equipment. The van they were in had the livery of a courier company and sitting in the front seat was a brunette in a beige uniform. Her cab was sealed and they had to talk to her via an intercom.
Shepherd stared at one of the four flatscreens on the side of the van. It showed an electronic map of the area around them along with six flashing red dots. Above each of the dots was a number from one to six, representing the six watchers on the operation. The watchers had been tasked with following Ahmed Khalaf, a twenty-three-year-old former medical student who had ended his studies early and travelled to Syria to fight alongside the jihadists of ISIS, the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria. Khalaf had been easy enough to track as he had posted numerous photographs on his Facebook page. He had been allowed back into the country but MI5 had kept him under surveillance from the moment he had arrived at Heathrow. It was clear from the way that Khalaf behaved once he was back in the UK that he had been well taught by ISIS. He didn’t have a mobile phone and he didn’t own a computer. He made calls from phone boxes and twice a day he went to one of several Internet cafés. It was clear he was up to something and MI5 put him high up on their list of priorities. There were three teams of five assigned to Khalaf, working eight-hour shifts. Shepherd had been assigned to monitor the teams and he took it in turns to do ride-alongs. Surveillance was a difficult job at the best of times and long-term surveillance was especially demanding, hour after hour of sitting outside buildings followed by short bursts of frenetic activity. As days turned into weeks and even months, the job got that much harder. Surveillance teams would start to make assumptions and let down their guard. A target might leave the house every day at the same time, walk down the road and turn left. He might do that every day for a hundred days. But on day one hundred and one he might turn right and disappear. Shepherd’s job was to make sure the teams didn’t lose their edge.
For the first couple of weeks of surveillance Khalaf did nothing out of the ordinary. He spent most of his time in a bedsit in Stoke Newington, venturing out only to pray at a local mosque. MI5 had two men in place at the mosque and they were able to ascertain that Khalaf spoke to no one while he was at prayers. He would occasionally shop for food and once a day he would take a walk through the thirty-one acres of Abney Park garden cemetery.
The cemetery was always a difficult venue. There were dozens of paths winding between the 200,000 or so graves and while there were always some people wandering around, it was difficult to stay close without being seen. Dogs were always a good cover and the teams could call on more than a dozen offered up by volunteers prepared to allow MI5 to borrow their pets.
During the third week Khalaf visited Stoke Newington public library in Church Street. On the first visit he had wandered around the bookshelves for ten minutes before leaving. A few days later he visited again, this time making use of one of the library’s six computers. The visit to the library then became a daily event, and each time he would spend up to an hour on one of the computers. The surveillance teams installed keystroke programs on all of the machines and they were able to keep track of his Internet activities. Immediately they saw what he was doing the teams went on to full alert. Khalaf was reading articles on the mass jihadist killings in Iraq, Kenya and India, and spent time studying online newspaper articles about the murder of British soldier Lee Rigby who was hacked to death near the Royal Artillery Barracks in Woolwich. During the fifth week of surveillance, Khalaf went to the place where Fusilier Rigby was murdered and spent more than an hour walking around.
During the sixth week of surveillance, Khalaf opened a Yahoo email account and sent an email to an address that was traced to a library computer in Ealing. Khalaf used a drafts folder for the account to contact a British-born Somalian later identified as Mohammed Mahmud. Like Khalaf, Mahmud had broken off his studies and travelled to Syria to fight with ISIS. He had somehow managed to travel there and back without attracting the attention of the security services. From the messages that piled up in the drafts folder it was clear that the two men were planning a beheadings rampage in the London area. In the sixth week they were joined online by a third London-based jihadist who was also a member of ISIS. The third man had been harder to track down, he went online using a pay-as-you-go smartphone and was rarely active for more than a few minutes at a time and changed his SIM card every week.
A second five-man team, also under Shepherd’s guidance, had put Mahmud under the microscope. Like Khalaf, he lived alone, leaving his small flat in a terraced house only to shop, visit a local mosque and the library.
During the eighth week of Khalaf’s surveillance, both teams converged on the Abney Park cemetery. When it became clear that the two men were going to meet, Mahmud’s team pulled back.
The two men sat together for more than an hour on a bench close to the Gothic church in the centre of the cemetery. Three watchers walked by during the time they were together but none was able to hear even a fragment of their conversation.
There was no doubt that the men were planning a major terrorist atrocity and Shepherd had recommended that they be arrested and charged. His boss Charlotte Button had agreed with him but they had been overruled – the surveillance was to continue until the
third man was identified. That had been three weeks ago and they were no closer to finding out who he was.
The surveillance had turned up another cell, however; this one in Bradford. Khalaf had gone to a second email address draft folder and began communicating with another potential ISIS soldier, a British-born Pakistani who was about to fly out to Syria. Through him they managed to trace and identify another four would-be jihadists.
Meanwhile Khalaf was also using Google Earth to look at the roads around several shopping centres and railway stations in London, and visiting websites for large shopping malls, including the giant Westfield malls in White City and Stratford. Mahmud was just as active on the Ealing library’s computers, spending hours looking at websites that detailed the construction of IEDs.
As the two men continued to research and plot, the surveillance teams increased their hunt for the third jihadist, but his habit of only using a pay-as-you-go phone and constantly changing his SIM card meant he was impossible to pin down. The teams drew up more than a dozen possible suspects from the people that Khalaf and Mahmud met, but they couldn’t get any concrete proof of who the elusive third man was.
Shepherd had joined the surveillance team at eight o’clock in the morning, just as they had taken over from the night shift. Outside the vehicle were three watchers, codenames Whisky One, Whisky Two and Whisky Three. Whisky One and Whisky Two were on the pavement and Whisky Three was kitted out as a bicycle courier. All were in position outside Khalaf’s building. He wasn’t expected out before ten o’clock.
It wasn’t until after eleven that Khalaf appeared. He was wearing a black Puffa jacket with the hood up and he had a grey North Face backpack slung over his shoulder.
‘That’s new,’ said Brewer, nodding at the screen showing the view from the CCTV camera mounted under the van’s rear-view mirror. It could be moved using a small joystick on a panel in front of Brewer.
‘He’s had a backpack before, right?’
‘Smaller than that. Adidas.’
‘Tango is on the move,’ said Shepherd. He was wearing a Bluetooth earpiece connected to the transceiver on his waist.
‘Whisky Three, I have eyeball. He’s going back behind the house.’
Shepherd and Brewer watched on the screen as Khalaf disappeared behind the house. There were a dozen occupants, each with their own room, though they shared two bathrooms and a kitchen. The rubbish bins were at the rear but Khalaf hadn’t been carrying any rubbish.
‘What’s he playing at?’ said Brewer.
The mystery was solved soon enough when Khalaf reappeared pushing a bicycle, an old-fashioned type with a wicker basket fastened to the handlebars.
Brewer cursed. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘Whisky Three, you need to stay on him,’ said Shepherd. He nodded at Brewer. ‘Get the driver moving.’
‘He’s never done this before,’ said Brewer.
‘It’ll be okay,’ said Shepherd. He looked back at the screen. Khalaf was pedalling down the street. ‘Whisky Two, Whisky One, you need to get mobile and head south. Taxi or bus. Over.’
‘Whisky One, roger that.’
‘Whisky Two, roger.’
Shepherd picked up his mobile and called the supervisor of the second surveillance team, over in Ealing. Her name was Lisa Elphick and like Shepherd she was sitting in the back of a van. ‘Dan, hey, we’re a bit busy here,’ she said.
‘Us too. Our Tango’s on a bike. Heading south. He’s never done that before.’
‘Ours is running what looks like counter surveillance, and he’s never done that before. I’m down to one eyeball at the moment.’
‘You’ve got a guy on a motorbike, right? I’m looking to borrow him for a while.’
‘That’s not going to happen. He had a car stop for him, turns out it’s an Uber cab. Normally he takes the bus so we were on foot. The bike is the only eyeball I have at the moment.’ She swore vehemently. ‘He’s just got out of the cab on The Broadway. Bravo Two stay close. If necessary, dump the bike. Bravo One, Bravo Three, where the hell are you? Dan, sorry, we’ve lost him, I’ll have to call you back.’ She cut the connection.
Shepherd brought Brewer up to speed.
‘You think they’re up to something?’ asked Brewer.
‘Could be a coincidence.’
‘Both out of character at the same time? That sets alarm bells ringing.’
‘Do you want to call for backup?’
‘I’d be happier,’ said Brewer.
‘Whisky One, I’m in a cab.’
‘Good man. Stay on him.’
‘Whisky Three, I have eyeball.’
Shepherd looked at the screen showing the positions of the watchers. They were all moving. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. Then he called up the Head of Mobile Surveillance and got through to his number two. Shepherd quickly explained what he needed and the officer agreed to get two surveillance bikes in his area as soon as possible. Shepherd asked for a time frame and was told five minutes, possibly ten. It was better than nothing. Shepherd ended the call. ‘Help’s on the way,’ he said.
The van lurched to a halt. ‘Sorry,’ came the driver’s voice over the intercom. ‘Red light.’
‘Whisky Three, we’re held at lights. Do you still have eyeball?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Whisky Three, affirmative. He’s heading south on Essex Road. I’m about a hundred yards behind him. He’s taking it easy and isn’t looking back. Over.’
‘Whisky One, are you still in the cab? Over.’
‘Whisky One, passed him about fifty yards back. Over.’
Shepherd looked at the map. ‘See if you can get the cab to wait at City Road. Over.’
Shepherd looked at the screen showing the forward video feed but Khalaf was too far ahead to be seen. ‘Has he ever done anything like this before?’ Shepherd asked Brewer.
Brewer shook his head. ‘Never. He always goes to the same place. The mosque. The shops. The library. The cemetery.’
‘There was no indication that they were getting ready to go,’ said Shepherd. ‘That new backpack is a worry.’
His phone rang and he looked at the screen. It was Lisa. ‘We lost him,’ she said. ‘He was on foot and we couldn’t get to him on time.’
‘Could he have got to a Tube station?’
‘Ealing Broadway? Possibly.’
‘What are you doing now?’
‘Canvassing the area. If he did go down the Tube then we really have lost him. Sorry.’
‘Any chance of you sending your bike my way? Our target is on a bicycle and we’re having trouble keeping up with him.’
‘You think something’s up?’
‘Maybe. There was no chatter, though. I could do with your bike, Lisa.’
‘It’d mean I have one less pair of eyes on the ground.’
‘I get that, but a bird in the hand and all that.’
‘Your call. I’ll send him over.’
‘Our target is heading south down Essex Road to City Road. Brown coat, bicycle with a wicker basket on the front.’
Shepherd ended the call just as the van started moving again.
The van sped south. Shepherd watched the progress of the watchers on the screen. Whisky One had stopped close to the junction of City Road and Essex Road. Whisky Two was still in Stoke Newington. Whisky Three was moving slowly down Essex Road.
‘Whisky Two, what’s your situation, over?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Whisky Two, still on foot, sorry. No bloody cabs for love nor money. I might grab a bus. Over.’
‘We need you on City Road, Whisky Two. Do what you can. Over.’ He looked up at the video feed. The traffic was moving slowly and there was still no sign of Khalaf.
Shepherd scowled at the digital map. Whisky Three was getting close to City Road. At the junction Khalaf could turn west or east or continue south on the A1. ‘Whisky Three, stay with him, over,’ he said.
‘Whisky Three, I’m about fifty yards behind him. I have eyeball.
Over.’
Shepherd looked over at Brewer. ‘He’s never gone this way before?’
Brewer shook his head.
Shepherd called up Lisa on the phone again. ‘Any joy?’ he asked.
‘No sign of him, sorry,’ said Lisa. Her professional pride was obviously hurt. Losing a target was the worst thing that could happen to a watcher. ‘The bike is heading your way. What do you think? Do we have a problem?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘Did your guy have a backpack?’
‘Yes. But that’s not unusual. More often than not he has a bag of some kind.’
‘Our target has a different bag to his usual one. And he’s never used a bicycle before.’
‘Shit. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t sweat it. Just keep sweeping the area, he still might turn up.’ He ended the call. ‘Mahmud’s gone,’ he said to Brewer. ‘And he had a backpack. Might not be significant …’
‘… or it might be,’ said Brewer. They looked at the video feed. In the distance they could see Whisky Three, weaving in and out of the slow-moving traffic.
‘Whisky Two, I’m in a black cab and heading south on Essex Road, but the traffic’s bad. Over.’
Shepherd looked at the digital map and pointed at the flashing light that signified Whisky Two’s position, well back from where the van was.
‘Whisky Two, be prepared to head west or east on my word. A rat run might save you some time. Over.’
‘Whisky Two, roger that. Over.’
The van had slowed now. Shepherd glanced at the video feed. The traffic was heavier and Whisky Three had disappeared into the distance.
‘Whisky One, I have eyeball.’
‘Soon as you see which way he’s headed, let me know, Whisky One. Is your cab okay to follow?’
‘Whisky One, all good. Over.’
Shepherd looked at the digital map. Whisky Three was getting close to Whisky One which mean that Khalaf would be somewhere in between.
‘Everyone on full alert, he could go anywhere at the junction,’ said Shepherd. He looked at the map. The van was a couple of hundred yards away from City Road.
Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller Page 2
