Invasion

by Dc Alden

  There used to be plenty of Muslims who spoke quietly about taking up arms and fighting for the Islamic cause, even the so-called moderates, who quietly supported the fighters and performed their own brand of Jihad. In the early days, Khan had heard their whispered conversations, watching, listening, until all he was left with were words. No plans ever materialised, no operations were ever given the green light. It was as if the word had come down from on high: ‘No more talk of Holy War, of struggle and sacrifice. Let the Infidels be deafened by our silence.’

  Khan didn’t believe it. The conflict had lasted for over fourteen hundred years, an enduring state of mind, the raison d’être of an ideology that just couldn’t be switched off overnight. Along with other operatives, Khan had warned his superiors, understanding only too well the practice of Taqiyya, the cloak of deceit that the Qur’an permitted in order to fool unbelievers. But politics prevailed, the mind-set of appeasement that permeated the corridors of power in Whitehall stalling fresh lines of investigation, of surveillance and tracking. The rise of the Muslim Brotherhood across the Arab world, culminating in the formation of the state of Arabia, was directly linked to the scaling down of Islamic-related terror investigations. Khan had viewed the move as foolish.

  Target One was a case in point. Khan was under increasing pressure to justify the man hours and expenditure for continued surveillance on a subject that had yet to yield anything of any significance. Target One had come to the attention of the security services some time ago, a raid on his house producing a computer filled with Jihadist video files, large amounts of cash that couldn’t be accounted for, blank passports and credit cards found hidden under floorboards in an upstairs bedroom. Target One’s lawyer had argued successfully that the property was a halfway house for overseas travellers, that Target One couldn’t be linked to the cash or passports, that his computer had been used by others, now long gone. He’d walked, as Khan knew he would. But the trips to Arabia continued, final destination unknown, MI6 being virtually redundant in the Holy State.

  Target One was in his thirties, like Khan, with a slim build and a short-cropped beard. There was something wrong about the man, Khan’s gut instinct told him, but his superiors were tiring of Khan’s hunches, had given him a month to produce evidence – hard, concrete evidence – or else the plug would be pulled. So Khan had worked for the past eight days straight, desperately seeking something that would tip the balance of the investigation back in his favour. If unsuccessful, Khan’s team of watchers would move on to other operations. Right now, the focus was on hard-left agitators, subversives and other anarchists, all seemingly hell bent on bringing down the government. They were the priority, Khan was told, not so-called Muslim terrorists. The jihad was dead, and Arabia had risen from its funeral pyre, a phoenix of stable government, of strengthened diplomacy and economic prosperity. It was a mistake.

  Khan shook off his thoughts and concentrated instead on the immediate task, following from a distance as Target One sidestepped a mountain of bin liners that spewed rubbish across the pavement, and jogged over the main road. A van drew up alongside Khan, the side cargo door sliding open. Khan jumped in as another watcher, Spencer, hopped out, taking up the surveillance on Target One.

  The driver, Max, studied Khan in his rear view mirror. ‘Well?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Khan shrugged. ‘Prayers as usual, a quick chat with a couple of older guys I’ve never seen before, and then he left.’

  Max exhaled loudly. ‘Dammit. Any luck with the wire-tap?’

  ‘Judge threw it out. Unwarranted, bordering on harassment she said.’

  ‘Stupid cow,’ cursed Max. ‘So, we’re back to square one again. Let’s face it, we’re going to have to cut this fucker loose.’

  Khan opened his mouth to reply, but then paused, frowning. ‘Wait. There was one odd moment, just before I left the mosque.’

  A sharp rap on the passenger window drew their attention outside. A traffic warden stared sullenly at them from beneath the peak of his cap, his wide black face locked in a permanent snarl.

  ‘No parking,’ he ordered. ‘Move.’

  Max reached into his jacket, produced a Metropolitan Police warrant card. ‘Fuck off.’ The warden sloped away, muttering under his breath. Max turned back to Khan. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Yeah, the others, the older guys. They kissed.’ Max screwed his face up. ‘They what?’

  ‘They kissed our boy, on the cheeks, respectfully. I caught it just before he left the foyer.’

  ‘Is it significant?’

  Khan thought about it for a moment. The embraces were warm, the kisses from the older ones courteous, respectful. No, almost reverential. One of them had even bowed his head slightly. It was out of the ordinary, a parting that held some significance for all three men. It was a scene that most human beings had witnessed or experienced themselves at some time in their lives, usually at airports or train stations, and Khan suddenly realised the importance of the moment.

  ‘I think they were saying goodbye.’

  Target One walked swiftly towards the station, his heart racing. Finally, the day had arrived. He had prayed at the mosque for the last time, washed and shaved, and recorded a final message to his family, which would be delivered after the operation was complete., Target One was prepared. But despite the honour he felt at being selected for such a mission and the comforting embrace of his faith, he was also quietly terrified. That was why his heart raced, why his skin felt clammy, why his armpits leaked sweat.

  He passed the bus stop, his usual stop, resisting the sudden urge to wait with the other sour-faced Infidels and take the bus back to Mitcham. But he couldn’t, of course. He’d been chosen, educated and trained, his place in Paradise already assured, and he clung to that thought as he continued across the road into the tube station, swiping his travel card at the passenger barrier. The station was quiet and a train waited on the platform as Target One headed toward the front carriage.

  Employing his anti-surveillance training, he stopped suddenly and turned around, doubling back. There were two people behind him on the platform. One was an old woman laden with shopping bags, puffing her way onto an empty carriage. The other, a white man in his late twenties, continued down the stairs towards him. He wore a baseball cap, jacket, jeans and running shoes. Target One made a show of checking his watch against the passenger display above his head. The man veered off and hopped aboard the train halfway up the platform. Good. Target One continued towards the front of the train and entered the empty carriage behind the driver’s compartment. He took a seat facing the platform and presently a computerised voice announced the train’s imminent departure. After a moment, the doors hissed shut and the train lurched forward, accelerating into the tunnel.

  Target One glanced to his right, searching the rows of empty carriages as they rocked and swayed from side to side through the darkness. He noticed the man in the baseball cap, two carriages down, staring at an advertising display above his head. Target One pulled out a battered copy of the Qur’an from his trouser pocket and leafed through the well-thumbed pages. He wracked his brains, trying to work out what carriage Baseball Cap had got on. He was sure it wasn’t as far up as he was now. He must have used the interconnecting doors to work his way towards the front of the train. If that was the case, then he might have a tail. Or he could just be paranoid. But the anti-surveillance training he’d received in the desert had taught him to be paranoid. Everyone was a possible Infidel agent.

  He mulled over what he knew about the man, gleaned from a momentary glance on the platform. He was white; not that many white people in Morden anymore, but there were some. Baseball cap and jacket, possible disguise. Remove the hat, reverse the jacket, now you’re someone else. Jeans and running shoes; common enough clothing to go unnoticed, yet running shoes were good for pursuit. So, a possible tail. I’ll know soon enough, he decided.

  The train continued on its journey, rattling beneath the densely-populated suburbs of southwest Lo
ndon, the carriages becoming more crowded with each stop. The carriage intercom hissed and crackled.

  ‘The next station is Clapham Common. Customers requiring the Clapham Junction Eurostar terminal please change here.’

  Target One stood up. He stumbled slightly with the motion of the carriage, reaching for the hand rail above his head. He glanced to his right. Two carriages down, Baseball Cap was also on his feet. The train hissed to a stop at Clapham Common. Target One got off, noting that Baseball Cap had got off too. He silently cursed. The man’s behaviour was displaying all the characteristics of a tail; he had to lose this tail or abort his operation. And that would mean he had failed. There was no alternative.

  Target One walked slowly along the platform, keeping his head down, shuffling towards the stairs along with the other passengers who had just alighted. From the corner of his eye, he saw Baseball Cap move to the southbound side of the platform, as if waiting to board a train travelling in the other direction. Now he was almost certain the man was an Infidel agent. Moments later, Target One drew parallel with Baseball Cap, who suddenly feigned interest in the advertising displays on the curved wall of the opposite tunnel. At that moment, the door closure signal beeped, echoing around the concourse. Target One cut quickly through the crowd and stepped back onto the northbound train, squeezing himself behind a large black man and peering over his shoulder out onto the platform. The doors hissed closed. He saw Baseball Cap casually turn around, trying to locate his mark. As the train began to move, he saw him frantically searching the crowds and then move swiftly towards the stairs. He didn’t look at the carriage once.

  As the train continued towards Clapham North station, Target One found a seat and pondered his predicament. Yes, he was being followed, and by the Security Services no doubt, but for how long had he been followed? Not that long, probably a routine operation, he decided. Target One had lived a simple life, employing the same habits and schedule for most of the time, with only a single brush with the law to his name. Besides, he was only being followed by one man. If he wasn’t, then Baseball Cap wouldn’t have panicked, wouldn’t have run for the stairs, a sure sign he was operating alone.

  The train slowed, pulling into the next station. Target One took out his cell phone and jammed the device between the seats, pushing his travel card after it. He stood up, waiting for the doors to open. When they did, he moved further up the platform and re-boarded the train.

  So far, so good, he smiled.

  Khan pointed through the windshield as the van weaved through the traffic towards the station at Clapham Common.

  ‘There he is!’

  Max swung the wheel to the left and slid into the kerb. Spencer jumped aboard.

  ‘Lost him,’ he puffed. ‘Carried out an area search, but nothing. Sorry.’

  ‘Forget it,’ Khan said. ‘Who knew he was going to take the bloody tube? This is my fault. He put us to sleep.’ The alarm bells were ringing urgently now, his gut feeling that something major was in progress becoming stronger by the minute. He keyed his radio.

  ‘Control, this is Kilo-Whiskey Seven, requesting immediate surveillance assistance, over.’

  Overhead, the speaker hissed back.

  ‘Copy that, Kilo-Whiskey Seven. Wait Out.’

  Wait Out? Khan keyed the radio again. ‘Control, Kilo-Whiskey Seven, surveillance target may be operational at this time. Requesting assets for priority reacquisition, over.’

  The speaker crackled, the controller’s voice laced with irritation. ‘Kilo-Whiskey Seven, Control, message received, stand by.’

  Khan shared a look with Max and Spencer. What the hell was up with Control? Didn’t they understand the urgency of the situation? Khan was about to key his radio again, when another voice echoed inside the van.

  ‘Kilo-Whiskey Seven, what’s your location?’

  ‘Outside Clapham Common tube station.’

  ‘Where did you lose your target?’

  ‘Down on the platform. Target was travelling northbound. How soon can I get those assets?’

  ‘You can’t,’ the voice replied. ‘Seventeen targets have just gone active in the London area. We’re swamped.’

  Khan stared at the speaker, his blood suddenly cold.

  At Stockwell underground station, Target One left the carriage and made his way up the escalator to the ticket hall, his eyes scanning the concourse…there. A tall Arabian man wearing a hooded sweatshirt waited near the gate line. Target One veered towards him, pushing through the crowd.

  ‘Easy, bruv!’

  He glanced over his shoulder. He’d cut across the path of a black man, the same one he’d hidden behind on the train. He mumbled an apology and moved towards the Arab who, seeing Target One approach, palmed him a ticket. They moved quickly out of the station and into the bright sunlight, turning left into Binfield Road. The Arab set a brisk pace.

  ‘Your journey was okay?’

  ‘I was followed,’ confessed Target One.

  The Arab slowed his pace, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Explain.’ Target One recounted the details of his journey, leaving nothing out. ‘You are certain that is all?’

  ‘Yes, I…’

  A voice boomed behind them. ‘Wait up, bruv!’

  Without slowing, both men glanced behind them. The black man from the station was advancing quickly towards them. ‘Yeah, you!’

  The Arab slipped a hand under his sweatshirt. He turned to Target One.

  ‘I will deal with this. Say nothing.’

  They stopped and turned as the black man marched up to them. He was in his early twenties, over six feet tall and roughly two hundred pounds, nearly all of it muscle. And he was angry. Without breaking stride, he planted both hands on Target One’s chest and shoved hard, sending him stumbling backwards onto the pavement. The Arab stepped sideways to distance himself, caught off-guard by the sudden attack. The black man ignored him, loomed over Target One and jabbed a thick finger in his face.

  ‘You dissing me? You know who I am, ya piece of shit?’

  Target One’s eyes blazed with anger. This Infidel had laid his unclean hands on him, had disgraced him with his physical assault. Target One could smell the man’s disgusting breath on his face as a fine spray of spittle dampened his cheek. He tried to get up, but the black man raised his fist.

  ‘I’ll beat ya down, get me? Teach you some fucking-’

  Target One saw the tiniest flicker of confusion in the black man’s eyes as the barrel of the pistol touched the side of his head, just before the flash and crack of the ten millimetre round blew out a hole above his left ear. He toppled over into the gutter, the wide rent in his skull pumping blood onto the road. The Arab slipped the gun back under his sweatshirt and grabbed Target One’s hand, dragging him to his feet. Behind them, a scream split the air.

  ‘Move!’

  The Arab shoved Target One forward, who smiled as he stepped over his assailant’s lifeless body. They reached the junction of Binfield Road and Lansdowne Way, crossing quickly into Guildford Road and dodging the early evening traffic that blasted their horns at the men’s reckless passage. The Arab pointed to a battered Ford saloon car parked along the street. There was a man behind the wheel, the engine running.

  ‘Get in,’ commanded the Arab. Target One slid into the back while the Arab jumped into the front passenger seat. The car accelerated away from the kerb and turned down another side street, heading in the direction of the city. In the distance, they heard the rising wail of a police response vehicle.

  10 Downing Street, London: 4.33 pm

  Harry was seated alone in the Cabinet Room, lost in thought as he pored over his notes in preparation for the evening’s engagement with the US Ambassador. Although he had his own private office in the building, the Cabinet Room exuded a certain gravitas that sharpened his mind for the task at hand. He took a moment to glance around the room that never failed to impress him. A rather flattering oil painting of Sir Robert Walpole, the man considered to be England�
�s first Prime Minister, hung above the fireplace; the chairs, which were arranged around the large antique table, had been used in this room since the reign of Queen Victoria. How could anyone fail to be impressed by these surroundings?

  For Harry, being Prime Minister was more than just the pinnacle of his political career. He understood the responsibility of office completely, could feel the weight of history bearing down on him, yet it didn’t make him uncomfortable. When he thought about the men – and, of course, Mrs Thatcher – who had all occupied the seat he was now sitting in, well, it made him feel quite humble. And it gave him a determination to be worthy of the post of Prime Minister of Great Britain. His thoughts were interrupted by a tap at the door. David Fuller entered the room.

  ‘David. What is it?’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Harry, but something’s come up. An urgent security matter.’

  ‘Really? What kind?’ asked Harry without looking up, sifting through the papers before him.

  ‘Intelligence reports a number of their surveillance targets have suddenly disappeared. They think it could mean something.’

  Harry put down the papers. ‘What targets?’

  ‘SIS has all the details. They believe it’s significant.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘In the last hour. They’ve collated some preliminary information and prepared a report. They’d like to brief you at five in the CMC.’

  Damn it, cursed Harry privately. He was running out of time and he still had a lot of work to do. He stood quickly, gathering his papers together.