Trojan

by Alan McDermott

  ‘Remember the eight people from the mosque?’ Bailey asked. ‘We were only able to track two of them home. Well, I was curious about one because he had a distinctive backpack. It’s easy to change your top, but not your accessories—’

  ‘The point being?’ Harvey interrupted. They already had identities for the eight suspects, and he didn’t have time to listen to Bailey wittering on about inconsequential matters.

  ‘Sorry. I managed to pick him up again – by his backpack, see?’ Bailey pointed to a still image on his monitor. ‘I tracked him to an address we didn’t have: a flat on the Crockford Estate.’

  The address wasn’t one they’d been working on that morning. ‘How can you be sure it’s one of our suspects?’

  ‘I went to the coverage forty minutes before he boarded the Tube and noted everyone with a backpack. For everyone getting off the train, I had the same person getting on, except for this one. Someone got on with a white-trimmed backpack but wasn’t seen getting off. This guy has a plain backpack, but wasn’t seen getting on.’

  Harvey slapped him on the back. ‘Great work!’

  He made a mental note to remember this moment when the annual appraisals came around, and he could almost forgive Bailey’s earlier mistakes if this panned out and he managed to keep his nose clean from now on.

  ‘Does CCTV cover the entrance to his flat?’ Harvey asked.

  ‘It does.’

  ‘Perfect. I’ll send SO15 round. In the meantime, keep an eye on the place in case he leaves.’

  ‘That’s what I called you over for. I already checked the feed, and he left the flat just after seven this morning.’

  Ninety minutes – he could be anywhere!

  ‘Hamad, share that feed with everyone. He could be just going out for breakfast, but we have to assume he’s got the X3 on him.’

  Harvey asked Commander Burke to send a team round to search al-Mubari’s place, then ended the call and returned to his own desk, where he found details of the feed in a pop-up on his screen. He clicked the link and logged into the CCTV database, then set the time for 7:02 a.m. as indicated in Bailey’s message. Seconds later, he saw movement on the screen as a hooded figure wearing a white-trimmed backpack emerged from a flat and pulled the door closed behind him.

  ‘Okay, guys, listen up. If you see him get on a bus or enter a Tube station, shout it out. Chances are he’s going to try to alter his appearance again, so I want all eyes on him. Gareth, share all the images with everyone and send copies to the police.’

  Three minutes later, the first update came from Bailey.

  ‘I’ve got him entering East Ham Tube station at 7:14.’

  Harvey closed down his current feed and opened the one for the ticket area of the station, then rewound to 7:13 a.m. A minute later, he saw the distinct backpack appear on the screen, and he watched Iqbal al-Mubari swipe his way through the turnstile.

  ‘He used an Oyster card! Elaine, log into the TfL database and see if he registered one under his own name.’

  It was a long shot, but cases had been solved due to people making rudimentary mistakes. If al-Mubari had provided his own details, they’d be able to see which station he travelled to, eliminating a lot of time-intensive work on their part.

  While he waited for Solomon to come back to him, Harvey followed al-Mubari to the platform and watched him board a train.

  ‘He’s on the 7:18 District line train, heading westbound,’ he told his colleagues. ‘Gareth, check everyone getting off at Upton Park. Hamad, you take Plaistow and I’ve got West Ham.’

  Harvey switched his feed once more. ‘Elaine, anything on the Oyster card?’

  ‘Yes, I just got in. It’s registered in his name and was last used at 7:14 this morning.’

  ‘That means he’s still on the Underground!’

  But where? And was the Tube his ultimate target? It wouldn’t be the first time the London Underground had been attacked. Even in the current state of high alert, no-one was searching bags before letting people into the stations.

  Harvey rose from his desk and jogged over to Ellis’s office, opening the door without knocking.

  ‘Al-Mubari’s still on the Tube. I want to evacuate it.’

  ‘That’s a big ask,’ his boss said. ‘Which station?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s the only option.’ He explained how the suspect had swiped his pre-paid Oyster travel card at the start of his journey, and that it hadn’t been used since. ‘If we close down every station, he’ll have to get off and swipe his way out. That’ll give us a real-time fix on him. Once he’s out in the open, we can guide SO15 in to pick him up. I don’t need to close it for long. As soon as each station is completely evacuated, they can call it in. Once each line is ready, we can re-open them. We should only need fifteen minutes, twenty at the most.’

  He told Ellis what else he would need, and then waited while she juggled the pros and cons. As always, she was quick to come to a sensible solution. She picked up the phone and scrolled through the contact list until she found the mobile number for the Mayor of London.

  ‘I just hope we’re doing the right thing,’ she said as she waited for the call to connect. ‘If his target really is the Underground, we might just end up forcing his hand at the height of rush hour.’

  ‘Then let’s pray he has other plans.’

  CHAPTER 32

  Friday, 18 August 2017

  Iqbal al-Mubari waited for the doors to close and the train to move once more before looking up from his book and scanning the other passengers in the carriage. He’d made a note of everyone present when he’d boarded nine stops earlier and taken off his hooded top, placing it in his backpack. Finally, the last of those people had disembarked and he felt comfortable enough to reach into the bag and pull out a different top. Changing in front of people might have looked suspicious, and the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself.

  This was his fourth train of the morning, and while he hadn’t seen anything to indicate that he was being followed, he wasn’t prepared to take any chances. After taking the District line to Victoria, he’d switched to the Victoria line to King’s Cross St Pancras, where he’d ridden the Hammersmith & City line before reversing direction and heading east on the Circle line.

  The carriage was packed tight with people heading to work. Those standing in the aisle served to hide his actions from everyone apart from the passengers seated either side of him, both of them too engrossed in their phones to pay him any attention.

  Iqbal slowly toyed with the Velcro fastener that held the white stripe on to the side of his backpack. It took a minute to silently ease it off, and he slipped the thin strip of material into the top of his bag as he turned it to repeat the action on the other side.

  Cannon Street station came and went, and Iqbal finally got to work on the ship’s wheel design on the front of the backpack, all the while checking to see if anyone was interested in what he was doing.

  No-one cared.

  It seemed he wasn’t as interesting as the latest Facebook status update or incoming text messages, and he had the wheel design off and stowed by the time the train reached Blackfriars.

  Just two more stops and he would be at Embankment, where he would change to the Bakerloo line for his last ever Tube journey.

  The man standing in front of him broke wind, and if it hadn’t smelled so bad, Iqbal might have laughed at the irony. Here he was, about to deliver a deadly nerve agent, and he was being subjected to a biological attack!

  As the doors closed at Temple station, Iqbal rose and nudged his way through the throng to stand by the exit. He caught a woman looking at him in disgust, as if he’d been responsible for the foul odour, and he felt tempted to set off the gas now, just to watch the look of revulsion transform into abject horror as she choked on her last breath . . .

  Iqbal ignored the temptation. In truth, he had no idea what effec
t the agent would have, just that he would feel little pain when he unleashed it. For Iqbal, who’d been raised by a father who had favoured a leather belt over encouragement and forgiveness, a little pain for a short period felt almost a blessing.

  The train pulled in at Embankment and Iqbal followed the crowd towards the exit, peeling off when he saw the signs for the Bakerloo line. He made his way to the northbound platform, and within two minutes, the train arrived. His destination was only two stops away, so he ignored the empty seats and stood by the doors.

  They didn’t close.

  For the first time that day, Iqbal felt uneasy. Two full minutes passed and the doors remained open, and he tried not to let panic grip him.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your driver speaking. Due to an incident at the next station we will not be able to continue. This train will terminate here. Please make your way to the exits where bus services . . .’

  The rest of the announcement was drowned out by groans from his fellow passengers, but Iqbal was just glad that there had been a valid explanation for the delay. He let the tide of disgruntled commuters drag him towards the exit, where he produced a second Oyster card and held it against the turnstile.

  It’s all part of the subterfuge, Khan had explained. There’s more than one way to track a person; don’t assume it will be a man or woman following you down the street. Electronic surveillance is their greatest weapon, be it cameras or tracking your credit cards and phones. They rely on it heavily, but that can be used against them. With a little foresight, it is easy to create a false or confusing trail.

  Iqbal had spent many days thinking about how to implement this advice, and had come up with the perfect answer. As well as the Oyster card he’d registered online, he’d purchased another one in a shop using fake details. If anyone were tracking his journey, the trail would leave them scratching their heads.

  He walked out of the station into bright sunshine. Frustrated travellers were demanding to know when the station would be open again, but Iqbal didn’t hang around to hear the answer. He still had three hours to go before his task would be completed, and it wouldn’t hurt to walk the short distance to Piccadilly Circus to complete his transformation.

  Then again, walking around with his hood up was going to get him noticed, especially as everyone else was dressed for the glorious weather.

  He found a sports shop nearby and purchased a black baseball cap and plain white T-shirt, then strolled into a coffee shop and ordered a cappuccino. Once served, he put the drink down on a table and went into the toilet, where he found an empty stall. He changed into the new T-shirt and put his hoodie into the backpack, then returned to his coffee.

  The shop began to fill up as more commuters sought sustenance while they waited for the Tube to re-open. Two men in suits sat down at his table and immediately glued their eyes to their phones, and Iqbal took the book from his bag and pretended to read. It was either that or stare into space, and he didn’t want to stand out. If he’d brought his phone along he could have blended in better, but he knew it was one of the easiest ways to be tracked. He’d taken the battery out the previous day, and the burner he’d used to call Ghulam had also been disassembled, with the pieces discarded in separate waste bins.

  ‘Looks like it’s not just Embankment,’ one of the suits said. ‘According to Facebook, the whole Tube’s closed.’

  Iqbal couldn’t help but look up at the pair seated across from him.

  ‘Of course the whole Bakerloo line will be closed if there was an accident,’ the other said.

  ‘It’s not just the Bakerloo line. My mate Tony said he got the same message on the Circle line, and others heard it on the District and Victoria lines, too. “Accident at the next station, can’t go any further”.’

  Iqbal’s stomach almost performed a somersault. There could only be one reason for closing down the entire Underground system, and that was fear of an imminent terror attack.

  Somehow, they were on to him.

  Had they evacuated the Tube because they thought it was his target? It would be the obvious move.

  ‘Grab your coffee,’ the first suit said. ‘They’re opening the stations again.’

  Both men got up and left, and Iqbal wondered what to make of it all. Why close the stations for just fifteen minutes? And, if they’d been searching for him, wouldn’t they have had police at the exit, scanning the crowd? Fifteen minutes was barely enough time to empty the station, never mind search for . . .

  There’s more than one way to track a person.

  They must have known he’d got on the Tube, either through CCTV or his Oyster card, and the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that it was the card. His entry at East Ham would have been recorded on a database, but when he hadn’t swiped it again, they’d decided to flush him out.

  A smile played across his face as he imagined the bewildered security services trying to figure out how they’d lost him, and all because of the second Oyster card.

  Khan would have been proud of him, he could feel it, and it made him more determined than ever to complete his mission.

  Iqbal finished his coffee and left the shop. With over two and a half hours to go, he had plenty of time to reach his destination on foot.

  ‘How the hell did he get off without using his card?’

  Harvey paced next to Solomon’s desk as she double-checked the Transport for London database.

  ‘He could have hid in the station,’ Farsi offered, but Harvey dismissed the idea.

  ‘I instructed them to send staff down to every platform to check for stragglers. No, he got out somehow.’

  ‘In cases of evacuation, wouldn’t they open the turnstiles so that people can keep their ticket to use on the buses?’ Bailey offered.

  ‘Normally, but they also have an override that spits tickets back out instead of keeping them. That should have been in place, so he would have had to use his Oyster card.’

  Harvey stood behind Solomon and asked her to refresh the data, but the resulting display still showed no new entry on al-Mubari’s account.

  ‘He got off, I know it,’ Harvey murmured to himself.

  ‘He looks to be following the same protocol as Wednesday night,’ Bailey said. ‘He’s aware of CCTV, so he probably knows that we can track his phone, bank cards, Oyster card, everything.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I’m just wondering why he would go to all the trouble of changing his appearance if he’s going to leave an electronic trail for us to follow.’

  ‘We already checked for his phone, and there’s no signal. He hasn’t got any credit or debit cards, either, just his Oyster.’

  ‘Yeah, but if you’re looking to avoid detection, wouldn’t you buy a ticket instead of flagging yourself up on the system? It’s as if he wanted us to know he got on the Tube—’

  ‘—because he has another way of getting off! Gareth, that’s twice in one day. You’ll be turning into James Bond next!’

  Harvey rushed over to Bailey’s desk. ‘Bring up the log of his movements on Wednesday night.’

  Bailey opened the file on his screen, and Harvey told him to scroll down to the point where al-Mubari had exited the Tube. Next to the entry was a note describing the CCTV footage.

  ‘Open that. I want to see him leaving the station.’

  Bailey played the recording, which showed a hooded man tapping a card against the sensor on the turnstile.

  ‘Elaine, do we have a record of al-Mubari clocking out of East Ham station at 22:23 on Wednesday?’

  Solomon checked the database. ‘No. He got on at 20:19, but there are no other entries that day. The next one we have is a penalty fare, then he used it again this morning.’

  ‘Penalty fare?’

  ‘Yeah. If you don’t tap in and out, it’s classed as an incomplete journey and they charge you the maximum fare.’

  ‘But I just saw him tap to get out,’ Harvey said.

  ‘Then he mu
st have used another card, because there’s no record of it here.’

  A second card? Could it be that simple? ‘Start another search. I want all penalty fares incurred at 22.23 at East Ham on Wednesday.’

  Solomon’s fingers danced on the keyboard. ‘Got it! One entry at 22:23.’

  ‘Check to see if that card was used again this morning.’

  Seconds later, he had the answer. ‘08:54, a penalty fare at Embankment.’

  Nice try, he thought. But they hadn’t caught him yet.

  ‘We’re getting close. I want all eyes on footage of the turnstiles at Embankment. You know the drill; if you see something, shout it out!’

  By the time Iqbal arrived at Piccadilly Circus, a large crowd had already congregated. At least two hundred people were standing around chatting or making last-minute adjustments to banners and placards. Some of them proclaimed ‘ISIS is NOT Islam’ and ‘Proud British Muslim’, and Iqbal could see why Khan had chosen it as his target.

  And slay them where ye find them . . . such is the reward of the disbelievers.

  The people gathered around him had abandoned Islam and embraced the materialist worship of the West. In doing so, they had brought Allah’s wrath down upon themselves.

  Iqbal found a fast-food restaurant and went straight into the toilet. Inside a stall, he removed all of his clothes and replaced them with the salwar kameez he’d brought along in his backpack. He emerged a few minutes later wearing olive-green baggy trousers and a loose-fitting top. The baseball cap had been replaced with a kufi, and he now wore sandals instead of training shoes. Most importantly, the nerve agent was now in a cloth bag with a drawstring neck, and he wore it over his shoulder and across his chest.

  After leaving the toilet, he hung around inside until an opportunity presented itself. A group of five men stood and headed towards the exit, and Iqbal followed them closely, keeping the backpack low so that it wouldn’t be easily seen.

  Back out in the sunlight, he followed the men to the memorial fountain, then peeled off and found a space up against the side of a building, where he put the backpack down. It had served its purpose, and he intended to start chatting with someone close by and gradually distance himself from it. Hopefully some thief would come along and do him a favour once the march began.