by Conrad Jones
The fact that this bastard is here spells trouble. I want everything we have focused on this man. I want every mosque in the country visited and Ahmed’s picture circulated. We must get the help of the Muslim communities if we are going to catch him. They’re as worried as we are about the extremists. Order the uniform police divisions to help us. Let’s circulate the pictures out there today. We need to contact all our undercover people working in those communities and get them asking questions. Someone is hiding this man and his cronies. Whoever is hiding Ahmed, it is not going to be a white middle-aged couple in Devon. It will not be Chen’s uncle Woo in Brighton! There’ll be no politically correct bullshit on this! I don’t care who we upset, or who gets offended. We can pat them on the head and say sorry once this man is either in jail or dead.” Political correctness had hampered many investigations in recent years both in the civilian judicial systems and the military ones. The Major continued, “Faz I want you personally to speak to every district commander in the country, starting with the obvious ones that have concentrated populations of Asian immigrants. Tell them TTF expects every armed response unit to be up to scratch about Yasser Ahmed. If they see him, they have the authorisation to shoot on sight.” Faz sprang into action and headed into a side office where she could make her calls to the country’s police chiefs.
Tank, I want you to organise your people into teams and send them out there shaking every tree we can find. You know what needs to be done. We will have a progress report at 7.00 pm this evening. I’m going to make a press statement to get the public’s help finding this man without trying to cause panic. I just hope nobody asks me how he got into the country.”
CHAPTER 14
Holyhead
Mustapha was sat in his caravan watching football on the television when the telephone rang. There was quiet on the line and a tingle ran down his spine, he immediately knew it was them. Mustapha had been entrusted into the care of Yasser Ahmed’s supporters, in the North West of England, when he first arrived from Iraq. He had never met the people that had been given the responsibility to care for him and his sister, but they had called him many times to check on his safety. They were placed into the care of a small Islamic community where their day-to-day needs were taken care of by surrogate Muslim families. The men that called Mustapha to check on their financial well-being were always very secretive and cautious. When Axe called Mustapha, they were always silent until he spoke a sentence containing the word `Egypt’, then they would speak. He knew that his brother was wanted by the authorities in many countries, including his own. He could only assume from the secretive behaviour they used, that the Iraqi men that contacted him were also fugitives.
Just because my brother is a lunatic, doesn’t mean that I live in Egypt!” Mustapha said as sarcastically as he could. He hated the way these men, whoever they were, had to use all these cloak and dagger tactics. It was because of Yasser and his antics that he had to leave his family and friends behind in Iraq. He hated his brother and his followers for the turmoil they had caused him and his sister. He did not share their religious convictions but he did understand them. The Iraqi people had been invaded and conquered many times through history. The armies of modern day Iran, then called Persia, to the East of Iraq were strong, as were the armies of the Turks to the North of the country. The huge Turkish Ottoman Empire, which was inspired and sustained by Islamic institutions, had taken Iraq under its military umbrella from the 1400’s until the end of the First World War in 1918.
The British Army defeated what was left of the Ottoman Empire and colonised modern Iraq. France took Syria and Lebanon. Under British mandate, Iraqi King Faisal ruled over a smouldering religious time bomb. British rule was hampered by the minority Sunnis who were both influential and well educated, but were violently anti-imperialist and believed that they should rule the country. The Shiite majority were equally determined that they would not be ruled by the Sunnis or the British government. Thrown into the mix was the fact that the Kurds who lived in the North of Iraq would not accept either Turkish or Arabian domination.
The British failed to control this religious and cultural nightmare and left the new nation of Iraq to its own devices in 1932. The new nation of Iraq in 1932 does not seem too dissimilar to the one we see today. Mustapha could understand his country’s anger and frustration with the West, especially Britain. What made them think they could achieve by the invasion in 2003, what they had failed to do in fifteen years of rule? Mustapha could understand his Muslim brothers’ anger, but he did not agree with their methods.
You are foolish and flippant, Mustapha Ahmed, and your words will be shared with those that should be told of your behaviour,” the heavy Iraqi accent on the line chastised him. Mustapha was five years younger than his brother Yasser. Yasser had smuggled him out of the Middle East by sending him to Ireland, via a container boat from Libya. Oil tankers from Libya had long been used by the Irish Republican Army to smuggle guns and ammunition in to Ireland, to fight the British. The Libyan leaders had sympathy for the Republican Army and supported their struggle with money and arms. Finding Mustapha and Yasmine safe passage out of Iraq had been reasonably simple.
Mustapha hardly knew the man that was his brother, and he resented the fact that he could still dominate his life from the other side of the world. He didn’t even know where his brother was, and he didn’t really care. What he did know about him, he hated. At school in Iraq, his friends often spoke of Yasser and the other men in the local militia, as if they were heroes. He had seen the video clip, which showed sportsmen being beheaded, by his brother and his affiliates. It had been part of a longer tape that glorified Islamic terrorism and included messages from Osama Bin Laden. It had given him nightmares for years. The Mullah that had arranged the sick viewing made the mistake of assuming that all who watched it would be impressed and given inspiration from it.
The men that Yasser had entrusted with his siblings’ education and safekeeping had taken a bizarre social lift within their small community, from the fact that they were asked to do so, by such an infamous man. His brother was infamous for killing people. Mustapha was not impressed by this infamy. As Mustapha grew older in his adopted Islamic community, he had become so unruly and troublesome that they had sent him to Wales, to Anglesey, out of the way. His constant running away and refusal to worship had drawn unwanted attention from the Muslim community so this was the simple answer. Ordinarily the boy would have been disciplined into submission, but no one wanted to beat on the little brother of Yasser Ahmed.
Your brother has bestowed his glorious presence upon us. He is here on these heathen shores. He requires that you be brought to meet with him, your exile appears to be ending, young Ahmed. You will be picked up tomorrow morning at 5.30am.” The phone went dead.
What is Yasser doing here in this country? He surely hasn’t just popped over here to say hello,’ Mustapha thought as he put down the handset.
Mustapha lived near to the town of Holyhead, which is the largest town in the county of Anglesey in the North West of Wales. The town is not actually on Anglesey but is instead located on Holy Island, which is connected to Anglesey only by a man-made causeway. Holyhead is probably best known for its busy port, which sees more than two million passengers pass through each year. Europe’s biggest ferry companies operate from the port sailing to Dublin and Dun Laoghaire in Ireland. The town is the principle link for surface transport between Ireland, Wales and the rest of Europe. The passenger ferries that sail across the Irish Sea were the main source of industry for the island, apart from tourism. The beaches that surrounded Anglesey were famous for their breath-taking beauty, and they attracted tourists from all over the United Kingdom and Europe. Mustapha had made his home in one of the thousands of holiday caravan sites that peppered the coastline.
He turned off the football and threw the remote control across the room. Now he was annoyed. His greatest passion was Liverpool Football Club, but even watching the remainder of the
game on the television would not be able to settle him; he had too many questions going through his mind. ‘What was his brother doing here? Why can’t he go and blow something up in Iraq? More to the point, why can’t he just go and get blown up himself and do everyone a favour?’ Mustapha thought. Mustapha pulled on his jacket and opened the trailer door. He stepped out onto the grass, immediately feeling the sea breeze. He really needed to speak to his girlfriend, Sian. The caravan that he rented overlooked the Porthdafarc beach, and was perched high up on the headland overlooking the stunning sea cliffs that encircled the bay. He looked across the golden semi-circle of sandy beach to the dark cliffs opposite. A huge wave crashed up the rocks, foaming white before it returned to the ocean.
The day was overcast and the gloom matched his mood as it started to rain. Mustapha did not know why his brother was here or why he would want to send his followers to pick him up at five-thirty the next morning, but he knew that he wasn’t going to be there when they came for him. He had to speak to Sian, she was at work but he needed to see her. Mustapha pulled up his hood and walked toward the path that would take him to the road. The path hugged the cliff edge and he watched the surf pounding the dark rocks below him as he walked.
CHAPTER 15
Sian
Sian walked around the black Mercedes Benz. She indicated to the driver to lower the window of the vehicle. “Turn off the engine and step out of the car please, Sir,” she said with authority. The large customs shed echoed and boomed with the noise of the engines from passing cars and trucks, the ferry from Dun Laoghaire in Southern Ireland had just docked. It’s cargo of passengers and vehicles had started their journeys away from the port by driving down the ramp of the huge catamaran ferryboat and through the customs sheds that belonged to the port authorities.
The port of Holyhead was the main thoroughfare for haulage goods to pass from the UK mainland across to Ireland. The journey from the Welsh town to the cities of Liverpool and Manchester, by road, would take less than two hours, London only an hour on top of that. In the times of the troubles between Britain and Ireland, the port’s customs officers were always on the lookout for Irish Republican Army members. Weapons and explosives had arrived on the British mainland many times through this large port and had been used with devastating effect. Now that the terrorist threat from the Emerald Isle had ceased, drug smugglers were the new enemies.
Sian had been born and raised in the town, which despite being a busy European port was a very small tight-knit community. The population of about eleven thousand people rarely set eyes on the two million passengers that travelled through the port each year. Holyhead was a place most people passed through, on the way to or from Ireland. Small towns such as Holyhead are awash with tales and stories of generations gone by, stories that became exaggerated as they were passed from person to person; eventually they become urban legend and local folklore. Sian had heard many a tale from her family and friends over the years of how the shores of Anglesey were dangerous for passing ships. Stories of pirates and smugglers had fascinated her as a child. In the 1980’s as she grew up, several large black plastic containers had been washed up on a part of Anglesey called Treaddur Bay, they had contained hundreds of kilos of cannabis. The general consensus of opinion was that the drugs had been dropped into the ocean from a smugglers boat with the intention of it being picked up by a second craft and brought ashore at a later date. The unpredictable tides and rough seas had scuppered the plan before the contraband could be retrieved, of course, the tales of how much of the drug had been salvaged for personal use, by a friend of a friend, of a friend, still echoed down the years, even now becoming urban legend. She often wondered if that’s why she had joined the police force. After joining, she had decided to become one of Her Majesty’s Customs squad, that way she could remain in the community that she had grown up in and still realise her ambition of a career in law enforcement.
Everyone in the town knew everyone else’s business. Sian had gained a lot of valuable information over the years from listening to idle gossip. The people of Holyhead knew her as Sian `Coch’; `Coch’ in the Welsh language meaning red, which applied to her hair colour. The name also distinguished her from any other Sian that lived in the town. Her father, Joe called her Sian `Bach’. `Bach’ being an affectionate term for small or young.
The man in the black Mercedes wound the window down and said, “Are you having a laugh, love? We’re in an awful hurry here now”. The accent was a harsh Irish tone; she identified it as being from Belfast, in the North of the country. Sian pressed the red button on her remote control and the huge custom shed roller shutters descended in seconds. They were a precaution to stop any possible escape from the customs sheds, and were activated at the first sign of aggression. It was standard procedure to close the shutter doors immediately if there was sign of a problem, especially if the engine of the suspect vehicle was still running. The Belfast man’s face reddened as he turned off the engine and opened the car door. He stepped out of the black Mercedes and slammed the door shut; looked down at his feet and leaned against the rear door. “Your face has gone red. What’s the matter? Have I made you mad, or have you done something wrong?” Sian was well aware that she had annoyed him, but she liked to use her female sexuality to unnerve suspects. Many men did not react kindly to being told what to do by a woman in uniform, especially men that patronised females in general. “We’ve done nothing wrong my dear woman. We are in a rush you see. My mother’s very ill in hospital and we need to get there quickly, my darling,” he spluttered, trying to lie as convincingly as he could. His strong Irish accent had a somewhat charming effect. “Best not keep you here too long then had we? Can you step out of the car too please, Sir. I mean right now.” Sian opened the passenger door as she spoke and signalled to her nearby colleagues to move toward the boot of the vehicle. The passenger was an Asian man. He stepped out of the car and looked at her, she sensed his fear immediately. He looked stressed; his eyes darting around looking for an exit.
He doesn’t speak English very well, so he doesn’t,” said the Belfast man. He pointed at his Asian passenger and moved around the car away from the customs men.
Your English isn’t great to be honest. Now both of you stand still, put your hands on the car and shut up.” Sian and the other customs officers knew these men were not clean, the fear and panic in the voice of the Belfast man, combined with the silence of his Asian friend, were clearly signs that they were carrying something that they shouldn’t be. Both men complied and put their hands onto the roof of the black Mercedes. There was sweat running down the Asian man’s face as the officers opened the boot of the car. Sian walked toward the boot and looked into it as it opened. It was empty.
One officer patted down the Irish man looking for a weapon or illegal substances. Two more of Sian’s men opened the rear doors of the Mercedes and searched beneath the seats. “Nothing here, Ma’am, it looks clean.” A voice from inside the vehicle said. Sian looked into the boot again. Something wasn’t right. The back of the rear seats appeared to be too close to her. There was too much space unaccounted for between the boot and the rear passenger seats. “Cuff them and read them their rights, suspicion of drug smuggling will do for now. Let`s get this thing ripped to pieces, starting with the rear seat. I don’t think you are going to make visiting hours at the hospital, Gentlemen. In fact I think you’ll be about ten years too late!” Sian stared at the men looking for a reaction as she spoke. The Asian man bolted in a vain attempt to escape. Sian took a step back and pointed her Guardian Angel at his face as he approached her. The Guardian Angel can stop a man at a distance, before he does any harm to anyone. It looks like a small hand gun; it has a powerful pyrotechnic charge that accurately fires two concentrated blasts of a potent liquid irritant into the face and eyes of an attacker. The effect is like a pepper spray on steroids, it sprays the liquid at 90mph; way too fast to avoid. The effect on the Asian man as it struck him in the face was instant. He collap
sed in a heap at Sian’s feet, screaming. The solution caused an incredibly painful burning to the eyes, nose and throat. He writhed on the floor screaming and choking. “You fucking bitch! You fucking bitch, I can’t breathe,” he said pausing to vomit.
There doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with his English now, does there?” she said to the Belfast man, as he was led away in handcuffs.
