by Conrad Jones
The two men were taken and placed in the holding cells. The result of the vehicle search would determine how long they stayed there, and which agency they would ultimately be handed over to. The Asian man moaned and wailed for about an hour in his cell but sympathy was not forthcoming.
Sian called the local drugs squad and told them that they had a suspect vehicle that was being searched in the customs sheds. She knew from experience that there was a false panel that had been placed between the seats and the boots storage space. The majority of secret compartments were used for the transportation of drugs. Sian was sat talking to the drug squads leading officer, the Detective Inspector, when the results of the preliminary search came in. A customs officer handed Sian a clipboard across the desk.
We’ve evacuated the customs shed, Ma’am and the bomb squad are on their way to remove the substance,” the officer said as he handed Sian the results of the preliminary search.
Oh, my God!” Sian said almost whispering.
What have we got, Sian, cocaine, ecstasy, heroin, crack?” the DI said, alarmed by the concern on her face, she was one tough woman but she looked visibly shaken.
I wish it was. I really do, it would be your problem then. The car is packed with what looks like Semtex explosive. It’s not assembled so it looks like they were just transporting it somewhere else. We have always been concerned what the IRA would do with its arms once the troubles ended. It looks like some of them are up for sale. We need to get the bomb squad to check it over though. The IRA always booby-trapped their weapons piles, in case they were discovered. We have to be certain that it’s been made safe before we move it. ”
Sian thanked the DI as he was leaving and he left her in the office alone. This was beyond his remit; he was in charge of drug crimes only. She locked the door behind as he left and switched on the videophone. She picked up her cell phone and checked the screen; she had received a text message from Mustapha. `I could do with a chat, what time do you finish?’ The message read. She placed the mobile phone back onto her desk. She would answer it later. She turned back to the videophone and dialled the number of the Terrorist Task Force in Liverpool. The digital image of Tank’s head appeared on the screen. Sian had been recruited by the TTF six years ago when the troubles in Ireland were still very much alive. She was one of their undercover team, her position at the customs office required that she was permanently undercover. The government had never really believed the Irish terrorists would actually stop their terror campaign on the mainland of Britain, they also believed rogue elements would turn the use of their weapons toward crime, or sell them on the British mainland. Sian was in the ideal position to relay any sighting of the now redundant Republicans, or their surplus weapons, directly to her bosses at the TTF.
Hello, Sian, I need you to set the phone to receive a digital picture of a suspect that we need to catch very quickly. I don’t think it’s likely that he’ll come your way but could you please distribute his picture amongst your men.”
I’ll do it now, Boss.” She switched the receive button to the on position. “Tank, I have two men in custody here, one is definitely Irish, and he is from Belfast we think. The other is a young male of Middle Eastern appearance. They have no identification on them, or their vehicle, which just happens to be packed full of Semtex explosives.” Semtex had been used successfully by the Irish Republican Army for many years. Originally from a factory in a Czech Republic province called Semtim, which is where the plastic explosive gets its name from. Sian had learned during her taskforce training that the popularity of Semtex explosives with terrorists was due to the fact that it is extremely difficult to detect. Recent international pressure had lead to the manufacturers adding ethylene glycol dinitrate, which gives it a distinct vapour signature. This had made it easier for security services to detect its presence.
Fucking hell, Sian when did this happen? Why haven’t you called it in?” Tank sounded angry and his face darkened on the small digital screen. “I am calling it in right now, Tank. Five minutes ago I was handed the results of the preliminary search of a black Mercedes. That’s why I have called you now, to inform you of what’s happened.” Sian replied, feeling the anger rise in her. “I see. I thought you were contacting me in response to the e-mail I’ve sent you about this suspect Yasser Ahmed. His picture is on the way to you now. Is this Asian man that you have arrested talking yet?” Tank seemed flustered. “I haven’t checked any e-mail yet, Tank. My hands have been full with these two jokers and their car full of explosives; and no, he’s not said a dickie bird since we pulled them in.” Sian downloaded the e-picture as they spoke.
Sian, I want you to instruct your guys to interview them all night long if necessary. No sleep, no cups of tea, make sure that they get nothing until we get there. Then I will want you and myself with the Asian, Faz and Chen with the Irish man.” Tank suspected that there could be link between Yasser Ahmed’s arrival in Britain and this attempt to smuggle Semtex into the country. “We think that the brain behind the Disney bomb is here in the UK, and we think that he has plans for us. If your arrests are linked to Yasser Ahmed, and I believe that they are, then this is the first mistake that these people seem to have made. How did you rumble them, Sian? Was it just a random check?” Tank seemed more animated than she had ever seen him before. “No, we got an anonymous tip last night. We received no detailed information, just that two men in a dark Mercedes were carrying contraband. The caller didn’t even say what they were smuggling. We have pulled every dark Mercedes that was travelling on the midnight, three o’clock and six o’clock ferries throughout the night. Then we have searched the nine o’clock and midday boats today. We knew from the two men’s reaction when we stopped them that they were dirty. Tank, we were expecting to intercept a shipment of drugs, that’s why I didn’t call it in any earlier. Are you connecting these people to your suspect?”
Not until you called me, before that we had nothing. Now I am getting a very bad feeling about your anonymous caller. It’s the oldest trick in the book, Sian. I think that the two men that you have in custody were sacrificed. I am thinking that they were sent as decoys to cover an even larger shipment. It could have been a diversion to get your attention. You were busy looking for the dark Mercedes while a lorry load of Semtex was driving by you. I want every articulated truck, van, container and suitcase traced to his or her destinations. Get on to the local uniform guys and get them to set up a roadblock on both bridges off the Island. We might be able to intercept them before they get to the mainland.” Tank was speaking faster than his rational mind could think.
The last truck off that ferry left here two hours ago. They could be in Manchester by now, Tank; it’s too late for road blocks.” Sian knew it was useless. The road across Anglesey was a two-lane dual carriageway. She could reach the first town on the Welsh mainland, Bangor, in twenty minutes. “What time are you going to arrive here with the others?” she added.
I want your guys to soften them up for a while, so we will be there about 6am tomorrow. Sian, I want you to instruct your forensic boys to take that car to pieces before I get there in the morning. I’ll see you tomorrow. If you get anything at all from them beforehand then please call me.” The picture of Tank turned to gray as the call ended and a digital image of the suspect that Tank had sent started to download. Sian looked at the picture and received her second nasty shock of the day. Although older, the man in the picture could have been her boyfriend, Mustapha`s twin brother.
CHAPTER 16
Mustapha and Sian
When Mustapha was taken from his home in the Middle East he was a frightened little boy, the journey across the oceans to Ireland on the Libyan vessel had been traumatic; heavy seas had constantly rocked the boat making him feel sick from dusk until dawn. They had not been allowed to leave the small cabin in which they were stowed, there was no porthole in the steel walls to see the sunrise; he only knew it was night time when his sister switched the light off. The cabin, which was de
ep in the bowels of the ship, was plunged into darkness so deep that he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face when the light was extinguished. The men that brought them food and water were from all over the Middle East and North Africa. Most of them stank of body odour and diesel oil. All of them leered at his sister when they entered the cabin, making rude comments in strange languages that he couldn’t understand, the words were alien to him, but the expression on their dirty faces translated the sexual intention behind them.
The fresh air that he breathed as they disembarked, when they finally arrived in Ireland, was the best he’d ever tasted. They were met at the docks by two Irishmen. The men had gruffly introduced themselves as friends of their brother Yasser, and led them to a black Range Rover. He did not understand their accents, at the time, even though his knowledge of the English language was perfect. They travelled across Ireland in silence to the port of Dun Laoghaire, there they were handed tickets for the ferry that would take them across the Irish Sea, to the Welsh port of Holyhead.
Mustapha spent the entire three hour ferry voyage outside on the viewing deck; the memory of the long voyage from Libya was still too fresh in his mind, he never wanted to venture below decks on a boat ever again. The ferry approached Anglesey, from the Irish Sea, and he watched Holyhead Mountain come into view. It stood like a giant monolith on the horizon. Mustapha stood leaning over the rails staring at the craggy coastline, the waves crashing against the huge sea cliffs that formed the base of the mountain. One giant rock stood away from the cliff wall, it formed a small island that was alone in the sea. Perched on top of the small island was a white building with a high white tower; on top of the tower was a huge revolving light, he could see a little suspension bridge, which joined the island to the base of the mountain. There was a narrow stone path, which snaked up the cliff face into the distance. “Look, Yasmine,” he’d shouted excitedly. “I can see a lighthouse. Isn’t it beautiful? This is where I want to live, Yasmine, by the sea in a lighthouse!”
Unfortunately, it had not quite worked out as the young boy wanted it to. When they arrived at their destination, and disembarked from the ferryboat, friends of Yasser, that had been sent to meet Mustapha and Yasmine, were waiting at the ferry port of Holyhead. They had driven them across Anglesey onto the Welsh coast road and then North to the town of Warrington in England.
Mustapha and Yasmine were taken under the roof of the local Mullah and integrated into the small Muslim community there. Mustapha knew almost immediately that he was not like these people. Their lives revolved around religion, but he did not share their conviction. He was constantly battling with his guardians about listening to pop music and enjoying his newfound love of football. He especially enjoyed watching Liverpool Football Club play; Yasmine often took him to Anfield, their stadium, to watch their games. They would lie about where they were going to their surrogate families because football was not seen as a suitable pastime for devout Muslims. A friend at school had given Mustapha a Liverpool Football Club replica team shirt to wear. He was so excited that he ran all the way home to try it on. His guardian had beaten him, and destroyed the football shirt.
After consulting with the other elders in the community, his guardian decided that it was time that he knew the truth about why he had come to this country. After prayers one afternoon, he and three other young men his age were taken to a small anti-room. The room was at the back of a community centre. Once there, they were told the stories of great heroes from the Jihad. They had been lectured about the struggles in Iraq and Afghanistan. The Mullah told them about groups of Muslims all over the world that were physically and spiritually at war with the West. Mustapha was shocked to hear of his brother’s past. It was revealed to Mustapha that his brother Yasser was the leader of a group they called Ishmael’s Axe. They showed them a video, which contained speeches from Bin Laden and footage from the attacks on 9/11. There was also a brief clip of his brother cutting the heads off men who were wearing tracksuits. This attempt to turn young boys into young extremists failed miserably. Mustapha rebelled completely, even refusing to attend prayers. They tried separating him from his sister in an attempt to isolate him and break his will. When this failed, they sent him from the community. Mustapha was to be exiled from the Islamic community, but not wanting to anger Yasser Ahmed, the Mullahs asked Mustapha where he wanted to live. The wish that he made as a boy on the ferryboat journey from Ireland to Wales had finally come true. He would live near the seashore, by the lighthouse that he had fallen in love with years before. He told them that he wanted to live near the ocean and he decided that Holyhead would be perfect.
After looking at several apartments, which were available to rent, he chose the caravan park because of the views. He could walk from his door to the cliff edges in less than a dozen paces. The sea bewitched him. The coastline that Mustapha chose to live on was only a short twenty-minute walk along the Pordafarc Road, to the small town of Holyhead. The town centre was built around St. Cybi’s church, which was built inside one of Europe’s only three-walled Roman fortresses; the fourth wall was formed by the sea. Mustapha realised quickly that Holyhead had only a few Asians living there. The local’s stared at him if he went to the small town centre shopping. The site of a stranger was gossip enough, but an Asian stranger was big news.
In an attempt to integrate and find friends, Mustapha found a local Liverpool FC, fan club; he found the address on the internet and discovered that the members met at a bar in the town centre. Mustapha eventually plucked up the courage to go and join. The initial shock of a Middle Eastern man walking into the Welsh Fusilier pub had soon worn off and he was welcomed into the group and soon made new friends. The club organised coach tours that made the two-hour journey to Anfield, the home of LFC. The group watched the games that were played too far away to travel to, on a big screen in the pub. It was here, whilst watching one of the away games with his friends, that he met Sian. She had saved his life.
The day that they met, Mustapha had gone to the bar to order some drinks for his friends. He approached the bar and felt an uncomfortable gaze coming from the man that was standing next to him. “Are you letting Pakis in the bar now, Gareth? What’s the world coming to? That will devalue the price of my house if you let Pakis in the pub.” Jarrod Evans said to the red-faced proprietor, Gareth. Gareth was scared of Jarrod, but then so were most people that lived in Holyhead. “Jarrod, there’s no need for that kind of talk, and I don’t want to hear any racist nonsense in my pub. Is that clear?” The landlord tried to sound as assertive as he could but he only succeeded in annoying Jarrod further. “Fuck you and your Pakistani mate then, Gareth. If you don’t like it, then why don’t you come around here and do something about it?” Jarrod shouted, silencing the entire bar.
Jarrod was notorious for starting fights. His reputation in Holyhead was as a troublemaker. The problem was that he was as hard as nails, no one messed with him. In a small town like Holyhead, reputation was everything. Jarrod had once been involved in a fight outside a local nightclub, when the police were called. A police dog handler had been deployed to the incident and he tried to arrest Jarrod at the scene. By the time police backup arrived, Jarrod had already knocked the police dog handler unconscious. He had also bitten the ear off a large Alsatian police dog. No one messed with Jarrod after that. At the time of the incident he was just seventeen years old.
I am not a Pakistani.” Mustapha said quietly trying to calm the racist down.
You are not a what?” Jarrod hissed through clenched teeth, moving toward the small Asian man in a threatening manner.
I said that I am not a Pakistani. My name is Mustapha, but everyone calls me, Musty. I’m from Iraq.” Mustapha stepped forward a little and offered his hand in a gesture of friendship. At this point, most reasonably intelligent people would have calmed down and backed off. Jarrod was neither intelligent nor reasonable. He had spent some time in Borstal as a young man. Borstal is a young offender’s prison and it had a
brutal reputation for delivering discipline to its inmates. When sentenced to a spell inside Borstal the inmates had to complete an assault course daily, as part of their physical training regime. Jarrod had twice broken the course record time for completion during his sentence. Two months after his release from prison word had spread around town that another local lad had beaten the course record, whilst serving a sentence for burglary. Jarrod had gone ballistic; he got drunk, and then smashed a window in the shopping centre that belonged to the town chemist. When the police arrived, he was sat waiting for them; it had taken four officers to cuff him and put him into the van. He had to make sure that he was arrested, so that he could go back inside Borstal to regain his record. He was quite prepared to serve more time in prison, just to remain the top-dog holding the prison record. Jarrod was not the sharpest tool in the box.
Leave him alone, Evans and back off,” Sian interrupted. She was watching the incident from a few feet away. Sian was well aware of Jarrod’s history, as she had attended the same high school as him; he had always caused trouble even back then. Sian liked to relax in her spare time and loved watching football games with the men in the pub. Although she was not in uniform today, everyone knew that she was a serving officer in the police force. She was very popular with the inhabitants of Holyhead but she also had a formidable reputation of her own.
Fuck off, you ginger bitch. Why are you sticking your oar in? What are you protecting him for? Don’t you know that Pakis hate pigs?” Jarrod turned quickly toward Mustapha and pulled out a vicious looking blade. Sian’s intervention had left him no option now but to defend his violent reputation. Sian had been given her new pepper spray gun just that morning; The Guardian Angel had been deployed to the security services to be used for just such an event. Sian didn’t think that she would ever need it while she was watching a football game, but Jarrod had a knife. She reached into her bag when Jarrod pulled out the blade. “Gareth, I think you should call the police station, now!” She instructed the landlord who was already on the telephone. Sian had known Jarrod Evans for many years and she knew that it would be pointless trying to reason with him. She stepped in front of Jarrod, pointed the Guardian Angel, and pulled the trigger. Jarrod collapsed, choking in a blubbering heap onto the floor. He dropped the knife as he thrashed around like a drunken break-dancer. The people in the bar started cheering and shouting words of encouragement to Sian. “Nice job, Officer. It’s about time somebody shut him up!”
