by Conrad Jones
They were heading for an area of the city called Woolton. The area was a wealthy part of leafy suburbia and was heavily populated with Jewish families. There was a synagogue and a Jewish burial ground in close proximity to each other. On top of small hill, which was surrounded by open parkland, there stood an old sandstone building. The building was tall and gothic in design; it had a sandstone perimeter wall and big iron gates to the front. The gates were locked with a heavy rusted chain and an old padlock, there was a large coat of arms welded to the gates. `Newborough Preparatory School’ the crest read, but it had been many years since the building had heard the voices of young children in its grounds. The old building looked more like an asylum than a school.
One of the agents opened the gates and the other drove the vehicle into what was once the old playground. The concrete schoolyard still had wooden benches dotted around its edges, but they were now green with moss. There would have been many games played here in the playground once upon a time, little girls running around giggling while the little boys battled it out with conkers tied to a piece of string. Now large hinged wooden shutters covered the windows of the old school, making it look deserted and foreboding. “What is this place?” asked Mustapha, he was curious about this unusual building and also a little bit concerned. Sian laughed as she opened the door and stepped from the Jeep. Mustapha followed closely behind her. Sian climbed the three mossy steps to the front door and swiped her identity card through a reader that was hidden behind a thick wooden mailbox. The front door clicked and then opened and Sian entered first.
Mustapha stepped out of the darkness of the playground into a brightly lit reception area. The interior of the building was bright and new; the floors were oak wood blocks, shined and polished. “This is a safe house that the taskforce uses. From the outside it just looks like an old school, which it is. Inside we have accommodation, control rooms and a great big kitchen. I am starving, let’s get something to eat,” Sian said as she headed toward the rear of the building where a wide sweeping staircase that led to the first floor was situated. They went by a large room full of banks of computers. Three men sat staring at the screens, undisturbed by their presence. They walked down a small flight of stairs into a large kitchen area. Sian put water into a silver kettle and switched it on to make coffee. She took four cups from a mug tree and put powdered coffee into each one. Mustapha put his hand gently to the bandage on the side of her head. “Does it hurt?” he asked. “A little bit, but it could have been much worse. The Major saved my bacon today.” She reached behind his head and pulled him forward into a gentle kiss. “I am going to do whatever I can to help you to catch my brother,” he whispered quietly and kissed her again. Sian kissed him harder and pushed her body gently against him. The tension of the previous days had dulled her senses, but now they were stirring again. “I am not tired anymore,” she said. “Let’s go to bed.”
CHAPTER 37
Newborough Preparatory School
Sian was woken from her sleep by the ringing phone on the bedside table. She was in the bedroom of the accommodation suite located on the upper floors of the old school. Mustapha stirred next to her. She picked up the handset and listened to the excited voice on the other end of the telephone. The old preparatory school that they were staying in was used as a listening post for the government’s security services. The basement and the ground floor areas were packed with receivers that picked up information from all over the Northern part of the country. Telephone taps, bugging devices, surveillance cameras and a thousand hidden microphones all relayed their information to the equipment fitted into the old school. MI5, MI6, and the Terrorist Task Force all had their operatives using the information from this facility.
When Chen and his surveillance team bugged the house in Warrington, they had placed motion trackers inside as many items as they could, in the time given. They then entered the corresponding code of the bugging devices into a computer, which identified the item into which the bugs were planted. One of the bugs that Chen had planted was now moving at speed. Alarm bells were ringing all the over the country as the TTF was alerted to the situation. The agent on the telephone informed Sian and she got out of the bed and quickly dressed. Mustapha snored quietly in the warm bed. She left the accommodation suite. It had once been a science laboratory for young children, but the gas taps and Bunsen burners had long since been removed. The accommodation suite was the temporary home for tired agents from a myriad of security services. It was also used as a safe house for high profile informants, whose lives could be threatened.
She headed down the wide wooden staircase, her footsteps echoed through the open stairwell. She entered the ground floor control room that she had seen earlier with Mustapha; the room was busy with excited security agents. “What have we got?” asked Sian as she scanned the bank of screens that filled the wall in front of her. On the centre screen was the image of a motorbike, which was being ridden at speed, on a motorway that she didn’t recognise. “We have a motion sensor that has been tagged to a Scuba diving wet suit. It was picked up from a marked address in Warrington ten minutes ago, by the rider of this motorbike, which we know is a Honda Blackbird with false registration plates fitted to it.” The surveillance agent never took his eyes from the screen as he spoke. He was concentrating on a small joystick in front of him. This was the control for the pilotless helicopter drone that was silently following the Honda. “The wet suit is in the rucksack that the rider is carrying, and the bike is heading west on the M62 toward Liverpool. We are using the drone to follow it and we have the bike on visual. The Terrorist Task Force has been informed, and there is an armed response team on the roundabout eight miles ahead of the target. They are on the Tarbock Motorway Island at the junction with the M57. The section of the motorway that they are positioned on is elevated. The motorbike will pass underneath their position in approximately four minutes,” another agent said, talking into a telephone on a desk to the right of the screens. “I have got Inspector Tankersley on the line for you,” he said, passing the handset to Sian. Sian took the handset from the agent and spoke to Tank. “Who do you think the motorbike rider is, Sian?” Tank asked. He could not see the visual information that was in front of her. “We don’t know who it is yet. Whoever it is, they knew where to find that wet suit. All the occupants of that house are in our interrogation rooms in the city, except for one man. He is an Eygptian national called Nassir al-Masri. He is registered on the electoral roll as having lived at that address for six months, but he wasn’t arrested at the distribution centre raid. He is the most likely suspect for the shooting of our officer at the raid in Warrington. We have to assume that he’s armed and dangerous.” Sian summarised for Tank.
Well if it’s him he has escaped from us once already, we can’t risk losing him again. If he’s heading toward Liverpool he could be going straight to the river with that Scuba gear. Can you get the x-ray from the drone on to that rucksack to tell us if he is carrying explosives?” Tanks voice had come through the room’s speakers.
I am switching to x-ray now,” a surveillance agent said. He was controlling the remote drone. The camera that was sending images to the centre screen on the wall zoomed in on the rider’s rucksack. The picture changed to a black and white image. The x-ray penetrated the material and photographed the contents that were inside the rucksack. “We have a mobile phone in the side pocket which could be used as a detonator. There is some non-metallic bulky material, which is probably the wet suit. There is also a cylindrical container in the bag. It could be explosives but it could just as easily be a bottle of liquid, even water.”
Where is the bike now?” Tank asked.
Just passing the old Burtonwood Air Base, he’s now six miles from the Armed Response Unit. If he passes the Response Teams’ position he will be three miles away from the River Mersey Tunnels. If he takes the bike into one of those tunnels we will lose him completely,” said the drone’s pilot.
There were three traf
fic tunnels beneath the River Mersey, each crossed from the city centre to the town of Birkenhead, which was three miles away, on the opposite bank. The tunnel entrances were in the city centre. Inside the tunnels there was a labyrinth of ventilation shafts and small access tunnels that a fugitive could hide in. “Is it possible that we could put a road block across the M62 to stop him before he reaches the city?” Sian asked; being from Holyhead she was unfamiliar with the local motorway networks. “There are too many exit roads between the target and the city centre. He could use any one of a number of them to escape. We need to take him out before he gets there.” The drone’s pilot turned briefly to look at Sian, emphasising his point.
A digital printer on the desk lit up as a profile of the target was sent electronically from the CIA headquarters in Langley USA. The target’s name had tripped a software programme that allowed security services worldwide to share information. “Nassir al Masri is the CIA’s top suspect for the bombing of the USS Cole in 2000. She was an American destroyer that was anchored in the Yemen when extremists sailed a small boat alongside her and blew a huge hole in the side. CIA pointed the finger at al Qaeda but it looks like Axe was involved now.” Sian read the information out for everyone to hear. The room remained silent for what seemed like an eternity as they waited for orders to be given.
Put the drone in front of him, and see if he is willing to stop. If he doesn’t stop, then order the Armed Response Team to drop him before he reaches the city.” Tank gave the order. The choice to live or die was now the motorbike rider’s decision.
The drone’s remote pilot flew the helicopter directly over the speeding motorbike. He turned the engines from silent mode to normal. The sudden booming noise from the helicopters’ rotor blades as it flew above, startled the motorbike’s rider. The bike veered across two lanes of motorway before the rider regained complete control. A powerful spotlight mounted beneath the drone illuminated the Honda with its dazzling beam. The drone hovered only metres above the road surface in an attempt to stop the bike. The remote pilot activated a loud speaker on the helicopter and demanded that the rider stop the Honda. The motorbike veered around the hovering drone and accelerated, heading toward the city. The bike was now just two miles from the Armed Response Teams position, in just over a minute’s time the motorbike would pass beneath some of the country’s best sharpshooters.
He has not responded. I will place the drone in front of the motorbike again to obscure the riders view as he approaches the armed unit.” The agent remotely flew the drone over the speeding Honda Blackbird and shone the dazzling beam onto the target. The motorbike increased its speed again, trying to escape the blinding light. “Have we stopped normal traffic from entering the motorway?” Tank asked through the room’s speakers.
Yes, Sir, the area is clear. We have thirty seconds before he is in range, Sir.” The surveillance agent focused a second camera from the drone to the Armed Response Teams position. They were positioned ready to take out a moving target. Four men wearing full body armour were lying prone on the elevated section of motorway above the targets route. They were aiming 0.5 calibre Barrett sniper rifles. Each sniper had a section of road to aim for. They would fire at one second intervals to counteract the oncoming speed of the Honda, until the target dropped.
Tell the Armed Unit that they have my authority to fire.” Tank had to think long and hard about the decision to shoot at an unidentified target. The risks of allowing a potential bomber to escape gave him no option but to take the shot. “Armed Response Unit, you have a green light to engage the target. Inspector John Tankersley has given full authorisation. Lethal force is required.” Sian relayed the order to the firearms unit. Lethal force was ordered in case the target was carrying explosives; a wounded man could still press a detonator button, and so they had to make sure he was dead.
The four snipers from the Armed Response Unit simultaneously chambered 0.5 calibre bullets into the firing chambers and deactivated the safety catches. The Honda Blackbird came into sight, spotlighted by the helicopter drone. The rider of the Honda saw only two of the four muzzle flashes that lit up above the motorway, before he died. The huge high velocity shells tore baseball size holes in the rider’s chest, smashing and tearing vital organs. The fourth bullet had shattered the face guard of the crash helmet, before splintering the teeth and jawbone of the Honda’s rider. The Honda Blackbird scraped along the motorway for a hundred yards before it stopped, leaving a shower of sparks behind as it travelled.
Mustapha had been standing in the corridor outside of the control room for about five minutes; he was mesmerised by the action on the big screen, and also a little shocked at what he had just witnessed. The man who appeared to be controlling the pictures was zooming in on the dead motorbike rider. The face guard had gone, as had the face behind it, and it had been replaced by a bloody mess of bone and tissue. He watched as heavily armoured men approached the dead rider. They were still aiming their guns at the body as if it may suddenly come to life and attack them. The men removed the rucksack using sharp combat knives on the straps and they made it safe by placing it into a thick lead blast proof bin that two of them carried. They searched the pockets of the rider and removed a small leather wallet. The jeans that the rider had been wearing were in tatters due to hitting the road surface at high speed. Another agent unzipped the leather motorcycle jacket that the rider was wearing, and he looked up at the on-looking officers, an expression of shock and horror was on his face. He stood up and snatched the small leather wallet from the hands of the agent who had removed it and opened it quickly.
Who gave the order to shoot? This is a woman. We have just shot a fucking woman.” The Armed Response Team men started to remonstrate with each other on the screen. “Are you sure the target is female, the face looks pretty messed up from here?” asked the drones remote pilot.
The last time I looked women had breasts right? This body has got breasts.” Mustapha looked at the small photo identity card that the agent on the screen was holding. The picture was of his older sister, Yasmine. He had just watched Sian giving the orders that resulted in the death of his sister, and he couldn’t cope. Mustapha turned and walked toward the big wooden front door of the old school in total shock. Opening it, he stepped out in to the cold night air, unseen by anyone inside. Yasser had caused this terrible thing to happen, and Mustapha had no doubt that his brother and his followers had been responsible for Yasmine’s shooting. He walked through the big rusting metal gates into the night.
CHAPTER 38
Yasmine Ahmed
The dead woman’s identity card confirmed that she was Yasmine Ahmed. As far as mistakes go, this one was a classic. A preliminary search of the woman’s rucksack confirmed that it contained no explosive materials, but there was a Scuba diving wet suit and a mask that had been tagged by surveillance agents in the bag, and there was also a two-litre bottle of mineral water and a mobile telephone. To all intents and purposes, she was an innocent young woman, riding her motorcycle. To top it all, Mustapha Ahmed had escaped protective custody during all the commotion, and was nowhere to be found. All the agents from the Terrorist Task Force had been summoned to the top floor of the station in Liverpool city centre.
Tank was stood by the window looking at the River Mersey. The weather was wet and the sky was still gloomy despite it being nearly midday; the river looked dark green and murky. Major Timms was in the goldfish bowl office. He was pacing up and down with a telephone placed to his ear, and from the look on his face, the conversation was not a pleasant one. The press had already picked up the story and they were having a field day with it. A young Iraqi woman had been shot four times whilst riding her motorbike. `Islam-aphobia hits Liverpool’ the tabloids would read later that day, speculation that the young woman was related to the wanted terrorist leader, Yasser Ahmed was rife. Records from Iraq stated unequivocally that Yasmine Ahmed had died in an allied bombing raid near Baghdad, there was no concrete evidence that this woman was Yass
er Ahmed’s sister and there was no solid evidence that she had left Iraq alive, or that she had ever entered the United Kingdom.
Major Timms put the phone back in its cradle and banged on the glass partition. Tank looked toward the noise and Timms gestured him into the office. David Bell was already seated at the desk opposite and he looked very uncomfortable. He was the man that collated information, but the information that had been gathered from the raids in Warrington was useless. The man they knew as Tariq had handled all the money transactions between Dublin and the mosque, but he had been missing since the customs officers made the first arrests in Holyhead. The rest of the information gathered was rumour and speculation. Bell knew that Timms needed solid facts to work on, but there were none. Major Timms nodded toward the fat controller indicating that he wanted an immediate update. Tank stood to the side of the desk, leaning against the glass wall.
All the information that we have gathered from our interviews is pointing toward this man called Tariq. He seems to have been the logistical organiser of the arms deals in Dublin. He is also associated with Nassir al Masri, but we don’t know the whereabouts of him either. We have concrete proof that Yasser Ahmed, Nassir al Masri and Tariq are working together, but nothing beyond that,” David Bell wiped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief.
