by Conrad Jones
Yasser looked at his watch and he knew that something had gone wrong; there had been no explosion, yet he had watched Omar enter the cathedral fifteen minutes before. Suddenly people started running from the Minsters entrance doors in a panic. Tourists piled through the opening, becoming squashed between the huge wooden door frames and falling over each other. Hundreds of people were escaping the building. What was happening in there? Yasser could not investigate now; instead he started the engine in case he needed to leave in a hurry. Police sirens started to sound from a distance away, obviously alerted to the incident at the Minster.
Omar Squire watched as the tourists left the holy building in a panicked rush. He waited until the very last one had gone. He had removed his ski jacket and shouted to the tourists to leave as he had a bomb. People ran away from the dark skinned man in all directions to exit the building as fast as they could. Omar had decided that he would not take any life but his own. His god would understand the reasoning behind his decision. He would still be awarded his place in heaven and hopefully he would be reunited with his long lost family there someday. He pressed the detonator button on his explosive vest. The statue of the crucified Christ seemed to smile at him as his body liquefied beneath the power of the bomb blast.
Yasser felt the deafening thump of the explosion as the stained glass windows around the Minster disintegrated into a million pieces. Glass was blown three hundred yards from the building, showering panicked tourists with coloured debris. The first part of the message had been delivered.
CHAPTER 49
Mustapha / Rasim Janet / Wales
The yellow Sea-King helicopter landed on the car park at Holyhead Hospital, where press photographers and TV camera crews laid siege to the building. Tank and David Bell ducked as they exited the helicopter and ran toward the rear entrance, reporters raced toward them shouting questions, trying desperately to be heard over the rotor blades. The press had become interested in the growing news story about Islamic extremism, and they were feeding the public enough disinformation to cause a media frenzy countrywide. Random racist attacks had become commonplace in response to the growing suspicion being generated by media coverage. The shooting dead of Yasmine Ahmed and Sian had just added fuel to the flames. Stories that the dead body of Mustapha Ahmed had been misdiagnosed were leaked from sources within the hospital. The press had not taken long to connect Mustapha with the death of a female customs officer, hence the massive media presence in the small Welsh port.
Two armed policemen stood aside as Tank walked toward Mustapha’s room. There was no way Mustapha could remain in the small hospital any longer. Yasser Ahmad and his cronies would be aware by now of where he was and why he was there. He would be a target for Yasser one way or the other. Sian lost her life trying to protect Mustapha, and Tank had to shoot three men that were sent to collect the Iraqi, so he needed to be moved immediately away from the eyes of the press and out of harm’s way.
Mustapha sat up when Tank walked in followed by the fat controller. The bite mark on his cheek looked nasty, and a large blackened scab covered the stitches that closed the wound. Tank nodded at David Bell. “Is this the man that tried to abduct you from South Stack?” the fat controller asked.
Yes that’s him. Who is he?” Mustapha seemed to pale as looked at the grainy CCTV still.
Are you positive that this is the man that shot Sian?” David Bell needed to be certain that the man, who claimed he was a polish immigrant, was actually a Bosnian mercenary. He was recovering from a shoulder operation in a hospital that was just thirty miles away. “Well I did get pretty close to him, so yes I am certain,” Mustapha pointed to the bite mark on his face sarcastically. “We need to be sure, Mustapha. We are keeping this man under observation until he leads us to his accomplices,” Tank said, trying to calm him down.
You mean my brother don’t you? Why don’t you just say that then?” Mustapha was becoming upset. He had lost his sister and his lover in the space of two days and nearly died himself along the way. Now he was lying in a hospital bed surrounded by armed policemen and besieged by hundreds of paparazzi, he could see no end to it at all. “Okay, Mustapha, we are hoping that he will lead us to your brother. We need to remove him from society and then you are a free man,” Tank said. He could see that Mustapha was breaking under the strain. “I will never be free of him unless he is dead. You need to kill him or his people will haunt me as long as he lives. I cannot see any future while he is still alive.” Mustapha touched the thick scab on his face thoughtfully. “Why don’t you use me to lure him out? If he knows where I am he will send his people to find me. You could follow them back to Yasser. You could follow me back to my brother,” Mustapha said exactly what David Bell wanted to hear. He could not suggest this as a valid option himself without compromising the taskforce’s position. Mustapha had volunteered, which was completely different. “You would be putting yourself in a position of intense danger. You are fully aware of what your brother is capable of. You need to think about this very carefully,” Tank said, pacing the room as he spoke.
It was a valid option. Yasser had twice tried to contact his younger brother by sending armed men to retrieve him, and Tank had little doubt that he would try again if knew where he was. “I would rather die trying to help, than to live in my brother’s shadow any longer. I have spent my life running and hiding from him and his enemies. They would kill me to get at him if they could. I will hide no more, I want to do this,” Mustapha sounded certain.
Thirty miles away, Rasim Janet pulled a jumper over his head, which caused his shoulder wound to rage at him. He gritted his teeth and pulled a coat on over the jumper. He squeezed into a pair of Adidas trainers that were two sizes too small and fastened the laces. Rasim was stealing the clothes from a staff changing room that was located just down the hallway from his recovery ward; he thought that it was odd that there was only one set of clothes hanging up in the room. It didn’t matter though; he had to move before his cover story was exposed as a lie, and so he had stolen extra painkillers from the pharmacy trolley earlier that morning. Once the morning doctor’s rounds were completed, he used the opportunity to escape without arousing suspicion. He pulled on a baseball cap and headed for the fire exit sign posted at the end of the corridor. Rasim opened the door and instinctively pushed it with his shoulder. The fresh wound hurt terribly, he felt the stitches straining and a trickle of blood run down his back. The cold, fresh air revived him. He stood on the fire escape and leaned against the wall to recover a little before moving on.
Rasim could see across the hospital car park to the train station, it was only a few hundred yards away. He climbed down the metal staircase and then reached into a small grid that was situated underneath it. He retrieved Sian’s Glock 9mm from where he had hidden it when he arrived at the hospital. Rasim had kept it dry by wrapping it in a plastic shopping bag. He crossed the parking lot and entered the small station without incident; he bought a single ticket to Warrington and sat on a bench seat to wait for the next train to arrive. His shoulder was causing him pain and he swallowed two of the stolen painkillers that he had in his pocket. He scanned the railway platform nervously; there were three other people waiting for the train, an elderly couple and a young woman. The young woman stood nearby reading a celebrity magazine. The people of the West seemed to be obsessed with celebrities, and he could not understand it. It seemed that football stars and pop singers were more revered than God to most people.
The young woman wore tight faded denim jeans and a loose knitted jumper that clung to her curvy body. Rasim flushed as he felt sexual desire pulse through his body. She was sexy; there was no doubt about it. He tried not to stare at the woman but found it very difficult not to do so. She looked up and caught him staring, he flushed again, this time with embarrassment. She smiled at him and he looked away quickly. He should not have such thoughts on his mind but he couldn’t help it. She tossed her long black hair over her shoulder and he stared at her again.
The Holyhead to London express train appeared, heading toward the platform that Rasim was waiting on, he stood and walked toward an empty carriage as the train came to a halt. The train would not stop again until it reached the fortress city of Chester, built on the border of Wales and England as a garrison town for the invading legions of Rome. Rasim would need to change trains at Chester to continue his journey to Warrington. He sat at an empty table next to the window of the express train, the dark haired woman had chosen to sit in the same carriage as him, but she was further down. He could not see her from where he was sitting; she could see him though. Detective Constable Ruth Walsh was an experienced Armed Response Officer. She was approaching thirty but looked much younger. Surveillance, detection and undercover operations were her specialities. She placed her celebrity magazine on the unoccupied seat next to her and checked that she could see her target. His reflection was mirrored in the carriage glass; she could watch every move that he made without compromising her cover. She typed a message into her MMS communicator and pressed send. The communicator looked like a mobile phone and was just as simple to operate. The Bosnian man looked uncomfortable when he moved; Ruth knew that the hole in his shoulder would negate the use of his right arm. If he still had a weapon he would have to use his left hand to shoot. He would also not be able to support his shooting arm, which made accurate shots almost impossible to achieve. DC Walsh had assessed most of this information in the short space of time that she had been watching him. The taskforce had correctly guessed that he would use a train when he left the hospital, and they had placed DC Walsh at the station in case they were correct.
CHAPTER 50
Anfield/ Liverpool Football Club
Chris Lampie was a Liverpool Football Club fan, he had been a fanatical supporter all his life, to the point where his long-suffering wife Denise, had allowed her three sons to be named after previous players and managers. Chris Lampie hadn’t missed a game, home or away for six years, neither had his friends. Les White, mad Adie and dodgy Si as they were known, they had travelled the world with Chris watching Liverpool play football. The only time they missed any of the season was years ago. All four diehard fans had missed three months of the season six years before after being sentenced to twelve weeks detention at Her Majesty’s pleasure. They were allegedly attacked by a much larger group of Chelsea fans at an away game in London, and in the process of defending themselves, they managed to hospitalise all bar two of the Londoners. Their combined yearly spending budget for buying season tickets and paying for hotels and airfares would be grounds for divorce if their respective wives ever found out.
When Liverpool played their matches at home, Chris Lampie and his crowd of friends always met in a pub in close proximity to the Anfield Stadium. From the public house – Sandon - to the Anfield Stadium, was three hundred yards. Lampie and his group of fellow supporters sat in the same seats in the Sandon every time Liverpool played at home, and it had affectionately become known as `Compost Corner’. The Anfield stadium had been built in 1884 and had been the home of the most successful British football club in history, ever since. Liverpool Football Cub had won the European Champions League Trophy a record number of times.
Chris Lampie and his friends always sat in a section of the ground known as the famous `Kop’, to watch their beloved Liverpool play. The Spion Kop, after which the stand is named, is a hill in Natal, and it was the site of a battle in the second Boer War. During the battle, over three hundred men of the Lancashire Regiment were killed; many of them were Liverpool fans.
Kick off for the game today was scheduled for 3pm. Chris Lampie stood at The Sandon door waiting for it to open, he looked at his watch and it was 10.55am. He would have to wait just five minutes until the pub opened its doors. Chris leaned his back against the wall of the pub and looked down Breck Road toward the city centre. He could see the Liverbirds perched on top of the Liver building next to the river. They were the emblem of LFC and he thought it would bring him luck to see them towering in the hazy distance before the game started. As he looked back toward the stadium itself he noticed a slim, Asian looking man climbing some basement steps up to the street. The rest of the old Victorian terrace looked derelict, which wasn’t unusual for this area. A strange shiver ran down his spine as he watched the little Asian man climb into an ice-cream van and drive away.
CHAPTER 51
Carpenray Scuba Dive Centre
Nassir al-Masri had been a trained diver from a very young age, so diving in the River Mersey would not be a problem for a diver of his experience. He had to swim across the Mersey underwater, which meant that he would need a dry suit to combat the cold conditions, and he would need propulsion. He could not swim the required distance underwater with only one aqua-lung. Yasser was aware that the security services would be tracking every equipment sale that was made country-wide because Yasmine had been killed retrieving the bugged wetsuit, so they needed to acquire the equipment some other way.
Nassir worked for many years in the Egyptian holiday resort of Sharm el Sheik as a diving instructor. He loved his job at first, but as political and religious tensions grew in the region, so did Nassir’s resentment. The predominantly European tourists that he dived with paid more for a forty-minute dive than he earned in a month, and he relied on the generosity of his allocated group of divers to increase his wages by paying him a tip. Unfortunately, Nassir was not very good at disguising his true feelings toward his customers and he rarely got tipped at all.
On one particular day he had to instruct an English diver who was taking an advanced diving qualification. The course involved diving down to the legal recreational limit, which is forty meters deep. Nassir hadn’t taken the proper time to ensure that the diver’s equipment fitted properly. He hadn’t completed a safety check dive with the Englishman either, which would have highlighted any potential problems. As they descended deeper, the Englishman’s ill fitting suit began to tighten as the water pressure increased, the deeper they dived the worse the restricting effect became. Eventually starved of oxygen, the diver had panicked at around ninety feet below the surface, and dumped his weight belt, heading for the surface like a rocket. By the time he broke the surface, the expanding oxygen and nitrogen trapped in his blood stream had burst his lungs like an over-inflated balloon. Nassir was arrested and charged with the equivalent of manslaughter and thrown into an Egyptian jail in Cairo. Luckily, for him the prison guards were corrupt and he managed to escape, in exchange for his life savings. With his occupation taken away from him, he became all the more resentful toward the West, and it wasn’t long after that he joined a group of Egyptian extremists whose goal was to cripple the government by driving tourists away in fear.
Nassir had driven sixty miles north from Liverpool on the M6 Motorway to the Lake District of Cumbria; he arrived at the Carpenray dive-site just after 6am that morning. The former quarry was a popular destination for divers from all over the British Isles. Nassir had dived here often, trying to build his resistance to the cold water temperatures that he would have to encounter in Britain’s coastal waters. When he had dived at home in Egypt, the waters of the Red Sea rarely dropped below twenty-four degrees. The River Mersey was rarely above twelve and the quarry was even colder still.
Nasser parked the car that belonged to Yasser’s dead landlord, in the gravel car park which serviced the dive site. He exited the vehicle and walked up a steep slope that led to the reception area. He showed his diving credentials to the attendant and then paid the young girl for the hire of a dry suit and gear. Dry scuba suits are completely sealed from the surrounding water by a series of wide rubber cuffs that prevent the liquid from entering the sleeves, legs or neck. The mask and tank apparatus are generic to other types of scuba diving. The dry suit would extend his time under water dramatically without him suffering from aqua-hypothermia. Nasser walked further up the slope to the equipment shed where he handed the equipment steward his ticket.
The steward sized
Nassir up correctly and dispensed him all the equipment that he required to complete three, forty-five minute dives in the ice-cold waters of the murky quarry. The equipment shed was a redundant articulated lorry container that had been converted into the dive site equipment storage facility. Nassir collected his equipment and then noticed some unusual machines stored to one side of the container. Nasser recognised them immediately as DPV’s. He had only seen prototypes at home in Egypt, but he recognised them anyway. The Diver Propulsion Vehicle consisted of a battery-powered electric motor fitted into a circular plastic body that was fitted with two handles. The battery powered a propeller, which pulled a diver along underwater, greatly increasing the distance that he could cover with the limited air supply that he had. Nasser paid the extra twenty pounds to hire the DPV for the day.
