Latent Hazard

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  Latent Hazard is Piers Venmore-Rowland’s debut novel. For many years, his desire to write was overshadowed by the demands of his work. Time out gave Piers the opportunity to put pen to paper and Latent Hazard was born.

  Piers was brought up and went to school in Hertfordshire. After graduating from Reading University with a BSc in Estate Management and an MA in Contemporary European Studies, he worked in the West End of London where he qualified as a chartered surveyor. His interest in the investment markets prompted him to study at City University Business School where he gained his MSc in Finance. He became a member of the Society of Investment Analysts in 1983 and worked in the City of London as a real estate and a financials analyst.

  In a career change, Piers moved to City University where he was a professor, a head of Department, a member of the business school’s executive committee and a member of the University Senate. He took a leading role in setting up the university’s real estate and investment management postgraduate programmes and as a visiting professor at Kingston University he developed a web-enhanced Masters degree. Over 1,000 undergraduates and 5,000 full- and part-time postgraduate students have been taught by him, and he has been a frequent speaker at national and international conferences.

  Piers is widely published; his works include: UK and US journal articles, jointly authored academic textbooks and professional publications on property, pension funds and indirect investment. He served on two HEFCE University Research Assessment Exercise Panels.

  As an academic, investment analyst and consultant he has worked with leading UK and international companies, and his employment has taken him to over twenty countries around the world.

  Piers is now a full-time writer. He is married, with three daughters, and he lives in Suffolk, England by the River Deben.

  Latent Hazard

  by

  PIERS

  VENMORE-ROWLAND

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents portrayed are the product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is purely coincidental.

  First published in 2008 by Galleons Green.

  Copyright © Piers Venmore-Rowland 2008

  Piers Venmore-Rowland has asserted his right in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  Galleons Green Ltd

  PO Box 278, Woodbridge,

  Suffolk, England IP12 9BS

  www.galleonsgreen.com

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13 978-1-906960-05-6

  ISBN-13 978-1-906960-00-1 (paperback)

  Maps illustrator: John Plumer – www.jpmapgraphics.co.uk.

  Printed and formatted in England by CPI Antony Rowe Ltd.

  All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  To the memory of my father, Owain Venmore-Rowland.

  His love, encouragement and all the happy

  times he bestowed upon me will long

  be remembered and cherished.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Lorna for all her encouragement and assistance without which I would not have had the courage to pursue my interest in writing.

  My love and thanks go to my family: Lorna, Nina, Robyn and Sasha for their understanding, patience and ability to laugh; to Beryl who despite everything has unfalteringly continued to be there for her children and grandchildren, and to Mark for his constructive comments.

  My gratitude goes to Daniela Nava for her attention to detail and for her input in making my text accurate and readable.

  Map of UK

  Map of Europe

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  Part 4

  Part 5

  Part 6

  Part 7

  Part 8

  Part 9

  The Terrorists’ Corporate Web

  Glossary

  Galleons Green Publications

  Part 1

  The splintering crash of the front door hitting the floor woke Rafi Khan with a jolt. Terrified, he sat bolt upright, but was too slow; before he could get out of bed, a harsh voice barked, ‘Don’t move, or we shoot.’ There was no escaping the bright red dots which danced on his chest.

  ‘Move your hands to where we can see them.’ Rafi slowly lifted up his arms, but at that second the wind was knocked out of him. Under the weight of his assailant, he fought for breath. His hands were pulled behind his back in a vice-like grip, and in a matter of seconds he was expertly trussed up, blindfolded, gagged, dragged off the bed with a bump and left lying on the floor.

  ‘Suspect apprehended and in our custody. Flat secure. You can come up,’ a harsh voice called out.

  Rafi’s heart pounded. His chest ached. He was bewildered and scared. He couldn’t move and the blindfold across his eyes was painfully tight. It took a full minute for his mind to catch up and start functioning again. What on earth was happening?

  ‘He didn’t give any trouble,’ said the curt voice. ‘His front door was a piece of cake; when will people learn?’

  ‘Thank you, sergeant,’ said the man in charge. ‘What have we got here? Cases packed; ready to leave. It’s lucky we got here when we did.’

  The tone of his voice changed. ‘Rafi Khan, I’m arresting you under the powers conferred under section 41 of the Terrorism Act. You will be held in detention and informed of the charges against you within the prescribed period.’

  The man paused. Rafi sensed he was standing very close to him. ‘Put those guns away and take him down to the van, then search this flat from top to bottom. Let’s see what’s hidden here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A pair of strong hands grabbed Rafi and forcefully dragged him across the floor like a sack of potatoes.

  What the hell was going on? Things had happened so fast. Three flights of stairs later, Rafi felt like damaged goods. He was manhandled into the cold February air. From his blindfolded world, he could make out the sound of a diesel engine.

  The man pulling him shouted, ‘Constable, help me lift him into the back.’

  Rafi landed on the metal floor. His expletives were muffled by the gag and came out as little more than irate grunts. The tape across his mouth held firm. He was dragged on to the side bench. The door slammed shut. A bang on the side of the van signalled it was time to go and it lurched forward. In his dark world he heard the police sirens blaring. The van was travelling fast through the deserted streets of London. Just as he was becoming accustomed to his environment, it came to a sudden halt. Rafi was untied and hauled out. Fresh air washed across his face.

  He was now sandwiched between two men.

  ‘Start walking.’

  Rafi moved forward. His shin bumped into a solid object. Pain shot up his leg. He stopped.

  ‘Oi! Keep moving!’ bellowed one of the men next to him. ‘Keep moving!’ he repeated.

  Rafi tried to proceed in a straight line, but his sense of balance had deserted him. He staggered along in an ungainly manner.

  ‘Stop! Stand still!’ came the stern order.

  To the best of his ability he tried to obey. There was no warning of the ripping sound that came next. Pain seared across his eyes as the sticky tape removed chunks of his eyebrows and eyelashes. He’d hardly drawn breath when the gag was ripped from his mouth.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he yelped. He screwed up his eyes in the bright fluorescent light. Either side of him were two burly policemen in full protective clothing. In front of him, behi
nd a tall wooden desk, was the duty officer, with a pen in his hand.

  ‘Name?’ he inquired in a no-nonsense manner.

  ‘Rafi Khan.’

  A series of quick-fire questions followed: ‘Address? Date of birth? Nationality? Personal effects: pyjamas, watch . . . Yes, sign for them ’ere. Stand ’ere, height – 175 centimetres,’ the duty sergeant read off the measure on the wall. Turn to face me.’ The flash of the camera surprised him. ‘Turn sideways.’ Another flash. ‘Hands out.’

  In a whisk he was fingerprinted. The whole process was like a production line.

  ‘Come over ’ere! Remove your pyjamas! Bend over!’ Unceremoniously, he was strip-searched. His dark-skinned legs showed a selection of new purple bruises. The one on his left shin looked particularly spectacular.

  ‘Been clumsy, ’ave we?’ enquired the duty sergeant. No reply was sought. ‘Get dressed in these.’

  Rafi awkwardly put on the drab clothing. It swamped his slight frame.

  ‘Take ’im away.’

  He was led to a basement cell. It was claustrophobic and depressing. A desolate overhead light shone starkly. The door closed behind him with a thud. He hardly had time to take in his surroundings before the heavy metal door swung open.

  ‘Follow me,’ said a guard. ‘Don’t get any ideas! This way!’

  He was led down a bare corridor to an interrogation room. One wall was obscure glass; like everything else in the police station, the room was devoid of character, bleak and utilitarian. Two interrogators sat on the other side of a narrow desk in a steely silence. The guard pointed to the chair opposite them. Rafi sat down; his stomach knotted with apprehension. Their manner made him uncomfortable: one smirked, the other scowled.

  The smirking interrogator, Andy, looked at him carefully. His bright blue eyes were framed by slightly over-length blonde wavy hair. ‘Let’s get started,’ he said, switching on the tape recorder next to him.

  ‘Am I not entitled to a solicitor?’ asked Rafi. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong!’

  ‘Flaming hell!’ said Mike, the scowling interrogator. ‘You are a terrorist suspect. You don’t get a telephone call and no one gets to see you.’

  ‘But what about my human rights?’ asked Rafi anxiously.

  ‘The rules are different. You’ve absolutely no rights. No calls, no visits, nothing,’ replied Andy.

  ‘A terrorist suspect? How have I broken the law?’ asked Rafi bewildered.

  ‘All in good time,’ said Andy.

  ‘Surely I should at least be told why I have been locked up?’

  ‘No!’ replied Mike. In contrast to his colleague, he had black crew cut hair and a scar running across his left temple into his hairline.

  ‘The law makes it very clear. Terrorist suspects can be detained without charge,’ said Andy, ‘for rather a long while, as it happens. So don’t get your hopes up. You’re going to be cooped up here for weeks or until such time as you tell us what we want!’

  ‘Mr Khan,’ said Mike, with menace. ‘You can either make this relatively trouble-free and help us, or be difficult, which would be very unwise.’ His scowl deepened. ‘Being difficult or uncooperative isn’t your best option. We have evidence that puts you in the middle of a major terrorist conspiracy.’

  Rafi couldn’t believe his ears. He opened his mouth to say, ‘You what?’ but nothing came out.

  Their questions rained down and they became increasingly intrusive. Rafi tried his best to answer Andy and Mike as they interrogated him on his religion, contacts, reading habits and favourite websites, but they were dismissive of his answers. Their fierce questioning was frightening him and he was reeling from the onslaught.

  ‘I’m a law-abiding British citizen. I’m innocent! Tell me what you think I have done and I will prove my innocence,’ said Rafi in desperation.

  ‘That’s not the way it works. Sod off back to your cell and think about the dangers of not cooperating fully,’ said Mike.

  Back in his cell, Rafi sat on the corner of his bed, shaking. He was cold and his nose was running, but he had nothing with which to blow it. His mind was in turmoil – he’d been accused of being a terrorist. It was all incomprehensible. He was scared. What the hell did they think he had done?

  Andy and Mike stayed in the interview room. They were frustrated. They agreed that they had got nothing out of their suspect. It was as if he had been expertly tutored in the art of interrogation. He gave answers, but they revealed nothing relevant to his crime. The evidence they had against him was substantial.

  ‘He’s a slimy bugger,’ said Andy, ‘and a first class actor.’

  ‘Gives the impression that he ain’t got a clue why he’s here,’ replied Mike. ‘Obviously he’s been well trained.’

  ‘He is going to be a hard nut to crack,’ said Andy. ‘When do you reckon we move on to the Bishopsgate police station bombing?’

  ‘As I see it he knows damn well why he’s here, so I reckon we don’t need to tell him,’ replied Mike. ‘Anyway, we’ve got weeks before we have to charge him – my inclination is to use the time to break him.’

  ‘But time isn’t on our side,’ said Andy. ‘Our intelligence indicates there could be a follow-up bombing. We have got to get information out of him, or more lives could be lost.’

  ‘If he ain’t going to crack soon, what’s the hurry? Shouldn’t we go for a confession, add it to all the evidence we have and secure a conviction?’ said Mike.

  ‘But we need information, now,’ replied Andy.

  ‘He’ll break given time. Who wouldn’t in these surroundings? Hell’s teeth, just think of the praise we’d get,’ said Mike.

  ‘So you let another bomb go off just to prove a point and suck up to our political masters?’ said Andy uncertainly.

  ‘It’s an option, but – Bugger it you’re right! We’ve got to bring things to a close as quickly as possible,’ said Mike.

  ‘OK let’s see if we can tie this up in record time,’ said Andy.

  Rafi was sitting in his cell. He’d asked for a blanket, but did not get one. He was reflecting on his helpless predicament and his utter lack of rights when his cell door swung open.

  ‘You’re wanted. Now! Get a shift on!’ bellowed the guard.

  Rafi sat down opposite his two interrogators. He sensed they were raring to get started again.

  ‘We’ve evidence that puts you in the frame for the Bishopsgate police station bombing. We’ve got you on CCTV talking to the bomber next to the cashpoints in South Place, on Thursday lunchtime, the day before the bomb blast,’ said Andy.

  Rafi was dumbfounded. He couldn’t recall speaking to anyone. He’d been in a hurry.

  ‘Watch the tape,’ said Andy.

  A grainy but unmistakable picture appeared on the wall-mounted screen opposite the one-way glass window.

  ‘The City of London has cameras everywhere now. The camera on the corner of Moorgate and South Place picked you up.’

  The screen showed the row of five cashpoint machines on the return frontage of the nearby Barclays bank. Moments later, there he was joining the back of a queue in a smart suit with his neatly cut black hair. His turn came; he withdrew his money and turned. Behind him, to one side, was a man dressed in nondescript clothes with a hoodie largely obscuring his face. They talked for a minute and then the man gave him a hug. His hoodie slipped back off his head, revealing a tanned, ordinary-looking face. The CCTV footage stopped, framing the man standing right in front of him. Rafi was passing something to him, but it was largely obscured from view by the other man’s body.

  Rafi’s mind raced. He tried to recall what he had handed over. Slowly it came back to him. The man had passed him an A to Z map book, and asked if he could show him which underground station he should use to get to Finsbury Park. Rafi had not needed the map, and explained that Moorgate station was just round the corner, where he could catch a train straight to Finsbury Park. It had been an utter surprise to Rafi when the stranger had hugged him to show his gratit
ude.

  Rafi looked at the picture on the screen, bewildered.

  ‘Caught red-handed!’ said Andy. ‘Tell us how you know Imaad Wafeeq.’

  Rafi thought for a moment. The CCTV footage painted a very misleading picture. It made an innocent conversation look very incriminating.

  ‘I didn’t know that was his name and that was the first time I met him,’ Rafi replied. ‘I was just getting some cash for my boss, Jameel Furud.’

  ‘Cobblers!’ burst out Mike. ‘You can do better than that. Do you think we’re dead from the neck up?’

  Rafi saw malice in his dark eyes and sensed that the table between them would give him little protection.

  ‘That was the first time I’d ever seen him,’ he repeated.

  ‘Bullshit! We know that you know Imaad Wafeeq, the Bishopsgate bomber. Lying to us is pointless. Why else did he embrace you as a friend? Look at his body language.’

  Rafi was dumbstruck.

  The two interrogators fired questions at him.

  ‘Who else was involved?’

  ‘What’s the next target?’

  They kept on at him for what seemed like hours.

  Rafi kept pleading his innocence. There was little else he could do, but it only infuriated his interrogators. Eventually their patience ran dry. Bland answers were not what they wanted.

  Mike looked straight at Rafi; his eyes were like those of a cold-blooded snake. ‘Let’s get this straight: with the evidence we have against you and the new laws, you’ve next to no human rights. We can send you to Belmarsh Prison, throw the key away and leave you to rot. No one will give a toss! Foxtrot Oscar back to your cell and do some very careful thinking. When you come back, we’ll expect answers, or else . . .’ Mike raised his hand in the direction of the one-way glass wall. The door to the interrogation room swung open and a guard walked in.

  ‘Take him back to his cell,’ commanded Andy.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the guard, under his breath. He was ugly, seriously ugly. His face was pockmarked, his nose was bulbous and bent, and he made the dour interrogator look like a softy. He escorted Rafi to his cell in double quick time and slammed the door shut behind him.