‘Is Tommy going to be there?’
‘He landed half an hour ago. Between you and me, Tommy’s got a big bet riding on the bout before the big fight. A hundred grand, Marty says.’
Shepherd looked at his watch. It was just after ten a.m. ‘I’ll try to make the Mayfair but if I’m pushed for time I’ll see you at the stadium.’
‘For fuck’s sake, mate, what’s more important than a world heavyweight title fight?’
‘I’ll be there, but I’ve got a couple of things to do.’
‘Don’t let me down, mate. These tickets are like hen’s teeth.’
‘I’ll be there, mate. Cross my heart.’ Shepherd ended the call and went back into the bedroom.
‘Problem?’ asked Aspden.
‘Another job I’m working on,’ said Shepherd. ‘I might have to pop out for a few hours this evening.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Boxing match, as it happens.’
She turned to look at him. ‘Not the Kuznetsov-Hughes fight?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Ringside.’
‘You lucky bugger,’ she said. ‘That’s set to be a great fight.’
‘I’m not that much of a boxing fan, to be honest,’ said Shepherd.
‘Too many rules?’
Shepherd laughed. ‘You read my mind.’
The second vehicle arrived exactly an hour after the first. The driver was a Pakistani – Muhammad Saleem – but he had used a Syrian passport to travel through Europe. He had crossed to England in the back of a truck of oranges with a plastic bottle of water to drink and an empty one to urinate in. The driver was Spanish and the fare had been seven hundred euros, paid in cash. The man had dropped Saleem at a service station on the M1 where he had called a number he had memorised months earlier.
Saleem drove up to the factory unit and sounded his horn. The metal shutter rattled up. Two Asian men were standing there. The older one motioned for Saleem to drive forward. He edged the vehicle inside and the shutter came down, closing with a bang. Saleem sat where he was as the younger men opened the rear door. Another man appeared with a barrel on a metal trolley. Saleem watched in the wing mirror as the man pushed it to the rear of the vehicle. Saleem didn’t offer to help. His orders were to stay in the driving seat, no matter what happened around him.
As the men prepared the massive bomb behind him, Saleem sat with his eyes closed, his subha in his right hand. There were three sets of thirty-three wooden beads and one large one on the string, making a hundred in all. The imam in his mosque in Peshawar, the capital of the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province of Pakistan, had given him the beads on his sixteenth birthday and they had been in his possession ever since. Saleem let a bead slide through his fingers each time he recited one of the ninety-nine names for God. God The Wise, God The Compassionate, God The All-Seeing, God The Merciful, God The Good, God The Eternal, God The Forgiving. Once he got to the large bead he would start again. It was calming, and the longer he fingered and chanted, the calmer he became.
Sometimes Saleem did a round of beads repeating the names that had extra meaning for him. Al Jabbaar: The Powerful. Al Haqq: The Truth. Al Qawiyy: The Strong. Al Mumit: The Bringer of Death. Al Muntaqim: The Avenger. His God was a strong God and a vengeful one, a God who would one day be worshipped by the entire world if Islamic State had its way. Inshallah.
A knock on the door jolted Mohammed al-Hussain awake. He was lying on the bed with his copy of the Koran on his chest. He blinked. ‘Yes?’
The door opened. It was Salman. ‘They are here, brother,’ he said.
‘I shall be downstairs shortly,’ he said. He swung his feet off the bed as Salman closed the door. He took a deep breath to steady himself. It was time. Today was the day, and in just a few short hours he would meet his destiny. He stood up and took another deep breath, then went through to the grubby bathroom and splashed water over his face. He took his toothbrush and toothpaste from his washbag and brushed his teeth, then went downstairs with his bag.
There was a clean-shaven stranger sitting at the kitchen table with Salman wearing a quilted jacket. He stood up when al-Hussain entered the room. ‘Greetings, brother. My name is Jafari. I am to take you on the last stage of your journey.’ He embraced al-Hussain and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Assalamu alaykum.’
‘Assalamu alaykum,’ repeated al-Hussain. He could smell the sandalwood and lemon of the man’s aftershave. He placed his bag on a kitchen chair, then removed all his personal items and put them into one of the bag’s side pockets. His watch, his wallet, the passport, his prayer beads. ‘Take care of this until my return,’ he said to Salman. ‘If I do not return, destroy everything.’
Salman tried to smile reassuringly but he ended up baring his teeth like a cornered animal. ‘Good luck, brother.’
Al-Hussain shook his head. ‘There is no luck, only the will of Allah,’ he said.
‘I got what you asked me for,’ said Salman. He pulled a square black scarf from his pocket and unfurled it to reveal the white logo of Islamic State.
Al-Hussain smiled and took it. ‘Thank you, brother,’ he said. ‘It’s perfect.’
Jafari took al-Hussain out through the kitchen door and into the cluttered backyard. The stench from the overfilled wheelie bins almost made al-Hussain retch and he hurried through the wooden door into the alley where a blue Ford Mondeo was waiting, its engine running. A bearded Asian in his fifties sat in the driving seat with prayer beads hanging from the rear-view mirror. Al-Hussain climbed into the back and Jafari joined him. The car moved off slowly.
‘Do you need anything, brother?’ asked Jafari.
‘Just my weapon,’ said al-Hussain.
‘You will have that soon, brother,’ said Jafari. ‘Inshallah.’
Shepherd went into the kitchen and called Willoughby-Brown. ‘I need to head out to see the brothers,’ he said. ‘They’re having lunch before going to the boxing and they want me there.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘The Mayfair. I’ll have to go home and change first – I’ll need a suit. Tommy’s got a bet on one of the earlier bouts so we should be there about four thirty.’
‘And what’s happening in Ealing?’ asked Willoughby-Brown.
‘All quiet so far,’ said Shepherd. ‘No one’s left the house and they’ve had no visitors.’
‘We need to pull the O’Neills in, that’s for sure,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘Tommy arrived this morning on an Emirates flight so it’s looking good. And I’d rather you were there when it happens. I just worry that the Ealing thing might kick off, though.’
‘To be fair, I’m just here to look at faces. Wendy doesn’t really need me and the SFOs are good guys.’
‘No, I get that.’ Willoughby-Brown went quiet for a few seconds as he considered his options. ‘Okay, yes, you should be with the O’Neills. If we need a face checking we can always text you.’
‘And what’s the story at the stadium? How are we going to handle it?’
‘The Met will take care of the arrest. They’ll pick you all up immediately after you’ve gone through security. There are SFOs on duty there anyway as part of the regular security measures and we’ll make sure they’re around, but we’re not expecting any trouble. You’ll be arrested, they’ll be transferred to West End Central, you’ll be put in a separate vehicle and either brought back to Ealing or wherever you’re needed. Should be done and dusted by six at the latest.’
‘What about Paul Evans? Might be best to have him out of the way as well.’
‘Sure, the more the merrier.’
‘Sounds like a plan, then,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m just sorry you won’t get to see the boxing,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘I’m told it’s going to be one hell of a fight.’
The third vehicle arrived forty-five minutes after the second had left. Farooqi, Sayyid and Hashmi worked quickly and efficiently and it took less than ten minutes to load the bomb into the back, then wire up the detonator and tr
igger.
The driver was an Afghan. His name was Pashtana Abdul, but the name on the Syrian passport he had used to travel across Europe was Nur Ismat. He had destroyed it when he arrived in the UK, hidden in the back of a van full of cheap wine that had been waved through Customs at Dover without a second glance. The vehicle had been driven by a British-born Pakistani and his brother. They ran a couple of corner shops in Bradford, and while they had never left the country for jihadist training, they had spent hours online reaching out to other jihadists. Their local imam had approached them and explained that they would be far more use if they stayed below the radar so their internet activities had ceased. From time to time they were called upon to carry out tasks, which they did without hesitation.
They had taken Abdul to a safe house in Wolverhampton where he was kept in a spare bedroom for almost three weeks before the call came for him to carry out his mission. From Wolverhampton he had been driven north by one of his minders to a factory unit on the outskirts of Manchester where he was shown his vehicle and given a sat-nav preloaded with his route.
He listened patiently as the trigger was explained to him, then shook his head when he was asked if he had any questions. He knew what he was prepared to do, and had done since the day he had left Syria. He would become a shahid, a martyr for Islam, and he was happy to die in the service of Allah, knowing that he would receive his reward in Heaven.
He reversed slowly out of the factory unit, performed a methodical three-point turn, and headed east, towards London, following the route outlined on the sat-nav unit.
‘This is the building, brother,’ said Jafari, pointing to the left. Mohammed al-Hussain turned his head. There were three identical tower blocks, some twenty storeys tall. ‘We will be in the middle one.’ He handed al-Hussain a baseball cap and put one on his own head. ‘There is CCTV in the lobby,’ he explained.
The driver brought the car to a halt and Jafari climbed out, holding the door open for al-Hussain. The entrance to the building was a set of double doors with a metal keypad and console to the left. Jafari tapped in a four-digit code and the door clicked. He pushed it open and led al-Hussain to a lobby where there were three lifts. On the wall opposite a noticeboard was covered with printed sheets of paper. Jafari pressed the button for the twelfth floor. Al-Hussain knew there would be a camera in the lift so he kept his head down.
The lift arrived at the twelfth floor and al-Hussain followed Jafari out and along the corridor to the right. Jafari fished a set of keys from his pocket and opened a door. He went inside with al-Hussain. They were in a large living room. It was sparsely furnished with a dining area and a cheap floral-patterned sofa by the window, with a matching armchair. There were two framed pictures on the walls, one of a London street scene, the other of a Chinese lady in a yellow dress.
Jafari closed the door and slotted in the security chain. A door to the right led into a kitchen, and two doors to the left opened into bedrooms.
‘Who lives here?’ asked al-Hussain.
‘No one,’ said Jafari. ‘It was rented six months ago, all paid for in advance. I have been in a couple of times over the last week to check that everything was okay, but other than that it has remained empty.’
He went into the kitchen and al-Hussain followed him. It was spotless. A carrier bag filled with provisions stood on the work surface by the sink. ‘I wasn’t sure if you would need food,’ said Jafari. ‘We have time to eat. I can cook.’
‘Perhaps later,’ said al-Hussain.
Jafari opened the fridge and took out an automatic pistol.
‘Why the gun?’ asked al-Hussain.
‘I was told to protect you at all costs,’ said Jafari. He ejected the magazine, checked it, then slotted it back into the gun and chambered a round.
‘And what else, brother? What else were you told to do?’
‘What do you mean, brother?’
‘If something goes wrong and they catch us, what then? Are your orders to kill me?’ Jafari looked uncomfortable and avoided his gaze. Al-Hussain smiled. ‘Do not worry, brother. I understand. And, believe me, I would not want to be a prisoner in the infidels’ jail. If we fail, I would rather die.’ His smile widened. ‘But have no fear, we will not fail. Inshallah.’
He went back into the living room. Jafari followed him and put the gun on the coffee-table in front of the sofa. He took his mobile phone from his pocket and put it next to the gun.
Al-Hussain went over to the window and opened it. The stadium was four hundred metres away and from their vantage point he could see the stands at the far end and on both sides. The boxing ring had been erected in the centre of the pitch with VIP seating on all four sides. The VIP area had been walled off and security guards in fluorescent jackets were checking tickets at its entrances.
The space between the VIP area and the main stands was patrolled by dozens of security guards and a few uniformed police officers. Most of the VIP area was still empty, though the other stands were already filling up. On match day the stadium held thirty-five thousand but the organisers had decided not to utilise all of the available seating and had restricted ticket sales to twenty-five thousand.
Al-Hussain moved away from the window. The dining table at the far end of the room had six chairs around it. ‘I will need the table by the window,’ he said. ‘Help me.’
They moved the chairs away, then he and Jafari carried it across the room. Al-Hussain lay on the table, head towards the window, then climbed off and pushed it a foot to the left. He got back on and nodded. Perfect. ‘What time is the weapon getting here?’ he asked.
‘Soon,’ said Jafari.
Al-Hussain rolled off the table and walked through to the main bedroom. There were two pillows on the bed but they were too soft for what he needed. There was an armchair in the corner of the room with two blue and white striped cushions. He picked one up. It was square and firm. He took it back into the living room and placed it on the table, up against the window.
‘Do you want tea?’ asked Jafari. ‘I can make tea.’
Al-Hussain smiled. ‘Yes, thank you. Tea would be good.’ He sat down on the sofa. Not long now.
The fourth and final vehicle to be fitted with a bomb was driven by Akram Hakim, but Sayyid didn’t know his name and didn’t care. His role was to manufacture the bombs, install them, then return to his normal life. The vehicle edged slowly into the unit and Farooqi pressed the button to bring down the shutter.
Sayyid and Hashmi manoeuvred the barrel to the back of the vehicle as Farooqi opened the door. They lifted it inside and tied it securely in place with washing line. Once they were satisfied, they climbed out and shut the door.
Sayyid got into the front, fitted the trigger to the driver’s right hand and showed him how to use it. He asked the man if he had any questions. He smiled as if he hadn’t a care in the world. ‘All is good, brother,’ he said.
‘Alhamdulillah,’ said Sayyid. Praise be to Allah. He climbed out and gave Farooqi a thumbs-up. Farooqi raised the metal shutter and the vehicle reversed out.
The three men stood at the open doorway and watched it drive away.
‘So, we are done, brothers,’ said Sayyid. ‘It has been a pleasure working with you.’
The three men embraced.
‘We must clean everything now,’ said Sayyid, ‘and burn our clothing. Then we can all go home.’
‘It will happen today?’ asked Hashmi. He hit the button to lower the shutter, which rattled down.
‘I don’t know for sure,’ said Sayyid. ‘And it’s better we don’t know.’
‘It has to be today,’ said Farooqi.
‘That’s not for us to worry about,’ said Sayyid. ‘Let’s get this place cleaned up and then we can go.’
Two dozen CCTV cameras were covering the inside and outside of the stadium, and Inspector Andrew Fielding could see their feeds on the screens in front of him. He was in the main security room of the stadium, in charge of the fifty uniformed officers on duty
. Fielding had just turned thirty-two and he had spent the last three years involved in crowd security. It was challenging police work at the best of times and he had cut his teeth at some of the toughest stadiums in London, keeping apart warring fans, who seemed determined to kill each other and anyone who got between them. Not that he was expecting any trouble that evening. Boxing fans were different from football fans. Chalk and cheese. There was almost never any trouble at a match: all the violence was in the ring. But at a soccer game, where men earning millions fell to the ground clutching their legs at the merest hint of physical contact, fans could behave like animals.
The door opened. It was Ian Chapman, the football club’s safety officer, a gruff fifty-something Yorkshireman. He was in overall charge of safety and security at the stadium. Fielding was in charge of the police resources, and if things went bad on a match day the safety officer would usually defer to him. But neither man was expecting trouble that evening and both were looking forward to the main bout. Fielding was sure the Russian was going to win and Chapman was behind the Brit so they’d agreed to differ and bet twenty pounds on the result. A stocky man in his early thirties, his hair cropped short and casually dressed in a black North Face fleece and blue jeans, had come in with Chapman.
‘Andrew, this is is Captain Murray. SAS.’
‘Alex, please,’ said Murray.
‘Andrew Fielding, Inspector. I’m running the police side.’
Murray had a strong grip, and as they shook hands his jacket opened just enough for Fielding to spot a gun in an underarm holster. A large number of Russian VIPs were attending the fight and the Russian Embassy was concerned about security – so concerned that they had asked the PM’s office for armed security at the event. The PM’s office had pointed out that armed Diplomatic Protection Group Officers would be in attendance due to the number of diplomats who planned to be there but the Russian Embassy had offered to pay for even more and, after several days of negotiations, it had been agreed that the SAS would provide an undercover team to guard the VIP area.
‘My men are outside. I just wanted to say hello and see what the story is in here,’ said Murray.
[Spider Shepherd #13] - Dark Forces Page 33
