by Andy McNab
Jamal just stared at him. He knows my name.
At first Jamal didn’t react. The armed pair closed round Bullet-head, who sighed. ‘Do it now.’
He had kept his voice low as if he was trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible, but there was no point. The entire cabin was watching in stunned silence, the passengers in the rows ahead craning round to see what was happening as one of the armed cops gestured to the two other passengers in Jamal’s row to move. The woman beside him shrank back, her hands masking her face as if she was about to be tear-gassed. The man in the aisle seat next to her, a young Caucasian no older than Jamal, gave him a look of disgust as he rose and moved out of the way. The Turkish woman remained glued to her seat, paralysed with fear. Bullet-head reached in and grasped her arm as if to lift her out of the way. She pushed him off and rose of her own accord, her shocked gaze still fixed on Jamal.
‘Last chance, Jamal.’
‘Okay, okay.’
He put his hands on the headrest and struggled to his feet. He had faced a lot of weapons in Syria, and had grasped enough about them to know that, unlike most firearms, the MP5s the police were carrying could be used inside the cabin: their mags would be loaded with low-velocity ceramic rounds that stayed in the target’s body or would disintegrate if they hit any hard surface. All the same, they would be used only as a last resort. What worried Jamal more was the yellow Taser that Bullet-head had in his hand.
He’d known that, as a returnee from Syria, he was likely to be detained at Immigration, but he hadn’t expected police to come onto the plane all tooled up. He told himself to do as they said and not give them an excuse to use the Taser.
‘Stay there. Keep your hands on the headrest.’ Bullet-head sounded almost matter of fact, as if this was just routine.
Jamal took a breath. Okay, be calm. They were probably pulling in everyone returning from Syria. He had his story – the true story. He had the film safely secreted. He could explain, and they would understand. They must. Maybe he’d even be thanked for what he’d done. That was what he’d told himself over and over on the brutal journey back. That was what would make it all worthwhile.
Bullet-head spoke again in a monotone, clear and firm. ‘Do you have anything in the seat pocket or the overhead rack?’
He shook his head. He had left his few belongings in Aleppo. Don’t argue, don’t resist. You have nothing to fear, he told himself. To some people he would be a hero for what he had done. That was what Emma Warner had promised him. She would see to it that his story was told. She had given him her lawyer’s personal number. He would help him. They let you make one call, didn’t they? More than anything he wanted to speak to his sister, the only one of his family who would not have given up on him. But that would have to wait as Bullet-head wrapped plastic cuffs round his wrists and they closed with a rapid rasp.
He walked in single file between the two armed cops, Bullet-head bringing up the rear, but after they got to the aircraft door and stepped onto the jet-bridge, they took a sharp left through a narrow service door. The night air smelt of aviation fuel. They led him down steep steps to a waiting armoured van, where another two armed policemen stood guard. The cold bit into his face as he descended, stinging his chapped skin. At the bottom of the stairs he was searched and the pack of gum, passport and the few coins he’d saved for coffee at the airport were all placed in a transparent plastic bag. Then the two uniforms each took an arm and propelled him towards the open back doors of the van. Inside, another mesh door led to what looked like a cage with a small row of seats. It stank of disinfectant with an undertow of something worse.
‘Stand still.’
One grabbed his cuffed and frostbitten hands ready to place him in a seat and belt him up. His whole body jerked as the knifing pain flashed through them. He stifled a yelp as he pulled them back towards him.
‘Don’t try to be clever, all right?’
He was doubling up with the pain.
Bullet-head was in no mood to mess about. ‘Okay, have it your way.’
Something jabbed his arm. He shuddered uncontrollably and collapsed in a heap on the floor of the van. Bullet-head glared down at him. ‘You’re gonna wish you’d never come home, Sinbad. You are well and truly fucked.’
30
08.00
The bullet-headed cop introduced himself as Detective Inspector Brian Dawes.
‘But you can call me “sir” for short.’ He let out a staccato laugh.
Jamal made no response. He kept his eyes trained on the wall just above the cop’s head. The room was painted a dismal grey, evidently designed to discourage any glimmer of hope.
‘And over there is Detective Constable Chantal Richmond. If it offends you that there’s a woman in the room, tough titty.’ Dawes gave a low growl of mirth.
Out of the corner of his eye Jamal saw the DC close her eyes for a second, whether from the bone-dry atmosphere of the room or from long-suffering frustration with Dawes’s brand of humour he couldn’t tell. Her hair was very close-cropped and her eyebrows seemed to have been painted on. She stayed by the door, leaning on the narrow ledge below the window grille, her arms folded, her eyes trained on him. There was no clock and neither of them wore a watch that he could see.
He had lost all sense of time. After he was Tasered he had offered no resistance. He had barely slept or eaten in twenty-four hours and was utterly exhausted. He had been in the van for some time before they unloaded him. They had made him strip, then done a full body search and found the memory card. He had started to explain what it was but they weren’t interested in hearing his side. The card was spirited away without comment.
As the armed cops stood by, a medic had bathed his frostbitten hands and wrapped them in thick bandages that rendered his tender fingers almost useless. Jamal tried to explain about the damage but was told firmly to remain silent. He had been given tomato soup to drink through a straw, and a triple dose of Nurofen for the pain. His clothes and shoes had all been taken away. He sat there in a thermal vest and long-johns under a blue jumpsuit. The disposable slippers on his feet did nothing to insulate him from the icy cold floor.
Dawes didn’t seem in any hurry. He leafed through a large file on his lap, whistling faintly to himself. ‘Right, Jamal, let’s go over some details, get a few things straight. You call yourself Al Britani, but your actual surname is Masri, correct?’
Jamal nodded. ‘I don’t call myself Al Britani any more.’
Dawes looked up, his eyebrows raised, twirling his pencil between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Your father’s name is Amir. Mother’s name …’ he frowned at his notebook ‘… Samba?’
It was wrong but Jamal didn’t correct him.
‘Just to keep you in the loop, Mr Al Britani, your family will also be taken in for questioning.’ He gazed down again at his scrawl. ‘Mani, Azil and Namir, your brothers …’
‘And Adila?’
‘Who?’
‘My sister.’
Dawes glanced down again at the file in front of him and shrugged. ‘Probably.’
Jamal felt the pain engulf him once more, like a toxic chemical coursing through his body. None of this should have been happening. He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again Dawes had moved directly into his line of vision. Jamal leaned forward and took a breath. ‘What about the video? You have it. It should be online – on TV.’
Dawes nodded slowly, his eyebrows raised.
‘What does that mean? Yes?’
‘Me policeman, you suspect. I ask the questions, you answer them. Got it?’ Dawes glanced at Richmond.
‘On what basis are you questioning me?’
Richmond took a breath and blew it out slowly. They both looked at him in mock-dismay.
‘You haven’t arrested me.’
‘Schedule Seven, mate,’ Dawes informed him. ‘Don’t need to.’
‘What’s that?’ Jamal tried to keep his tone mild, with no hint of aggressio
n.
Dawes sighed as if it was obvious, closed his eyes and recited, ‘“Under Schedule Seven of the Prevention of Terrorism Act, 2000, any individual can be detained for up to nine hours if there is a suspicion that they are, or have been, concerned with the commission, preparation or instigation of acts of terrorism.”’ He opened his eyes again. ‘Do you understand?’
‘May I?’ He pointed at the pencil and pad on the table.
Dawes frowned, then brightened. ‘You ready to write a statement? Where you’ve been, how you got there, what you did when you were there and with whom?’
Jamal reached forward slowly, picked up the pencil with his bandaged fingers and tried to close them round it. With some effort he produced a name in shaky capitals: ALISTAIR LATIMER, the lawyer whose name Emma had given him.
Dawes spun the pad round, glanced at it, snorted and pushed it away.
‘He’s a human-rights lawyer,’ said Jamal.
Dawes sighed. ‘I know who he is.’
‘He should know I’m back.’
Dawes nodded excitedly. ‘Mate, the whole world knows.’ He reached into his case, pulled out a newspaper and flipped it open. ‘You’ve got joint top billing.’
Jamal found himself staring at his own graduation picture. Alongside it was the face of a man he didn’t recognize standing at a lectern – very animated. Across the top was the banner headline, PACK YOUR BAGS, and beneath, ROLT: IN. Under Jamal’s picture, the caption read, AL BRITANI: OUT.
‘Who is this man?’
Dawes was grinning. ‘Him? Vernon Rolt, the new home secretary, your worst nightmare. He’s just made you public enemy number one.’
This was wrong, completely wrong. He felt a surge of nausea and looked away. Richmond unfolded her arms. ‘Use the bin if you want to chuck.’
‘This shouldn’t be happening. I gave you the card. You have my evidence.’
He had shot the footage with Emma’s camera, risked everything to capture the beheadings. Had something happened to it? Had he been tricked? How? Why? Who by? He was panting now, struggling to keep his composure. His head was spinning. He wanted very badly to lie down, and curl himself into a ball. No, he told himself. He had already been to Hell and got away. He must hold himself together, whatever happened. He slowed his breathing. ‘I believe it’s my right to see a lawyer.’
Dawes didn’t respond. He put the paper down and went back to the file, flicking through the pages without reading them, as if browsing a catalogue, still whistling tunelessly. Eventually he closed it and pushed it away.
‘Things have changed while you’ve been away, Jamal. And they’re gonna change some more. People have had enough of your lot and all your human rights. They want their human rights. They’re fed up with being terrorized by people who hate this country. We’ve had an election. And guess what, Jamal? It doesn’t matter a fuck what you say. Vernon Rolt’s going to make an example of you. By the time the new lot’s finished with you, you’re gonna wish you’d stayed in Syria.’
31
15.30
Hendon, North London
Tom woke from a deep but disturbed sleep in which the encounters with Randall and the intruder replayed themselves, blurred together in one titanic struggle. His eyelids felt as though they were made of lead.
When he realized there was another figure in the room they snapped open.
‘Awright, Tom? Brought you a brew.’
He relaxed as he heard the voice, then a mug coming to rest on a surface close to his ear. Daylight oozing in round the edge of the curtains gave some shape to the large silhouetted figure bending over him. Tom hauled himself up onto an elbow, felt the sting from the flesh-wound. His head was thick with sleep. Outside he could hear the dull roar of fast-moving traffic. ‘What time is it?’
‘Tea time.’
‘Yeah, but what time?’
‘Three thirty.’
‘P.m.?’
Almost a whole day wasted. Tom found the switch for the bedside light, which illuminated the face of the tea bringer, who grinned. ‘Reckon you had some kip to catch up on after the last couple of nights’ excitements.’
As soon as his shoulder had been treated by the medics at the scene, a team of four had spirited Tom away from the flat. The damage had turned out to be little more than a graze, though the flesh had opened like a split in a grilled sausage, but there was no argument. He couldn’t stay at the flat. The cops were there on the direct orders of the new home secretary and weren’t about to let him out of their sight.
‘Where are we?’
‘Safe and sound.’
‘Yeah, right. Does that have a postcode?’
‘Hendon. That pleasant hum you can hear is the North Circular.’
‘What’s the plan?’
‘Stay here until further notice. With a bit of luck we can get you moved to somewhere more comfortable.’
The sleep might have been necessary but time was ticking on.
‘Where’s my car?’
‘One of the lads drove it up. I’m Vic, by the way.’
‘Good to meet you, Vic.’ He took a gulp of tea. Judging by the size of the window and the sounds outside, the flat was on the first or second floor.
‘We can do you a fry-up or send out for something when you’re good.’ He gestured at the TV screen. ‘The remote’s on the side there. And you’ve got Sky Sports.’ Vic zapped the screen into life. Rolt’s face appeared. A crawler caption said something about ‘Butcher of Aleppo’.
‘What’s this?’
Vic snorted. ‘You couldn’t make it up. Guy tops a bunch of school kids in Syria, then gets the plane home.’
Tom took the remote and leaned back on his undamaged shoulder. He wanted to give Vic and his crew the strongest possible impression that he was happy to chill.
As soon as he was alone, Tom leaped up and lifted the curtains. It was a low-rise block. He could see his car in a space about forty metres away. But he didn’t have the keys. In a wardrobe he found his jacket, felt for his pistol and two spare mags. As soon as the intruder had fled the flat he had gone to get it.
Taking out the Sig, he pushed the mag release with his right thumb and caught the thirteen rounds in his left before racking back the top slide to check the chamber. Once he knew it was clear he released the top slide, squeezed off the action, then pushed home the mag once more until it gently clicked into place. The weapon was now made safe. All Tom had to do was rack back and release the top slide to feed a round into the chamber to make ready. These drills had been drummed into him from the day he had joined the army. If you don’t know the state of your weapon, you check it.
He had to get out of here. The attack in Jez’s flat had just added to the pile of pressing questions to which he must find answers. Staying here would achieve nothing, but these guys weren’t going to be talked round.
Still in his T-shirt and boxers, he ventured out to the bathroom where they had thoughtfully placed a new toothbrush and a rather small towel. The window was obscured with a frosted leaf pattern. He opened it to get a look at the other side of the building. Below the window in the service yard was a skip packed with tree prunings.
On his way back to the room he looked into the kitchen.
‘All right, sir?’
So there were two of them.
‘My glasses are in the car. You got the keys?’
The second guy stood up. He appeared to be the more junior. ‘No worries. I’ll get them for you. Orders are to keep you out of sight till further notice.’
Oh, well, then it had to be Plan B.
‘It’s Mike, by the way, sir.’
Tom grinned and shook his hand firmly. ‘Tom will do fine.’
He watched Mike grab a jacket on his way out. He had to have the keys to the Range Rover on him. He heard one key going into the front-door lock, then a second. They weren’t taking any chances.
On the kitchen counter he saw a couple of large loaves of sliced white, two boxes of teabags,
two jars of instant coffee and two boxes of eggs. He opened the fridge door: bacon, sausages and five two-litre cartons of milk. Enough to last several days. Tom went back to the bathroom, had a shower, dressed and reappeared in the kitchen.
‘No glasses,’ said Mike, shaking his head. ‘Couldn’t see them.’
‘Must’ve left them in the flat. Thanks anyway.’
Mike hung his coat in the hall. ‘Want me to get someone to bring them up?’
‘Nah. But I could do with some food.’
‘At your service.’
Mike got to work on a fry-up while Tom sat and chatted with both men. They had joined the Met straight out of school, never wanted to do anything else, didn’t like what was going on in the country and were hoping that the new home secretary would give them the chance to get stuck in and sort things out.
Tom agreed with everything they said, knowing only too well that it was all going to be a lot more complicated than that. But the task now was to relax them into dropping their vigilance.
The food was welcome. He demolished the lot and had another mug of tea with it.
‘Why don’t we get in a takeaway and watch something?’
‘Mike’s brought some DVDs.’
They gave each other a knowing look.
The films turned out to be Mission: Impossible and others in the same vein.
Five hours and three kebabs later, they were halfway through the second Tom Cruise when Tom got up to go to the toilet. He had already put on his trainers. He made for Mike’s coat, found the keys to his Range Rover but not the front-door keys. Mike must still have them on him. Tom headed into the bathroom and locked the door, then put down the lid of the toilet and climbed onto it. A raw gust of icy air swept into the room when he opened the window. He hoisted himself up and put his feet through first. He could just squeeze out, twisting his body sideways. To drop he would need to turn right round and push himself away from the brickwork.
