by Andy McNab
‘Oh, fuck.’
The skip with its bed of trimmed foliage was gone. He cursed himself for not checking first. He gripped the sill of the window he had just come through while he searched for an alternative. The wastepipe was just below his feet, running down diagonally to a main pipe on his left. Flattening himself against the wall, he found a footing. But that committed him to going down. There was next to no chance of hauling himself back up to the window, and the drop from that height would still put him in hospital. He thought about dropping and making a grab for the pipe and ruled it out as too risky.
Then he saw, running vertically a couple of feet to his left, a satellite cable. He felt for it and worked his fingers under it. There was just enough slack between the fixings for him to get a decent grip. He gave it a tug to see how firm it was. It didn’t come away. It might help get him to the main pipe. He put his weight on his one foot on the pipe, gripped the cable and lowered his left. He swapped hands on the cable, still trying to keep all his weight on the pipe, then slid himself down and along to the main wastepipe. With loud pings the two nearest cable fixings came away from the wall. He feared that would be it, but the cable held further up and he kicked with his right so that he swung close to the downpipe – but not close enough. His right hand gripped the cable, the thin plastic cutting into his fingers. A sliced hand and a broken back awaited him. He kicked again at the pipe and swung further this time, far enough to reach the downpipe with his left foot. He threw his last vestige of caution to the wind, let go of the cable and somehow got both hands on the pipe. From there it was just a matter of shimmying down.
He landed hard, winded and with a bloody hand, but he was free.
He reckoned he had about three minutes before they raised the alarm. By then he would be on the M1 heading north.
32
17.00
Belmarsh Prison, South London
The cell, on Wing Seven, was two metres by three. A window of thick, heavily scratched Perspex covered with steel mesh gave only a blurred view of a floodlit wall. As well as a shelf just wide enough to take a thin, narrow mattress, there was a TV on a plastic bench in one corner and a metal toilet in the other, with a small basin beside it.
‘See these?’ The officer pointed out the long lever tap handles on the basin. ‘Abu Hamza was in here six years.’ He made two hooks with his forefingers and flicked the cold tap on and off. ‘Should have a blue plaque up for him.’ He gave a mirthless laugh.
The process of just getting into the prison had taken nearly two hours. Fifteen doors and gates had to be negotiated. In the high-security unit, a grey solid block of a building – a prison within a prison – he was put through a series of security checks. First, he was told to remove everything he was wearing – even though it had all been given to him by the police who’d taken away the clothes he’d arrived in. Naked, he then had to walk through a metal detector before being subjected to an intimate body search. The soles of his feet, the spaces between his toes, his ears, his nose, his mouth and rectum were all thoroughly and humiliatingly examined. A sniffer device checked for any internal explosive devices. After getting dressed again he remained with two prison officers while they waited for clearance to go through a green metal door. Once through that he faced another locked door and a four-minute wait while he was scanned by CCTV cameras. After that, he was escorted out into the biting cold, an exercise yard, bright as day in the floodlights, surrounded by high fences topped with barbed wire and metal mesh for a roof. Two inmates were pacing the perimeter, watched by four prison guards. They all paused to stare at the newcomer.
The high-security unit was on two floors split into four spurs, each with twelve single-occupancy cells.
Two officers accompanied him. ‘This was built for the IRA,’ said the larger one, ‘but we’ve had everyone and his dog in here since. All kinds.’ He made it sound like a holiday resort.
‘I need to see my lawyer.’
‘You’ll feel right at home here. We’ve got one in five claiming to be Muslims – some of ’em because they think the food’s better. We got halal, vegan, all your multi-culti modern cuisine. Kosher, even, though there’s not much call for that.’
He was in his late forties, overweight, with a faint asthmatic wheeze. The other one was younger, with a few spots on a neck that bulged over his collar.
‘Normally, if you’re a good boy, you get twelve hours in, twelve hours out. But any trouble and you’ll be banged up for twenty-three.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
They looked at each other and smiled.
‘Oh, yeah, you been away, haven’t you? Put it this way. It’s not a good time to be a “brother”.’
What did he mean?
‘Used to be that your lot rubbed along fine with the others but since all the aggro on the streets …’ The big one shook his head and smiled grimly. ‘Still, you’re a nicely brought up lad, aren’t you? Mind your Ps and Qs and stay out of the skinheads’ way. If you cause no trouble you’ll get no trouble from us. But you give us any bother, you’ll really know what shit is.’
Abruptly the cell door swung shut and Jamal was alone. After the cold of his walk to the Turkish border he should have been glad of the cloying warmth of the cell but it just added to his claustrophobia. He felt the rising panic.
A few minutes later the door was unlocked. Another officer came in while an orderly dumped a thin rolled-up mattress on the bed. On top of that was a thin prayer mat, a reminder to Jamal of how long it was since he had prayed. The orderly was dark-skinned, a thin beard along the edge of his chin. He gave Jamal a long look, turned and left.
‘Okay, Jamal, just to the right of the sink, that’s the direction of the Kabba. Everything for your comfort and convenience.’ The officer gave him an empty smile and closed the door. Jamal heard the heavy metallic thud of the lock. A few minutes later the lights went out and the cell was lit only by a dull glow from outside. Jamal let the prayer mat fall to the floor. He unfolded the mattress. Inside were a grey sheet and a thin, uncomforting duvet. He was dead tired. He spread out the sheet and put the elasticated corners round the ends of the mattress. Then he opened the duvet, climbed onto the bed and pulled it over him. As he lay there the faint sound of the Isha’a salat came from the cell beyond the sink. Jamal turned over to face the opposite wall, as if that would block out the sound.
He pulled the duvet around him. As he did so he felt what seemed to be a label near the seam. But it was loose. He found the opening in the cover and felt inside.
It was a small piece of paper folded up several times. He unwrapped it. It was impossible to read what it said in the darkness so he held it up to where a sliver of light came in through the viewing hatch on the cell door: Welcome, brother. Pray with us tomorrow.
33
19.00
Jamal waited in the interview room. The shock of incarceration, the stale air and strange echoing sounds of the prison combined with his mounting dismay about the fate of the video to ensure that there was no chance of catching up on any much-needed sleep. His spirits had started to rise – not much, but knowing that the lawyer was coming had given him something to cling to, some hope that he would soon get out of this hell.
Down the corridor outside he heard keys clinking and voices. He got to his feet. At last he was about to meet someone he could call a friend.
The lock clicked and the door scraped open. Jamal could barely contain himself. He launched himself at Alistair Latimer as he entered, clasping his hand with both of his. The lawyer frowned at his bandaged hands and glanced at the officer who had opened the door.
‘Want me to hang about?’
Latimer shook his head. ‘It’s okay, thanks. I’ll take it from here.’
‘Right you are.’
The officer gave Jamal a cautionary glare as he left, locking the door behind him. They were alone.
Jamal had not let go of the lawyer’s hand. ‘Thank you for coming. I’m so relieved y
ou’re here.’
Latimer was far younger than Jamal had expected, late twenties maybe, with black hair, a neatly trimmed beard and dark eyes that meant he could be from almost anywhere – just like me, thought Jamal. He had a thin nose and a slightly pointed chin, which, with his intense dark eyes, gave him a rather birdlike look. His expression was studiedly serious as if all his consciousness was absorbed by the job in hand. He extracted his hand from Jamal’s, took off his coat and hung it over the back of the metal chair. Underneath he had on a slim-fitting black suit that was fully buttoned up and a T-shirt. Jamal tried to imagine him in a wig and gown, defending the righteous.
Jamal’s words came out in a torrent. ‘Emma spoke of you in the highest regard. She promised me that you would be able to help if I got into difficulty. What she did was so brave – well, we both took a risk, but for her, it was much more dangerous.’ He let out a little laugh, as if to underline how much less dangerous he thought it had been for him.
Latimer looked at him stonily. ‘Finished?’
Jamal went silent. Their time together was strictly limited, and here he was, wasting it. He raised his hands in apology. ‘Sorry, it’s just that – well, I’ve not had anyone I could – it’s been – you know. You’re the first person I’ve been able to talk to.’
Latimer flipped open his laptop. ‘Shall we begin by looking at the video?’
Jamal nodded eagerly. ‘Sure, whatever you need. I want to help you help me as best I can.’
Latimer booted up the machine and turned the screen so it faced Jamal. ‘Let’s watch it through, shall we, and then we’ll talk?’
He could feel his heart pounding just as it had while he was filming, the tiny camera tucked in the fold between his left ear and his headdress, the device taped under his arm.
All you have to do, Jamal, is look where you want to film and keep your head up, no matter what happens. Just don’t look away. Those had been her instructions. He had followed them to the letter, even though there were moments when he had had to close his eyes.
He felt Latimer’s gaze on him as he started to watch as if he wanted to keep a very close eye on his reaction. Jamal braced himself. He remembered every second but knew the sheer brutality would be just as sickening on the screen as it had been when he was there.
At first he thought it was a mistake, that he was looking at one of the training videos. He was looking not at Abukhan but at himself, in close-up, wielding the machete. They had made it look as if he was the executioner. How had they done this? Why? He watched with a mounting sense of horror as waves of disbelief, shame, embarrassment and disgust washed over him. All the time Latimer remained silent, watching his face.
Jamal pressed his palms over his eyes, shaking his head. ‘It’s a lie, it’s – it’s fake!’
‘I’d prefer if you watched closely right to the end, please,’ Latimer said, his words slow and precise.
He obeyed, even though he could feel the bile rising inside him.
When it was finished, Latimer slowly closed the laptop and left it on the table between them. For a few seconds neither of them spoke.
‘Those close-ups – they were done weeks ago. It wasn’t even real, just an exercise. It’s not me! You can see it’s been changed.’
Did Latimer believe him? He was just sitting there, impassive. A hundred questions sprang into Jamal’s mind.
Eventually the lawyer spoke. ‘Yes, I think I know that,’ he said. ‘You and I know that, at least.’
What did he mean?
‘So what did Emma … How did it get …’ Tears welled in his eyes. He slammed his fists on the table, wincing at the pain. ‘That was not me. I did not kill those girls.’ His voice had gone up several decibels.
The door opened. ‘Everything all right in here?’
Latimer turned. ‘Yes, Officer. Everything’s fine, thanks.’
The man looked doubtfully at Jamal as he shut the door.
Jamal lowered his voice, even though he was still shaking with rage. ‘Those – that shot of me with the machete.’
‘Yes?’
‘They’re from another—They made lots of videos when we were training. They’ve made it look like I was doing it, that I killed those poor girls.’
Tears were running down his face now, falling onto the table between them, his whole body convulsed in anguish.
Latimer remained very still, watching him. ‘Yes, it does look very much like that, doesn’t it?’
So he was agreeing. Well, that was something. Jamal wiped his face. ‘Sorry.’
‘I’m sure you are.’
Jamal took several deep breaths to try to bring his body back under his control, to unscramble his brain. And then it hit him. ‘So what about Emma?’
Latimer reddened but didn’t reply.
‘How did the film – how did she …?’
The lawyer let out a short, ugly laugh. He faced Jamal. ‘I thought you’d never ask. The fact is we don’t know what happened to Ms Warner, Jamal, because she hasn’t been seen since then.’
Jamal stared at him, speechless.
Latimer took out a small recorder, set it down on the table and leaned back, his arms folded. ‘Perhaps it would be useful if you told me exactly what happened.’
Jamal told him about the filming, his exit from the site and handing the camera back to Emma.
‘And then what?’
‘I waited. Then the man came out who took me to the border. He gave me the memory card.’
Latimer was staring at him with barely suppressed contempt. ‘It was blank by the way. Not as in wiped: it was never used. Describe the man who took you to the border.’
Jamal told him everything up to the moment they had parted.
Latimer stared at him with disbelief. ‘When he got you through that checkpoint so easily, didn’t that make you wonder?’
It had, Jamal remembered. ‘But I don’t understand. I did exactly what she asked, and gave her back the camera. What do you imagine happened to her?’
Latimer stared blankly at him for a few seconds before he answered. ‘I think, Jamal, that I’d prefer not to imagine what happened to her.’ His eyes had started to shine. ‘Abukhan must have known. Did you say or do anything that could have tipped them off? Did you talk to any of the other fighters? Did you give them any cause for suspicion?’
Jamal shook his head. ‘But why didn’t they take me, punish me?’
Latimer smiled thinly. ‘Oh, I think they are punishing you.’ He leaned forward and switched off the recorder. ‘Abukhan is punishing you for filming, that’s what’s happening, by telling the world you did it. Whether they will fully appreciate what a publicity coup they’ve handed the British government, who knows?’
Jamal frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
Latimer hunched forward, pressing his palms against the table. ‘The new home secretary’s proposals have given them just the excuse they need to start getting rid of people.’
‘But we were born here, me and my brothers and sister.’
Latimer leaned back. ‘I’m afraid that will no longer count. Put bluntly, Jamal, I don’t think either you or your family will be welcome in this country much longer.’
34
19.30
Home Office, Westminster
Henry hovered near the desk while the new home secretary pored over the letter. He was thrilled. Everybody wanted to speak to Vernon Rolt and he had got him all to himself. He wanted to make an impression early, to show him that he had an ally in the office, someone who was on side, keen to be part of the new team and ready for whatever was thrown at him. The outer office was still in shock after the brazen way Rolt had set about briefing the Newsday editor on the Syrian returnee. But Henry wanted to show he wasn’t like the foot-draggers and tooth-suckers. Finding the letter to Garvey from the terrorist’s sister couldn’t have happened at a more opportune moment.
His new master was still reading. There was a powerful intensity to the man, as
if he was capable of great concentration and deep thought. ‘Very interesting,’ he murmured.
Henry nodded, but Rolt was still focusing on the letter so he just stood by. What a difference twenty-four hours made. Garvey had been a law unto herself, careless of her public image, putting her own interests first, a source of ongoing exasperation to others when she wouldn’t toe the line. She actually seemed to thrive on being awkward. Rolt was totally professional, attentive to whoever spoke to him and careful to remember names. Yet there was something beneath the polished exterior that slightly frightened Henry, as if a whole other side to him was lurking below the surface that might burst out if provoked.
Rolt looked up at him, his eyes blazing in a way that was both exciting and alarming. ‘And this is a constituent of my predecessor?’
‘That’s right, Home Secretary.’
‘So it’s true what they’ve been saying, that she was soft on the Muslim community?’
Henry couldn’t remember Garvey being ‘soft’ on anything or anyone, but he let Rolt draw his own conclusions from his silence.
‘And from the letter we can safely conclude that either the girl had absolutely no idea what her brother was capable of or is in complete denial.’ Rolt folded the letter and passed it back to him. ‘Find out everything you can about the family. I think Jamal “Al Britani” is going to discover that he couldn’t have picked a worse time to come home.’
35
20.30
Belmarsh Prison
It felt a long time to Jamal since he had prayed. He had done a lot of pretend praying in Syria, going through the motions. He couldn’t reconcile what they were supposedly doing in the name of God with what he thought of as God’s word, so he’d faked it to keep up appearances. But the words in his head were different from those that had come out of his mouth. This time was different. He prayed for Emma, then for his parents and brothers, and for his dear sister Adila. And finally he prayed for himself because he really was on his own now.
