Also by Alan McDermott:
Gray Justice (Tom Gray #1)
Gray Resurrection (Tom Gray #2)
Gray Redemption (Tom Gray #3)
Gray Retribution (Tom Gray #4)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Alan McDermott
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 978-1477830611
ISBN-10: 1477830618
Cover design by bürosüdo München, www.buerosued.de
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014959846
For Emilie Marneur: Thanks for taking a chance on me.
Contents
WINTER
Prologue
Chapter 1
SPRING
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
SUMMER
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
WINTER
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
About the Author
WINTER
Prologue
20 January 2014
A crescent moon watched over the ersatz motorcade as it turned off Kufar Mata Road and into a maze of side streets that led to the old city. Despite being the second most populous city in Nigeria, with more than two million inhabitants, Kano appeared deceptively quiet at eleven in the evening, which was why the new leader had chosen such a late hour for his first address to the council he now ruled.
The three battered vehicles pulled up at the compound, whose pockmarked white walls surrounded a modest residence. Armed guards were waiting and, after confirming the identity of the visitors, slowly pulled open the huge metal gates to allow them ingress.
At the front door of the house, the host welcomed his exalted guest.
‘Takasa, it is a pleasure to welcome you to my humble dwelling,’ the elder said, guiding the leader into the living area. Six men were waiting, and as the host barked an order, two young girls brought food in before quickly disappearing, leaving the men to their business.
Takasa took a seat on a pile of cushions and prepared himself a cup of hot tea while the other members of the council took in their new leader, most for the first time. A couple of them engaged in a hushed but animated discussion, while the others simply stared at the man who had been chosen to lead their organisation.
His selection by the three senior members of the council had come as a huge surprise to most, not least because of his skin colour, but that didn’t faze Takasa in the slightest. He was prepared for any animosity, though he felt certain that once he’d addressed the men, his vision would unite them and they would accept him as one of their own.
He placed his tea on the low table and coughed loudly, grabbing everyone’s attention.
‘Brothers,’ he began in English, ‘I am honoured to have been chosen to lead you into history.’
Takasa waited for the words to sink in and realised he was facing a tough crowd. He stood and began pacing the room, the traditional local garb feeling surprisingly comfortable.
‘Da Sunan Annabi, or In the Name of the Prophet, is a very young organisation, and I have watched your development with interest.’
In truth, he’d been looking for just such a group to establish itself in the hope of getting in at an early stage, and with the death of their leader in July of that year, he’d known the time was right to step in and fill the breach.
‘Over the years,’ he continued, ‘many organisations have tried to take on the might of the West, but they have only succeeded in bringing fire down upon themselves. That outcome won’t change while the West is capable of striking back. It is impossible to defeat their military, and for every Western soldier we kill, a hundred will rise up to replace him.’
He paused, as if trying to find the next words, even though he’d been over the speech a hundred times in preparation for this meeting.
‘If your dream is for meaningless small victories and a short life, then we can continue on the current path.’
A man wearing a scowl raised a hand, but Takasa waved him off. ‘If, however, you dream of a world where the West no longer has any influence, be that militarily, economically or politically, then you need my help. I promise to lead you to a victory that will be remembered for thousands of years.’
The hand went up again, and this time the man wouldn’t be silenced. ‘And just how will you guarantee this? What experience could you possibly have that will make any contribution to our cause?’
The emphasis wasn’t lost on Takasa, but he’d expected this kind of reaction. Being the only white man in the room naturally made him a target for their animosity.
‘To defeat your enemy, you first have to know him,’ Takasa said. ‘I know our enemy well. Now, you obviously know where the strengths of the West lie, but what of their weaknesses? Could you take down a whole country with just two hundred people?’
The man laughed, his derision palpable. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘Is it?’ Takasa asked. ‘Imagine a baker taking his wares to town to sell in the market. He is pushing his barrow but finds the road blocked. He has no option but to return home, knowing that he won’t be earning any money that day. On top of that, he has lost all the money he spent on ingredients.’
‘So?’ the man asked.
‘So, imagine instead that he had planned to sell his bread to a shop owner. Now two people have no income for the day.’
‘Can you get to the point?’
‘The point is,’ Takasa said slowly, refusing to be rushed, ‘two people suffering financially for a short period of time isn’t the end of the world, but let’s say every merchant used the same road into town, and nobody could get in to sell their products. Now you have a whole community that is suffering. People aren’t earning a living, and their customers have nothing to eat.’
The man stood, showing his annoyance. ‘This is preposterous! We need a leader who is not afraid to take the fight to the West, and you bring us . . . this?’
He gestured at Takasa with disdain, but one of the senior members shouted him down.
‘Silence, Kwano! I have heard his plans, and if you are willing to listen, you will see why he is the perfect choice to lead us.’
Kwano sat again but wasn’t quite finished. ‘Your story makes no sense,’ he said to Takasa. ‘As soon as news of the blocked road spread, everyone would help to clear it.’
‘Exactly!’ Takasa smiled. ‘That’s precisely what you would do. However, the British are cut from a different cloth. They would complain about the blockage and wait for someone else to clear it. And when no-one listened, the complaints would mount while the road remained obstructed.
‘You see, the West takes pride in its advanced culture. It is a place where a man can sit at home and order a meal to be prepared and delivered within thirty minutes, and have someone fix his car without having to take it to the garage or, heaven forbid, do it himself; where groceries, furnishings and entertainment are brought to him rather than the man having to go out and buy them; where he can make a phone call to have a woman satisfy his needs, whatever they are. Their lifestyle has made them lazy and reliant on others, and that is their first failing. Their reliance on technology is their next.’
Kwano appeared only partially appeased. ‘I was in England for a few years, and the small community I lived in doesn’t sound anything like what you’ve described.’
‘Granted, there are pockets of society that will still chip in and help each other out, but they are isolated and won’t be affected by my plan. You certainly won’t find villagers from Kent rushing into London once we strike.’
‘So you plan to block a road?’ Kwano said. ‘Is that your big plan?’
Takasa smiled as he resumed his seat. ‘Your problem is, you’re thinking small. That’s why I’m here.’
He laid out his plan, which took another thirty minutes, by which time he had almost everyone on board.
‘It still sounds like fantasy to me,’ Kwano said.
‘Really?’ Takasa asked. ‘Then let me tell you how delicate the UK infrastructure is.’
He explained how tens of thousands of homes had been without power for days following a Christmas storm only a few weeks earlier; how air traffic had been severely disrupted following a glitch with the telephone wires; and the countless occasions when traffic accidents had closed major roads.
‘These were random acts that brought chaos and misery, but imagine the impact if they were co-ordinated.’
As Kwano thought this over, another man asked about timescales.
‘If we start immediately, we can have the groundwork done within a few weeks. After that, it is a matter of releasing the necessary funds and sourcing the materials. I expect to be ready to strike within the next six months.’
‘How much will it take to bring this plan to fruition?’
‘Fifty million should be enough,’ Takasa said.
This drew a smirk from Kwano. ‘An easy number to speak of, but how do you expect us to raise so much in half a year? It would take a lifetime of lifetimes to gather such wealth.’
‘I already have half of the amount we need,’ Takasa told him, ‘and I can call on the rest at any time.’
At this, Kwano conceded. As Takasa had anticipated, financing the entire venture sealed the deal.
The meeting ended and Takasa was escorted back to his conveyance, the first step of his plan ratified. An auspicious start.
When he reached his temporary residence in Kano, he would make a phone call that would take the second step towards Britain’s downfall.
Chapter 1
23 January 2014
Andrew Harvey brushed the hair from his forehead and made yet another mental note to visit the hairdresser before it got completely out of control, despite it being only a couple of inches in length. Work had taken up every waking moment of the last three weeks, and the news that Da Sunan Annabi, or DSA, had appointed a new leader only added to his section’s workload.
Harvey walked over to Hamad Farsi’s desk and asked the intelligence operative for the latest news from Nigeria. He was rewarded with a frustrated sigh.
‘None of our contacts knows anything apart from the name, and they’re pretty sure it’s a pseudonym.’
‘You think?’ Harvey asked, with a touch more sarcasm than he’d intended.
It had been yet another long, unproductive shift, and three days since the announcement had come in, they still knew nothing about the mysterious Takasa except that the name meant ‘purifier’ in the local language.
Harvey put his hands to his temples. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Just keep digging and see if any of our sources can get a break. This guy didn’t pop up out of nowhere, so there must be some clues to his identity.’
‘No worries. Hey, maybe you should ask Ellis for some time off.’
Harvey found the idea tempting, but going to Veronica Ellis wouldn’t solve the problem. The director general of MI5 wasn’t responsible for the heightened security alert, and with everyone in his team working above and beyond, Harvey didn’t feel as if he could let the side down by slinking off to bed for a couple of days. Two new fundamentalist groups had cropped up in recent weeks, and efforts were being concentrated on establishing their structures and goals, as well as dealing with a spate of suicide bombings that had targeted British military personnel in Gibraltar and Cyprus. No group had yet claimed responsibility for the attacks, which made Harvey’s job even harder.
The arrival of a new boss reinvigorating DSA was the last thing he’d needed.
‘I might have a late start tomorrow,’ he told Farsi, though he knew he’d be the first in the office, well before the sun came up. As usual. ‘In the meantime, see what the forensics people in Gibraltar have come up with.’
Harvey walked back to his office, a small space he’d been allocated a few weeks earlier and one that he already despised. He felt out of the loop, and missed the bustle of the main office. Sure, it was noisy at times, but somehow the chaos had helped him concentrate. Still, Ellis thought it important that the section leader have his own space, and he wasn’t about to argue the little things with his boss.
He found himself going through the most recent intel on DSA, even though he felt he knew the organisation inside out. They had been formed in the northern region of Nigeria less than three years earlier, and so far their activity had been limited to the surrounding region. As they grew, they had formed into separate, cell-like factions, and so their overall structure had become unclear. It seemed anyone with an axe to grind could now throw themselves under the DSA umbrella, which had begun to muddy the group’s original Islamist ideals.
Their latest intel suggested the main body was planning to broaden their reach, though MI5’s analysts had played down the threat level. They hadn’t entirely dismissed it as pure rhetoric, the ravings of a new leader determined to make an impression on his own followers, because doing so would leave their arses hanging out if they got it wrong. Instead, they’d suggested that DSA had limited funds, so despite the chatter they were picking up from the rank and file, the chances of the group expanding beyond its own city limits remained slim to none.
Harvey’s computer beeped, signalling an incoming internal message, and he opened it to find a summons from Veronica Ellis. Locking his computer, he walked to her office and gave a cursory knock before entering.
‘You wanted to see me?’
Ellis nodded towards a chair and he took a seat. She remained standing, her impeccable grey pencil skirt hugging her figure as she pushed a wisp of platinum hair over her ear and leaned on the desk.
‘You remember James Farrar?’
‘Not a name I’m likely to forget,’ Harvey said.
Farrar had once run a covert government wet team, designed to carry out foreign sanctions. When he’d turned his attention to kil
ling British citizens, it had been Harvey’s department who had shut down his operation. ‘The last I heard, he was on remand, awaiting trial.’
‘That was the plan, but it seems he was granted bail.’
‘Who the hell authorised that?’
‘His lawyers argued that by being incarcerated, he wasn’t in a position to liquidate his assets in order to fund his defence, so the judge confiscated his passport before tagging him and letting him go.’
‘And you’re telling me this because . . . ?’
Ellis rose from her chair and straightened her pencil skirt before pacing the office, arms folded rigidly across her chest.
‘He skipped town. We’ve been tasked with finding him.’
‘Quelle surprise,’ Harvey said. ‘Did no-one see that coming?’
‘We’ll leave the recriminations for another day,’ Ellis said. ‘What matters is tracking him down now.’
‘I thought you said he was tagged.’
‘He was,’ the director general said, ‘and he was being monitored remotely, but somehow he managed to remove his electronic tag and put it on a substitute. Apparently he was renting a small flat after selling his house, and he paid a homeless guy a grand to stay there for a few weeks. The place was stocked with alcohol and cigarettes, so the old drunk had no reason to leave.’
‘And this guy knows nothing, I assume.’
‘Nada,’ Ellis said. ‘All we know is, Farrar left around a month ago.’
Harvey immediately thought of Tom Gray, the man Farrar had been trying to eliminate when he’d crossed paths with Harvey. If Farrar were out for revenge, Gray would surely be his first target. After all, he’d been instrumental in getting Farrar to confess his crimes live on TV.
‘What do you think Farrar is planning?’ he asked.
‘I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t believe this is about your friend. More likely he just wanted to avoid prison and used a fake passport to take him to some backwater country that has no extradition treaty in place.’
Gray Vengeance Page 1
