Gray Vengeance

by Alan McDermott

  ‘I get the feeling the PM was waiting for the next major attack as justification for bringing it online,’ Ellis told him, ‘though I don’t imagine he was expecting anything of this magnitude. It certainly wouldn’t have made it onto the statute books in peacetime.’

  ‘Having seen how intrusive it is, I have to agree.’

  He promised to call if the Nigeria angle revealed anything, then signed off. He spotted Thompson having her own phone conversation, and went to join her. As he approached, she hurriedly ended the call.

  ‘Who was that?’ he asked.

  ‘Just checking in to get the latest updates,’ Thompson said, stuffing the mobile in her pocket.

  ‘So what’s new?’

  ‘It’s a shit storm,’ she said. ‘What did Veronica say?’

  ‘We’re to run the team from here.’

  She nodded. ‘Manello went to sort out a couple of desks for us. I want you to concentrate your efforts on the UK while I check out northern Nigeria. Someone must be co-ordinating this attack centrally. If we can find that person, we should be able to identify the others.’

  Harvey looked up at the counter, knowing that—barring a miracle—the attacks would keep coming.

  Chapter 18

  15 December 2014

  Hamad Farsi knocked on Ellis’s door and walked in, catching her in the middle of a phone conversation. He waited until she hung up.

  ‘We’ve just got word that riots are springing up all over the country,’ he said. ‘They must realise that the emergency services are stretched to breaking point and are taking advantage.’

  The normally unflappable Ellis slammed her palm on the desk. ‘It makes you proud to be British,’ she growled. ‘Barely after five in the evening and the vultures are already out.’

  ‘It gets worse,’ Farsi told her. ‘Since the news broke that DSA were claiming to be behind this, mosques all over Britain have come under attack.’

  Being a British Muslim himself, Farsi could understand how the community must be feeling. Britain was hardly the tolerant society it purported to be, and racial bigotry still thrived in pockets throughout the country. It was bad enough for most Muslims on the best of days, but the recent attacks were going to exacerbate matters.

  Ellis rubbed her temples. ‘I just got off the phone with the energy minister. A team from the National Grid were sent out to repair a fallen pylon, but the area around it had been mined. Three of them were killed and another four injured.’

  ‘Yeah, I saw that on the news. These are some sick bastards.’

  ‘Sick is right. NG are refusing to make any further repairs unless army bomb-disposal teams clear the sites first.’

  Ellis stood and began to pace behind her desk. ‘Any chance you could come back with some good news before the day’s out?’

  ‘Already got some,’ Farsi said. ‘Network Rail were checking on a buckled track and found a device that hadn’t detonated properly. They managed to recover part of the trigger mechanism, which looks to be phone activated. The phone in question is being analysed as we speak.’

  ‘Then get them analysing faster. Once we have a number, pass it to Andrew and Sarah.’

  ‘Will do,’ Farsi said.

  ‘What about the individuals? Are we any closer to identifying any of them?’

  Farsi shook his head. ‘We’ve got hundreds of people looking through CCTV coverage, but it’s looking pretty hopeless if these devices were planted days ago. Most organisations store their data for just a few days, so we’ll be very lucky to get any hits at all. We’re concentrating our efforts on the RTAs at the moment, and hopefully we’ll discover how those crashes happened.’

  Ellis’s phone rang, and she snatched it up. After a few seconds of listening, she thanked the caller and carefully replaced the handset in the cradle.

  ‘Oldham is the latest war zone,’ she said. ‘The local chapter of the English Defence League have torched a mosque and are having running battles with the locals. Greater Manchester Police have pulled everyone off annual leave, but they’re still vastly outnumbered.’

  Farsi knew Oldham well, having family in the northern town. It boasted a population of a hundred thousand, a quarter of whom were Muslims. The only thing that surprised him was that it had taken so long for things to reach a flashpoint there.

  ‘Apart from CCTV footage, what else have you got the guys working on?’

  ‘We’re checking every incoming passenger from Nigeria in the last three months,’ Farsi said, ‘and cross-checking with those who haven’t yet left the country.’

  ‘Expand the search,’ Ellis told him. ‘Given the scale of this attack, they’ve clearly been preparing for some time.’

  Farsi left to pass on the message, while Ellis fielded yet another phone call.

  Takasa ended the short call and placed his phone on the table, unable to take his eyes off it. The news he’d just received was staggering, and he regarded the cell phone as if it was a serpent about to strike.

  Lose the smart phone and laptop, the caller had said, before explaining briefly about the new surveillance system’s capabilities.

  He considered the implications of what he’d just learned. Gone were the days of carefree browsing while hiding behind proxy servers. Instead, he’d have to spend the rest of his life being vigilant every time he used a laptop, PC or phone.

  When he thought about it, that didn’t seem too much of an inconvenience. This would be his last assignment, ever, so there were no worries about incriminating himself in the future, and it wasn’t as if his normal browsing habits would flag him as an international threat. Apart from visiting a few news sites, he rarely went online and never used social media.

  He decided that it wasn’t a life-changer.

  For himself, at least.

  For the billions of law-abiding citizens of the world, it would also be business as usual, but for those bent on terror and crime, the game looked to be up. If the information were correct and this new system could analyse conversations, images and video as well as anything typed on the keyboard, criminals would have to go back to the Stone Age if they wanted to continue in their chosen career. Communications would have to be written by hand or on typewriters, then hand-delivered by couriers . . . .

  But that would only be if they knew about the weapon being wielded against them . . . .

  Takasa was one for quickly recognising an opportunity, and this was a chance to make some serious money. The obvious play was to sell this information to those who would most benefit. But it would also have its limits. News would spread quickly that the West was monitoring every keystroke, and any hope of further sales would disappear.

  Another way to profit would be to create software that counteracted their system, blocking all outgoing signals except through one application. Better still, he could have someone create a brand new operating system that wasn’t infected with the spyware.

  An appealing idea, except the start-up cost and investment would be staggeringly high.

  He smiled as he thought of an even better possibility. As news of the government’s surveillance software spread, the market-leading hardware manufacturers’ stock would take a dive. Billions would be wiped off their share values overnight, giving him yet another opportunity for a dabble in the bear market, selling high and buying low.

  The numbers jumping into his head made him dizzy, and he pushed the thoughts aside. He still had a job to finish before he could start planning his future as a stock raider.

  Takasa picked up the phone and removed the cover before extracting the battery and SIM card, thinking it was the least he could do to prevent any unwanted snooping. The laptop was already off and packed away, so that wasn’t an immediate concern, but getting hold of a sterile phone was.

  Using the room’s landline, he called his driver and told him to go into the town and purchase
another phone, one that wasn’t internet-enabled. In such a poor country, there would be plenty of the antique variants to choose from.

  While he waited for it to arrive, he plotted his next move. The attacks were well under way, and the next twenty-four hours would see even more devastation as his secondary phase kicked in. He would have liked another couple of days before moving on, but life didn’t always run to schedule.

  Time to make his exit.

  The driver arrived an hour later, and Takasa plugged in the new phone so that it could charge. He turned on the old phone and quickly copied over the few numbers he was going to need later, then deleted the entire call history before once again removing the SIM card.

  ‘Take this to the market and sell it.’ He handed the driver the handset and charger. ‘You can keep whatever you make.’

  Hopefully someone would buy it and keep the focus of any international search here in Kano. Takasa also nodded to a briefcase that was sitting next to the door. ‘Take that, too, and put it in the boot of the car. I will need it later.’

  The driver left, and Takasa placed a call to London, telling Efram to ensure the special mission was carried out first thing in the morning. He knew that once the first of the cell members was caught, it would only be a matter of time before the rest followed, and he wanted his sole individual target eliminated before that happened.

  After passing on the instructions, he called the leader of the council.

  ‘No doubt you will have seen the results of our efforts on the television,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, indeed. We could not have hoped for more.’

  ‘Well, that is not the end of it,’ Takasa said. ‘Today, we brought them to their knees. Tomorrow, we go in for the kill.’

  ‘But I thought—’

  ‘I didn’t want to share this part of the plan with anyone until the time was right,’ Takasa interrupted. ‘If the first phase had failed, there would have been no point, but now that we are so close to victory, I will explain everything in full this evening. Have the council convene at the usual place. I will be there at eight.’

  He ended the call and began packing his meagre belongings, ready to move on once his business in Kano was finalised.

  As the long winter night began to draw in, Paul Roberts walked through the suburban streets on the outskirts of the capital, exhausted yet exhilarated after the day’s events. He’d wondered for months what the result of the attack would be, and here he was, witnessing it first-hand.

  The streets were all but deserted, with people in this residential area seemingly afraid to leave their homes. The roads here were clear, but on the way he’d seen hundreds of vehicles abandoned, their occupants having given up any hope of reaching their destination by any means other than on foot. It was what he’d been told to expect, and so far everything had gone to plan, which was remarkable in itself.

  There were a multitude of things that could have gone wrong: a cell member getting cold feet and revealing all to the security services; someone blowing themselves up as they laid one of the thousands of devices around the country; or the authorities getting wind of the operation and shutting it down before they’d had a chance to strike.

  Thankfully, none of that had happened.

  It had been a tense few months, no doubt about that, but he’d stuck to the task, going about life without drawing attention to himself. Now, he was one day away from completing the main phase of the mission. In the coming hours, he would stoke up resentment whenever possible, using his multitude of Facebook and Twitter accounts. As instructed, he had created them over the last few months, befriending the less-than-desirable elements of society along the way, and it would soon be time to press the right buttons and urge them into action. He knew that the other cell members up and down the country were doing the same thing, which potentially meant tens, even hundreds of thousands hitting the streets in twenty-four hours.

  There were already signs that their social media venture was working, with the news channels reporting several attacks against Muslim communities and pockets of rioting up and down the land.

  If people think these scenes are abhorrent, he thought, they’re going to find the next few days hell on earth.

  As he neared the flat he’d rented a couple of weeks earlier, a group of youths entered the road from the far end, walking towards him at pace. The implements they were carrying suggested they weren’t on their way to choir practice, but Roberts reckoned he could get to the building and be inside before they got close to him.

  That notion was quashed when they broke into a sprint, aiming straight for him.

  He considered trying for the flat, but they had already closed the gap, and he had no choice but to turn and run. He darted down an alleyway and pumped his legs as fast as they would allow, the physical training he’d received in Nigeria paying dividends. Behind him, he heard shouts as his pursuers tried to close in, but he felt comfortable that he had the legs to outrun them.

  He burst out of the alley and into another street, where he turned right and headed towards another dark alley. Feet pounded the concrete behind him, and he heard orders to split up and cut him off, which didn’t bode well. He wasn’t too familiar with the area, but whoever was chasing him seemed to know exactly where he was heading. Roberts had little choice but to carry on and hope he could emerge in the next street before he was trapped.

  The adrenalin was carrying him well ahead of his pursuers when he reached the end of the alley, turned, and found himself in a cul-de-sac. To the right lay houses, so he ran left, towards the end of the street. As he looked for a fence to vault or garden to cut through, Roberts heard the sound of metal hitting the ground, and knew that someone had thrown something at him, probably a crowbar or tyre iron. A half-second later, a baseball bat ricocheted off the ground and became entangled in his legs.

  He went down hard, and a couple of seconds later the pursuing feet came to a halt. He looked up to see the four panting youths standing over him.

  ‘Midge, you twat! He ain’t a Muslim.’

  ‘He looked like one,’ another face said. ‘Look at the beard!’

  A third had seen the phone sticking out of Roberts’s pocket, and immediately took a shine to it. He squatted down and grabbed it, and when Roberts tried to resist he got a kick in the back from the fourth teenager.

  Roberts decided to let it go. He could always get another phone.

  ‘Get his wallet, too,’ the first kid said, and Roberts played submissive while they rifled his pockets. By this time, the rest of the gang had shown up, and they weren’t particularly bothered whether Roberts was a Muslim, Hindu or Christian. All they were concerned with was getting something out of the chase, and they laid into Roberts, giving him a good kicking. One of them had a couple of swings with a baseball bat, but while the pain in his thigh was excruciating, Roberts was glad they hadn’t targeted his arms or head.

  The kicks continued to come, and Roberts felt a rib crack. He realised they weren’t going to let up until he was dead, and the irony hit him hard. It was he who had stoked the flames of hatred, though he’d never expected to be in the firing line.

  One of the gang shouted and pointed towards the end of the street, where two Asians were watching the attack, like rabbits caught in a car’s headlights. They soon bolted when one of the attackers barked an order.

  ‘Get ’em!’

  Roberts remained in the foetal position for a while, wanting to be sure the assault was over. Once the footsteps faded, he rolled over onto his back and took stock.

  The rib was definitely broken, hurting with every breath, and his head ached like a bitch, but apart from that, he felt okay. He detected no other broken bones, and when he patted himself down, his hands were clear of blood.

  He picked himself up and staggered back to his flat, keeping an ear open for more trouble, but he managed to get through his front
door without further problems.

  He climbed the stairs and turned on the light, illuminating the living area. One wall was piled high with boxes, and a dozen quad-rotor toy helicopters covered the floor. He’d planned to spend a good part of the evening programming each one with its current location and the GPS co-ordinates of the targets, ready for deployment in the morning, but those details were on the phone that had just been liberated. He had no choice but to go online and do it all over again.

  He went into the bathroom and checked himself out in the mirror, glad to see that there was no facial damage: at least he wouldn’t attract any unwanted attention when he went out the following day.

  He made a sandwich and ate it while surfing the online maps on his laptop, jotting down the co-ordinates he’d need for each of the drones.

  In the background, the TV news channel reported an increasing number of riots throughout Britain, and that reminded him to update his Facebook page. He signed in under the name DJ Maxwell and told his followers that he’d found a Muslim business that was supposed to be run by DSA sympathisers. It was a complete lie, but the way the masses were worked up, they’d believe anything. And orders were orders . . . .

  Despite the pain in his chest, Paul Roberts managed a smile as he hit Send and shared the information with a thousand members of the local lowlife.

  Mission complete.

  But more work lay ahead. The search by authorities for Roberts and his colleagues would be well underway by now, and the hunt would be relentless. That was why the next phase was aimed at reducing the odds of detection by striking at those who sought to bring him to justice.

  All he had to do was attach the explosive payloads in the morning, and his beasts would be ready to fly.

  Beke Anwo locked the car and walked under the late-afternoon sun to the Kurmi Market, where bamboo awnings offered a little relief from the oppressive heat. The aroma from the spice stall made him hungry, but the driver planned to do Takasa’s bidding before he sat down for a meal.