by D C Alden
The Duke, momentarily surprised by the venom of Handule’s outburst, tempered his own disquiet. ‘To some extent I agree, Mohamed, yet Whelan has to be afforded certain rights under European law.’
‘Ridiculous.’
‘What else would you have us do? Send him to a gaol in Mogadishu?’
The Somali tilted his head and smiled without humour, his dark eyes unblinking behind his spectacles. ‘Rest assured, Whelan’s sentence would be served in far less comfortable surroundings were this true. But no, there is another way.’
‘An informal consensus has been reached,’ Saeed announced, ‘and the wheels put in motion. The trial will be held at the International Criminal Court.’
The Duke looked puzzled. ‘The ICC? Really? As much as it pains me to admit it, Whelan is a British subject, and the crimes took take place on British soil. Does the ICC even have jurisdiction in this case?’
‘The terrorist’s victims came from a diverse range of ethnic backgrounds,’ the Egyptian minister explained, ‘many of them from my own country.’
‘Yes, I know. What incredible bad luck those poor tourists chose to visit Luton on that day.’
‘Tragic,’ Sharawi agreed. ‘So you see, the repercussions of these crimes are international ones, not just confined to these shores.’
‘Yes, but–’
‘Justice must be served,’ Handule warned. ‘Our people demand it.’
The Duke squirmed in his chair, adjusting the knot of his tie with nervous fingers. ‘I understand your anger, Mohamed, I really do, but I don’t see what any of this has got to do with me. After all, I’m not a politician.’
The Somali leaned forward in his seat. ‘That may be so, but you are a figurehead, an international statesman who commands great respect. Your words of support during the dark days of September still resonate across the Islamic world.’
‘What the Ambassador is saying,’ Saeed added, ‘is that the judicial process must not be questioned. The Attorney General, the Supreme Court here and the European Court of Justice in Luxembourg are all in agreement: an example must be made of Whelan. However, the court of public opinion must also be served. You know yourself that many Europeans still harbour quiet animosity towards Islam and its followers, particularly in light of Egypt’s recent accession. They are distrustful of the state in all its forms.’
‘It’s true,’ confirmed Sharawi, eyeing the single remaining wafer on the bone china plate. ‘Some of our citizens across Europe have suffered physical attacks since Cairo. There have been reports of beatings, property damage.’
‘Disgusting,’ breathed the Duke.
‘Quite.’ Saeed watched the Egyptian scoop up the pastry and take a bite. ‘The fact is, Whelan, and many right-wingers like him, loathe the direction Europe is taking. They believe another agenda is being quietly implemented, one designed to destroy their way of life. If these conspiracy theorists convince them that the law is being deliberately manipulated to quench the thirst for justice the Muslim community so rightly deserves, well… it could lead to further problems.’ Saeed waited a moment, then said: ‘Perhaps even a repeat of September. Or worse.’
The monarch paled. ‘No, that can’t be allowed to happen,’ he whispered. ‘Everyone has worked too hard to find a way forward.’
‘Especially you,’ Saeed reminded him. ‘The Duke of Cambridge is admired and respected, especially by traditionalists on the right of the political spectrum. They feel, as many of us do, that the Royal Family is woven into the cultural fabric of this country. To them you are the embodiment of living history, a reminder of the glories of Britain’s past.’ Saeed paused, almost choking on his own bile. ‘Your support for the judicial process will go a long way to alleviate any public disquiet amongst those subjects who may have doubts. When the time comes to seal Whelan’s fate we must all be of one voice.’
The Duke sat quietly in his chair, lost in thought. After a few moments he said: ‘Well, royal endorsement or not, this Whelan character is a mass murderer. Whatever court he’s convicted in, I’m sure the vast majority of Europeans will rejoice in his demise. If he disappeared into a very dark hole I don’t think many people would shed a tear. Even the little Englanders.’
Saeed and Sharawi shared a look, a smile creeping across the Egyptian’s pockmarked cheeks.
‘Then we can count on your public support?’ Handule asked.
The Duke nodded emphatically. ‘Of course, gentlemen. As you rightly pointed out, justice must be served.’
‘I’ll have a statement drafted,’ Saeed offered, ‘reflecting the Royal Family’s confidence in European justice, its determination to send a clear message.’
The Duke held up a hand. ‘That’s fine, Tariq, but I’ve got some ideas of my own.’
‘Yes. Your voice should be heard,’ Saeed allowed.
Beside him, Handule nodded enthusiastically. ‘Indeed it should. Then perhaps, in return, the Duke may care to address the Islamic summit in Casablanca early next year? As keynote speaker?’
‘Really?’ The Duke clapped his hands together at the prospect and Saeed silently admired Handule’s masterstroke. Infidels were rarely invited to speak to the OIC, and never at the summit which only occurred once every three years. For a man like the Duke the opportunity would be a mouth-watering one. ‘That would indeed be an honour,’ he grinned. ‘Thank you, Mohamed.’
‘I shall speak to our Secretariat.’
The Duke sprang to his feet, prompting the others to rise also. ‘Rest assured gentlemen, whatever legal process is employed to convict Whelan, you’ll have the unequivocal support of the Royal Household. Now, I must bid you all goodnight. My equerry will be along shortly to show you out.’
He shook hands with all of them and left the room. The three men retook their seats.
‘Nicely done,’ said Sharawi, popping the remaining morsel of pastry in his mouth.
Saeed kept his voice low. ‘Easier than I thought. His father also enjoyed meddling in politics.’
‘The apple rarely falls far from the tree,’ Handule observed.
‘Many in Britain are still blinded by the glitter of royalty,’ Saeed explained. ‘The Duke’s endorsement will add further legitimacy to Whelan’s fate. In the fullness of time it will be seen as the norm.’
The Egyptian snorted, wiping the grease from his lips with an expensive white napkin. ‘Things move too slowly,’ he complained. ‘Our power in Europe grows daily. What do we care what the Infidels think? They will bend to our will either way.’
Saeed held up a cautionary hand. ‘Patience, my friend. If we flex our muscles too soon we could provoke a backlash. If anything, we must tread more carefully.’
Saeed was aware of the media rumblings, the vague concerns expressed by talking heads, the faint tone of suspicion in normally compliant editorials; a growing Islam-centric government had the potential to undermine existing foreign policy, damage longstanding international relationships and sow discord amongst the electorate. The sceptics amongst His Majesty’s Opposition, those who couldn’t be coerced or threatened, could cause further trouble, perhaps even rebellion. Careful navigation was required, until the sails of Islam could be fully unfurled. ‘We must be cautious, embrace our enemies as if they were friends. The Qur’an teaches us this, does it not? A generation must pass before we show our true colours.’
Sharawi looked aghast. ‘I’ll be in my grave before then.’
‘Do not be ungrateful,’ the Somali scolded. ‘You are here now, a witness to history. This is Allah’s will. Surely that is reward enough, my brother.’
Sharawi shook his head and smiled. ‘Always the voice of reason,’ he sighed, balling up his napkin and tossing it on the solid silver tray.
Handule laid a gentle hand on Saeed’s arm. ‘By the way, I have a message for you, from our friends in Riyadh. The item you await is almost ready for delivery. It should be with you next week.’
‘Really?’ Saeed beamed. ‘That’s wonderful.’
/> The Egyptian raised an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘What’s this?’
‘You must come to Whitehall,’ explained an amused Saeed. ‘Then you will see.’
Sharawi’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m intrigued. Tell me more.’
The Prime Minister shook his head. ‘No, it’s better if you see for yourself. You won’t be disappointed.’
‘It is true,’ the Somali added with a mischievous smile. ‘I’ve seen it myself. Very impressive.’
‘Then at least give me a clue,’ Sharawi persisted. ‘I cannot–’
The door swung open and the Duke of Cambridge’s personal equerry appeared, dressed in the immaculate uniform of the Welsh Guards. He introduced himself and invited the group to follow him to their waiting car. A visibly annoyed Sharawi glowered at the retreating soldier, tutted loudly and got to his feet. Suppressing a smile, Saeed followed him from the room and out into the corridor.
The Duke’s continued commitment to his father’s environmental legacy was evident by the sparsely-lit hallway. As they headed for the deeper shadows of the distant lobby, Sharawi tugged on Saeed’s sleeve.
‘Come, Tariq. Shine some light on this little secret of yours.’
Saeed glanced around, at the empty corridor behind, at the immaculately-dressed Major striding ahead along the thick red carpet.
‘A secret?’ he shook his head. ‘No my friend, it is so much more than that.’
‘Well? What is it?’ breathed the Egyptian.
Saeed’s smile radiated in the gloom, his voice barely a whisper. ‘A vision.’
South London
Danny drifted slowly back to consciousness, pale rays of wintry sunlight streaming through the filthy windows and piercing the papery skin of his eyelids. Something had disturbed him, something that filtered through the layers of fatigue to penetrate his dreamless sleep. He lay motionless for several moments, his ears registering three distinct sounds. The first two belonged to a passerby, whistling an unknown tune as shoe leather tapped smartly along the pavement outside. The third was an amplified voice, carried on the wind, urging the faithful to morning prayers. Unlike the passerby, the bloke in the mosque couldn’t hold a tune, Danny decided. It was the bloody wailing that had woken him.
He stretched, yawning deeply, then checked his watch. Almost time to start the day. Still, he remained wrapped inside the questionable warmth of a thin blanket, unwilling to move. He stared at the ceiling. There must be a leak somewhere in the roof, he realised. A brown stain had worked its way across the cracked plaster, blistering the paintwork and encircling the bulb-less light fitting above his head. He thought about the previous occupants, a family probably, judging by the faded cartoon murals in one of the empty bedrooms. The rabbit-shaped nameplate on the door read ‘Rebecca’ in faded blue lettering. It was difficult to get any sense of history about the place because everything of any value had been stripped out, right down to the fireplaces and the cornice work. Even the skirting boards were gone. Bloody shame, really.
Danny threw off the blanket. He pulled a roll-neck jumper over his t-shirt, slipped his training shoes on, then waited. A few minutes later, a commuter train clattered along the embankment behind the house, shaking the windows and masking his creaking progress down the stairs. In the empty shell that was once a kitchen, he used a standpipe to fill a bucket, splashed cold water over his bearded face then brushed his teeth. He was careful not to spill anything on the tiles; even though the front door was boarded up against trespassers, he couldn’t afford to leave a single trace of his temporary occupation.
Back upstairs he fished inside the grocery bag and found a banana. He peeled and ate it, washing it down with the last of the orange juice. He put the refuse back into the bag, then spent a few minutes cleaning the pistol with a small cloth. He ejected the magazine, worked the action several times, when another train rumbled by, then re-loaded the weapon. Satisfied it would work if needed, he slipped it back into the waistband of his jeans and began his vigil.
He glanced at his watch: 8:12 am. From behind the dirt-streaked windows, Danny observed the scruffy hostel building across the street. Most of the rooms were still shrouded in darkness, curtains drawn, but others showed signs of life. There was even one brave soul near the top floor, their window defiantly decorated with a lurid neon manger scene, the colourful characters an inviting target for the local council busybodies who were always on the lookout for so-called offensive religious symbols. That sort of thing normally incensed Danny, but right now he couldn’t care less. All he wanted to do was get as far away from here as possible.
It had been four days since he’d fled Ray’s estate. He’d driven east that night, keeping to the country lanes until he’d found a small hotel outside the village of Flaunden, coasting quietly into the car park and coming to a halt where the shadows were deepest. It was too risky to travel the roads at night, the chances of a routine police stop, particularly in rural areas, all the more likely after midnight. So he’d slept fitfully behind the wheel, waking with a start at every call of a night bird or rustle in the undergrowth. When morning came he’d tuned into a news station, fearing the worst but hearing nothing. His name wasn’t mentioned, nor the deaths, or news of a manhunt. As he eased the car out into the lane and headed towards the M25 with the morning traffic, Danny kept his speed down and his eyes on the road ahead. The motorway took him past the sprawling relocation camp at Heathrow and Danny forgot his plight momentarily, making sure he followed the other drivers and stuck to the outside lane to avoid the stone-throwing kids behind the fences.
He passed two police cars idling in a lay-by just past West Byfleet, the powerful black vehicles squatting like fat insects as their on-board cameras scanned the licence plates of the heavy morning traffic. Danny’s heart was in his mouth as he cruised by at a steady sixty-two miles per hour, expecting the scream of sirens to cut through the voices on the radio, his rear view mirror filled with blue and red lights, the metallic commands ordering him to Stop! Your vehicle is about to be disabled! Stop! But nothing happened. As Ray had promised him, the car was clean.
The further he travelled, the more convinced he was that Tess hadn’t reported the deaths of her husband and Joe. It was also a fair bet that Tess didn’t know the details of the car, or even what colour it was. For all of his faults, Ray loved his wife and Danny felt certain he would’ve kept any incriminating details from her. In any case, Tess would be up to her neck in it too if the police came sniffing around. Instead, Danny imagined a night of frantic phone calls, begging loyal friends to clean up the mess, concocting some sort of cover story for Ray’s absence. He had a mental image of the fat bloke, Marcus, rolling Ray’s body in on top of Joe’s in that dark clearing, patting the ground with a shovel, wiping his hands as he led an inconsolable Tess back to the house. If that was the case, and Danny prayed it was, then he had a clear run down to the coast. Clean car, clean ID. He had a chance to start his life again.
Reaching the south London suburb of Battersea by mid-morning, Danny left the Vauxhall in a side street and reconnoitred the hostel. The derelict buildings opposite made a perfect observation post and Danny retrieved his supplies from the car and slipped quietly inside one of the houses after dark. It was on the second morning he saw his father, his heart beating loudly, his throat choking with emotion. He wanted to bang on the filthy glass, call out to him, but he had to be certain he wasn’t being watched before he made a move. The old man had shown no signs of random behaviour; a couple of laps around the nearby park and a thermos of tea on a bench overlooking the river was about the strength of it. That was typical of dad, a creature of habit, a man who liked routine. Danny was thankful for it.
For the last couple of days he’d trailed his father from a distance, making sure he wasn’t being observed by others, but it was difficult to tell. He was no expert in counter-surveillance, but he had to take a risk. He needed to see his dad, speak to him, before he left for good.
Danny watched his father emerge
from the hostel just before nine, taking time to sweep the pavement outside the weathered front door. That was another of dad’s traits, hated mess wherever he was, always willing to help out. Danny studied him from across the street. It had only been a couple of months, but already the back seemed a little more curved, the skin a little paler, gathering in loose folds around his neck, the grey hair noticeably thinner. Stress, probably, and worry. His neat home gone, his son branded a mass murderer and still on the run. The guilt made Danny feel physically sick. He watched his dad push the broom wearily, sweep and tap, sweep and tap, his movements precise, the frequent stops to flex the arthritic fingers, the fat electronic tag around his ankle forcing a slight limp. Bastards.
Another hour passed before the old man re-emerged in a faded navy tracksuit and trainers, a small rucksack slung across his shoulders, a pale yellow scarf wrapped around his thin neck to combat the sharp December winds. Danny slipped on his quilted parka as he watched his dad head up the street towards the park. He left the house by the rear garden, squeezing through the side alley that was choked with broken furniture and stinking rubbish, and emerged into bright sunlight. He slapped the dirt from his clothes and stepped out onto the pavement, following his father from a safe distance. There was no rush. He knew where he was headed.
‘Oi! You!’ Danny glanced over his shoulder without breaking stride. ‘Yeah, you!’
He stopped, heart pounding in his chest. Coming up fast behind him was a local roughneck, wearing the black fatigues and high-visibility vest of a Civil Enforcement Officer. Danny sized the man up. He was in his forties, tall and powerfully-built, a shock of bright ginger hair spilling out beneath the band of his black baseball cap. He stopped a few inches away, looming over Danny, his face crimson with latent anger.
‘You deaf? When I say stop, you stop. Get me?’
‘Sorry, bruv.’
The enforcer studied Danny like an insect, the nostrils of his boxer’s nose flaring. Danny lowered his eyes, noticing the fingers that flexed around the handle of a thick black baton dangling from the enforcer’s belt. He was sure the man wouldn’t need much excuse to use it.
