Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set

by Phillip Strang

  ***

  Seamus Gilligan felt a new man as he walked off the boat and onto Irish soil in Rosslare, County Wexford.

  An Irishman is not an Irishman unless he is on Irish soil, he thought. It’s good to be home. It will get better from here and no more gambling.

  His optimism was to be short-lived. He had phoned his mother, spun a story about taking some extended leave, reevaluating his options and she, the ever dutiful mother, had believed him. He had not seen that eyes were watching him, in fact too many eyes. Faisal Aslam had his people there, as well as Isaac Cook and Ed Pickles, who had taken a late afternoon flight out of Heathrow They all clearly saw Gilligan as he exited the port area.

  Paddy O’Flynn was an old-style policeman, same as Ed Pickles. A member of Garda, the Irish police force, for thirty plus years and close to retirement, he looked forward to a quieter life. He was even taller than Isaac Cook, with a downbeat sense of humour, a strong Irish accent, and a love of Guinness. He had a full moustache hanging over his upper lip, complemented by a set of shiny white teeth.

  ‘Just got them the other day. They’re false, you wouldn’t know it,’ he proudly declared as he introduced himself.

  ‘Please to meet you, Detective O’Flynn,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Paddy’s the name, policing’s the game. We’re not too formal here.’

  ‘I’m Isaac and Ed, you know.’

  ‘Ed, of course, I could tell you a thing or two about the capers we got up to. The villains we chased, caught a few, but they were real slippery. Same as this guy, I suppose.’

  ‘No, he’s not slippery, but those that are after him are,’ Isaac said.

  ‘You mean those two guys staking him out down to the left of us, about one hundred metres?’ Paddy replied.

  ‘I never saw them,’ Isaac commented.

  ‘You would have if you had spent a few years manning the border with Northern Ireland, watching out for the IRA going in and out.’

  ‘Must have been tough?’ Isaac said.

  ‘It was. About the same as you’ve got it back in England now,’ Paddy said.

  ‘We could do with you over there,’ said Isaac. ‘Interested?’

  ‘Me? Not a chance,’ replied Paddy. ‘I’ve done my spell chasing villains, been shot a few times, lucky to be standing here today. I’m not taking any more risks. I’ll leave it up to you younger men.’ He laughed. ‘Do you want me to grab them in the car?’

  ‘No, we don’t want them to know we’re on to them. Not yet anyway,’ Ed said.

  ‘How about Seamus Gilligan, can we pick him up?’ Paddy asked.

  ‘We certainly want him, but we don’t want the other side to know,’ Isaac said. ‘Can we make him disappear, at least to those following him, and then pick him up later? If they know we’re onto them, their organisation will go further underground. We want the person controlling them. Those in the car are just the rank and file. They’re of little use to us.’

  ‘Disappear?’ said Paddy. ‘I’m sure we can arrange that. We’ll put a tail on those following him, let them move freely for now.’

  ‘That’s exactly what we want. Maybe a car accident and then we can take our Mr Gilligan in for a little chat,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Consider it done,’ Paddy said. ‘Let’s have a drink. It’ll be a few hours before there are any developments and there’s nothing to do until then.’

  Neither Abbas nor Abu were proficient drivers. Abu had passed his test two weeks earlier and now he was trying keep up with a little old lady, Seamus Gilligan’s mother, who drove as if there was no tomorrow.

  ‘Keep up Abu, or we’ll answer to the Master,’ said Abbas.

  ‘I’m trying, but we’re in this clapped-out heap and she’s got a new Ford Focus. Plus it’s been raining and the roads are slippery,’ Abu responded. He had been born in Ireland, spoke with the accent of an Irishman, even when speaking in the tongue of his forefathers.

  He had been disadvantaged by a system that was prejudiced against him and his friends. It was nothing to do with lack of education, or poor attendance at school ‒ it was all to do with the Irish hatred of Islam. That’s what their Mullah had told them - it was a common theme in the conversion of the disillusioned, and both he and Abbas believed him implicitly. They had joined the cause with fervour some months earlier and this was their first assignment. There had been a training camp in the Middle East where they had received some instructions, mainly in surveillance, very little with weapons, which had been their primary interest.

  ‘We need people who can go undercover, blend in with the infidels. Men with guns, we’ve got plenty.’ Their instructor was a battle-hardened warrior who had been in the front line as ISIL had cut a swathe through Iraq and Syria and then Turkey, until they were now placed within striking distance of Europe. There were a hundred thousand Western troops on the European side of the Bosporus, but they were only small in number compared to the Islamic State and their three hundred and fifty thousand, and they were toughened in combat and ready to fight.

  Abu failed to see the Toyota Landcruiser that pulled out rapidly from a side road.

  ‘What the hell, stupid woman driver!’ he shouted, but the brakes on his old car barely worked. He hit the rear side of the offending vehicle fair and square. His vehicle was un-drivable, the Landcruiser barely a scratch.

  ‘I’m so sorry. It was my fault,’ said the attractive, middle-aged mother, who promptly exited the four-wheel drive vehicle. ‘I was late picking my son up from school, you know how it is? I just wasn’t paying attention. Give me your details, my insurance company will pay. It’ll cost you nothing,’ she added nervously, feeling guilty as a result of her bad driving.

  ‘You stupid fucking woman!’ Abu, who had a limited vocabulary, and an ardent disrespect for women, used the only words he could. ‘It’s getting home I want, not standing here by the side of the road arguing with a woman. I’d ban you all from the road if it were up to me.’

  ‘Abu,’ Abbas pulled him to one side, ‘the time is coming. For now we need to follow the other car.’

  ‘Okay,’ Abu said, looking at the lady, ‘give me your phone number and I’ll contact you in the next day or so.’ With that, Abu and Abbas walked quickly up the road looking for a car to steal. They had learnt how to do it in training. They wouldn’t be successful. Their arrest for driving a stolen car wouldn’t be suspicious.

  ‘Congratulations, job well done,’ Paddy said on his mobile, while downing his third Guinness. Sergeant Penny O’Hearne had accomplished her task.

  ‘We’ve got a few hours and there’s a tail on the mother’s car, she’ll not see it. We’ve got time for another Guinness,’ Paddy said to Isaac and Ed.

  ‘It’s a long way,’ Isaac said, almost pleading to get out of the pub. ‘It must be three hundred kilometres.’

  ‘Closer to four,’ said Paddy. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve got a helicopter. We’re civilised over here, take us a couple of hours and a pick-up five kilometres from the mother’s cottage. It’s all arranged.’

  Khalid and Mustafa were enjoying the delights of Ireland as well, not from the comfort of a warm bar with a pint of Guinness, but from a hilltop overlooking Gilligan’s destination.

  ‘The fools have been arrested. It’s up to you two,’ Faisal Aslam said on the phone to them.

  ‘What happened?’ Khalid asked.

  ‘They had an accident and then tried to steal a car. That’s the problem, we’re forced to use idiots.’

  ‘We will not fail, Master. What is it you wish us to do?’

  ‘Kill Gilligan and get back here as fast as you can.’

  ‘The mother, what do we do about her?’ Khalid asked. ‘She’ll be close by.’

  ‘I don’t want witnesses,’ said Faisal Aslam. ‘Martyr her to her God if you have no option. Make sure you’re not seen.’

  Khalid and Mustafa were good at concealment, but they weren’t as good as Aileen and Brian O’Garrity, Donegal Garda, constable and senior constable resp
ectively and a married couple when off duty. They were pretending to be a courting couple out on the downs for a pleasant day of walking and kissing and cuddling. The two part-time wrestlers had seen them, discounted them as a couple of promiscuous locals looking for a quiet spot.

  ***

  It was dark by the time the Ford Focus drew into the driveway that led up to the cottage owned by Seamus Gilligan’s mother. Standing alone and partially hidden from the road, it had been easy for Mustafa to slip up close and enter in the unlocked back door after she had let the cat out.

  ‘If I don’t let him out, he’ll only scratch the furniture,’ she said.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Mum,’ Seamus said.

  ‘It’s good to see you, too. I only hope you know what you’re doing.’ His mother, ever concerned, knew of his weaknesses.

  ‘I do. A career change will do me good. You don’t know how hard it is looking after the garbage of society in Belmarsh. They’re really the dregs. Kill their own grandmother for a cigarette, some of them would.’

  ‘Yes,’ his mother said. As with all mothers, especially Irish, she could not resist offering advice, ‘but you had the possibility of promotion. You could have bought a little cottage back here in time. Mind you, this will be yours when I’m gone, which won’t be too long.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that. You know it only upsets me,’ Seamus said.

  ‘Well, if you came here more often, then I wouldn’t need to say it.’

  ‘But I’m here now. Let’s not talk about death and such morbid subjects.’

  ‘What would you like to eat, your favourite?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, a good meat pie would be great. Do you have one made?’ His mother’s meat pies were famous, even won prizes at the local church fete.

  ‘I made one special for you just yesterday.’

  The O’Garritys, newlyweds, only five months, had been distracted for fifteen minutes. A car, a cosy environment and with not much happening, they had turned to some harmless lovemaking. It had been harmless to them, but harmful for Seamus Gilligan and his mother. The amorous couple had failed to see the figure creeping along behind an old fence close to the cottage five minutes earlier.

  ‘Are they still there?’ Aileen asked at the conclusion of their romantic interlude.

  ‘Yes, I can see the occasional lit end of a cigarette. They’re still there,’ Brian replied.

  ‘What about Gilligan and his mother?’ she asked.

  ‘In the front room from what I can see. Just talking and watching television, although it’s hard to see from this distance.’

  The three Guinness drinkers, even Isaac had drunk more than normal, were waiting down the road. It was not five kilometres, more like ten, but it was a still night and there had been the possibility that a helicopter’s engine may have been heard if they had landed any closer.

  ‘Do we know who they are?’ Isaac asked referring to the Islamic State persons sitting up on the hill overlooking the mother’s farm.

  ‘None at all,’ said Paddy. ‘We can’t go closer, otherwise our cover is blown.’ He was sitting close to a fire in the local pub, but no drinks this time. He was on police business and drink and policing didn’t work, not in his books anyway.

  ‘Then how do we get Gilligan?’ Ed asked.

  ‘That’s the question. They can’t stay there forever. We’ll just have to wait them out,’ Paddy said, although the wait was not to be for much longer.

  Mustafa had chosen his moment, and this time it was not to be a knife. Faisal Aslam had ensured he had a Beretta 92FS pistol with a suppressor mounted on the front. He’d have preferred a knife, but he had to ensure clean, single shots to each of the persons. Slowly, he opened the door to the main room and entered.

  Seamus Gilligan was quickly on his feet.

  ‘What the hell …’ He fell quickly with a bullet to the chest, just low of the heart. Mustafa had failed to compensate for the weight of the suppressor.

  The mother froze in the comfy chair that she always sat in, if she could get the cat to move.

  ‘What have you…’ His shot was better this time, a static target and he had made a mental adjustment. Both were on the ground, both were dead, but it had been drummed into him to always finish the job with one bullet firmly in the temple of the head. He remembered his training and executed the final shots.

  ‘My God, there’s been a shooting,’ Aileen screamed. ‘We’ve got to get down there.’

  ‘Remember our instructions, maintain cover at all costs,’ her husband, now Senior Constable Brian O’Garrity, said.

  ‘That doesn’t apply now. We’ve got to see if we can help,’ Constable Aileen O’Garrity replied.

  ‘It still applies. I’ll make a phone call, get some advice.’

  ‘Detective O’Flynn, there’s been a shooting.’ Brian O’Garrity made the difficult phone call to his boss.

  ‘Where are you?’ Paddy O’Flynn asked.

  ‘We’re still undercover. We haven’t moved,’ O’Garrity replied.

  ‘Then don’t move. Just stay where you are, and whatever you do, don’t break cover.’

  ‘The vehicle up from us, it’s on the move. Will you deal with it?’

  ‘We’ll follow it. Once we know it’s clear you can check out the farmhouse.’

  ‘They may still be alive,’ Constable O’Garrity said to her husband.

  ‘No, they’re dead.’ Paddy O’Flynn had heard her voice over Brian O’Garrity’s phone. ‘As long as your cover is intact, then nothing’s lost.’

  ‘Apart from two lives, that is,’ Brian O’Garrity said, more for the benefit of his wife than for Paddy O’Flynn.

  ‘Sorry to sound callous,’ Paddy said, ‘but we’re playing for big stakes here.’

  ‘Okay, maybe we don’t know the whole story. We’ll not move until you give us the all clear,’ Brian O’Garrity confirmed.

  ‘Fine, now let me get on with following the car.’ Paddy ended the phone conversation and turned to the two detectives from Counter Terrorism Command.

  ‘Isaac, Ed, bad news. It’s fairly certain that Gilligan and his mother are dead.’

  ‘We’ll deal with the how later,’ said Isaac. He saw no reason to conduct an investigation. It had gone wrong, time to move on. ‘We need to follow the car.’

  ‘We’re on to it. They’ll not give us the slip,’ Paddy replied.

  ‘I hope not. One cock-up a night is enough,’ Isaac replied. ‘Gilligan may have known something, but now we’ll never know. We need to get back to London. And remember, we need to know who is in the car, where they headed. Don’t pick them up.’

  ‘Once the assassin’s car is clear, I’ll get you a ride to Belfast. No trouble with flights from there,’ Paddy said.

  Faisal Aslam did not share Isaac Cook’s disappointment. He was elated and he thanked Khalid and Mustafa profusely.

  ‘Allah be praised. Were you seen?’

  ‘Master, no one saw us. It was most satisfying,’ Mustafa answered.

  ‘Get back here as soon as possible,’ Faisal Aslam said. ‘Our plans are moving forward.’

  Chapter 9

  Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin had seen some benefits as a result of the earlier visit of Bill Gardner, their boss, the Director of the Office of National Statistics. They had been relocated from the glorified broom cupboard and moved to a better office. Equipped with new laptops and as many paper clips as they wanted, it was still missing one vital component, inspiration.

  ‘How do we apply statistical analysis to terrorism?’ Frederick Vane asked on Bill Gardner’s return visit.

  ‘We’re not sure how to go about this,’ Andrew Martin added.

  ‘You’re the boffins, the whiz-kids. We’re looking to you for answers,’ Gardner replied brusquely.

  ‘Who’s implied by the “We”? Any names?’ Andrew Martin asked.

  Bill Gardner, who had a bombastic style of talking down to his subordinates, replied. ‘I’m not told everything. I’d
make a fair guess at the government, MI5, MI6, Counter Terrorism Command, but mainly Counter Terrorism Command. At least, that’s who I gave your names to. They’re all confused as to where this is heading. They’re clutching at straws and you two are the straws.’

  ‘It a tough one,’ Frederick Vane said.

  ‘I know it’s tough, but I’ve total confidence that you’ll come up with a solution,’ said Bill Gardner. ‘Whether they’ll be willing to act on your recommendations is another issue, but they’re desperate.’ With that, he turned around and walked out of the office.

  ‘He was remarkably cordial today,’ Andrew commented.

  ‘Of course he was,’ Frederick replied. ‘He wants something from us. You see how he ignored everyone in the corridor when he left.’

  ‘Any ideas as to what we can do here? Quite frankly, I am at a loss as to where to start.’

  ‘I’m the same as you. I suppose the best we can do is put some facts together and see where it leads us.’

  ‘He’ll be here tomorrow looking for something,’ said Andrew. ‘We better plan on a late night.’

  It was two in the morning before the more salient facts were in place. There were no conclusions, but that would wait for the morning.

  ‘What do we have?’ Frederick asked over an early morning cup of tea in the office canteen.

  It was Andrew who summated what they had agreed on the night before. ‘Firstly, the Islamic State acts with impunity, and will continue to do so while this country is dogmatically held rigid with political correctness, excessive bureaucracy and restricted budgets. We, I mean the government, are letting them call the tune.’

  ‘Is that what we are saying?’ Frederick went over what they had discussed. ‘That we throw out what this country has cherished, what forms our stability, and act as they do?’

  ‘If we want to defeat them.’