It was of little consolation to Andrew. He wanted to get straight on a plane to New Zealand where his wife was. However, within a few days he saw the rationale of Isaac’s statement and decided to continue with his work.
***
Sara Styles was spending a few days in London visiting friends. At least, that was what she had told her deceased husband’s parents. They offered to drive her up, but she had declined. It was not friends. It was her father and Durrani, the bomb maker. There were preparations to be made for the reception at Downing Street.
‘A suicide bomb will not get past the security,’ Durrani explained.
‘Then how will the plan be executed?’ she asked.
‘It has to be poison,’ Durrani said.
‘Will it be effective?’
‘Yes, you only need to scratch the target with the point of the needle and then yourself.’
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Its technical name is Batrachotoxin.’ Durrani had trouble pronouncing the word.
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ Sara said.
‘You’ve heard of the poison dart frog?’ he asked.
‘What the Indians use in South America?’
‘That’s what it is, although it’s not the frog that produces it,’ said Durrani. ‘It’s what they eat, a beetle, that produces the poison.’
‘Where can you buy that?’ she asked.
‘It’s not difficult to purchase, but we obtained it from a supplier in India, less questions asked.’
‘Is death instantaneous?’
‘Death occurs within ten minutes, paralysis almost immediate. There’s no way that they will be able to administer an antidote – there isn’t one.’
‘Is it safe for me to take now?’ Sara asked.
‘Haji will bring it to you.’ Durrani still had some work to do to ensure concealment.
For the few remaining days in London, Sara devoted herself to prayer and discussions with her father. Her faith had been shaken since the death of Ray Styles and the time spent with his parents had been therapeutic. She realised that her only hope of salvation was death. Whether it could be called martyrdom or cowardice she could not be sure, although it seemed more like cowardice to her.
***
Andrew Martin had only allowed himself four days before returning to the office that he had shared with Frederick Vane. It was there that he updated Isaac Cook with the situation.
‘Isaac, both Frederick and I believe that there is to be a terrorist attack at Downing Street.’
‘How and when? What do you have?’
‘What I am about to tell you presents some complications. ’Andrew Martin realised clearly that he needed to take the black policeman into his confidence. If Isaac Cook acted as a policeman it would not bode well for the country. He hoped to be able to speak to him as a rational member of the public, as a friend, as well as a friend of Anne Argento.
‘It’s best if you give it to me straight,’ Isaac said.
‘I need your word that you will not act on what I’m about to tell you without giving it at least two days’ evaluation,’ Andrew asked.
‘How can I?’ replied Isaac. ‘I’m a policeman. If it’s my duty to act, then I must.’
‘There are still a few days before you need to take any action.’
‘What do you want from me?’ Isaac asked. ‘I can’t just ignore any advice that you give me.’
‘Let me tell you this.’ Andrew attempted to clarify the seriousness of what he was about to reveal. ‘If you decide to act without thoroughly evaluating all the possible options, it may be that you will give the Islamic State the success that they garner.’
‘How can this be? I’m just one person. How can I affect such an outcome?’ Isaac asked.
‘Isaac, you have to allow the Islamic State to be successful this time,’ Andrew emphasised.
‘This makes no sense.’
‘Do I have your word?’ Andrew asked.
‘Okay, I will wait two days before acting on what you tell me,’ Isaac replied.
It was ten minutes later, when both had sat down in the confines of the office, that Andrew attempted to explain his and Frederick Vane’s analysis and the reason why Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook of Counter Terrorism Command must not act on what he was about to reveal. He could have kept it to himself, but it was imperative that Isaac assisted in at least preventing the accidental death of one person, while ignoring the death of another. It was critical that Isaac Cook assisted.
‘The Prime Minister is targeted for assassination.’ Andrew Martin revealed the first detail.
‘And you want me to let this happen?’ Isaac responded with some alarm.
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I expect you to do.’
‘Andrew, are you mad?’
‘Frederick and I are analysts, scientists, whose sole function was to look out of the box, to weigh up all the possibilities, the options.’
‘You expect me to ignore my duty?’
‘Don’t you understand?’ Andrew continued with his explanation. ‘This one action will polarise the population. It will give the necessary support for the one person who can save this country.’
‘You mean Anne Argento?’ Isaac asked.
‘Who else is there? The Prime Minister is too soft. The task is beyond him,’ Andrew said.
‘I agree,’ Isaac said. ‘But to allow his death?’
‘It must happen. This will give the universal support that Anne Argento needs to enact the necessary legislation.’
‘And you believe that this will result if the Prime Minister dies?’ Isaac asked.
‘Yes, I do,’ Andrew stated clearly.
‘But how? A suicide bomber?’
‘Not this time. The Islamic State is only planning one death and they’re about to make a tactical error.’
‘What do you mean?’ Isaac asked.
‘They believe that the Prime Minister’s assassination will demoralise the nation, and they are correct. But they’ve failed to take into account who will replace him.’
‘Aren’t they aware of Anne Argento and her toughness to resolve the situation?’ Isaac asked.
‘They’re no doubt aware, but their arrogance fails to believe that a woman would be able to act against them as well as a man. They’ve devalued her importance.’
‘Assuming I agreed, what do you want from me?’ Isaac was willing to concede the point, to give it careful consideration.
‘I want you to make sure that Anne Argento does not attend the reception at Downing Street for the relatives of the Ambush’s crew.’
‘Is that when it will happen?’ Isaac asked.
‘It’s almost certain.’
‘What makes you so certain?’ Isaac asked.
‘Because I know who will be the assassin,’ Andrew said.
‘Hell, how do you know that?’
‘It’s through pure analysis and the assistance of one of your colleagues.’
‘How many people are going to die?’ Isaac asked.
‘Two, maybe three.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Firstly,’ Andrew explained, ‘it will be impossible to take in explosives. Secondly, the Islamic State wishes to make a statement.’
‘What kind of statement?’
‘That no one is safe, from the highest to the lowest in the country. And that no location, however secure, is excluded.’
‘They could get into Buckingham Palace?’ Isaac asked.
‘In time, they could get into anywhere, assassinate anyone.’
‘I’ll take the two days to consider as I promised.’ It was too much for Isaac Cook to digest, to form an opinion, and to decide whether he would accede to Andrew Martin’s request.
‘Maybe run it past your friend?’ said Andrew. ‘Make sure you hypothesise, though. Don’t give any details.’
‘Which friend is that?’ Isaac asked.
‘You know to whom I’m referring.’
***
Yasser Lahham considered his options. His worth to the Islamic State was proven, yet he remained purely as their technical expert. It was clear to him that the fight needed to be taken to another level. It was not another bombing that was required. It was a complete breakdown in the infrastructure that controlled the country. His admiration for the Master had turned to derision after he had failed to secure his daughter, the beautiful Sara, for him as a wife.
Women are chattel in the Islamic State, he thought. Their opinion on matters of marriage is of no concern. It is for the father to tell the female and for the female to obey.
Lahham saw that the Master was weak when he needed to be strong, violent when he needed to be subtle, soft-minded with his daughter when he should have commanded. He was determined to ensure that the Master was replaced, and it was he who was to be his replacement.
He needed allies, but who could he trust. There was Haji, but he was a devious old man who would run to the Master. There were Khalid and Mustafa, but they were basically thugs who revelled in the violence, not the philosophy, of the cause, and then there was Shafi, but he had been conditioned to serve the Master and the Islamic State after some persuasive tactics by the thugs.
He knew what he wanted, yet he still did not have the solution. And there was still that bitch, Diana, who had run out on him. He would have her back and then she would be subservient to his every need, or else he would beat some sense into her. It was not violence he condoned but, in her case, it was justifiable.
‘Shafi, what the Master had done to you was not right,’ Yasser Lahham said in the relative sanctity of a small Egyptian restaurant located close to Canary Wharf.
‘It was for my benefit.’ Shafi was still strongly conditioned, but the urge for a woman or two troubled him.
‘I would not impose such strong discipline on you as long as you served the Islamic State,’ said Lahham.
‘Thank you, Prof.’
‘Here I am not the Prof.’ There was bitterness in Yasser Lahham’s voice. ‘Here I am just the person who fixes the computers, hacks the networks. In Belmarsh, I had respect, here I have none.’
‘You don’t want to go back?’ Shafi was confused by Yasser’s conversation.
‘No, of course not, but I want to be respected.’
‘You have my respect,’ said Shafi. ‘You’re a genius, everyone knows that.’
‘They may know it, but it does not come with the respect that I require. Will you support me?’
‘Support you in what?’ Shafi asked.
‘If I gained some more importance around here,’ Yasser Lahham said.
‘Yes, why not?’ Shafi replied.
It seemed clear to Lahham that he needed to weaken the conditioning of Shafi. He would need to defuse the hold of the Master over Shafi. It would need a whore.
Edgware Road was a location where Shafi had always felt comfortable. It was neither attractive nor desirable and was largely avoided by large sections of Londoners as a place full of extremists, undesirables, drug dealers, and whores. It was here that Yasser Lahham brought Shafi one Saturday afternoon. It was here that a couple of nubile Ukrainian tarts laid Shafi. It was here that the first break in Shafi’s conditioning appeared.
‘That was great.’ Shafi smiled at the conclusion of his amorous adventure.
‘Remember, it’s only because we were fellow inmates in Belmarsh,’ said Lahham. ‘Don’t let the Master know. And remember to take that smirk off your face.’
‘Prof, don’t worry about me. I’ll not let on.’
Chapter 27
The Crooked Billet pub, two streets from Wimbledon Common, was located in Anne Argento’s electorate. Bob Clarke had been the publican for the last fifteen years and the Deputy Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, requesting a private room at the back of the building, neither concerned nor gave him any reason for curiosity.
The sight of a tall, good-looking black man entering the room made him question for a moment the reason as to why Anne Argento was meeting him alone, but the publican’s discretion was assured. He had great respect for the local Member of Parliament and regarded her as a friend. Never would he indulge in idle gossip at her expense.
‘Isaac, it’s good to see you again.’
‘Deputy Prime Minister, it’s always good to see you. You know that?’
‘Call me Anne, we’re alone. Remember our agreement?’
‘Yes, Anne,’ Isaac Cook acquiesced.
‘You set up our meeting here today. What do you want to talk about?’ Anne asked.
‘I’ve a dilemma.’ Isaac gingerly approached the subject.
‘What sort of a dilemma?’
‘It’s a conflict between my duty as a policeman and my responsibility as a citizen of this country,’ he said.
‘Can there be a conflict?’ she asked.
‘In this case, I believe there is.’
‘Do you want my advice as a politician or as a friend?’
‘As a friend you can be impartial,’ Isaac said. ‘As a politician, you may be drawn between two loyalties.’
‘This sounds involved. Let’s order some food and drinks and then you can tell me as a friend.’
‘Fine, but you will need to be more circumspect when you answer as a politician,’ Isaac replied.
Anne ordered the sea bass, Isaac, the grilled sirloin. Three bottles of Pinot Noir, Domaine Le Grange Le Haut, France, 2013 would be consumed before the evening concluded.
‘There is an event occurring in the near future that will polarise this country.’ Isaac sipped on his wine as he addressed the reason for meeting the Deputy Prime Minister.
‘What sort of event?’ she asked.
‘If I prevent this, then the polarisation will not occur and the inevitable outcome will be detrimental to this country.’
‘How can upholding the law be the wrong action?’ she asked. She lowered her voice. ‘I’m assuming this is related to the Islamic State?’
‘Yes, I must let them succeed.’
‘Casualties? How many casualties are we talking about here?’ she asked.
‘It should only be one,’ he replied.
‘But you’re not sure?’
‘Not totally, but that’s where the analysis is heading.’
‘Vane and Martin?’ Anne asked.
‘Yes, at least it is from Andrew Martin. Frederick Vane was killed the other day.’
‘Yes, I forgot,’ Anne replied.
‘They’ve proved remarkably accurate before. There’s no reason to believe they aren’t this time, especially as Andrew Martin knows who the assassin is.’
‘He told you?’ she asked.
‘No, I didn’t ask.’
‘Why not?’
‘I need to decide on a course of action first. If I have a name, then I’ll be obliged to put that person under surveillance, maybe bring them in.’
‘Will Andrew Martin give you the name, the details if you ask?’
‘He said for me to give him my answer in two days, that’s tomorrow, and he would abide by my decision.’
‘As a friend, I would say follow what you think is right,’ Anne said.
‘And as a politician?’ Isaac asked.
‘I would say the good of the nation overrides the safety of one person, although officially I would deny such a statement.’
‘I’ve spoken in a roundabout manner without being too precise,’ Isaac said. ‘You’ve not asked for details.’
‘Isaac, nor will I. You must do what is best for the country. The Islamic State is too well-developed, too influential in the destruction of this nation. If Andrew Martin’s analysis is correct, and you both believe that you must act in a certain manner, then do so.’
‘And when I ask you, Anne, to not go somewhere, you will take my advice?’
‘Isaac, I trust you implicitly.’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’
‘Not yet, at least.’
‘It soon will be?’ Isaac said.
‘Is that Andrew Martin’s analysis again?’
‘No, my personal belief,’ Isaac said.
‘And mine too,’ she said. ‘And you’re still my celebratory reward.’
‘I’ll not be able to refuse a directive from the Prime Minister, will I?’ Isaac laughed as he relaxed at a positive response from Anne Argento that allowed him to make the only decision he could.
‘Not unless you want to end up in the Tower of London.’ Anne Argento smiled as she kissed him.
***
Clifford Bell had seen the figures. His approval rating had shot up ten points. Questioned by the media about his handling of the terrorist situation in the country, he would proudly raise his increased popularity as an indication that the people of the United Kingdom were behind him and that they understood that his steady-as-you-go approach was yielding results.
It was an old politician’s ploy – acclaim the ratings when they were in your favour, ridicule them when they were not. His approval ratings were not as a result of him, but the British voting public supporting someone when his place of work, the Houses of Parliament, had been attacked. The police were also noting a higher appreciation from the general public after the attack at New Scotland Yard, while the Church was reporting higher church attendances throughout the country after its brush with the Islamic State.
Shannon Entwhistle, a numbers man from the Prime Minister’s previous election winning team, was now his principal adviser. Even Clifford Bell would admit that he was not as good as Rohan Jones, but Entwhistle spoke the words the PM wanted to hear and gave him the loyalty he required.
The new adviser had a history of taking on desperate members of the party facing electoral defeat and easing them through to a win in a by-election when their case had seen hopeless. He was not averse to digging up the dirt on any candidate who showed the promise of unseating the person he was supporting. It was never an open criticism, a defined statement. It was subtle, whispered in the ear of a sympathetic member of the media and then loosely mentioned as an aspersion in the newspapers and on the television.
It was clear that Anne Argento would benefit from some dirt-throwing and she was an easy person to dig up the dirt on.
Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set Page 66
