PLEDGE OF HONOR: A Mark Cole Thriller

by J. T. Brannan

  PLEDGE OF HONOR

  J.T. Brannan

  Copyright © J.T. Brannan 2015

  For Justyna, Jakub and Mia;

  and my parents, for their help and support

  ‘Terrorism is what we call the violence of the weak, and we condemn it; war is what we call the violence of the strong, and we glorify it.’

  - Sydney J. Harris

  ‘Fighting terrorism is like being a goalkeeper. You can make a hundred brilliant saves but the only shot that people remember is the one that gets past you.’

  - Paul Wilkinson

  PROLOGUE

  1

  The rain was pouring again, just one more reason why Aabid Karam hated his country. Did the sun ever shine in Britain? And yet as he continued his walk through the city of London, he had to admit that he did have mixed feelings about the place.

  He watched the cold, black waters of the Thames flowing beneath him from his position halfway across Westminster Bridge, jostled even at this late hour by the crowds. Late hour? He checked his watch, read the luminous dial. It was more like early, morning already. Three a.m., and still the pleasure-seekers were out, the idolaters, the heathen, the hated infidel. Human scum, ready to be cleansed from the earth – if it was the will of Allah.

  Across the water he could see the symbols of Western corruption. The clock tower of Big Ben – and why was British time the standard, why not that of Mecca? – rose high above the Houses of Parliament, the seat of the British government, a government that was a mere lapdog to the Great Satan that was America. It was here that the wars against Karam’s people had been planned, voted on, ordered. Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria and more – tens of thousands of his people killed or maimed, and for what? For a sickening, greedy capitalist system given quasi-religious approval by the weak and toothless Church of England; and Karam’s eyes then took in the illuminated spires of Westminster Abbey rising beyond, with a mixture of hatred and pity.

  Pity because it was all going to come crashing down. Capitalism, the dream of London, the blood-drenched crimes of the West.

  It was then that Karam noticed that the same two young men that had brushed past him earlier were about to do so again; and there were another four similar-looking types working off different angles. Pickpockets, probably from Romania – they were the best, the most professional. Karam knew they could work the bridge right under the eyes of the police and not get caught.

  Karam turned to the two men, let them know he’d seen them, and no sooner had eye contact been made than the young criminals turned and walked quickly away. Karam’s eyes narrowed. Had they been scared? They’d looked it, just taken one look at him and hightailed it out of there.

  Why?

  When Karam realized, he couldn’t help but smile.

  It was because they’d seen death in his eyes, known that he was a man unafraid to die, prepared to die, to die – and to kill – in order to protect and save what he loved.

  As the young men joined their colleagues and spoke urgently to them, eyes racing over to him and then furtively away, Karam knew it was time to move on.

  Those men knew exactly what Karam was, and what he was capable of.

  And within the next few hours, the whole of London – perhaps the whole world, God willing – would know it too.

  2

  Osman Massoud looked around the mosque for Karam. Where was he? Ibrahim Nasrallah was there, praying with his brothers and sisters. But Karam was nowhere to be seen.

  Could he be having second thoughts? The possibility chilled Massoud somewhat; the plan called for a minimum of three people. But he couldn’t believe that Karam would fail to go through with it; he was as committed as the rest of them.

  More probably, he was out wandering the streets of London, wishing it goodbye one last time. He was committed, but still somewhat affected by western nostalgia.

  It was just after six in the morning, dawn still over an hour away, and Massoud felt relieved to have made his final Salat al-fajr prayers at the mosque; it was unlikely in the extreme that he would make Salat al-zuhr at midday.

  ‘Are you coming for lunch today?’ the voice came from behind him, and he turned to see his father stood there.

  Lunch with his family – a tradition that stretched back as far as he could remember. He no longer lived with his parents, although he was not yet married; unusual in such an environment, but Massoud and his two friends rented a flat, which they used as an informal Islamic study center, and the implied piousness of the move had placated his family. But he always went home for lunch, the factory at which he worked being close by; close enough for him to leave, eat and return within the hour.

  He’d been small once, had feared his father, hated the firebrand style of Islam that he followed; ultra-strict and without mercy. He had rebelled against it, especially in his early teens; been caught, punished, beaten.

  He had hated his father, hated his family; hated Islam itself, Allah forgive him.

  But then he had met others, learnt of their actions through the wonders of the world wide web; been inspired, filled with the glorious sight of what it meant to be a true soldier of the Lord, and had repented, changed his ways.

  He no longer hated his father, but was no longer scared of the man either. His father was weak, espousing empty platitudes about his religion without having the courage to back it up with action. He was a man of words, not deeds.

  But the family unit was important to men of faith, and so Massoud continued to play his role well, to attend family dinners, listen to the ravings of his father, and keep his own plans secret and hidden; after all, his family would all know, soon enough.

  He looked across to Nasrallah, who nodded his head imperceptibly. The corners of Massoud’s mouth curled up into a half-smile as he acknowledged his friend and comrade-in-arms, and then he turned back to his father.

  ‘Lunch?’ he said. ‘Of course. You know I would never miss it.’

  But Massoud knew that he would never make it there, would never share a meal with his family again.

  Because he had other plans today, plans that would ensure his name would be remembered for all time as a glorious martyr for Allah, and for all of Islam.

  3

  Helen Ranson sipped at her espresso, savoring the intense flavors, feeling the caffeine going to work on her nervous system, helping to prepare her for another day at work. She was the principal of East Lane Primary School in the northwest London borough of Brent, close to the world famous landmark of Wembley Stadium. It was a large, multi-ethnic community school for children aged from four to twelve, nearly a thousand of them – some angels, some devils. But Ranson well knew that any of them could be an angel, and any of them a devil, depending on the season, the day, the hour. Her job was to guide them in the right direction, to make the right choices, and she knew she was doing it right.

  But the job was sometimes difficult, and often it had nothing at all to do with the children. The coffee machine in the staff room was a case in point. It was top of the range, churning out dozens – perhaps hundreds – of cups a day for her teachers and staff. But it was expensive, which had angered some of the parents, who claimed that the money was better spent on facilities for their kids. The fact that Ranson had actually bought the machine – and kept it stocked – with her own money didn’t seem to dampen the response at all. Indeed, the fact was all but ignored. The local paper was even about to write up a piece, until Ranson explained that no public money had been used.

  It had all been forgotten in the end; but to Ranson, the machine always served as a reminder of how it was the unexpected, minor little things that were often the hardest to deal with in this line of
work. Education was only the half of it.

  The school day was getting close to starting now, and it was barely light outside, the rain clouds covering the sun and creating an enclosed, menacing atmosphere. As the rain pounded on the windows of her office, she wondered what sort of effect it would have on the children.

  She was hosting an assembly for the two eldest year groups in the auditorium first thing, and she would soon find out.

  She sighed, and put the cup back on her desk.

  She hoped it would be a good day.

  4

  It was daytime now, but Ibrahim Nasrallah considered the fact that it wasn’t much lighter than it had been during fajr, hours earlier.

  His friends and comrades were both here now, back in their shared apartment. Massoud had followed from the mosque, and Karam had turned up twenty minutes later, having prayed at another center a few miles south. He’d been wandering the streets of London one last time, and while Nasrallah hadn’t wanted to do so himself, he had understood why Karam had done it.

  He was saying goodbye.

  There was no talk between the three young men now; the time for that had well and truly passed, and they all knew that now it was time for action. Save the talk for the politicians and the media, Nasrallah decided; that was what they were best at and the coming days would give them plenty to discuss, he was sure.

  They were ready now, their equipment spread across the kitchen table around which they sat. Everything was double-checked, triple-checked. All in good order, all ready to go. Ready to be used.

  He let his mind wander, to envisage what might happen over the next few hours. Timings, locations, movements, tactics, outcomes. It would be terrible, frightening, horrific . . . and, if Allah so willed it, absolutely glorious.

  The choice of mission would seem abhorrent to some, he knew, but for Nasrallah it made perfect sense. Wasn’t it his job, and that of his friends, to cause terror? And in today’s world, almost inured as it was to the constant presence of such attacks, something new – something worse – was needed.

  Although they wanted to create terror in the population, within the government, they were not involved in terrorism. It was asymmetric warfare, nothing more. The UK defense budget was over a hundred billion dollars, that of the United States over three quarters of a trillion. The entire gross domestic product of Afghanistan was only twenty billion dollars, and so how could wars be fought fairly? It wasn’t Nasrallah’s people who were at fault, it was the western superpowers – bullying and tyrannical, then hypocritically castigating their enemies when they were forced to fight back in the only way they could.

  It made Nasrallah and his brothers sick to their collective stomachs to hear the politicians drone on and one about the danger of terrorism, when the facts should be able to speak for themselves – hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians across the Islamic world had been killed by US forces and their allies, in stark contrast to the damage done the other way round, which was hardly any at all. More US citizens were killed by lightning strikes than by terrorist attacks in any typical year; and yet the propaganda machine routinely skewed the figures to present a danger that simply wasn’t there, in order to justify a string of illegal wars. And why? Nasrallah believed the answer was simple – ethnic cleansing and genocide, an attempt by the white Christian western world to eradicate its historical Muslim enemies once and for all. That, and to rape and plunder their lands for their immense reserves of natural resources.

  Nasrallah’s people were being killed, wiped off the face of the earth, and he should stand still and take it? Accept it without fighting back, like so many of his brothers did? He shook his head. No. He would not accept it, not for one second. How could he? How could anyone?

  And so although his actions today might horrify people, he knew within his heart that it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do.

  It was asymmetric warfare, he told himself again, not terrorism.

  Not terrorism.

  5

  McKenna Ross looked up from her paperwork as the children started to file into her classroom, most drenched to the skin from their walk to school and complaining loudly about it.

  ‘I’m soaking!’ Maycie Robbins said in her usual high-pitched tones.

  ‘I bet I’m more soaking!’ argued Alejandro Rocha, shaking the rain from his hair, splattering Maycie as he did so.

  ‘Hey!’ the little girl complained. ‘You did that on purpose!’

  Ross knew what was coming next. This class of five and six year olds – all forty-one of them – could be read like a book. ‘Miss!’ Maycie called. ‘Miss! Ali’s putting water on me!’

  Ross put her papers down and rose from her chair. Better she got up now, she figured; there would be a lot more of this before registration was over.

  ‘Cut it out, both of you,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing we can do about the rain, it falls on all of us just the same. Now why don’t both of you go and put your coats away and take a seat?’

  The children exchanged looks, then did as Ross suggested, retreating to the cloakroom to get rid of their things.

  The day would consist of this a lot, Ross knew; rainy days always made the children a little irritable. She’d been teaching for over two decades now, and it had never been any different. It had even been the same when she’d been a student herself, she supposed, although those days were now rather lost in the mists of time.

  She didn’t mind though; children were children, what could you do? It was part of her job, and she loved it. She always had. She loved the children too, even those who others found ‘difficult’. They were children too, just sometimes needed handling in a different way, that was all.

  But she loved every last one of them as if they were her own, members of an extended family that over so many years now ran into the hundreds, perhaps thousands.

  The long parade ended with Ben Yance, her teaching assistant, taking up the rear, making sure everyone made it into the classroom.

  ‘Just two short so far,’ he told her, ‘Kyle and Bethany.’

  Ross nodded her head; Bethany’s mother had already called in to let her know that the girl was ill and wouldn’t be in today. Kyle was never on time, and would surely turn up soon enough.

  ‘Okay Ben, thank you,’ Ross said, feeling sorry for the young man, who was as wet as the children after waiting for them in the playground. ‘Why don’t you go and get yourself a cup of tea from the staff room?’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Yance said with a smile. ‘Won’t be long.’

  He turned on his heel and left, leaving Ross to control the masses. She didn’t mind though.

  It was just another day, like so many before.

  6

  The rain was falling even more heavily now, and Karam saw that people’s heads were down, too busy with their own affairs, too busy trying to stay dry and warm, to pay any attention to the others around them.

  It was perfect.

  Karam, despite his eagerness, wasn’t walking fast; the weight of the bag strapped across his shoulders precluded it. He therefore strolled slowly through the residential streets of northwest London, letting the cold rain refresh and revive him.

  Prepare him.

  Osman and Ibrahim were also mobile now, approaching the target from different angles, all due to converge at the same time.

  Karam was longer interested in the streets of London that he now wandered; he had left the melancholy and nostalgia behind him earlier that morning. It was gone now altogether, the remnants of a past life, obliterated almost entirely.

  His mind now was on other things; his approach, his entry, his movements once inside.

  It had all been planned in meticulous detail, had even been practiced – as much as it could be, while needing to be covert – many times over the past weeks and months.

  And today was the day that it was all going to come together, the payoff for all of their hard work, their sacrifice.

  It was then that
he saw the target, rising ahead of him in the pouring rain.

  He looked down at his watch, checked the time, and breathed out slowly, controlling himself.

  Just five more minutes.

  7

  Constable Peter Franks of London’s Metropolitan Police Service was just over an hour into his morning foot patrol, and the rain was starting to piss him off.

  His body was dry enough, the modern materials of his uniform serving to drive away most of the moisture, but his face was taking the full brunt of the weather. The traditional, conical ‘custodian’ helmet he wore – while being a world famous symbol of the British police – did nothing to protect him from the elements, which seemed to be getting worse and worse as the morning wore on.

  Nothing much had happened so far this morning either, as he’d made his way through the streets after setting off from Wembley Police Station a little after eight o’clock. One person had stopped to ask him for directions, and that was about it.

  Not that there was a lot he could do if something did happen anyway – as one man, he was hardly going to be able to singlehandedly stop anything major, especially with only an extendable baton and a Taser gun to help him. A lone pickpocket, perhaps; an armed gang raiding a jewelry store? He’d be hard pressed to do more than call it in and try and remember the license plate of the getaway car.

  But the public wanted foot patrols, the local ‘bobby on the beat’, and so that’s what the public got; never mind if it was any use or not. Two-person foot patrols would be better of course, but the budget didn’t run to that. It never did.

  And so Franks was forced to wander the dark, murky streets of northwest London, looking for crimes he couldn’t stop, and reassuring the people that all was well.

  He was just thinking about calling in for a large steaming mug of tea from one of the nearby cafés – in the interests of community relations, of course – when he saw something out of the corner of his eye.