by Mark Dawson
He was a British citizen, born and bred. There were ten of them who had been selected from the ranks of the British fighters who had offered themselves into the service of the Islamic State. Some of them, like himself and Abdul, had seen plenty of fighting in the two or three years that they had been in the Middle East. Others were less experienced, but no less dedicated to the cause.
The government had made it clear that nationals who travelled to Syria and Iraq to fight for the caliphate would be treated as terrorists if they were to return.
Terrorists!
The hypocrisy turned his stomach.
Nevertheless, they could not risk the likelihood that they would be arrested if they returned by air. Mohammed had crafted a detailed and thorough plan that would make that unnecessary and mean that they could travel without fear of detection. They had travelled by sea on a series of cargo ships, trawlers and pleasure craft, transferring from one to the next in the middle of the ocean, far from prying eyes. Muammar Gaddafi had used similar methods to supply the IRA with weapons in the 1970s, and it was just as effective today as it had been then. The final transfer had been in the Atlantic off the coast of southern Ireland. The final trawler had deposited them in a deserted cove close to Kinmel Bay in North East Wales, and they had dispersed into safe houses around the country. They were well funded, with no need to work, and provided with false identities.
The preparation had been perfect. Nothing had gone wrong.
Now they needed to execute the plan.
Chapter Ten
Pope had had just about enough. ‘Home Secretary, I’m afraid I’m going to have to speak frankly again. I was reluctant to be Control, as you know. But I have seen things. We live in a world with people in it who are not prepared to observe the usual rules of engagement. They will fly planes into skyscrapers. They will blow up bags of high explosive on Underground trains and buses. They have no compunction in killing themselves if that is what is necessary to achieve their objectives.’
He couldn’t hide his anger, and as he spoke, he became angrier still. ‘We live by the rule of law. They do not. And because of that, the rule of law has to be a flexible concept. Those men and women are enemies of the state, and they can’t be reasoned with. Diplomacy is useless, and intelligence is useful only up until a point. The only way to deal with them is to speak the same language that they do: fight fire with fire. And who is going to do that, ma’am? Are you? Are people at the “highest echelons”?’
He slammed his palm against the table. His wedding ring struck the wood, and the noise was louder than he had intended. His anger had caused stupefaction in the room. They were stunned by his candour. He could see that and knew, clearly, that he was talking himself into a world of trouble, but he couldn’t stop.
‘I’ve heard the arguments against the work that I do. But when I hear them, it makes me think about the things I’ve seen. I know that the only way to prevent these people is to kill them before they kill us. Sometimes it has to be without trial. Sub judice.’
‘Captain Pope—’
He looked around the table. The home secretary was agape at the strength of his denunciation, Stone was shocked and Bloom watched with a mixture of surprise and, Pope thought, amused admiration.
He was talking himself into obsolescence. He knew he should stop. But he couldn’t.
‘We can agree that Rubió’s death was a tragedy. I know Sergeant Snow will never be able to forget what he did. It was a dreadful, horrific error, but if blame is being attributed, it should be attributed correctly. The intelligence was flawed. That is an MI5 issue. The police response was badly flawed. That is an issue for them, and for you, Home Secretary. My agency is a tool. We were given a target; we eliminated the target. You don’t blame the tool when it is put to the wrong use.’
‘Captain Pope!’
‘I’m nearly finished, ma’am. The fact is, you will be put in a position again, very soon, where a similar call will need to be made. Another threat will be identified, at an early stage, and we will have a choice. We either strike pre-emptively and run the risk that the intelligence is incorrect, or gamble and hope that it isn’t right. But if you get that wrong, it won’t be one jihadi we are mourning. And it won’t be a single innocent man who was wrongfully killed. It will be tens or hundreds or thousands of civilians. Yes, Rubió’s death was a tragedy. But we have to be strong enough to keep making those decisions because they will save more innocent lives than they cost. And that means that the existence of an agency like Group Fifteen is necessary. You can talk about moderation and proportionate responses and due process all you like, but when it comes down to it, you need the cutting edge we provide. And I think if you are honest with yourselves, you’ll admit that’s true.’
Pope stood. Snow was pale. McNair was shaking his head, his mouth open and an expression of good-humoured surprise on his face. He was wise enough to have read the same signs as Pope.
Morley was red in the face. ‘Is that all?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You are suspended, Captain.’
‘Yes, ma’am. What shall I tell my agents?’
‘That the Group is suspended. Everyone is to stand down. Everyone. Anyone in the field is to return home. Everything stops. Effective immediately.’
‘Very good, ma’am.’
Snow and McNair stood, and Pope took a quarter turn before he stopped. In for a penny, he thought. The writing was on the wall. They were going down. Might as well go out swinging.
‘One more thing. With respect, I’m not interested in defending my position to a civilian. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. But what I would say is this: if you’re serious about suspending the Group, then you should be prepared to explain to the country that your morality is worth more than the blood of the men and women who will die to pay for it. I suspect that will be a difficult speech to write. You should probably ask your aides to start thinking about it now.’ He straightened out his suit with two brisk downward brushing movements. ‘Good day to you all.’
Chapter Eleven
The van pulled up at the goods in/out entrance on Abingdon Street at five minutes before twelve. A service road led off to the left, passing through a gate and then a checkpoint beyond that. Ibrahim waited patiently as the van was photographed. Software compared the registration with the list of permitted vehicles, and when a match had been found, the gate slid aside. Ibrahim edged ahead, stopping before the metal bar of the checkpoint. Beyond that, a ramp was raised. There was a small office built into the archway through which the road descended, and inside sat two armed policemen. The security was impressive.
Ibrahim had passed through the checkpoint many times before, and he knew the procedure. The detail changed regularly, and he didn’t recognise the policeman who came out and approached the van.
‘Is this usual?’ Abdul asked nervously.
‘It is fine,’ Ibrahim murmured. ‘Just act normal. Relax.’
The policeman came up to Ibrahim’s window and indicated that he should wind it down.
‘Name, sir?’
‘Ibrahim Yusof.’
‘Purpose?’
‘Food delivery.’
‘Your friend?’
‘Abdul Mansoor.’
‘Wait there, please, gents.’
The man went back into the office and spoke with his colleague. Ibrahim rested his fingers on the wheel and drummed them lightly, presenting as normal a picture as he could. He was nervous, and he could see that Abdul was, too. He knew that he was as well prepared as he could be, but it would only take a moment of inattention on his part or intuition on the part of the guards for the scheme to be compromised. There was a plan B, of course, but that was not the point. Plan A was what he had worked so hard to bring to fruition, and to fail at the final hurdle would be the cruellest of ironies.
Ibrahim had studied the Palace of Westminster for six months. It was simple enough to glean information from online searches, but he had supp
lemented this with two field trips, posing as a tourist on the official tour and visiting his local MP. It was an impressive building even if he did not agree with its purpose or the decisions that were made there. The Gothic edifice was a vast temple of legislation that covered an area of nearly nine acres. It presented a river frontage of nearly one thousand feet to the east, and there was a centre portion sandwiched by towers, two wings, and wing towers at each end. Inside, there were fourteen halls, galleries, vestibules and other apartments that could accommodate large crowds. Thirty-two river-facing apartments served as committee rooms. There were libraries, waiting rooms, dining rooms and clerks’ offices. There were eleven internal courtyards and scores of minor openings that allowed light inside.
He was particularly interested in its security, especially when it had been breached. Everyone knew about the failed gunpowder plot, commemorated every November with the burning in effigy of Guy Fawkes. Spencer Perceval had been shot here in 1812, the only prime minister ever to have been assassinated, and the building had been the target of Fenian bombs in 1885. The Irish Republican Army had struck it twice in the 1970s. In 1974, a twenty-pound bomb exploded in Westminster Hall, rupturing a gas main and causing extensive damage. Five years later, a car bomb claimed the life of Airey Neave, a prominent Conservative politician, while he was driving out of the Commons car park in New Palace Yard. The subsequent threat of jihadist terrorism had upped the ante once again. Today, the palace was guarded by armed officers from the Metropolitan Police’s elite SC&O19 unit.
The policeman returned. Ibrahim couldn’t help but look at the Heckler & Koch MP5SFA3 semi-automatic carbine that was slung across his chest, his finger resting outside the trigger guard.
‘You’re on the list, sir, but not your friend.’
‘He should be.’
‘Says you normally have a Simon Williams?’
He smiled and nodded. ‘That’s right, we do. He didn’t come into work today. He called in sick.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have clearance for an Abdul Mansoor. I can’t let him in.’
Ibrahim sensed Abdul’s tension and spoke quickly before Abdul could say anything stupid. ‘Really? He’s been with us for as long as I have.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Call the office. I’m sure they’ll be able to clear it up.’ He reached forward and took a business card from a holder that had been glued to the dash. He handed the card to the policeman, who still looked dubious. ‘I’d really appreciate it if you could clear it up. It’s going to take me twice as long to do on my own, and we’re already running late.’
‘All right.’
The man went back to the gatehouse. Ibrahim saw him take a telephone and put it to his ear.
‘There’s no one in the warehouse,’ Abdul hissed.
‘I know.’
‘So?’
‘The number forwards to Mohammed’s phone. He’ll sort this out.’
But would he? They had taped the Smith & Wesson 9mm to the underside of his seat, and he allowed his arm to fall down next to the door so that he could feel the cold metal with his fingertips.
The policeman came back.
‘I spoke to your boss. Some kind of oversight. I’ll let it go for today, but you need to get it fixed. And I’ll need to take a look in the back. Could you come around and open up, please?’
‘Of course. Not a problem.’
The man drifted to the rear of the van.
‘We will be discovered,’ Abdul said, his voice tight with tension.
‘Relax. Whatever happens is His will. Be calm.’
Ibrahim reached for the keys to switch off the engine, but his hands were trembling and he fumbled them. Damn it. He needed to be calm, too. He managed to kill the engine, extracted the keys from the ignition and stepped out. He glimpsed the second policeman in the doorway of the little office, his carbine similarly held on a strap and angled down to the ground.
He unlocked the rear doors and opened them.
‘What have you got in here, sir?’
‘Ingredients for the kitchen. Meat, fish, vegetables. That sort of thing.’
The policeman took a half step forward, and for a horrible moment Ibrahim thought he was going to climb inside the van. Their doctored hiding places would not stand much scrutiny. But he did not. He stepped back and nodded his satisfaction.
‘Sorry to bother you, lads. We’re being careful.’
Ibrahim knew why that was. The assassination of Fèlix Rubió had caused all manner of consternation in the press and there had been protests and demonstrations afterwards. His funeral last week had ended with a riot that had been put down with brutal efficiency. There was talk of retaliation, of radicalisation, of increased terrorist ‘chatter’.
They had no idea.
Ibrahim knew that the man’s murder would be of benefit to their cause in the long run, but he wasn’t interested in that. His focus was on the short term. And the increase in security would make it more difficult to do what he had promised to do.
He got into the van.
‘Are we good?’
‘We are. Just smile and relax.’
He started the engine again. The policeman gave him a nod of recognition as his colleague raised the barrier and lowered the ramp. Ibrahim put the gearbox into first and pressed down gently on the accelerator. The van bumped over the exposed lip of the ramp and was swallowed by the narrow tunnel.
Chapter Twelve
Isabella bought a ticket to Heathrow from the machine, used it to pass through the gate and joined the queue that was shuffling toward the escalator. It hummed as it carried her down the long shaft to the vestibule below.
Aamir took the Victoria Line to Green Park station and then changed to the southbound Jubilee Line to Westminster. The carriage was full and he had to stand.
The Jubilee Line was newer, and the trains and the stations were all much sleeker and more modern than the others that they had used when they had scouted the capital last month. Westminster, in particular, was an impressive vaulted space, a cavern that had been carved in the earth at the side of the Thames. It was one of the main stations that served the offices of government around the Palace of Westminster and Whitehall. Many of these men and women waiting patiently for the train to carry them to their destinations were puppets of the state, putting into effect the pernicious policies that had led to decades of misery for their brothers and sisters in the Middle East.
Had they seen the effects of those policies, as Aamir had?
Mohammed had told him to watch the YouTube videos of the atrocities that had been carried out in the name of civilisation and democracy, the bombed schools and hospitals.
The dead children.
The families wiped out by drone strikes and five-hundred-pound bombs dropped by cowards from ten thousand feet.
He looked at the men and women around him as they read their newspapers and listened to their music. They were oblivious. They had no idea what he could do to them with just a simple click of the trigger in his pocket.
And yet, as the train rushed through the dark tunnel, the doubts returned. These people were not soldiers. They did not drop the bombs. They had families. They were mothers and fathers, not so different to the brothers and sisters in Iraq and Palestine and Afghanistan and the other Muslim lands.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember what the imam had said to him. The words of the sacred Qur’an.
Fight in the cause of Allah those who fight you, but do not transgress limits; for Allah loveth not transgressors. And slay them wherever ye catch them, and turn them out from where they have Turned you out; for tumult and oppression are worse than slaughter; but fight them not at the Sacred Mosque, unless they fight you there; but if they fight you, slay them. Such is the reward of those who suppress faith.
He could almost hear the cadence of Alam Hussain’s deep, sonorous voice. He closed his eyes and let the rhythm of the verse play through his head.
Fig
ht in the cause of Allah those who fight you.
And slay them wherever ye catch them.
Such is the reward of those who suppress faith.
The weight of the rucksack brought him back around. The strap was cutting into his right shoulder, so he carefully transferred it so that it was slung across his left. The bag itself was against his chest. He wrapped his arms around it so that he could cradle it and reduce the downward pressure from the strap. He thought about what was inside the bag and what it would do when he detonated it.
What it would do to him, and all these people.
The train eased into Westminster station. The screen doors on the platform opened first, and then the doors to the train.
This was where he had agreed to detonate the bomb. Right here, in the carriage, catching some as they stepped out and others as they stepped in. His would be the first blow to be struck. The second and third blows would be triggered by his actions, a series of attacks that would amount to a grievous blow against the infidels, deep in the heart of their country, right next to the seat of their democracy.
The scrum of passengers shifted and eddied as people elbowed their way to the carriage’s exit. A man told him to move out of the way, and a woman tutted at him, and as he took a pace to the left to allow them the space to squeeze by, he was pushed towards the exit himself. He disembarked, not really thinking, clutching the heavy rucksack to his chest. The tide of commuters carried him towards the opening that led to the main vestibule and the escalators that would take him to the surface.
He thought he saw Bashir.
The tide shifted, people bustling into his line of sight, and he couldn’t be sure.
He craned his neck.
‘Come on, buddy,’ a man said, nudging him.
‘Sorry.’
