The Knives

by Richard T. Kelly

  ‘Though we failed to take Mr Jakhrani into custody, the search of his flat yielded not only incendiary materials but computer evidence of a plan to attack the branch of an Israeli bank near Liverpool Street.’

  Villiers looked to Brian Shoulder, who took over. ‘To confirm, at the Birmingham address where West Midlands arrested three men, they found chemicals and electrics for the making of explosive devices, also protective clothing and evidence of preparation. Same sort of materials were found in Tooting, where two arrests were made. In Grantham, where two men were picked up, they found plasticised acetone peroxide, cut pipe, electrics – same in Wood Green where there were three arrests. In Stapletree we also arrested a man in possession of a Baikal handgun with silencer and ammo. All suspects have now been handed over into the custody of the Met and we’re holding them at Paddington. We anticipate a range of charges under the Terrorism Act.’

  Villiers nodded. ‘In summary we believe we have foiled a hydra-headed plan to carry out a range of outrages across a number of sites, within a narrow window of time so as to compound the chaos.’

  The faces and names of the plotters appeared as a grid on the screen. Not wishing to look at those he recognised, Blaylock glanced down to his briefing papers.

  ‘There’s a broadly familiar subject profile here – home-grown, second generation South Asian males, the youngest, Mr al-Allam, just twenty, the oldest, Mr Rahman and Mr Osman, both thirty-two. Essentially clean skins, other than Mr Hamayoon and Mr Rahman. Several college-educated. Few trained abroad. Mr Ali is a married father of three, Mr bin Ara’s wife is five months pregnant. All the relatives claim “incomprehension”, though of course we’re questioning then closely. The plotters buried their exchanges well: instant messaging, peer-to-peer cloud email, non-standard operating systems. Still, co-ordination was clearly a challenge. As we know, the need for steel guts in a group situation like this is very strong. And this effort suffered a certain amount of … splintering. For instance, Mr Ali, perhaps the most vulnerable link in the chain, broke it so as to contact Mr Osman.’

  Patrick Vaughan spoke up. ‘What do we know of the other targets, Adam?’

  ‘What we surmise is that the Tooting group were targeting Brimsdown Substation. The Grantham group would attack the sales at Greenlake Shopping Centre. The Birmingham group were looking at the Strathearn Hotel by Hyde Park. Wood Green, we think, had in mind an assault on several cafés in Golders Green. As for Stapletree, Mr Jakhrani had designs on the Israeli bank as mentioned. Mr Osman, we suspect, was contemplating an attack on the Home Secretary …’

  All faces, sober and discomfited, turned toward Blaylock, who lowered his eyes to the table.

  ‘David had had some personal contact with Mr Osman through Rory’s office and this didn’t escape the notice of Mr Rahman at the point where he sought to bring his old college friend into the circle. Clearly there was a suggestion that Mr Osman should exploit that proximity. Among Rahman’s notes we found …’ Villiers consulted his papers. ‘“The mujahid undertakes to eliminate target at point-blank range. No escape plan. Mujahid cannot survive.” That said, certain other communications lead us to wonder whether Mr Osman considered this course of action but ultimately rejected it.’

  Blaylock wanted very badly to speak for himself yet could not find the words. Patrick Vaughan moved swiftly into the silence. ‘Well, in any case, we can but count our blessings. I’m really heartened by the response, Adam, and I congratulate the team on their tremendous work …’

  ‘I want to second that,’ said Blaylock.

  Retaking the chair of the session Vaughan drove the agenda on – the ring of steel, the agreed advice to the general public and to VIPs, the increased deployment of armed officers, transport police and CCTV vigilance, the necessary reassurance of the three-million-strong Muslim community. Preoccupied, unsettled, Blaylock merely indicated his approval of procedures. When matters were wrapped and he exited to the corridor Brian Shoulder drew near with some urgency, indicating his wish for a private word.

  ‘Sadaqat Osman, Home Secretary? He’s at Paddington and he’s not said a word to the interrogators but apparently he’s asked through his lawyer to see you. He wants to “address his remarks to you”. I mean, it’s ridiculous—’

  ‘Okay, fine,’ snapped Blaylock. ‘Let’s go.’

  *

  He went through the steel door into the silence of the drab interrogation suite, to meet the sight of Sadaqat, high and straight in his chair across a scuffed table, his eyebrows a black line, his mouth straight as a blade. His presence seemed to defy the indignity of his standard-issue white forensic suit and the brow-furrowed solicitor at his side. The two police detectives across the table leaned back in their mismatched chairs, determinedly laconic, eyes raised to the small skylight above. It was, for a moment, a tableau – then one officer rose to greet Blaylock and the other asked the solicitor if his client was ready.

  Blaylock planted himself before the table and stared at Sadaqat, who stared unblinkingly back, and then spoke.

  ‘I understand, that you might feel some … grievance, with me? I’d only say, I never asked for your attention, or your friendship, or any such thing. It was put upon me. That was misfortune, for us both. It’s a fact I became involved in some plans, to do with the taking of life. I accept the gravity of that. Those plans were terrible. But, in my view, necessary. I’ll explain.

  ‘You, you were part of those plans. I decided in the end to spare you. By talking to you I realised, you don’t mean evil. You just can’t see past your horizon. Ignorant that way. I take no pride in what I was party to, I will not list any Koranic justifications, I can’t, there is no justification. But there is a reason. The reason is injustice.

  ‘Had I been responsible for taking life, I would not have said the victims were lesser humans than me, whoever they were. But their victimhood would not be greater than that of innocents who die because of your constant bombings and invasions and occupations of Muslim countries – murder by drone, death raining down on innocent people whose names you’d rather not know. By “you” I mean the West. But that includes you, Mr Blaylock. Because, whatever you tell yourself, I do believe – I’m sure – you think that your lives are more precious than our lives. If a bomb falls on a school, what you call an accident? And dark-skinned children die? You might claim remorse, but I don’t believe you really feel it. It’s too much of an old habit for you that way.

  ‘You’re too accustomed to your … fiefdoms, and your spheres of influence. Drawing lines on maps of places you’ve never been, where real people live and breathe. As if, the world is still really your world, to go round and administer? You have a stake, you’ve got your local clients that you’ve bribed, outposts you’ve built … But just for that, you still believe you get to say how it should be – you know what’s best, you want to dictate things by force. Sometimes you dress it up with all anguish and sorrow. You say, “What should we do? What should we do in ‘the Middle East’?” Listen, what you should do is disappear.

  ‘You say there can be no accommodation? It must be our way, nothing can be done, you won’t shift a hair? Understand, that’s a worn-out excuse, and a grievous insult. Okay, so drones will kill, IDF will kill, settlers will bulldoze, mothers in Gaza will keep burying their children, the game of nations over our heads … Since this is not acceptable, and you will never change, I had to ask myself, “What is an honourable thing you can do? To demonstrate to these authorities how wrong is their authority?” And I believe that thing is terror – I see nothing else that gets through to you. Correct bombs, in correct places. So as to remind you, so you understand what it means to live in fear – that your life or the lives of those you love could be ripped away from you. Yes, it is terror, it is terrible. But, just know, it’s by your own deeds that you’re repaid. And that is all, yeah? The end.’

  Blaylock had stood there, impressed all over again by the young man’s composure and fluency. It was only that the quality of c
onviction he had once admired was now purest poison. In any case he had ceased to truly listen from an early point, once he had been advised that he was ‘spared’. I was spared? Or you got scared? That others, ultimately, had been spared seemed to him the only thing of relevance, for which he was nearly ready to thank the lord.

  He turned to the camera fixed high in the corner of the room behind him.

  ‘Got all that, yeah?’

  Then, with a nod to the detectives, he departed.

  8

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 27

  Ignoring all calls, he stuck by the terse statement Mark Tallis drafted in his name, giving assurance that ‘all appropriate security measures’ were in place for the public’s protection while asking for their special vigilance. He further ignored Mark’s clear urge to discuss with him the angles of the foiled plot in light of possible advantages to the case for identity cards. He saw only new flaws.

  He had asked Gavin Blount to call on him. First, though, Martin drove him to an artist’s suppliers where he bought an expensive set of oil pastels as a gift for Molly. Back at home he called the Islington number, at half-hour intervals, but got no answer, nor from Jennie’s mobile, on which he left a terse message: ‘If you think it’s right, Jennie, that I don’t get to see my daughter on her birthday then … I don’t know how you expect me not to take that badly.’ He did expect a response, however unfriendly, and yet gradually it became clear to him that no such call would be forthcoming.

  A little after that, it further dawned on Blaylock that the boiler in the house had expired; it proved utterly resistant to manipulation. He paced around in the frigid air, feeling like a cold-blooded creature with no option but to keep in motion. When Blount arrived they sat in the kitchen over steaming teas; though Blount, to Blaylock’s quiet satisfaction, appeared not to feel the chill.

  ‘About the report I asked from you – I want you to broaden your thinking on what’s appropriate to the problem, security-wise. Consider the matter up for grabs. What’s the best joint deployment of army and police? The best positioning for the military in the event of a crisis? Is there a case for a small permanent armed forces command as “homeland security”, say? What’s the capacity for armed response round the country, not just the Met and Manchester?’

  Blount smiled into his chest, stirring his tea. ‘I get you. People will still recoil from some of this. It’s just not the British way.’

  Blaylock shrugged. ‘We live in challenging times. If anyone’s in any doubt about what’s needed to counter extremism in this country, I have to say it’s perfectly clear to me what we really depend on – surveillance, legislation, detainment, armed officers … and luck.’

  *

  Blaylock watched the house darken and his breath begin to condense in the air. Still no call came from Jennie. At 4.30 p.m. he pulled on his topcoat, snatched up the carrier bag from the artist’s shop and told Andy they were going. Martin drove them to Islington, but the Alwynne Road house was darkened and silent.

  Martin drove on to Upper Street, where Blaylock jumped out on foot and stalked down the pavement, peering through the glowing windows of pizzerias and upscale chicken shacks, familiar family-friendly haunts. But there was no joy. He sensed from the large presence at his shoulder that Andy’s silence was of a concerned, not wholly approving nature – that his bodyguard was somehow apprehensive over how things were tending – but this only irked Blaylock further.

  He lurched back into the Jaguar’s backseat and slammed the door.

  ‘Martin, we’re for Notting Hill … Elgin Crescent?’

  *

  As grimly resolved as he was, he had anticipated more of a challenge once they reached the row of fine stuccoed townhouses. But his target was clear nearly at once, for a cluster of coloured balloons was fastened to one big black door between Doric columns. He felt a sense of victory, however crabbed, and a confidence he would make his point, shame his opponents unostentatiously, show to his youngest how shabby had been the whole charade put up falsely in her name.

  ‘Okay, I will be ten minutes,’ he told Andy. ‘If I’m not out by then, you’re welcome to bust in with all guns blazing and pull me out.’

  Andy looked at him pensively, nodded. ‘Sure, boss.’

  It was only as he rapped on the door, an agreeable hubbub emanating from within, and imagined how the surprise of his face would be met that Blaylock felt some pang of regret. But it was burning in his chest now – the old familiar, heedless urge, pressing him on to the act from which sober contemplation would have steered him clear. The most urgent part of him believed rightness had to suffice, and no other self was strong enough to lay a staying hand on him.

  A tall, solidly built youth in jeans and tee-shirt swung open the door with a mild smile that faded at once.

  ‘I’m Molly’s father,’ said Blaylock.

  ‘Sure, I know who you are,’ the youth nodded, and called back down the hallway. ‘Dad?’

  Nick Gilchrist appeared from down a subtly lit hallway of framed pictures, looking solemn, his billowing white shirt spotted with fingerprints.

  ‘Ah, hello, David.’

  ‘Jennie and the children are here?’

  ‘Yeah, and a few others. You’d best come in.’

  He came past and saw Jennie standing in subfusc at the threshold of a bright and busy kitchen, a long-stemmed wine glass uselessly in her hand, her face a picture of disquiet, he felt. Blaylock had the strangest sense that everything was perhaps a little worse than even he had imagined.

  ‘Not doing anything then, Jennie? So who are all these?’

  She spoke in a tense hush. ‘Nick’s friends, the kids’ friends … You won’t know them.’

  ‘You want to show me around?’

  ‘How did you know where to come?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve my spies everywhere. Didn’t Alex tell you?’

  She kept unhappily silent, and so, unwelcome, he glanced about him. The elegant splendour of the house was clear. Even from the hall Blaylock could appreciate the great gleaming kitchen ahead, busy with the keen chatter of adults and the splashy cries of kids, its floor-to-ceiling sliding glass looking out to a darkened expanse of garden. He realised abruptly that fixed to the wall by his head was a painting by Molly, a colourful collage of the type she favoured, organised around the word HOLLYWOOD.

  Blaylock exhaled slowly, keeping himself together. ‘Okay. I don’t want a scene, I know the state of things, I just want to see Molly, give her my present, and my love. Obviously if you want to explain to me why all the subterfuge I’d say I’m entitled, maybe?’

  Jennie and Gilchrist exchanged glances. Blaylock saw he had chosen ‘subterfuge’ correctly.

  ‘Nick, would you give us a moment?’ Jennie said heavily.

  Gilchrist, clearly uneasy, nodded and retreated to the kitchen.

  Jennie gestured up the stairs. ‘Will you …?’

  *

  ‘David, we had a set of circumstances to consider, me and Nick and the kids, we’ve been mulling for a while … but we’ve come to a … quite a big decision, together.’

  ‘Yes?’ Standing in a tastefully lit and appointed bedroom with an expanse of snow-white duvet between him and Jennie, Blaylock felt a driving need to break the barricades that seemed to have been erected against him all around this house.

  ‘Okay. Nick is going to be in Los Angeles for some time, teaching at one of the film schools, and working on a movie, a big studio drama thing.’

  ‘Good for Nick.’ Lonely for you, he thought instantly.

  ‘It’s going to be two years at least. We all talked it over and worked it through and … we’re all going to LA. Me and the children.’

  Blaylock had never heard anything quite so offensive or impossible. ‘You what? How’ll that work? I mean, the kids, Jennie …?’

  ‘Alex has a place at Cal Arts to do film. There’s a good high school for Cora, a good elementary school for Molly.’

  ‘C’mon, the cost, but—’r />
  ‘Nick’s got a good deal, I’ve been asked to lecture at Stanford, I may take the California bar. We’ve got a good rented house to start with, in Santa Monica, the children like it.’

  ‘Jennie … you can’t abide America, you never have.’

  ‘David,’ she shook her head, ‘that’s not true. Los Angeles is a much more cultured city than people think. The children are excited. I think they see a big adventure. I do, too.’

  The preposterousness of the idea was only affirmed in Blaylock’s mind by Jennie’s shifty, muted seriousness, a marker to him of how bad ideas, without proper vigilance, could take on a worrying solidity.

  ‘Change is important, David, you have to do things while you can, seize them. The one life’s all we have. I know the timing may feel hard to you, I realise it’s a shock, but we didn’t intend secrecy, and it’s not been done lightly, it was a choice we had to make as a unit …’

  ‘Oh yeah? Molly and Cora got votes, did they? But not me?’ Now her deluded earnestness struck him as outright provocation. ‘When were you going to raise it with me, then?’

  ‘Not tonight …’ Her expression betrayed further discomfort. ‘But we’re going back out for New Year, and to sort out the house. My plan was to speak to you tomorrow, honestly.’

  ‘So this,’ Blaylock slashed a finger through the air, ‘this is a kind of a farewell party, am I right?’

  Jennie suddenly looked more resolved. ‘It’s been a stressful time all round. But the kids and I want to keep this relationship together. This is who we are now. They’re happy and comfortable, and I’m heeding them as much as myself.’

  He had ceased to hear. He felt heat rising in his face, his heart restive in his chest. ‘No, no. I don’t agree to this, Jennie.’

  ‘I know you’re upset but please don’t be blinded, don’t just blow—’

  ‘Aw fuck off. What do you expect me to do? Eh?’

  He felt clenched all over. There was a knock on the door; unthinkingly Blaylock stalked across and flung it open, to see Cora looking at him with what he recognised as an awfully familiar unease.