I ducked into the newsagents at the end of my road and browsed the ready meals‚ picking myself out a prawn curry and a litre of milk. At the till‚ my eyes fell on the Daily Mail. On the front page a painfully familiar image was staring back at me. One I had seen many times‚ an image fast on its way to becoming as iconic as the plane flying into the twin towers on 9/11 or the devastated London Bus with its top blown on 7/7. My neighbour‚ my friend‚ Parvez Ahmed‚ laid out on his back atop a police van. His eyes open and lifeless‚ a sawn-off AK47 hanging around his neck and a Glock 19 handgun gripped in his dead hands. I picked up the newspaper‚ knowing full well that it was going to spoil the rest of my evening.
I placed the prawn curry in the microwave and read the article at the worktop. I was expecting inaccuracies‚ and it didn’t disappoint. It had been around three months since the failed attack and the media just would not let it fucking go. It’s exactly this kind of journalism that prods and provokes and burns an imprint into the public’s consciousness. Not letting them move on‚ not letting us move on. Not a spare thought for those who suffered‚ whose families suffered. Parvez‚ who had died for a belief that many would never even contemplate understanding. Now they celebrate his death‚ parade the images like a badge of fucking honour. A constant reminder of the victory for the West. British intelligence working for the people.
But I knew better. I knew the truth.
Nine jihadis‚ four holding points‚ Oxford Street. All armed with automatic rifles and handguns‚ the objective to block in thousands of shoppers on Boxing Day‚ one of the busiest days of the year‚ and shoot at will. Parvez was one of the nine jihadis.
I was another.
I had been drafted into the Secret Service to spy on those that looked like me. My job was to uncover a terror plot and to establish what I could about the terrorist cell‚ Ghurfat-Al-Mudarris. My career had been short-lived. I was no longer part of MI5‚ I no longer wanted to be. They had taken my life and hung it upside down‚ and people that I cared about had tumbled out. I’d given them the intelligence to prevent an unthinkable level of carnage‚ and they fucking rinsed me‚ man. Bent me over and fucked me and left me in a collapsed heap on the floor‚ sucking my thumb and crying out for my Mum. I gave them my all‚ flew half way around the fucking globe to a hell hole training camp where they knew that a certain somebody would want to see me. That somebody being Abdullah Bin Jabbar‚ better known to MI5 as The Teacher. A man shrouded in such mystery and myth that MI5 had to resort to using me – a small-time nickel and dime dope dealer from the streets of Hounslow – to ascertain information pertinent to national security. I gave them a name‚ I gave them locations‚ I gave them a description and in the process I found out that this fucking Bin Jabbar character‚ with the stupid fucking moniker‚ was my fucking father‚ who‚ until then‚ I had never before met.
And what did they do with that information? Jack-shit. The Teacher was still bouncing around between caves and mountains and safe houses somewhere in Afghanistan or Pakistan or who gives a fuck. I’d done my part.
Fucking MI5 and their fucking half-arsed operation. They didn’t achieve shit‚ though they happily took credit for narrowly avoiding an attack on Oxford Street – never once mentioning that it was a stroke of freak luck that one of the jihadis had a last-minute change of heart and put a spanner in what would have made the 7/7 attacks seem like a teddy bears’ picnic.
I sound angry. I know. I am. Fucking fuming.
MI5 referred me to a shrink to help me understand my feelings and recognise that my actions helped with a big result.
So‚ how did you feel when your friend Parvez was shot in front of your eyes?
It felt like shit.
He was about to start shooting innocent members of the public? He was going to be responsible for hundreds of lives? Women? Children?
Still felt like shit.
Why?
Parvez was my friend.
He was a terrorist.
They didn’t have to kill him.
Don’t you feel it was necessary? We’re fighting a war on terror.
At that point I laughed in her ignorant face. War on fucking terror! The hypocrisy was mind-bending. Instead of helping me understand my feelings‚ it just vexed me further.
It was around then‚ a couple of months after the attacks‚ that MI5 sent me packing. They made me sign a lot of confidentiality documents‚ swearing me to secrecy‚ as if I would want anybody to know that I was a part of that organisation. They patted me on the back as though I was a child and gave me a briefcase full of gold coins‚ you know‚ services rendered.
Then what? I tell you then what. I did what I never thought I would do‚ I got myself a nine to fiver. Yeah‚ man; a white shirt‚ itchy black trousers and a fucking tie that was out to kill me. Hounslow Council‚ Helpdesk Operator! I zombied in there five days a week and spent my time sitting on a chair that stopped twirling around the same time as Fred and Ginger‚ surfing the web and talking on the phone to people dumber than I am‚ and then I zombied my way out of there. I didn’t have to do it‚ I had money thanks to my shut the fuck up pay off from MI5‚ but I had decided that my life finally needed structure.
I scoured the rest of the newspaper‚ my eyes darting from headline to headline. There wasn’t any news on my father. I knew there wouldn’t be as I’d already checked on-line earlier that morning. And then later that afternoon. I hated myself for doing so and resolved not to do it again‚ knowing full well that I have no fucking resolve. I folded the newspaper tightly and whacked it hard against my thigh to snap me out of an approaching slump. The microwave pinged but my appetite had skated and replaced with thirst. I opened the fridge and sipped straight from the carton of OJ as my eyes landed on a Qatar fridge magnet that my Mum had sent me. Underneath the magnet was an old flyer.
All Muslims Welcome.
Heston Hall Community Centre.
Every Tuesday and Thursday – 7pm onward – Workshop and Group Discussion.
Bring with you a smile.
I’d been attending the Tuesday sessions for the last couple of months. Maybe after the attack I wanted to be around normal‚ moderate‚ modern Muslims and not those who had ideas of devastating the West. They held talks for young Muslims‚ ranging from those facing ‘issues’ in the current climate‚ to those struggling to gain employment‚ or those who just wanted an environment where they were able to vent without judgement.
I could gauge the opinion of Muslims up and down the country just by spending an hour or two in that room‚ bouncing from person to person‚ all of whom had justifiable reason to be full of anger‚ but had the good sense to just get on with it. Unlike that popular minority‚ these Muslims wanted a place to express‚ and not to take extreme action.
This wasn’t about that.
We shared stories‚ drank masala tea and munched on Jaffa Cakes. Once in a while‚ normally after an atrocity‚ we would be riled up at the media coverage or the lack of it‚ at our Brothers‚ or at the two patrol cars taking turns in cruising up and down outside the hall‚ just in case we all balled out wearing suicide vests and waving rifles‚ shouting Allah hu Akbar!
My life‚ truth be told‚ wasn’t great. But a crappy office job and the Community Centre gave me some purpose. I didn’t have to report to MI5 anymore‚ I didn’t have to play spy‚ a role that I was fucking blackmailed into‚ coerced‚ as those bastards would call it. The only good thing that came out of it was that a nasty motherfucker named Silas who I owed a lot of money to was tucked away safely in jail thanks to a statement that I had given. Ten G I owed him; instead he got ten years. I was aware that when he was eventually released he would come looking for me.
Until then‚ I couldn’t be touched.
3
Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai
Sheikh Ali Ghulam had lived his whole life in the United Arab Emirates in the city of Abu Dhabi. He despised being away from home‚ refused to join any of his wives or
eleven children when they vacationed in the most extreme exotic locations around the world. He had a constant nagging thought that it was only a matter of time‚ and not coincidence‚ before a lunatic gunman or a suicide bomber decided that today was the day to spoil his vacation. The Sheikh seldom set foot outside of his home. He lived with his wives and his children and his servants on a sprawling estate‚ with two guest lodges and a small shopping village within the compound.
It was only business that held the might to force him from his home. Sheikh Ghulam never had and never would conduct business from his home‚ not a meeting‚ a phone call or an email. Any communication would have to be hand-written on a note and delivered personally to him by only a select few. But business was now calling‚ and it was that very reason why he travelled the short journey to Dubai.
Ghulam‚ dressed‚ as ever‚ in a long white thobe‚ and white headdress‚ stood with his back to the luxurious hotel room and looked out of the huge curved window of the Royal Suite on the top floor of the Burj Al Arab Hotel. The sun dipped and the skyscrapers obscenely illuminated the skyline. Ghulam could not make out the scene below him‚ but he imagined with certain distaste the crowd and activity that was taking place. Shameless and barely dressed women displaying all that should be precious to them‚ and burnt‚ ruddy-faced drunken men looking for a wife for the night. Westerners with their Western ways and a blatant disregard for the laws of a Muslim country.
The door to the suite opened. Ghulam noticed in the reflection of the glass that Pathaan had entered.
‘I trust our guests are satisfied with their accommodation‚’ Ghulam said.
Pathaan was aware that he was being watched in the reflection‚ so replied silently with a slight nod and sat down on the armchair closest to the gold-plated phone. He slipped off his sandals and placed his bare feet on the coffee table. Out of the top pocket of his crisp‚ half-sleeved white shirt he took out a well-worn‚ small tin container and pried open the lid and removed a ready-wrapped paan. He folded it in half and then half again and placed it on his tongue before vigorously chewing it as the taste exploded inside his mouth‚ coating his teeth in red salivation.
Ghulam eyed him momentarily in part fascination‚ part frustration. Aba Abassi‚ known only as Pathaan‚ was head of security and the only person on his payroll who did not afford him the respect that was demanded of a Sheikh. However‚ although belligerent at times‚ Pathaan was a necessity; a confidante and protector‚ one who was highly trained in many forms of combat‚ which he carried out with pleasure and if the mood took him.
Ghulam had requested Pathaan to organise this meeting. It had taken Pathaan six flights and three cities in three different countries to arrange. Out of the three esteemed guests invited only two had turned up with the obedience that was expected of them. The third had needed to be convinced onto the Lear Jet.
‘Alright‚’ Ghulam said. ‘Let us commence.’
Pathaan picked up the gold-plated phone and dialled. It rang three times before he got a response. He ran his tongue slowly over his teeth‚ relishing the taste of the paan. ‘Three rings‚’ he said on answer‚ ‘is not acceptable.’ He waited for the apology before instructing‚ ‘Send them up.’
*
Mullah Mohammed Ihsan and Mullah Muhammad Talal entered the hotel room. Sheikh Ali Ghulam stood at the head of the table. Something in his face made the two Mullahs hesitate about greeting the Sheikh as etiquette would usually dictate.
‘Sit.’ Pathaan made the decision for them.
At the far end of the table was placed a large wide-screen monitor‚ with a USB pen drive attached.
‘This has come to my attention‚’ Ghulam said‚ quietly. He nodded towards Pathaan who‚ with the press of a button on the remote‚ executed a file.
The footage was clear but without sound and motion‚ as though shot by a security camera. The time stamp read 15.22 and the date 26/12/2017. It showed a young man sitting on the back step of an ambulance‚ a blanket wrapped tightly around him and tucked under his chin. Even from the distance that the footage was captured‚ it was plain to see from the way his shoulders rhythmically shuddered that he was crying‚ as he looked around‚ lost‚ at his surroundings.
‘Who is this Brother?’ Talal asked.
‘He is no Brother of ours‚’ Ghulam glared‚ his eyes ablaze with fire. ‘This man is a traitor.’ Pathaan placed a thin manila folder on the table. Ihsan opened it and stared at the 7×5 photo. Bright eyes and a nervous smile looked back at them as though he had just been caught. Which he had. ‘I received intelligence from one of our men on the ground in London. This is the man behind the betrayal of our leader. His name is Javid Qasim.’
Ihsan cleared his throat and although it was just one word‚ he spoke it with careful measure. ‘How?’
‘Qasim attended our training camp‚ by invite‚ in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa where he was able to ascertain important details of our operation.’
‘How much did he find out?’ Talal said‚ finding his voice again after being under Ghulam’s glare.
‘Enough!’ Ghulam slapped his palm on the table. A small bowl of hummus upturned. He then began softly drumming his fingers.
Enough as in Javid Qasim found out enough? Or Enough as in I don’t want to hear another word from you? Talal decided it was best to wait for Ghulam to continue in his own time.
‘This man‚ this Muslim‚ cowardly hid under the guise of a soldier of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris,’ Ghulam said‚ quietly. ‘Crossing the border into Afghanistan to meet with Abdullah Bin Jabbar and reporting every detail to the British Secret Service.’
The silence that followed screamed a thousand questions.
‘The one thing I despise more than a Kafir‚ is a Munafiq.’ Ghulam spat the last word as if it burnt a hole on his tongue. The others in attendance were aware of the treatment reserved for such a Muslim. ‘And it is for that reason that I hereby put forward a fatwa on Javid Qasim.’
4
Thames House
At 12 Millbank – Thames House‚ MI5’s headquarters – Teddy Lawrence‚ a young MI5 officer‚ knocked and entered the minimalist office of John Robinson‚ Assistant Director of Counter Terrorism Operations. It was the first time they had met since the foiled terrorist attack on Oxford Street on Boxing Day.
Lawrence had climbed the ranks rapidly‚ due largely to their close working relationship. Robinson had seen in him a kindred spirit‚ whilst Lawrence saw opportunity.
Robinson had lost weight everywhere but on his stomach. His sweat-stained white shirt hung loose over his shoulders. Uneven growth on a face that managed to be both pale and ruddy red. Alcohol probably‚ stress definitely‚ reasoned Lawrence. Whatever it was‚ Robinson looked like shit and no longer like a leader of men.
Lawrence‚ despite what they were facing‚ had kept up appearances. Seven fitted suits for seven days. Monday was a charcoal grey three piece. He’d been in the office for nearly three minutes without Robinson having uttered a word. Lawrence watched him standing at the floor to ceiling window‚ staring out onto the stunning views of the Thames as though the answer would float to him in a message in a bottle. They had both received the same brief that morning.
The Teacher was no closer to being located.
After the London attack‚ The Teacher was quick to go under‚ hidden away in the vast wild lands‚ somewhere in Pakistan or Afghanistan‚ unable to lead the might of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris. Still‚ the attacks occurred across Europe; smaller in scale but with a frightening frequency. Despite The Teacher’s absence‚ his work continued.
Robinson mumbled something‚ but Lawrence couldn’t quite hear as Robinson still had his back to him. Lawrence hesitated before asking‚ ‘Sir. Can you repeat that?’
‘Javid Qasim‚’ Robinson said‚ ‘is the key.’
Lawrence now understood why Robinson had his back to him. It would have been an embarrassment for him having to backtrack‚ and he probably didn’t want it seen in his f
ace. It had been Robinson who’d terminated Qasim’s contract – a rash decision‚ considering what he’d achieved for them in such a short period of time. From Qasim’s intelligence alone‚ they’d narrowly avoided a multiple gun attack in the heart of London. Just as vital‚ Qasim had revealed The Teacher’s locations and hideouts‚ along with a detailed description of the man that the world’s authorities had‚ previously‚ had no knowledge of. After that it had been out of Qasim’s hands. It should have been enough. Yet they had still failed to locate and capture The Teacher.
Robinson concluded there were doubts about the legitimacy of the intelligence‚ and he’d been quick to voice his judgement. It didn’t sit comfortably with him that Qasim clearly had mixed emotions in what was asked of him. Robinson refused to let anyone who was sympathetic to the beliefs of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris continue working for the Secret Service. It had muddied the waters further when Qasim’s relationship with The Teacher came to light.
At the time‚ and despite advice‚ Robinson could only see one way‚ when he should have been seeing it the other way.
‘Javid Qasim?’ Lawrence questioned‚ though he had already formed the conversation in his head.
Robinson finally turned and locked eyes with Lawrence. ‘We can still use him.’
Lawrence nodded. ‘I’ll talk to him. Get him back on board.’
From the drinks cabinet‚ Robinson poured himself a large whiskey and a smaller one for Lawrence. He strode across and handed the drink over and sat down opposite him. Robinson leant back‚ an arm draped across the Italian leather two-seater that he’d insisted on having in his office‚ and crossed his legs. The arrogance that had been missing‚ as they repeatedly failed to capture The Teacher‚ was returning.
‘No‚’ Robinson said. ‘That’s not what I had in mind.’
5
Hounslow High Street
Dean Kramer leaned his bulk against the back of his rusty old Range Rover. Like him‚ it carried battle scars‚ and like him it was still strong. He slipped out a Greggs sausage roll from a paper bag and proceeded to cut it in half with the first bite. In front of him‚ Kramer looked out at the scene on Hounslow High Street. A group of forty or so Asian youths‚ shuffling feet‚ a bundle of nerves and anticipation‚ being held back by metal barriers and Police. Nothing had kicked off‚ it hardly ever does at these things‚ but they had to make their presence felt. Opposite them‚ outside what used to be Dixons‚ now a discount store‚ St George and Union Jack flags flew high above a fifty-strong gathering of white faces‚ mainly men‚ holding signs and placards that read Taking back our country or words to that effect. They were led by a red-headed woman who Kramer knew well. With her she had her weapons of choice: a microphone‚ and a voice she wasn’t afraid to use.
Homegrown Hero Page 2
