The Bars That Hold Me (Jay Sullivan Thrillers Book 3)

by Ed Grace

  Zain had never had this kind of confidence. He had always retreated to the back of the classroom, or watched his friends as they showed off to girls. He had never been able to capture an audience.

  But Azeer… everything he said was so well delivered, and he did it with such allure. Zain couldn’t help but envy it.

  “So we have enemies,” Azeer was saying. “Some say we don’t, but those people are non-believers. And what does the Quran say about those that don’t believe?”

  One of the children shot his hand into the air.

  “Yes?” said Azeer.

  “Those who believe fight in the cause of Allah, and those who disbelieve fight in the cause of Taghut. So fight against the allies of Satan.”

  “Brilliant,” Azeer said, smiling with such enthusiasm that the child couldn’t help but beam with pride. “And if those who disbelieve fight for Satan, then those are the enemy, are they not?”

  An eager murmur of “yes” answered him.

  “And if these people do not believe in the glory of Allah, how can they end up going any way but Satan’s way?”

  He put a hand on his chin like he was thinking.

  Zain loved this part — it was a brilliant performance, and the children always bought into it.

  “And who can tell me what an infidel is?”

  A child put his hand up. “Someone who doesn’t believe in Allah.”

  “And what does the Quran have to say about that?”

  Another child put her hand up. “And when the sacred months have passed, then kill the polytheists wherever you find them and capture them and sit in wait at every place of ambush.”

  “Couldn’t have quoted better myself.” Azeer rewarded the girl with a few sweets. “But, remember, we are still forgiving — if they should repent, establish prayer and give zakah, let them go their way. Indeed, Allah is forgiving and merciful. And he is, isn’t he?”

  They all nodded.

  “If Allah will forgive them, then he is truly glorious, isn’t he?”

  They all nodded again.

  “And what does the Quran say we should do to those who do not believe in Allah?”

  The same child who had just answered put her hand up again.

  “Oh, you are doing well today. Go on.”

  “Fight those who believe not in Allah or the Last Day, nor acknowledge the religion of truth.”

  “Exactly! And if they can’t acknowledge the religion of truth…” He showed an expression of disgust. “Then what do we do?”

  “We fight,” said every child in unison.

  Even Zain found himself saying the answer with them.

  “We will always fight against those who try to oppress Islam. Who can give me an example of this?”

  “Israel!” shouted one child.

  “Good! Where the Palestinians were oppressed by Israel. Another?”

  “Myanmar!” shouted another child.

  “Perfect — where Rohingya Muslims are oppressed! Another?”

  “Serbia!”

  “Exactly — where Bosnian Muslims are killed.”

  Zain became excited. His part was almost here.

  “And who are our biggest enemies? Who has hurt us most?”

  Silence. Each child looked like they wished they could answer, but just couldn’t.

  “Zain,” said Azeer. “Tell me some facts.”

  He put his pamphlet down and sat forward. All the children turned to look at him, and he made sure he did not let Azeer down.

  “When Al Quaeda crashed into the Twin Towers in 2001, 2,977 people died.”

  “That’s a lot, isn’t it? But it’s not everything. Zain, how many innocent people did America and the UK kill in Iraq?”

  “We don’t know for sure.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they won’t tell us the truth.”

  “Because they won’t tell us the truth!” Azeer folded his arms and shook his head. “But if we choose to believe them, how many innocent civilians do they admit to killing?”

  “In April 2003, it was 7,419.”

  “Isn’t that more than twice the 2,977 you just said died on September 11th?”

  “It is.”

  “And those are just the ones they admit to?”

  “Yes, Azeer.”

  “And in the Afghanistan war? How many killed there?”

  “More than 26,000 civilians, almost nine times as many as on September 11th.”

  Azeer said nothing. He looked to the children, shaking his head in disbelief, allowing those numbers to linger.

  He looked at each curious set of eyes, at each avid listener awaiting his conclusion.

  “And the worst part of this,” said Azeer, taking another pause for emphasis, “is that they dare to call us the terrorists.”

  The children joined in Azeer’s disbelief, shaking their heads.

  Zain thought back to Fahad. Had that group of men who had killed his friend been terrorists? Azeer believed so.

  And what about those other Muslims at the mosque who shunned Azeer for his beliefs?

  They evidently had not heard the figures Zain had just quoted.

  They evidently did not see the sense in what Azeer was saying.

  And they evidently did not have a clue what they were talking about.

  HMP Brenthall, United Kingdom

  NOW

  Chapter Nineteen

  Oh, what Sullivan would do to return to one of those luxurious hotels he used to stay in. Occasionally, he’d stay in a run-down motel after a particularly high profile killing to be discreet — but, most of the time, he would stay in the classiest of establishments. He didn’t have a home for most of his career, he just stayed in fancy hotel after fancy hotel, with pristine sheets, glorious room service, and the most expensive furniture a business could afford.

  This prison cell made the run-down motels look like one of the luxurious hotel rooms.

  There was a sink in the corner, next to a toilet that had nothing but a small curtain to provide its user with some dignity. The bed had the thinnest mattress Sullivan had ever laid on, and as a new entrant to the prison, he was not yet provided with a duvet — he was provided with a blanket. There was a small table, but it was so close to the bed that Sullivan would have to sidestep to get past it. The cell did have a television, one that still had the big back that televisions had in the nineties, but Sullivan didn’t turn it on. He needed to listen for sounds in the cell next to his.

  He waited for night to descend, sure that Azeer wouldn’t plan for Alhami’s next attack until people were asleep. He lay on the bed, ignoring the way the springs of the mattress dug into his back, and wondered how likely it was he’d have ended up in one of these places permanently had the Falcons not recruited him.

  That was one positive about the Falcons — they did stop him from turning to a life of crime.

  Then again, did they? Did a life of assassinating people not count as a life of crime?

  It’s strange. All you have to do is put a weapon in a man’s hand and call him a soldier, then suddenly their killing is an act of heroism, not murder.

  That’s what Alexander had called him, at first. A soldier.

  It had felt good.

  He was a troubled young man who was unlikely to have been allowed into the army. Even so, his father had always emphasised the importance of Armistice Sunday and honouring fallen soldiers. Despite his father being an abusive bastard, he was also a highly regarded police officer. He believed in the troops, and he ensured Sullivan believed in them too.

  In fact, the only thing that would have made his father proud was if Sullivan became a soldier. Maybe his father would have taken a break between the beatings to congratulate him.

  Then again, there was probably nothing he could have done to change his father’s sadistic ways — as he learnt when his father killed Sullivan’s mother before turning the gun on himself.

  “What does a soldier do?” Alexander had said to Sullivan’s e
ighteen-year-old self, in a conversation following a day of combat training.

  “Uh, I don’t know,” was Sullivan’s instinctive, adolescent response. He squinted at the sun, sweating considerably following his day’s workout.

  “Humour me.”

  “Well they, er, they kill things.”

  “So does a serial killer, Jay. Be more specific.”

  “They kill enemies.”

  “Whose enemies?”

  “Our country’s enemies.”

  “Precisely! And what would happen if they didn’t kill them?”

  “Then innocent people would die.”

  “And does a soldier need an explanation as to why they are killing their enemy?”

  “No. A soldier is taught to follow orders.”

  “Why?”

  “So that innocent people would live.”

  “And are you a soldier?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you our soldier?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are a smart man, Jay. A truly smart man.”

  “But how do we know who the enemy is? Is it always so obvious?”

  Alexander took a moment to consider this.

  “Sit with me,” he said, indicating a bench.

  He sat, and Sullivan followed.

  “The short answer is that you know who the enemy is because we tell you who the enemy is,” Alexander said. “Because we have people who spend day after day investigating and analysing intelligence, and it is not always so simple to explain to you what has taken months, or even years, to deduce. It is not up to the soldier to understand how the intelligence has been used, or how we have made the inferences we’ve made.”

  Alexander loosened his top button and undid his collar.

  “But, for now, let’s entertain the long answer, shall we?”

  Sullivan nodded.

  “Where were you on September 11th, 2001?”

  “I don’t know. At school, probably.”

  “See, I can remember exactly where I was and what I was doing. I was not at work that morning, as my daughter had a temperature. I’d just brought her some soup when I put on the news and saw it. 2,977 people died that day, Jay. What about on 7th July 2005?”

  Sullivan shrugged. “No idea.”

  “I could tell you everything about the attack on that day. Mohammad Sidique Khan, Shehzed Tanweer, Hasib Hussain and Germaine Lindsey drove in a rental car from Bedfordshire to London. They set off four bombs — three on the underground, one on a bus. And do you know how old the youngest of them was?”

  “No.”

  “Eighteen. Just like you are now. Hasib Hussain was eighteen, and he killed himself to attack us. Just think about that for a second.”

  Alexander paused to let that settle.

  “Does that not fill you with anger? Does that not fill you with rage?”

  “I guess so.”

  “And if we spent days going through all the intelligence we had before sending you to assassinate Hasib Hussain, would that make you feel any better about doing it?”

  “No.”

  “Would that change anything?”

  “No.”

  “No, it would not. It is not your job to sift through the intelligence. That’s ours. It’s your job to kill men like this, save lives, and stop asking so many damn questions. Always remember — we do it for the greater good.”

  Sullivan nodded. He understood.

  Bad men had to die.

  It was his job to ensure that.

  For the greater good, of course.

  Always for the greater good.

  “Go,” Alexander said. “Get to the showers before they are all taken.”

  Sullivan stood.

  “Oh, and Jay?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re doing great.”

  He nodded and left.

  Lying in the prison cell, Sullivan could still hear Alexander’s words. That phrase, the greater good.

  What did those words even mean?

  What was so great about good anyway?

  Many atrocious, evil acts of genocide have been committed in the name of good.

  A shuffle came from the cell next to his.

  He sat up, listening intently.

  Some talking began. It was Arabic. Even though it was one of the few languages Sullivan didn’t speak, he recognised it. He’d spent enough time in the Middle East to be able to pick out certain words, such as hadi, which meant quiet, and albab, which meant door.

  He returned to the box he had been given when entering the prison and withdrew a small box of cereal. Some inmates who had been given responsibility for putting the welcome packs together, and Kelly had told Sullivan that she’d paid one of them to ensure this particular box of cereal ended up in his welcome pack.

  Sure enough, he opened the cereal box and found exactly what he needed. A Dictaphone, and a piece of paper with COLO5684 written on it.

  “Your cell is close enough to the prison wall that the Dictaphone will connect via Bluetooth to a Dictaphone hidden in a bin outside it,” Kelly had told him. “Make sure the recordings are transferred by 10:00 a.m., as our contact will collect the files shortly after.”

  He found the device called COLO5684, and paired the Dictaphones.

  He was not particularly good with technology, but it was easy enough.

  He stood on the chair, pressed it against the wall to get the clearest sound, and hit record.

  Chapter Twenty

  Just as they did every night, Azeer and Hasim waited for the cells to be locked and silence to descend. Shouting routinely continued into the night, with the psychotics and the crazies objecting to the way the walls closed in on them, or declaring which officer was a prick, or repeating whichever racial slur had become the new fad.

  Eventually, the dead of night would approach and the shouting would cease. After at least thirty minutes of silence, they would confer, their voices hushed, discussing what needed to be discussed in Arabic for extra security.

  Hasim said, quietly, “Saar alarm ’ala nahw jayyed.” It went well.

  “Kam ’adad alwafayat?” How many deaths?

  “’Akthar min thamanin.” More than eighty.

  Azeer sat on his bed and leant back, allowing himself a bit of pride. The demonstration at Camden Market had been carried out beautifully. The death toll was rising, and Allah’s work was being done.

  Azeer had also been assured that the video had been released to the appropriate government agencies — a video that was filmed over a year ago, when the preparation for this glorious month had begun.

  Now the British government would know this was only the beginning. There were still two more demonstrations left, and nothing could stop them now. No one appeared to suspect Azeer or Hasim; no police, no MI5, nothing. No one had come to arrest them, nor had anyone even brought them in for questioning.

  Azeer wasn’t getting carried away, however, and was aware that the British authorities could just be taking a few days to plan their arrests and subsequent interrogations. Even so, it didn’t particularly matter; their martyrs were highly trained and well prepared. Even if someone did come along and try and torture the times and locations out of him, they would get nothing, and his men would complete their mission regardless.

  The best part? The country was still reeling from the first demonstration, and the second would come along almost as soon as the first.

  They would have no idea what to do.

  Hasim asked, “Hal nahnu musta’edoun?” Are we ready?

  Azeer wondered whether they should stretch out the glory of what had happened in Camden Market for a little longer. It was a great moment, and he wanted to revel in it.

  But he could revel in even more devastation by giving the go ahead for the next demonstration.

  Azeer replied, “Nem.” Yes.

  It was now up to Hasam to send the message.

  Hasam lifted the sink and collected the iPhone that was hidden beneath. He turn
ed it on and waited for the home screen to appear.

  “Ma howa azzaman walmakan?” he asked. What is the time and place?

  Azeer gave the location and the day to Hasim. Hasim sent the text.

  He returned the phone to its hiding place beneath the sink and nodded at Azeer.

  Azeer leant back on his bed and gazed above. He imagined he was looking at the stars, even though he was staring at a stained ceiling that was once a sickly cream colour, and was now a dirty mess.

  He imagined the glory he would have when the next part of the mission went well. He pictured success, and he imagined the British intelligence services running around helplessly with no idea when or where the next demonstration was.

  That was why he sent the video. To taunt them. To make them feel helpless. So they would realise how much power Alhami had, and would know how much they had underestimated Azeer Nadeem. They would know they could not repress the Islamic state any longer.

  Azeer would turn on the television in a few days and marvel at the destruction.

  And then they would prepare for the biggest attack.

  The country would be on edge, already devastated by two demonstrations, with no idea how bad it could get.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The prisoners were allowed out of their cells for an hour each day. They could wander, play pool, exercise in the courtyard, or any other activity they could think of to alleviate the monotony.

  Sullivan kept himself to himself and, after three or four days, fell into a routine.

  He would begin the day by waking up in a pool of sweat with a pounding headache. His stomach would feel acidic and he’d struggle to eat. His hands would shake and he would close his eyes, waiting for it to pass. He knew this would happen. You weren’t allowed alcohol in the prison and he was quickly learning what his body did without it.

  The symptoms would usually quell slightly after he’d had coffee and some water — either that, or he just grew accustomed to it.

  Then he would try exercising. A few push-ups, a few press-ups, some running on the spot. Anything to kill the time.