“White?” I wasn’t sure why this surprised me.
“Yeah,” Roberts agreed.
From where I was standing I could see the shop. The location would offer a good vantage point to take a shot at someone in the schoolyard. Police were sent to trace the owner of the premises and find out who had access to them.
I walked across to the shop front and looked back at the school. Maybe a distance of 150 or so yards? The premises were three-storeyed and, from the windows on either of the upper floors, there’d be a clear shot at the schoolyard. Any half-decent shooter would have been able to take out the intended target from here. How could he miss from so close?
The couple had pointed out which way the person they’d seen had gone. From here, there was easy access to the Caledonian Road and on into central London. This time on a Saturday night traffic conditions would mean a relatively easy run.
Back in the school hall, al-Ebouli and his bodyguards were giving statements to DS Roberts. The extent of their statement was that they’d seen nothing and had been shot at when leaving, injuring one of the bodyguards.
“Do you have any enemies who you think might be involved in something like this?” I asked al-Ebouli.
He sniggered. “My list of enemies would be very long indeed, and I get death threats all the time from people in this very wonderful country.” He smiled ironically. “It could be any one of the deranged persons who send death threats to me.”
“Unlikely,” I replied. “People who write letters like that are usually just venting. If they were really serious about taking you out, they wouldn’t write letters. They’d just do it.”
He didn’t seem reassured. “I think it was probably the Mossad. There’s no doubt Israel wants me dead.”
“No doubt,” I agreed with him. “But it wasn’t the Mossad.”
“And you can be sure about that?”
“Yeah, I can.”
He raised his eyebrows quizzically.
“If it was the Mossad, you’d be dead, and they’d also kill you a lot more imaginatively than shooting you in a schoolyard. Trust me, if you’re on their shitlist, your chances of survival aren’t usually that good,” I said neutrally.
He stared at me for a few moments, then he relaxed.
“I know you,” he said softly. “You came to my office one time to threaten me.”
I knew to what he was referring. I’d recently gone to his office at Westminster University and told him Special Branch were aware he’d taken possession of weapons which’d been stolen from a Battersea gun shop by two men on the orders of Neville Thornwyn. One of the two was now in prison but the other, Brian Turley, was dead: killed after being hit head-on by a taxi whilst crossing a busy road. I suspected it’d been suicide, given how depressed he was when I last saw him, but I would never be sure.
“I wanted to threaten you, you’d know about it.” I held his stare. “You were simply informed what Special Branch knew about your activities.”
“Are you going to try and find who shot my friend?” He looked at his injured bodyguard, who was standing nearby looking sorry for himself.
“Probably not. We find the shooter, we’ll probably give him a new identity and safe passage out the country,” I said sarcastically. Roberts, standing nearby, sniggered.
“That’s enough, DS McGraw.”
I turned. Bracewell was standing behind me.
“Of course we’re going to, Mr al-Ebouli. We’re looking for the person concerned as we speak. We don’t take shootings lightly in this country, whatever you might think.”
Al-Ebouli nodded lightly, smiled and then asked if he could leave. He was told he could and we’d be in touch again soon. He nodded to his two bodyguards, gathered his coat and bag and left the hall. I followed them to the door, watched them get in their car and drive away.
“He said he’s no idea who might have been shooting at him. I asked if he kept any of the death threats he says he gets, but he said he either burns them or, if they’re online, he deletes them,” Roberts said.
“Uniforms are still canvassing the area but I doubt we’ll get much more,” Bracewell said. “We’ve got statements from people at the meeting but they don’t amount to much. Other than that one couple, nobody saw anything. We’ll get the bullet from the car but it probably won’t tell us anything. We’re gonna have to trawl through his list of enemies. The target was al-Ebouli, I’m sure of that.”
“Yeah, I think so too,” I concurred.
We left the uniforms and the police on site to continue and report back. A long day had ended, and I’d missed Match of the Day.
T W O
Sunday
Many of the London editions of the national Sunday papers led with the story about shots being fired at a political meeting held in North London, one ostensibly about the mayoral race, and how far removed this was from the British tradition of restraint and tolerance in political culture, with one paper speculating on whether this was the start of a disturbing new trend in Western politics. The Sunday Express suggested this was an inevitable result of allowing too many asylum seekers into the country as a considerable number were almost certain to be terrorist sympathisers.
But virtually all the papers agreed as to who the target of the shooting was. The consensus was that the target was not Ian Mulvehill; it was Khaled al-Ebouli. The Mail on Sunday and the Sunday Telegraph dropped veiled hints in their editorial columns about how, given the extremity of the views held by Khaled al-Ebouli and his virulent anti-west beliefs, whilst the shooting itself couldn’t be justified under any circumstances, it could surely come as no surprise that someone opposed to his extremist ideology had decided to take the law into their own hands. A senior police officer was quoted, saying police at present were keeping an open mind as to the reason for the shooting and asking for anyone with any information to come forward. I wondered if the officer quoted was DS Roberts.
I was in Bracewell’s office reviewing the events of last night and considering the next step. As well as Bracewell and me, there was a woman I didn’t recognise who Bracewell had introduced simply as “someone from MI5”. Helpful. She was around five-six tall and dressed to kill, in a very smart two-piece navy blue business suit, worn over the top of a white silk blouse. She was also wearing high-heeled shoes which looked uncomfortable. She scanned me with complete indifference as I entered the room, as though I was there on sufferance only and I was to be seen and not heard. I took an instant dislike to her.
The events of the previous evening had been evaluated and we outlined them for the benefit of the MI5 spook. She paused for a couple of moments.
“Police didn’t turn up anything from last night’s canvass, did they?” The spook looked at Bracewell, who was swilling coffee around in his cup.
“Actually they did,” I leapt in. I explained about the couple who’d seen someone coming out of premises which had been empty for some while, carrying what looked like the case for a snooker cue, and driving away. I said police were examining CCTV pictures for the area, hoping to get a lead on the car.
“They didn’t see this person’s face, did they?”
“No, just saw the guy from the side, but they saw enough to see he was white. He got into a nearby car and drove off. Could be he was heading into the centre.”
The spook nodded. “We’re examining the CCTV footage now; may get something from that.”
I nodded in return.
The spook must have noticed the faraway look in my eye. “Something bothering you, DS McGraw?”
“Just thinking about last night. Has this got anything to do with all the controversy about that Muslim candidate standing for mayor?”
The press had reported, when the mayoral race had begun, the controversy within Muslim circles concerning the attempt by a moderate Muslim candidate to run for mayor, standing on a diversity platform. The candidate was arguing Muslims should assimilate themselves more with the host community, and a run for mayor by a successful Mu
slim businessman was a symbol of this assimilation. This had been frowned upon by more radical sections amongst younger Muslims, who argued for Muslims to be true to their heritage, argue for Sharia law and not conform to what Western society wanted them to do.
“Unlikely,” the spook retorted. “But it’s something to consider. Whatever, our priority is to find this person. We don’t like shootings in London and we don’t want any more of them. We’re not quite the United States yet.”
After a few more routine observations the meeting concluded. The spook left, saying she’d be in touch again. I stood up and got my jacket, preparing to relieve the operative currently watching Ian Mulvehill.
Bracewell looked across at me. “Thanks for your assistance these past few weeks, DS McGraw. You must be sick of the sight of Ian Mulvehill by now,” he said in a jovial manner.
“Pardon?” I was confused.
“Didn’t they tell you? We’re back up to full strength. SPS’s got a full complement of officers again, so those who’ve been seconded to duty here are being stood down. You’re back on Special Branch duty again as of” – he looked at his watch – “now.”
“Oh.” I was surprised. Also delighted.
“Thanks for all your help. I hope it wasn’t too boring.”
“No, it was actually quite enjoyable,” I lied with a smile on my face.
“Yeah.” His face registered disbelief.
I handed him my SPS ID and radio. We shook hands and he left the room. I went back to do some real police work.
*
Back in the Branch office at the Yard. I’d not realised how much I’d missed this place: the smell, the feel, the whole atmosphere, the three-day-old coffee I could cut a slice from and chew. I’d been greeted by colleagues on duty like a returning hero, especially after the events of the previous evening, with one person wondering aloud whether in fact I was the intended target.
Smitherman was in his office. I knocked and entered. He looked up from his laptop as I walked in. If I didn’t know him better, I’d have said he looked almost pleased to see me. Almost. It being Sunday he was dressed casually: tie loosened at the collar, shirt sleeves rolled up slightly and he wasn’t wearing a jacket.
“They informed me yesterday your deployment was finishing.”
I sat down and clued him in on how I’d been deployed during the past three and a half weeks. He nodded sagely as I spoke.
“It would be when you were there, wouldn’t it?” He had a broad beam on his face. “The first attempt to kill a political party leader in this country in over thirty years, and you just happen to be in the middle of it. We’ve not had anything like this on the mainland since the Tory party conference back in 1984.”
This was a reference to the IRA bomb at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, when an incendiary device, secreted behind the wall in a bedroom on the third floor a few weeks before the conference began, had exploded in the early hours of Thursday 12th October 1984. It’d been intended to kill Margaret Thatcher, but had ended up killing five other people and injuring several more, including paralysing the wife of a cabinet minister. That the death and injury toll was so small, given the devastation, was almost miraculous. It heralded a considerable raising of the stakes between the state and the terrorist.
“So,” Smitherman said, “tell me about last night.”
I did. I recounted the events of the previous evening: the meeting itself, the shooting, the injury to al-Ebouli’s bodyguard, the couple who’d seen someone leaving the scene in a hurry. I then mentioned my curiosity about how the shooter had missed from a distance of around 150 yards. Smitherman sat still and listened as I spoke.
“You think it was someone after al-Ebouli?” he asked.
“Yeah. Mulvehill wasn’t the target, I’m sure of that.”
“He wasn’t, you’re correct. Our information is it’s definitely al-Ebouli who was the intended target.”
Smitherman looked at something on his desk. I waited a moment. He had a concerned look on his face.
“The thing is, al-Ebouli’s due to speak at another meeting tomorrow night at some place a couple of miles from here. This one’s just for the Muslim candidate. It’s not being widely advertised, so it’ll stop groups like the EDL and Britain First from turning out in numbers. I’m just hoping, after the events last night, police on the ground stop it going ahead.”
I knew what he was referring to.
“We thought something like last night’s shooting would occur soon.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Someone close to al-Ebouli came forward and said he’d heard a whisper there was going to be an attempt on al-Ebouli’s life soon. Told us this last Friday. Didn’t you wonder why there were more police than usual at the school?”
When our car had arrived at the Joan of Arc school, I’d been first out, looking around the area, and had noticed, given the numbers present, there seemed to be more police than I was expecting, but I hadn’t registered it as being too unusual, given one of the speakers was Khaled al-Ebouli. He attracted hostile crowds the same way a rotting carcass attracts vultures.
“Information we received was an attempt on his life could be made at this meeting. It would appear our informant was correct.” Smitherman seemed pleased with this.
“Did he say who was gonna carry it out? Any names?”
“No. But he alluded to it being someone brought in from outside. Someone with no connection to the group.”
“Someone from this country?”
“We don’t know yet. Security’s checking all assassins and mercs currently known to be in the UK. Maybe we’ll get a lead there.”
“Which group are you referring to?”
“I’ll get to that in a moment.”
“Would’ve been nice to be let in on the secret, given we were right in the middle of it.” I could hear the agitation in my own voice.
“Couldn’t do that,” he said solemnly. “Our informant made it clear very few people knew this was being planned. An added security presence would’ve tipped them off we knew something was about to occur, and it would’ve meant our informant being at greater risk than he already is. So the decision was made to keep security at its usual level, with just a few more police present, and hope either nothing happened or, if something did, we’d catch whoever it was in the act. We got that one wrong, it would appear. I believe there was one casualty?” He looked at me enquiringly.
“One of al-Ebouli’s bodyguards grazed by a bullet.”
Smitherman shrugged to suggest he wasn’t particularly concerned at this news.
“So who’s this person on the inside?” I asked. “He’s obviously well placed if he knows about things like assassinations being planned.”
Smitherman initially stared at me, as if to say are you really stupid enough to think I’m going to answer that question, and then his expression lightened. “You know the group Muearada?”
I did. They were a fanatical Islamist fundamentalist sect with links to Islamic State whose members were known to worship in an Islington mosque. Their adherents believed sacrificing yourself for the greater glory of Allah was a guarantee of everlasting life in eternal paradise, and the rewards bestowed by the prophets would be even greater if you took some of Allah’s enemies with you. They evidently practised what they believed in because, three months ago, a suicide bomb had exploded in Damascus outside a revered place of worship, killing fourteen people, most of them European Muslims on a pilgrimage to visit the holy place. The bomber had been identified from what was left of him as a London-born Muslim, Umah al-Doukali, known to attend the same North London mosque. MI5 had confirmed he was attached to Muearada. The press had raised the issue of how, if he was on a security watchlist, he had been able to slink out of the country virtually unnoticed by immigration or the security service. No answers had been forthcoming.
“MI5 has someone in place inside this group,” Smitherman said.
“A Muslim?”
He didn’t answer m
y question. “He went undercover a while back, and he’s passed some very useful tips about this mob. We know names and addresses of several people there we didn’t know previously, which MI5’s found really useful. It’s dangerous and he knows it, but it’s the only way we’re ever going to learn anything about what this group’s up to. The word is it’s this group planning to kill al-Ebouli.”
“Why do they wanna kill al-Ebouli? Isn’t he their spiritual leader, or something like that?”
“That’s what we’re hoping to hear. But our man’s gotta keep his head down. Can’t risk asking too many questions or he’ll be exposing himself.”
“Makes sense.”
“As for us, we focus on finding whoever did the shooting. Get the shooter before someone dies. If al-Ebouli dies, God knows what’ll happen inside his sect. It’ll be open warfare to see who replaces him. You think al-Ebouli’s extreme, you should hear some of the younger members of his flock, the ones who’re thoroughly radicalised, the ones who openly gloat at the funerals of British soldiers. These people’ll stab you just for wearing a poppy. And the best part is?” He looked aghast. “Most of these people are as English as you and I. Born and raised in the country. Our man will, of course, keep his eyes and ears open, but we need to move quick.”
I agreed.
“So, go back and talk to the eyewitnesses. Police and forensics have been all over the room on the first floor they believe the shots were fired from. Didn’t find anything. Thousands of prints but no recent ones. Whoever got in knows his stuff because there’s quite a sophisticated locking system on the back door, put on to keep squatters out, but he bypassed it without setting the alarm off or causing any damage. We’re definitely not dealing with amateurs here.”
The Rules Page 3
