One Way Out

by A. A. Dhand

  Harry had spent too many sombre nights in Queensbury Tunnel.

  Usually as the voice of reason.

  Now and again as something darker.

  What Tariq was asking was impossible.

  ‘Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. Almukhtaroon will be sought by every security service in the country. If they’re smart, they’ll already be in hiding.’

  Harry pointed at Tariq’s phone, still in his hands.

  ‘Bet Twitter trolls are putting Almukhtaroon at the top of their most-wanted list. I might know this city better than anyone else but I also know when I’m out of my depth.’

  Tariq turned his phone off, the screen fading to darkness, his face no longer illuminated by it.

  ‘Out of your depth?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. The whole world is looking for four ghosts who could be anywhere in Bradford right now. How do we even know they are here?’

  ‘They had an organized talk scheduled for this evening. It’s on their Twitter page. They’re around, all right.’

  Harry glanced down the tunnel. ‘Maybe so, but I’m beaten here.’

  Tariq stayed silent.

  ‘Anyway, murder’s not my thing.’

  ‘So, what then?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I should be talking to your brother?’

  ‘No. I mean, if I had these guys, I’d leave it to Bradford to choose their fate.’

  ‘What do you think Bradford would decide?’

  Harry thought about the city’s intolerance for anyone who tried to bring it to its knees. If the four leaders of Almukhtaroon were left on the streets, they’d simply become part of its history.

  ‘I think I’d be having dinner with my wife before the sun sets this evening.’

  ‘Mob mentality?’

  Harry started to reply, reconsidered and said, ‘Street justice.’

  ‘What if you had a head start?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘What if—’

  Harry suddenly stepped towards Tariq. In the darkness, he would have expected a lesser man to flinch. Tariq didn’t move.

  ‘My wife is in one of those mosques, my kid and my mother nearly got caught up in the blast, so, Tariq, why don’t you just cut to the chase? What have you got on them?’

  Islam looked at his watch.

  Harry held his ground.

  ‘I need to be briefed on the COBRA meeting within the hour,’ said Tariq.

  ‘Yet you’d rather be here, with me.’

  ‘I’d rather not be at either. They’ll assume I’ve been waylaid by the fallout up here. And all we need to stop Bradford from falling is four fuckers I can’t do anything about because they’re British citizens.’

  He was starting to lose it and Harry didn’t like it one bit.

  ‘Abu-Nazir was born here, everyone knows that. The white Geordie ginger lad who moved to London, converted to Islam, went to Syria and returned with an English girl, Amelia Rose, also a Muslim convert. They set up Almukhtaroon.’

  Harry knew the cases. They had caused a media sensation when the current Far Right leader, Tyler Sudworth, had a public altercation with Abu-Nazir, calling him by his English name, Kade Turner. Sudworth had handed out a beating to Nazir and all hell had broken loose as Almukhtaroon supporters and Far Right extremists had locked horns. Arrests in their dozens had been made and Sudworth, the self-appointed ‘saviour’ of white people, had been jailed for six months, gaining an even larger following inside prison.

  ‘Like we said, the security services lose either way on this one – with Almukhtaroon in safe custody or not,’ said Tariq.

  Harry felt his phone vibrate. A text from Saima.

  You OK, and Aaron? What’s happening out there? Everyone in here scared. So am I. Miss you. XXX

  ‘I agree you can’t win,’ said Harry.

  ‘But you can.’

  Harry replied to Saima.

  I’m fine. Aaron perfect. We’ll get through this. We always do. XXX

  He put his phone away and focused on Tariq. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Group-13.’

  That got Harry’s attention.

  The covert para-military organization who officially didn’t exist except in internet chat rooms, where arguments raged about who were deadlier, them or the USA’s Navy Seal teams. He inched closer to Tariq, recalling speculation that the Home Secretary had once been a member of Group-13.

  The men stared at each other.

  In a tunnel rich with secrets, the silence they shared for those few seconds told Harry everything he needed to know.

  He inched closer still.

  ‘Call them in,’ whispered Harry.

  ‘It is being considered. Most cannot be pulled from ongoing missions.’

  Tariq stared past him into the darkness of the tunnel.

  Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. ‘What are you not telling me?’ he said.

  ‘It is more complicated. Group-13 don’t engage with matters like this,’ replied Tariq.

  ‘Then what do they do?’

  Tariq didn’t answer that. ‘If they get caught or pictured here – even a sniff of their existence – it opens up a box of explosives far more dangerous than what is currently ongoing in Bradford. I cannot say any more than that.’

  Harry didn’t understand. He turned around, looked into the darkness. Tariq arrived at his shoulder, both men now side by side.

  ‘What’s down there?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Nobody from Group-13,’ said Tariq.

  ‘So, who then?’

  ‘Decision time, Harry. If you walk down there and find out then you’re involved until this siege ends, no matter the outcome. No going back.’

  Aaron. Saima. He couldn’t risk them.

  ‘Why do I want any part of this?’ asked Harry, focusing on the darkness.

  ‘Because I think you want to be in control of what happens in Bradford today. To the city, to Saima, to your son.’

  Tariq was right, of course he was.

  Harry didn’t want to leave this to chance. He held Tariq’s stare for a moment, then stepped into the darkness.

  FIFTEEN

  The living room of the Virdee household was panelled with dark oak and had an ornate fireplace with brown Chesterfield couches either side. Joyti was standing by the living-room window, watching Aaron. He’d eaten his ice cream and was back on the tractor, pretending to drive. Ranjit was sitting behind her, the atmosphere strained, the silence deafening. Joyti had become accustomed to this over the years, always finding solace in standing by the window, watching the world go by. Joyti often used to find Harry standing as she was today, arms folded, deep in thought. Her boy.

  She didn’t know what to say to her husband. Ranjit had found her with Aaron and stormed out of the kitchen, muttering words and curses that made her relieved her grandson couldn’t speak Punjabi.

  For so long, her life had been about subservience, always deferring to Ranjit. Even when it lost her a son. However, she had come to see that his was not the only way.

  She couldn’t – she wouldn’t – allow Ranjit to take this from her. Her newly formed relationship with Aaron was more important than Ranjit’s hatred of what Harry had done.

  The stillness felt like a noose around her neck.

  How to break it?

  ‘Did you think when we first came to this country that we would ever live in a house with a little tractor to cut our grass?’ she said, speaking in Punjabi.

  Ranjit said nothing.

  ‘You had two pounds in your pocket. We couldn’t speak English. Do you remember how cold it was? How we yearned to go back to India?’

  Still nothing.

  Joyti smiled, focusing on Aaron, lost in his own little world. ‘Do you think, in our fight to succeed, to make a life for ourselves and for our sons, we lost sight of the simple things that make life beautiful?’

  She allowed the silence that followed to settle, wondering wh
at was going through Ranjit’s mind. He had only glanced at Aaron. Yet in that moment she was certain he had seen what had once taken her breath away – a carbon-copy of their little boy. She might have been wrong, but she thought she saw in Ranjit a flicker of something that wasn’t hate.

  ‘He cannot stay here,’ said Ranjit finally.

  Joyti did not detect the usual force behind his words.

  ‘There is nowhere else,’ she replied, keeping her back towards Ranjit. If she saw contempt in his face, she didn’t trust herself not to react.

  ‘These people have very large families. There is always somebody there.’

  ‘These people,’ said Joyti, shaking her head.

  ‘Muslims.’

  ‘He is my grandchild – our grandchild. We are the family to look after him.’

  ‘That man is not my son. Therefore, it is impossible for that boy to be my grandchild.’

  ‘Well, a grandchild of mine must surely be one of yours also,’ said Joyti, unable to keep a spiteful edge from her voice.

  ‘You see what happened in Bradford two hours ago? Shall I put on the news for you, woman?’

  She turned around to face him, irate. ‘Did I see? Did I see? Take one look at me, Ranjit. I am covered in ash. We were there, in City Park, only moments before the bomb went off. Do you even care?’

  ‘You see? They nearly take you from me! Nearly bring more suffering to our family, and still you entertain these people!’

  Joyti steadied her voice. ‘My son, his wife and my grandson are not simply “people”. Harry saved my life this morning. You would have been proud.’

  Ranjit swallowed hard, his eyes alight with rage. ‘How many dead this morning? Do you know?’

  ‘That has nothing to do with this.’

  ‘They live in his house. Those who did this.’

  Joyti was used to the tired, clichéd arguments. ‘If you are referring to Saima—’

  ‘Do not say her name in my house!’

  ‘My house also,’ she replied, turning back to face the window. It dawned on her that the bomb blast she had witnessed a couple of hours ago wasn’t the most harrowing thing she would experience today.

  Joyti could not have the same argument with Ranjit again. She had tired of trying to convince him Saima was not a terrorist simply because she was a Muslim. She focused on Aaron, who was now jumping up and down on the seat of the tractor. She envied him; such innocence, oblivious to the hate that existed in the world, in this room. She would do anything to keep it that way.

  ‘He cannot stay here,’ said Ranjit. ‘If he does, I will leave and never return.’

  She knew he meant it. His anger knew no compromise.

  ‘My house is pure. We left Hardeep and his filth behind.’

  The words sounded harsher in Punjabi. Again, she managed to remain calm. She paused a moment, thinking of her next move.

  ‘OK,’ she said, focusing on Aaron, feeling guilt at what she was about to do. She paused a beat then moved towards Ranjit, stopping in front of him. ‘I will take him from this house but I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I want your word – your kasam that you will honour my request.’ She knew he would not go back on his kasam, a sacred Asian promise made on penalty of death.

  ‘Not until I hear what it is.’

  Joyti mocked him, shaking her head. ‘A man like you should be willing to do anything to protect his home.’

  Ranjit got to his feet and nodded solemnly. ‘You have my kasam.’

  Joyti glanced back towards the window; another glimpse of Aaron, another pang of guilt. She had no choice but to try this.

  ‘I will leave this house with Aaron, but before that, you must look that little angel in the face and tell him yourself that he is not welcome here.’

  SIXTEEN

  A few paces into the tunnel, where the air grew colder still, Harry found an Asian boy, blindfolded and unconscious. He bent to check he was still alive, felt a strong pulse and backed away.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone like this in here. But he usually had Ronnie to thank for that.

  He glanced at Tariq. ‘Am I supposed to know who that is?’

  Tariq set the torch on the ground. Water dripped from the roof of the tunnel, thudding to the ground by his feet. The air was chilly, enough to make Harry wish he had another layer on.

  ‘No,’ said Tariq, stuffing his hands in his pockets and staring down at the kid.

  Harry waited for an explanation.

  ‘One thing you learn in the army, especially special ops, is that in a crisis, fast decisions save lives. You ponder, assess, hesitate too much and, more often than not, it’s the difference between life and death. Sometimes it takes just a heartbeat.’

  Harry crouched near the kid to get a better look.

  Thin, almost painfully so. Long, delicate fingers wrapped around his knees. He looked bound, although it was difficult to see in the light of the tunnel. Patchy stubble.

  Harry was certain he’d never seen him before.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Your first impression of him?’

  ‘Scared kid. Not much more to say.’ Harry stood up. He wished Ronnie were here. Christ, he needed his counsel today. Ronnie might be the vicious one but he was also the smart one. IQ off the charts. When they were kids, he’d been headed for Oxbridge, until he’d gone to prison in place of Harry, protecting him from a murder charge – albeit one that had saved their mother’s life after a bungled armed robbery at their corner shop.

  Harry had never forgiven himself.

  And now here they were, one brother upholding the law, the other breaking it. Complicated wasn’t the word.

  ‘Who’s the kid?’ asked Harry, pulling himself back to the present.

  ‘It’s Isaac Wolfe.’ Tariq smiled, almost rueful, as if he’d hoped the name would trigger a response. When it didn’t he unlocked his phone, accessed a video file and handed it to Harry, who only needed to watch the first few seconds before he hit Pause.

  ‘What the fuck,’ he whispered, looking from Tariq to the kid in disbelief.

  The video was a typically vile broadcast by the leaders of Almukhtaroon.

  Standing beside Abu-Nazir was Amelia Rose, the black widow mooted as his long-term partner and widely speculated to have been responsible for the recruitment of many vulnerable young Muslims to travel to Syria and join the ‘resistance’. Then there was Fahad-Bin-Azeez, the muscle behind the pair’s organization, and finally a young, naive-looking kid.

  The same kid who was unconscious on the floor of the tunnel.

  Tariq’s voice was cold, his gaze steady, as he explained. While officials took advice on the legitimacy of the threat and pored over the Patriots’ videos – both the one released on social media and the one sent directly to the police – Tariq had put his trust in a member of his close-protection team.

  ‘How did he know where to look?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Intel on the police database.’

  ‘How did he get access?’

  ‘Trusted sources.’

  ‘Auditable ones?’

  ‘The security services got the video from the Patriots fifteen minutes before it was released to social media. The bastards gave us that window to get the message through to the imams in the mosques to seal their doors. I used it to consider what would happen after the bomb exploded. Like I said, it’s the decisions you make in the seconds after learning intel that can define what comes to pass. The police database showed Isaac had a record for assault and that he’d been in a youth detention centre until a year ago. His last known address was listed and we took a punt. Bingo.’

  Harry rubbed a sweaty palm across his stubble.

  This wasn’t happening.

  Tariq continued, calm, measured. ‘I can’t be anywhere near this for obvious reasons. Realistically, neither can Group-13. Manhunts are not what they do. Time is our main enemy here, Harry.’
>
  Harry felt his blood boil. This was a major threat. He did not like Tariq’s dismissive tone. He turned to voice his displeasure to find Tariq had his hand raised in anticipation.

  ‘There are many things you don’t know. Group-13 do not officially exist and even if I could speak to … certain people, they would arrive here far too late. The world’s media is upon us, an entire city is in lockdown, and with every security service we have pulling together, Group-13 could not even be ghosts here.’

  ‘And you think I can?’ said Harry, perplexed.

  Tariq looked around the tunnel. ‘You seem to have a particular set of skills, which today might just give this city a fighting chance.’

  With Ronnie in India, Harry had no leverage and no access to the muscle Ronnie employed. Harry’s ‘particular set of skills’ in this instance would just be his determination to keep his family safe.

  ‘I’m alone here,’ said Harry. ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’

  Irritation flashed across Tariq’s face. ‘If we walk away from this … mess and it all turns to shit, will you ever look back on this moment and forgive yourself?’

  Harry thought of Saima.

  Scared, alone.

  He rubbed his hand across his face again, head hurting.

  For the next fifteen hours, Almukhtaroon would be the most hunted people on the planet. Harry had seen the videos they put out on the internet. Abu-Nazir was a charismatic son-of-a-bitch and now, with everyone looking for him, he’d be rallying those closest to him, those he could convince to bring about carnage on the streets of Bradford.

  Go out in a blaze of glory.

  Harry folded his arms across his chest, a chill zipping down his spine. He sighed.

  ‘What do I have from you?’ he asked Tariq, without looking at him.

  A hand on his shoulder, squeezing it firmly.

  ‘Anything and everything I’ve got.’

  Alone now, Harry had allowed Tariq to leave, having formed the loosest of alliances. Tariq had given him a cheap burner phone with his number programmed into the memory. It would be the only way they would communicate. Tariq intended to set himself up at Gold Command. With Bradford on lockdown, he could not get out of the city back to Whitehall. Harry could only imagine what ACC Frost would make of that.