by A. A. Dhand
No, this was the Patriots situating themselves in a place where the West had no allies to call on. It was smart.
Tariq had wanted to speak with them but Frost had not allowed it. He didn’t trust the politician.
His team had found nothing on the Patriots. There were several low-level criminal groups around the country who used the nickname, none of whom had the capabilities to pull this off. Cyber experts had not been able to take anything from the video clips. The Patriots had left nothing but smoke.
Frost pinched the bridge of his nose. They were six hours into this crisis with no concrete leads. They hadn’t tracked a single leader of Almukhtaroon and nightfall would make that all the more difficult. Worse, it would bring the vampires on to the streets. Frost had been updated that social media was rife with groups of anarchy-seekers on the streets of Bradford supposedly hunting Abu-Nazir. The enormous police presence in and around the city centre and specifically now around the Mehraj mosque had detained dozens of locals, all seeking to stir up trouble. Maintaining civil order was becoming more challenging.
Even the brilliant Detective Superintendent Clare Conway, in charge of locating Almukhtaroon, could not bring Frost the good news he hoped for. She had many intelligence leads but, as yet, not a single member in safe custody.
The five hundred extra officers from Yorkshire and the North East had arrived and were now strategically positioned around Bradford, a bold, visible statement that the police were in charge. This thing was on a knife edge and if Bradford kicked off, they would have little hope of containing it.
He was waiting to hear from the detective superintendent responsible for evacuating the other hundred and four mosques but he had not yet checked in. Perhaps, Frost thought absentmindedly, there would be good news there. He couldn’t sit about in his office waiting for the update.
Up on the second floor, Frost was searched by an armed military soldier.
Protocol.
Tariq Islam and special ops commander David Allen were standing in front of a large desk. Tariq’s mobile phone was on the table, the line open to the government’s COBRA committee.
Frost nodded for the men to start. The revelation of the sleeper cell had made what he was about to hear a more pressing matter.
‘We plan to enter the mosque through a sewage tunnel that gives access to the basement,’ Allen opened with confidence. The Patriots had destroyed nearby access points with their bomb in City Park – intentionally or unintentionally, they could not be sure – which was slowing the operation considerably. A special ops team had gained access to the sewer system further out of town and were now one mile from the main line that would take them to the basement of the mosque.
Commander Allen spoke with the ease of a man who thought this was nothing more than a routine day in the office. ‘We’ve dispatched a small robot armed with several cameras to trawl the route, make sure there’s no unwelcome surprise waiting for our men down there.’
It would take a couple of hours, Allen went on. If it showed nothing of concern, the special forces team would look to enter the mile-long stretch at 22.30 with a proposed entry to the basement of the mosque at 23.00, giving them seven hours before the Patriots’ deadline expired to try to defuse the bomb.
‘What about the sleeper cell inside the mosque?’ asked Frost, stepping towards the phone on speaker. ‘If our contact inside cannot give us a name, can the bomb-disposal team disable it without the sleeper knowing?’
Allen didn’t mince his words. ‘No. But if we gain access, we have a good chance of disabling the device.’
The Prime Minister’s voice on the phone interrupted them.
‘Commander Allen, please define “a good chance”.’
‘All I can say, Prime Minister, is that looking at the pictures and video footage made available to us, we feel confident of a favourable outcome.’
Frost wanted to smile; Allen was just as good as the PM at evading direct questions.
The PM asked the Home Secretary for an update. He should have asked Frost, but this didn’t trouble Frost. He listened closely to ensure the information was accurate. Five minutes later, the PM gave Commander Allen authorization to proceed and the phone call ended as a knock sounded on the office door.
‘You wanted an update as soon as I could get it to you.’ The young DS looked at Frost. She stopped talking, her face troubled.
‘What now?’ he said, realizing another body blow was imminent.
‘I’m afraid the other mosques within the city have not been evacuated.’
‘Why?’ asked Frost, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.
Why the fuck not? he wanted to shout.
‘Because, sir, they have refused to open their doors.’
THIRTY-NINE
Saima was sitting alone in Imam Hashim’s office.
Crying.
She couldn’t help it. Much as she wanted to believe Aaron was OK, she needed it confirmed. She had tried to call Joyti, who hadn’t answered. Saima didn’t have the house telephone number, having never needed to call it.
How could she focus on what Frost had tasked her with – trying to locate the potential sleeper – when her mind would not focus on anything except images of her little boy crying, afraid, confused over why he was sleeping in a strange house without either of his parents.
The past six hours felt like a blur. The pace and adrenaline of first undertaking the search and then locating the bomb had made time fly. Now, sitting here, she finally had a moment to think of nothing but Aaron.
She called Joyti again. And again. But she did not answer. Saima wanted to throw her phone against the wall and scream. This was her little boy. Surely Joyti would have realized that Saima needed to speak to him before he went to bed? For her, leaving the mosque was far from certain and she’d be damned if she didn’t hear Aaron’s voice one more time. Perhaps she was being overly dramatic. She didn’t care.
If she got her head clear, she could do as Frost had asked. She had been calm on the phone with him – resilient even. They were all in this together and everyone needed to play their part. Before she could take up that challenge she needed a clear head.
Saima tried to Facetime Joyti. They had done so before; her mother-in-law knew how it worked. The call connected on the fifth ring and Saima’s heart felt like it might burst from her chest.
Joyti’s face appeared on screen, smiling but also with a degree of concern she could not hide.
Saima started to cry, more out of relief than anything else. She asked desperately about Aaron.
Joyti spoke to her in Punjabi, a language Saima was fluent in. ‘He is fine. I put him to bed and he is asleep.’
‘Let me see him, Mum.’
Joyti asked how she was but Saima shook her head and again pleaded to see Aaron.
‘If he hears you, he’ll wake up, Saima,’ said Joyti.
‘I won’t say a word, I promise. I just need to see him.’
Joyti moved from wherever she was, taking the phone with her. Saima had never been inside the house so she didn’t have any bearings. Then the screen showed a bed, some distance away, as if Joyti were in the doorway. Saima could see Aaron’s body, his head on a pillow.
She put her hand across her mouth, stifled her cries, then asked Joyti to go a little closer.
Now, with the phone right above Aaron, Saima saw him clearly. He had on some blue pyjamas she had never seen before, his dummy in his mouth, and looked to be sound asleep.
Saima cried hard, using her hand to absorb the noise, her whole body shaking. She just needed to get this out – be done with it.
Joyti slowly withdrew from the bedroom and made her way downstairs, arriving in the kitchen.
‘Beti, are you OK? Tell me.’
Beti – daughter.
‘I’m OK, Mum,’ said Saima, not showing herself on the screen, simply speaking into the phone.
‘I … I … am praying for you, Beti. Everything will be fine.’
> Saima couldn’t speak any more and remained silent. Joyti seemed to sense this and tried her hardest to put Saima at ease. ‘He had all of his tea, Saima, no problems. Ranjit even went to the shops and bought him new clothes and a toy – you have nothing to worry about. Like I told Hardeep, your boy is now my boy and with my life I will protect and look after him.’
After the call Saima put the phone by her side, put her hands over her face and let it all out. Aaron had looked so peaceful asleep, not a care in the world. Just as it should be.
Hearing Joyti’s calm voice, speaking as perhaps only another mother could, had made Saima want to speak to her own mother, something simply not possible. Instead, she reached for her phone and dialled her sister, Nadia. She answered immediately and was alarmed to hear Saima sounding so upset.
‘I’m OK, I just, you know, being away from Aaron and trapped inside this place is getting to me.’
Nadia asked what was happening and Saima told her she didn’t know, that as far as she was concerned, it was just a waiting game. Then she got down to the real reason for the call.
‘Listen, Nads, if … you know, things should not go so well in here, if the worst happens, Harry is going to need your support. You’re the only family I’ve got.’
Nadia tried to be positive and told Saima she was being silly – that everything would be OK. It was the only thing she could say.
‘I know all that, Nads, but still, should it not happen that way, promise me you’ll be there for Harry. That you’ll do what you can.’
Nadia gave Saima her word, swore on her life.
Finally, Saima asked her for one more thing. Something she had never done before. She asked Nadia to call their mother in Pakistan and to tell her that Saima still loved her and that she was sorry for all the heartache she had caused everyone by marrying Harry. And that, if this situation resolved itself, she wanted to try and reconnect.
Nadia fell silent and Saima knew it was because what she was asking would perhaps not be met with the response she wanted.
‘I don’t care if it is not received well, Nadia. Just promise me you will do it.’
Nadia said she would.
Having disconnected the call, Saima wiped her face and took a few minutes to compose herself, mind now cleared.
Saima Virdee had work to do.
FORTY
This is Trevor Holmes reporting for ITV news from Forster Square in Bradford where just behind me you can see the iconic Mehraj mosque, confirmed to be the location of a second explosive device inside a city already devastated by a major blast earlier in the day. As you can see, there is a dramatic police presence around the mosque with the cordon having been extended in the past hour. We have been forced almost a quarter-mile away.
The breaking news we have just received is that the other hundred and four mosques within the city have not evacuated, in spite of being allowed to do so by the terrorist organization calling themselves the Patriots. We understand that the very young and elderly have left these sites but the majority of the worshippers have remained in situ.
With thousands of police officers throughout the city and indeed around those mosques, this breaking development seems to go against the advice of the security services who, we understand, are in urgent talks with the imams of those mosques to find out what exactly is going on. One thing remains certain: with darkness approaching, Bradford has a very long night ahead of it.
FORTY-ONE
Harry approached the rear of the property.
There were clothes on the clothesline but he couldn’t see anyone in the house itself. Harry opened the rear gate and hurried down the path to the house.
The back garden was as perfectly tended as the front, not a blade of grass out of place.
Must take hours.
He was about to peer through the window next to the back door when he saw the handle move and the door flung open in front of him. A short, thin, black guy appeared in the doorway, a rucksack over one shoulder, heavy carrier bags weighing down both hands.
Couldn’t have been Azeez; this guy hadn’t seen a gym in his life.
He stopped, face aghast at seeing Harry in his doorway. Before Harry could react, the man charged at him, catching him off guard. Harry stumbled as the man flew past him, still carrying all three bags.
All Harry could think as he leapt after the stranger was how ridiculous he looked running for freedom carrying two cheap carrier bags, both ready to split any second.
Harry reached him in four powerful strides. He grabbed him, one arm around his neck, the other snaking around his torso.
‘Police.’
The man whimpered and dropped the bags then, to Harry’s astonishment, burst out crying.
The skinny black guy had identified himself as Roderick Manuel Alfonso. His driving licence said he was forty-two and it was registered to this address.
He continued to cry as Harry secured him to a kitchen cabinet door with a second pair of handcuffs.
The rest of the house was empty. Azeez wasn’t here.
‘What’s your deal?’ said Harry, opening Roderick’s rucksack.
Clothes. Toiletries. A few hundred quid in cash.
The carrier bags each contained a laptop, which confused Harry. Surely the laptops would have been better in the rucksack and the clothes in the cheap plastic bags? This guy wasn’t thinking straight. He was frightened.
‘Azeez? You know him?’ asked Harry.
Roderick continued to cry. It was starting to piss Harry off.
‘You sick? Crazy? Or you in mourning?’
Everything about this bloke was off. His T-shirt was on back to front, his belt undone, one of his socks blue, the other red. Harry prodded him with his finger.
‘You want to dial that shit down?’
Roderick didn’t.
Exasperated, Harry grabbed the key from the back door and told Roderick he’d be back.
‘Never seen him before,’ said Isaac, looking as perplexed as Harry.
‘Didn’t think this was our guy,’ replied Harry. ‘I’m gonna take a proper look around. You see if you can calm him down.’
Harry locked the back door, taking the key with him. As he passed the staircase, he also checked the front door was secure. He didn’t think Isaac was going to bolt but wasn’t willing to take the risk.
The house was pristine. Rows of tiny porcelain ornaments were perfectly aligned on the mantelpiece in the living room. Plumped cushions on the sofa made a diamond formation. More of a show home than one where people lived. Upstairs was just as bad. Harry hurriedly searched both bedrooms.
The second had a wardrobe full of clothes for a man much bigger than Roderick.
Thirty-six-inch jeans.
Seventeen-inch collars.
Everything else either XL or XXL.
Seemed Azeez might have been here after all.
He was halfway down the stairs when he stopped. He could still hear Roderick crying.
Something wasn’t right.
Surely not?
He went back upstairs. Back in Azeez’s bedroom, he went for the bed. Duvet tucked tightly under the mattress, pillows snug underneath the duvet – more like a hotel than a home.
Harry pulled the duvet free. Dust swirled around his face. He backed off, coughing, blinking it out of his eyes.
Harry went to the other bedroom and did the same thing. No dust this time. He examined the pillows. Both well worn.
Harry frowned. He gave the room a little more focus. Blackout blinds on the windows, wires hanging loose behind the TV – a USB-to-HDMI cable. He found a mini-tripod down the back of the TV cabinet. Whichever camera it had once held had been connected to the TV screen. Amateur video at its best.
He opened the first bedside cabinet.
Empty.
Harry moved around the bed to the second and pulled it open.
There it was.
FORTY-TWO
Roderick Alfonso continued to cry like a baby in his kit
chen.
Harry grabbed a chair and sat down opposite him.
‘Stop that,’ said Harry, showing him his police ID. ‘I’m Detective Virdee from the Homicide and Major Enquiry Team.’
‘Oh shit, oh Jesus! Honestly, I didn’t know he was going to do it. I tried to stop him!’
Harry held up a hand. He couldn’t show his alarm at the man’s response.
‘Do what?’ said Harry. ‘Who are we talking about here? Let’s start at the beginning.’
Harry saw the shift in the man’s demeanour, the narrowing of his eyes and the realization that Harry might not know what he was talking about.
He wiped his eyes with his free hand and shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
Harry wasn’t about to let him get away with that.
‘What do you do?’
‘Huh?’
‘Job?’
Roderick shook his head. ‘I’m on disability.’
‘You ran away from me pretty quickly.’
‘I … er … took my painkillers just before you arrived. They … help.’
‘Who do you live here with?’
‘I live alone.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I do.’
Harry slapped him. He didn’t have time for this shit.
Roderick didn’t cry this time. He sat there, stunned.
‘I really hope I don’t have to do that again,’ said Harry, leaning a little closer and dropping his voice.
‘You … you … can’t do that as a police officer!’ said Roderick.
Harry slapped him again. Harder.
‘If I have to do that a third time, Roderick, something in your face is going to break.’
Roderick’s eyes seemed to darken.
Isaac hung back behind Harry.
‘He was right,’ said Roderick quietly. ‘This country is diseased. Infected.’