by Ted Tayler
Colin lay on his bed in his quarters and began to read the file.
In early 2012, it seemed ironic that while large areas of the country were subject to feelings of deep insecurity, the government-sponsored a massive security operation for the London Games. Since ‘Big Break’, that operation multiplied in scope.
The operation was many times more complex than anything the UK had ever undertaken. Who was it designed to protect? Not Joe Public, at least not primarily. It was mostly for wealthy and powerful visitors and corporations.
As well as a staggering concentration of sporting talent, London would host thousands of media people from around the world. He counted details of more troops deployed than now served in Afghanistan. The overall numbers of security personnel could range between twenty-five and fifty thousand.
The veil of secrecy that shrouded everything meant that nobody knew the real number. Intelligence reports from the ice-house suggested an aircraft carrier was due on the Thames near the City of London; surface-to-air missiles could scan the skies. Unmanned drones hovering overhead to spot potential problems.
Added to that, the reports suggested they might deploy overseas agents, dozens of dog teams, and mile upon mile of electric fencing. The London Olympic Games Act (2006) which passed without much fanfare would legitimise force by armed forces, police, and even private security firms. Colin had seen no sign of it in West Africa, and he was meticulous in keeping up to date with what happened back home.
A new range of scanners was available, biometric ID cards ordered, and CCTV systems with number-plate and facial-recognition installed. Police control centres and checkpoints scattered like confetti. If those that lived in the capital did not have a ‘lockdown’ feeling with the high level of intensive surveillance now in place; then in July and August they certainly would.
Colin set aside the file for a while and considered what he had read so far. There was not much more he could think of the authorities could do to protect the city and the foreign visitors, whether competitors, officials or spectators. A couple of things though struck him concerning the increased security.
Despite the economic meltdown, the now so-called ‘homeland security’ sector was booming. It was a way for a country to aid economic recovery, creating work for their own security companies in response to heightened terrorist threats, whether real or imaginary.
Colin could see it was in London’s interest to show the world it was a safe place to hold a major global event. If it could cope with that, then it boosted confidence it was safe to invest in and to visit as a tourist. A ‘win-win’ tactic, provided a young zealot wearing plastic explosive under his ‘London 2012’ sweat-shirt blew no one to bits.
Colin was concerned at the appointment of the old Group 4 outfit as the main contractor. They never covered themselves in glory in their first guise. They were a vast organisation these days, with people in prisons, asylum detention centres, offshore installations, and airports. Colin thought he read somewhere earlier in the week they were moving into police stations too. It was only in February that another private security firm managed to lose twelve terrorists let’s not forget.
He stood up to stretch his legs. What was it they kept banging on about when they referred to the Games? Legacy, that was it.
In another part of the report, it suggested the now familiar scenery of security at an international airport–checkpoints, scanners, ID cards, cordons and security zones. All of this materialising right slap bang in the middle of major cities. “What are they trying to do; put us out of a job?” asked Colin with a slight smile.
Colin finished reading the report. He had to admit that Thanatos and Alastor had been meticulous. As he climbed into bed that night and lay there staring at the ceiling, he kept running through the different scenarios. With fifty thousand official security staff on the ground and in the air, how would he find a way through the defence and score, if he were a terrorist?
Sleep did not come, nor did a feasible solution. Once you added the spectators into the mix, each one with an awareness of the potential dangers stoked by the media, then it was likely that Henry Case hit the nail on the head. The threat would come from a lone bomber, maybe unconnected to any known cell. That was, without a doubt, the worst scenario.
After a restless night, Colin woke to find his phone was ringing. He stubbed his toe on the table as he scrambled to pick it up before whoever it was ended the call. He cursed. Once for the toe. Once for the missed call. He checked the number. It had been Therese.
“Shit.” he said, “what does she want I wonder?”
Colin limped to the shower room and washed and dressed. He had a few chores to be done today. There was more reading, he had to attend the morning meeting, and then he promised himself a spot of relaxation. He found it difficult in this ‘silly season’ to get motivated. He needed to spend a few hours in the gym, the pool and the target range in the ice-house.
The last thing he needed was Therese coming out of the woodwork.
When he felt ready to face the day, he went back and picked up his phone. Therese sent a text message.
‘Hi. Miss you. I guess your job is keeping you busy. If I get tickets will you come to the Games with me?’
Colin groaned.
“I’d stick hot skewers in my eyes rather than sit and watch any sport.”
He wondered how he should reply. Not responding wasn’t an option. He decided to play along. If she thought he was meeting her in London in a few months’ time, then that bought him time to make the final decision what to do about her.
‘Sounds fun. Can’t promise. I don't know my schedule until closer to the time.’
Therese sent back a smiley face and two kisses. Colin shook his head.
His day had started badly. The rigmarole of selling eleven million tickets was a constant source of controversy in the media. Organisers claimed they managed to balance income with accessibility and atmosphere while critics claimed the process favoured the rich. Colin read somewhere, although the name didn’t mean a thing, that front row seats for Usain Bolt in the 100m final would set you back hundreds of pounds, possibly thousands.
“What if he doesn’t come?” said Colin.
He fervently hoped that either Therese failed to buy any tickets, or they would be for something vaguely exciting. The prospect of sitting in the velodrome, watching blokes in Lycra going around the track lap after lap had him yawning.
Colin knew the odds were stacked against her. Their own Olympus report on the matter showed that sponsors, officials, and the media were allocated seats as a ‘given’ by the IOC. The same old story as with the sudden massive increase in security. Everything is done with the rich and famous in mind. Poor old ‘Joe Public’ a long way down the list of priorities.
Before Colin could treat himself to exercise and then sharpen up his shooting skills, he had the morning meeting to negotiate.
Erebus was back in the chair. Athena sat at his right-hand side. The Three Stooges looked extremely proud of themselves. Colin wondered what they had to report to the agents gathered around the table. Something riveting he hoped.
Thanatos eventually got his moment in the sun. Colin thought the first few items on the agenda tedious, No new ground was being covered. Thanatos reminded Erebus that the application process had been open since July 2010 to find up to seventy thousand Games Makers and Ambassadors for London 2012.
Thanatos waxed lyrical, about how contagious the enthusiastic approach of this band of volunteers would be. Colin listened and thought it a painful exercise. Taking five weeks off work without pay, just to say you have been near an Olympic Games. Not even taking part, but more than likely holding a door open in the bowels of a stadium, showing people the way to their seats.
Evidently, the selection process had been underway for over a year. Colin suddenly brightened. That’s it. That’s how I would try to get inside the venues. They will be dressed in an official uniform, with their badges and accreditati
ons. The security will be less stringent. They’ll have access to areas where the public, if not barred, will be restricted.
He heard Thanatos carrying on in the background. Men and women of all ages; a nurse, a physio, any of them could be a terrorist. One minute they tended to a cut knee on a young girl that slipped and fell on a stairway. The next they placed a bomb in a strategic position that caused the greatest loss of life.
This fellow Usain could be having a massage on his calves, and then find himself drugged, kidnapped and whatever country he comes from could be held to ransom. Colin was convinced that this was the most workable choice for the terrorists. Knowing was one thing, stopping them from carrying out attacks another thing altogether.
CHAPTER 15
Abdul Bashir and Aaleyah Fayad studied at the Queen Mary University of London. They were both twenty-one years old and met when they attended their first biochemistry lecture in October 2010. In the past eighteen months, they studied hard and lived next to one another in the Student Village in Mile End.
In the first few weeks, they saw one another now and then, in the laundrette or in the shops and cafes on the busy campus. Abdul was a quiet boy, easily led. Aaleyah, a firebrand who lived at home with moderate, westernised parents. A teenager with attitude. She wanted to change the world.
There had been no physical attraction to spark their relationship. They were students, on the same course, from the same background and they got on with one another. Aaleyah told Abdul what they would do, and he did it. Whether to walk to lectures together, to carry her shopping bags, or discuss politics, religion, and the holidays for hours.
Aaleyah wanted to be involved in London 2012. She goaded Abdul to join her. He wasn’t interested in watching sports. He was a serious young man who preferred to read and study. Aaleyah decided their summer vacation together would be spent as volunteers at London 2012. Stratford was only ten minutes up the road.
In fairness, neither of them was that keen on the vast array of sports on offer at the Olympics. The driving force behind this joint venture was Aaleyah. She’d found a cause worth fighting for, and Stratford would be her battleground.
When Aaleyah moved to Mile End and started university, like most students, she was eager to make new friends and to fit in, so she joined the Islamic society. She befriended a group of Muslim girls she met at the various functions they held. They seemed to know a lot about Islam.
They encouraged her to read books that helped her learn more about her religion. What she learned from these girls and the books made her think violence was acceptable. It made her want to become a suicide bomber. She believed it would make the Western world sit up and take notice. She wanted the West to understand her anger.
Aaleyah joined the increasing number of Muslim women targeted at British universities and drawn into violent extremism. As the summer break after the end of their first year ended, Abdul and Aaleyah sought to embark on a journey that could allow them to achieve immortality.
In September 2011, they heard their applications to volunteer as Games Makers were approved. They would be based at the Aquatics Centre. They attended training days at Wembley Arena, Hackney College, and Earls Court.
While Erebus and his team searched for terrorist cells and internet traffic between Pakistan or Afghanistan and the UK, one of their greatest threats was already in London.
The agents in the ice-house searched for intelligence that would help them prepare for the anticipated strikes on the Games. The students carried on their daily business. On the surface, you saw two young people attending lectures, studying, enjoying a social life, albeit without alcohol, but there was nothing to alert suspicion.
Behind closed doors, they learned how to prepare and operate an explosive device that left its mark on the western world for generations to come.
Munaf Mansoor and Farooq Habibi were final year students at London Metropolitan University. They met on the Islington campus and shared an interest in football. They were avid Arsenal fans and attended nearly every home match during a season.
Munaf studied Politics and International Relations; Farooq dabbled in ICT. It wouldn’t be fair to say he studied. Over the last year, his attendance at lectures dropped. He was bright and intelligent. His attention had drifted. He believed he was destined for greater things than working for Google or another faceless corporation.
Similar to Abdul and Aaleyah, the two young men joined the Islamic Society when they began their university degree courses. Munaf, with his full black beard, spotted the new face of Farooq in the student canteen. He called him over to the trestle table where he handed out pamphlets to students and shook him by the hand.
As Farooq looked through the pamphlets and books on offer, Munaf pointed to one article in particular.
“Women are man’s great temptation. They should be covered up and kept apart.”
Farooq picked up the item and walked towards the seating in the hall. He had three older sisters at home and they teased and bullied him, but he never thought of them as being a temptation. His parents had been strict with the four of them, but many of the traditional ways had been consigned to the past. Farooq was eager to discover whether his parents had lost their way.
The Society arranged for an external lecturer to talk to them. As Farooq leafed through the article, a side door opened and men from the Islamic Society filed into the hall. Half of the seats at the front remained vacant, and he sat among the men. Munaf came and sat beside him.
Farooq watched as the women entered through another door. Then they sat as far back as possible, well away from the men. Although no signs enforcing segregation were posted, it appeared to be tacitly accepted. Farooq soon appreciated that London Met in common with several other University Societies around London was dominated by the more traditional elements. So, such segregated seating became the norm.
The speaker that arrived a few minutes later was an old man and a ‘hardliner’. He emphasised the need for gender division and that the current relationship between men and women had led to a crisis in Muslim society.
Islam laid down prohibitions because without them other sins could follow. It was important to lower the gaze. They must learn the etiquette of modesty. They should avoid touching and unnecessary socialising.
Farooq listened and like a sponge, he soaked up everything that the old man said. Munaf was pleased. He could tell that Farooq was a suitable candidate. Munaf had been educated privately and was capable of challenging an argument. Or at least knowing where to look for information to make a challenge. Farooq was cut from a different cloth.
None of the schools that Farooq attended encouraged critical thinking. He could regurgitate information and become adept in the technical world of computers but vulnerable to extreme views. Munaf was more than willing to educate him. He thought of it as his duty. Without Islam, Farooq might fall under the spell of the gang culture rife in the capital or succumbs to the thrill of drugs.
Completely independent of the two Queen Mary students, Munaf considered London 2012 an excellent opportunity to spread the message that their Society speakers gave them. Men and women competed together in many of the stadiums. The women were uncovered. It was immodest.
He preferred that Muslim women did not compete, but the IOC allowed them to take part, but they could not wear the hijab. This was monstrous. They had no appreciation of their religion. The final insult was the timing of the Games.
Ramadan lasted from mid-July to mid-August. The Games started on the 27th of July and ran for five weeks. What more could they do to show their hatred and ignorance of Islam and its teachings?
Munaf pointed out to his colleague at The Emirates on a Monday evening that large numbers of volunteers were required. They sent off their applications, and in time, heard they had been selected. They too found themselves on training courses in the city in the months leading up to the Games.
On one of these courses, they met Abdul and Aaleyah. For Munaf it was a meeti
ng of minds; he mistrusted Aaleyah at first because she was merely a girl. He recognised that Abdul was weak and Aaleyah’s lapdog. They met up again several times to share their radical views. They discovered that they had a common aim.
For Farooq, that first encounter had been a meeting of hearts, not minds. As soon as he saw Aaleyah, he was smitten. All the literature and lectures in the world couldn’t block the reaction of his body to the lovely young woman he saw before him. She looked into his eyes, without fear, and smiled. As if she knew the effect she had on him.
As the last home games of the season at the Emirates Stadium drew near, Munaf and Farooq went through the same learning process as Abdul and Aaleyah. Studying was cut to a minimum, socialising too. It was only important to learn how to make the bomb and how to detonate it. Nothing else mattered.
One hundred miles away in Aston, Birmingham Khadim Salah and Shamila Javed sat in a busy coffee shop. They were at separate tables. Khadim had graduated from Aston last summer with a first in Politics and Sociology. He was halfway through what he told friends and family was his ‘gap’ year and had recently returned from Pakistan.
Khadim was twenty-seven. After he left school at eighteen, he found it difficult to find a job he truly wanted to do. His father urged him to stay on, but Khadim saw his less able friends earning money and wanted to join them. Everything he tried turned sour after a few months, sometimes weeks, as the work became repetitive and boring. There was nothing to stimulate his brain.
Khadim went to work at a call centre for a mobile phone firm. Three years later, he had climbed the ladder to a senior post within the parent company. He proved to be an efficient, ruthless ‘go-getter’. His abilities shone far brighter than the colleagues he trampled on as he made his way towards the top of the pile.
At last, he had found something he wanted to do; yet still, he felt unfulfilled. The top jobs seemed to be out of his reach. The only explanation could be his ethnicity. What other reason could there be for his being denied promotion?