by Ted Tayler
He re-ran the scenes in the Fishguard ferry terminal through his mind. The removals van; which way did it go when it left? He asked Rusty to get Giles to check for any sightings of the van on the motorway.
“The guy driving the car with the Belgian plates is near Bridgwater, possibly on the coast. Why go there? If the removals van had our targets aboard, and they didn’t follow by road to the same destination, then where did they go?”
Nobody spoke in either van for a minute or two. The silence was broken by Giles returning Rusty’s call. There had been no removals vans on the motorways early this morning.
“So they went to the coast near where we are now. Then across to the other side; one way or another.” Phoenix continued to think out loud. “We could search near here, but they’re bound to be long gone. We need Giles and the lads to find this damn car driver. There are a dozen places they could have landed, from Minehead to Sharpness. That’s one helluva stretch of coastline to search.”
“We need fresh orders from Larcombe,” said Rusty. “We’re no good to anyone here.”
“Let’s head home,” said Colin, looking at his watch, “we can re-group at Larcombe and then relocate to wherever they think fit. The clock is ticking. There are only twenty-four hours until the Royal party rides into Bristol.”
CHAPTER 19
It was half-past eleven when the two vans swung into the driveway that led to the old Georgian Manor. Somewhat deflated, the four agents left the vehicles by the stable block and walked to the main building.
Erebus, Athena, and the others needed to decide what they should do next. A Royal visit requires considerable protection. The police and the secret services were bound to be there in numbers. The nature of the attack concerned Phoenix. What type of raid would this be?
He was very much aware of the reliance they placed on the team in the ice-house to uncover useful information. These four terrorists, plus any others that might have been recruited for the task at hand, were formidable opponents. So far, they were always one or two jumps ahead of them. Colin Bailey wasn’t used to that, and he hated it.
Erebus was in London; meeting with several of the money men who helped to finance the Olympus Project. Athena whispered to Phoenix so that the others couldn’t overhear that the old man had requested an urgent meeting.
“I think the time has come, Phoenix,” she whispered, “I believe he has gone to tell them he is ready to retire.”
Colin nodded. Now was not the time to think how Olympus might look after Erebus had sailed into the sunset.
“It is essential we find the driver of the car with the Belgian number plates,” he said. “He was not one of the four targets, but it is plain he is an ISIS sympathiser. Is he part of the hit-squad? If they crossed by boat, who took them and where did they land? The number of terrorists involved could be in double figures. Are they heavily armed? Are we dealing with one suicide bomber or half a dozen? Could it be a rocket attack? We know less now than when we left for Fishguard.”
Athena was the voice of calm.
“I understand your frustration Phoenix. I’ve called Henry Case and Giles to attend as soon as possible. We’ll look at the latest intelligence and then devise our plan of action.”
Fifteen minutes later, Giles and Henry entered the room.
“What do you have for us gentlemen?” asked Athena.
“The driver is Tarek Qaadir from Aston in the West Midlands,” said Henry. “He’s not thought to be a fighter; just a driver and general dogsbody. The car was registered to our friend Mohammed Khawaja in Brussels. He obviously drove it to Cherbourg, crossed to Rosslare, then holed up in Kilrane before crossing to Fishguard. Khawaja is dangerous; he’s the explosives man on the team.”
“Imran Nawaz must have travelled as a foot passenger. Possibly alone, but they may have split into two groups of two,” Giles continued. “The four of them came to Wales in the removals van. How they pulled that off, we don’t know as yet, because Qaadir drove Khawaja’s car, not the van as they left the ferry. You saw that for yourself, Phoenix.”
“There’s something about Nawaz that might shed light on the crossing from Wales,” said Henry, “he was friendly with a Salma Begum. They met in 2010, police monitoring Nawaz may have assumed that Begum might have a taming effect on him, but more often such couples do the opposite, radicalising each other. Female terrorists have a long history of exploiting gender stereotypes to avoid detection. She's not an exception; she's an example of a trend. We often assume that women are being unduly influenced that they're being forced or tricked. But she experienced strong feelings of alienation. The last photo we can find of her shows her wearing a veil, she’s aiming a Kalashnikov at the camera. Counter-terrorism investigators brought her in for questioning early in 2011, but they didn't have enough to charge or monitor her. Begum was obviously active, wanting to be a part of the violent nature of the jihadist ideology.”
“They knew the possible threat this girl posed,” said Rusty, “the police had her in their hands in 2011. Why didn't they stop her or put her under surveillance?”
“They weren’t aware of her Muslim fundamentalism,” said Giles. “It would take more than heightened surveillance to stop someone such as Salma Begum. The clincher for us that she is part of the attack cell is that in her late teens and early twenties she went powerboat racing with her father.”
“That’s how they got across the Bristol Channel,” said Phoenix. “Why didn’t we pick up on this Begum girl earlier?”
Henry raised his eyes to the ceiling.
“With hindsight, we might have flagged up the connection to Nawaz earlier. In our defence, many hundreds of suspected terrorists are on our shores these days that might have joined forces with the four we originally sent you to eliminate. They outwitted us by getting past you at the ferry terminal. Without that subterfuge, you could have trapped them in Fishguard and it would have been Goodnight Vienna.”
“One final point on the Wales business,” added Giles. “The burnt-out remains of a car and trailer have been found by South Wales Police this morning on a beach a few miles east of Tenby. The removals van had been left in the beach car park. There was only furniture etcetera inside, but there was evidence that people had stowed away in a hidden compartment behind the driver’s cab. The police are hunting for a handful of illegal immigrants in the vicinity.”
“Understood,” said Phoenix, “let’s move on. How do we stop them from reaching Bristol for tomorrow’s Royal visit? Or am I wrong to assume that’s the target?”
“We’re confident that the Royal visit is their primary target, Phoenix,” said Henry Case.
“We don’t have a complete schedule for the day’s activities,” said Athena. “That has been kept a closely guarded secret. The main points are the caravan factory, the Old Vic, and the M Shed.”
“Don’t worry too much about a schedule,” said Phoenix, “it might not be followed if they strike early. Let’s get back to the boat. They crossed with Salma Begum driving, agreed?”
Nobody disagreed.
“So which harbour has a powerboat or similar moored in it today, that didn’t yesterday?” asked Rusty.
“Good thinking,” said Phoenix.
Giles left to get back to the ice-house. The hunt was underway.
In Portishead, police service personnel ran through the final preparations for the big day. The Chief Constable briefed the troops.
“We need bodies on the streets early. You have details of where you are to be positioned. Several of you will be at the station when the Royal Train arrives. When they drive off to Ashton Vale to visit the caravan factory, you will relocate to King Street to keep an eye the crowds that will be gathering there. We are aware of a small, but vociferous anti-royal protest group that will be outside the Old Vic theatre when the Royal couple arrives at half-past eleven. The tour will take in the refurbished theatre which recently reopened after being closed for eighteen months. The Queen will then see a special per
formance from the Christmas spectacular - Peter Pan. Just after twelve noon, they move on to the M Shed. Thousands of people are expected to line the streets. We have to make sure the event goes off with the minimum of disruption and congestion for the city. A walkabout isn’t scheduled, but we can’t rule it out. If she decides she wants to trot off, shaking a few hands and passing bunches of flowers to her security guard, then that’s what will happen. Those of you who were at Ashton Vale will have joined your colleagues on the roads around the Old Vic and the M Shed. As always, we rely on you to be vigilant.”
DS Phil Hounsell risked a question.
“Sir, do we have any known threats to this visit, apart from the anti-royal protest? Will there be a significant security presence from the other agencies?”
“The protesters cleared their actions with us beforehand DS Hounsell; we have police protest liaison officers that will walk with them; that should deter any problems from arising. As for the secret services, they don’t tell me what they’re up to I’m afraid. The Royal Protection Squad bodyguards will be in evidence as usual; over and above that, any action will depend on any perceived threat from whatever quarter.”
“Thank you, Sir,” said Phil out loud. Under his breath, he added, “Helpful as always.”
On the other side of the room, DI Zara Wheeler looked at her duties for tomorrow. She was at Ashton Vale for the caravan visit. Then she had to lurk in the side streets by Prince Street. She was to be with a team trying to spot someone who might throw something nasty at Her Majesty’s limousine.
This was what she had been told to expect after her daring rescue of baby Grace. Her superiors had warned her against standing out from the crowd. They much preferred officers who behaved like those cardboard cut-outs you see in shopping malls that can’t afford security guards; full of smiles and never putting a polished boot out of step.
The Chief Constable swept from the room; his acolytes followed at a respectful distance. Everyone who was left checked through their duties for the morning. If you’ve done one Royal visit, you’ve done the lot, seemed to be the mood of the room. It was laid back.
A little further along the coast, the occupants of the car with the false number plates from the VW Passat stirred from their sleep. It was now early afternoon and tasks had to be carried out.
Mohammed Khawaja took charge. The next task was his speciality.
“Here are our vests; I will prepare one for each of you. The explosives and detonator will be placed on the vest which will be wrapped around your torso. A wire connects the detonator and bomb with a small arming device and trigger. When the time comes, you will detonate the bomb with the trigger in your left-hand pocket. You will keep firing your weapons until the ammunition is gone. Then it is time.”
Jamshed raised a hand.
“I am left-handed, brother,”
“Then I shall place your trigger in your right-hand pocket, Jamshed.”
“Why have we got so much explosive and only handguns?” asked Hassan.
“It’s true we only need a few kilogrammes for our vests,” replied Mohammed still working on completing his tasks, “but we have two distinct types of target tomorrow. Attacks with these vests kill four times as many people on average as other methods. A person wearing a bomb is far more dangerous and far more difficult to defend against than a timed device left to explode in a busy street. We can make last-minute changes based on our surroundings. Three of us can move to a more crowded place, possibly jump on a bus, whatever will cause the largest number of casualties.”
“What is our other target,” asked Jamshed.
“When two of the most important people in Britain are driven to the M Shed for the final stage of tomorrow’s tour, this car will be packed with over fifty kilogrammes of explosives. The explosive will have metal fragments scattered through it. We will trigger it remotely as our first move to create panic. The damage to people and property will be devastating. The car will be parked as near to the expected route they will take as possible. If we are fortunate, the carnage it will cause will kill the Royal party. If not, well then the security immediately surrounding the Queen will tighten, and they will try to speed her away to safety. Imran and Salma will get as close as they can to the ring of bodies that protect her. They too will fire their weapons until they are empty, then they will detonate their vests.”
“It sounds so easy when you tell it, brother,” scoffed Jamshed, “but how will Imran and the woman draw close enough?”
“Salma’s bomb will be packaged differently my friend; it will be packed in a false pregnancy stomach. She will be allowed nearer the front so that her baby isn’t pinched or crushed in the jostling of the crowded streets. Imran will wear the fat suit he wore in the removals van. He will play the role of the devoted husband and keep pestering the people around him for safe passage for his heavily pregnant wife. Have faith, they will get close enough. The British love fair play. They will make sure old people, pregnant women, the disabled and little children get the best view. Tomorrow, they will be the ones in the most danger. The effect on the nation’s morale will be huge. We martyrs without borders will become legendary.”
Jamshed and Hassan appeared content. Mohammed continued to work steadily and carefully. Imran and Salma stood apart from the rest, hand in hand.
In the late afternoon, Rusty walked along the quayside in Watchet Marina. It hadn’t taken long for the cigarette boat to be spotted. Kelly Dexter and Hayden Vincent were on board. They had searched it for clues but had reported nothing so far.
Phoenix stood by the van, with a map in his hand. The car was no longer here. Where had they gone next? Were they going to drive straight to Bristol to lay in wait; or hide between here and the city until tomorrow? Giles hoped to pick up the car on the M5, but so far his lads hadn’t seen it. What other roads might they use?
There were so many questions. They must have weapons and a form of IED. Had that been in the removals van?
Colin tried to put the pieces together, but his train of thought was interrupted. Giles was in his ear.
“We’ve just had a slice of luck Phoenix. One of my lads suggested that if they contacted Tarek Qaadir from the boat, we could have it in the ‘chatter’ we record as a matter of course. It was hidden away but with a few keywords in our filters, I believe we’ve got it. It was relayed at six forty this morning.”
Giles played the message Salma Begum had made to the yacht and the reply she received.
“So, this Storm Chaser could have been the pickup point for the weaponry?” said Colin. “That makes sense. They couldn’t have risked carrying it from Belgium or even Ireland. Royal Hunt confirms one hundred per cent that the target is Bristol tomorrow. Where is Storm Chaser now, do we know?”
“En route to Padstow, we could discreetly tip off the local police that they may be carrying drugs I suppose?” suggested Giles.
“Have a word with ‘Head’ Case and see if he thinks it’s worth the effort. Their part in this may be over and done. They’re small fry as far as we’re concerned.”
Colin cleared his head and thought of where they should be, and when. They must assume that there were only five members of the cell. The four original targets, plus Salma Begum; Tarek Qaadir was now out of the frame. Colin searched the local area for a spot they might use as their launch point for the attack.
Rusty, Kelly, and Hayden returned from the boat. They had found nothing that suggested where the terrorists were headed. Kelly had noticed the distinctive smell of plastic explosive. That was a given as far as Phoenix was concerned.
“I’d travel to Bristol on the A road, avoiding the motorways,” said Colin. “The A39 and A38 will take them as far as Long Ashton. The first visit is near there in the morning. The A370 and then Brunel Way can get them over the River Avon, and then Cumberland Road skirts the water-front right to the doors of the M Shed. The new mayor is hosting an official reception there before they shoot off to the suburbs. The trip to Kings Street a
nd the theatre is a possible target, but it might be more difficult to gain access to that part of the city. I favour the M Shed; that has the largest concentration of people, either inside the building or lining Prince Street.”
Rusty looked at the map that Phoenix held.
“We need to get the four of us into Prince Street and spread out, moving systematically over the bridge to the M Shed; our aim will be to identify our targets and cut out the threat.”
“That’s the logical approach, Rusty,” said Phoenix, “but consider what Kelly said. Plastic explosives could mean suicide vests. Five vests might only contain ten kilos, fifteen at the most. Yes, the smell lingers, but if it was pervasive, as she said, then we could expect there to be a far larger volume brought ashore. That suggests a car bomb, plus the vests.”
“So, it’s still Prince Street and the bridge over to the M Shed,” said Hayden Vincent, “that’s around six hundred metres to search between us. Do we have a photograph of Salma Begum? We have the four men’s ID memorised by now.”
“I’ll ask Giles to get us the latest photograph of her. Without a veil of course,” said Phoenix.
The four agents got back into their vans and headed off home to Larcombe. Nothing was happening tonight. There was nothing to be gained from chasing around the Somerset coast between Watchet and Bristol looking for a car with five passengers, in the dark. A night of good sleep and an early drive into Bristol were what the doctor ordered.
In the countryside, the car with five passengers was quiet. Everything had been made ready. They would rise at dawn, pray, and then drive the car into position. Mohammed’s preparations had been completed. The disguises he had prepared for them to wear tomorrow would put the joyous spectators at their ease. They planned to mingle with the crowds, entertaining them with their colourful costumes and painted faces.
Only the minority who suffered from coulrophobia would shrink away in fear. The real fear would strike the vast majority when the car bomb exploded, and the guns began firing. When the shooting stopped; the clowns simply disappear.