by Kim Hughes
‘I would have called ahead, but it seemed important to get here before evening turned to night. Apologies.’
‘We’re just having tea. Would you care for a cup? Or a martini perhaps?’
‘Good lord, no, I’m driving. Tea would be fine.’
‘Earl Grey?’
‘Perfect.’
When she returned with the tea, Henry and Hector were still catching up with VX gossip.
‘You know that Jim Boodle has retired?’ said Hector.
Henry nodded. One of the last of his contemporaries still on the SIS payroll.
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘Bermuda, I believe.’
‘Really?’ laughed Henry. ‘I can’t see him in those shorts.’
‘I don’t think they’re compulsory, Henry. His wife is Bermudian, if that’s what you say.’
‘Really? I never knew.’
Barbara gave a loud sniff as she lowered the tray holding a fresh pot onto an occasional table. ‘Made a pass at me once, Jim Boodle.’
‘Did he?’ asked Henry, alarmed. ‘When was this?’
‘Some drunken party. Helsinki, I think. Tongue down mouth, hand up top.’ She turned to Hector. ‘Do you think I should make an official complaint?’
Hector’s jaw worked up and down, but no words came. Eventually a squeak emerged.
Barbara laughed. ‘Only joshing, Hector. It was a different time. Different standards. I bit his tongue and told him to fuck off.’
‘You didn’t mention this to me,’ said Henry.
‘If I told you every proposition I received back then, you wouldn’t be on speaking terms with half the office. You forget, Henry, we were all viewed as fair game back then.’
‘Especially the pretty ones, sweetie.’
Hector quickly raised the cup of tea, as if embarrassed by their intimacy.
Barbara thought she had made him uncomfortable enough to proceed. ‘You are here about the girl. Miss Muraski?’
‘Well, here to apologise that you were bothered by her.’
‘It was no bother,’ said Henry. ‘Just surprising. I mean, that was all a long time ago. She showed me photographs…’
‘I know,’ said Hector, putting a hand through his already tousled hair. ‘And we have told our friends at Thames House that they had no business—’
‘I suspect the fault lies closer to home,’ said Barbara sternly. ‘Those photographs were in files in VX archives, were they not?’
‘Yes. And before you ask, she did access them legitimately.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Henry, ‘I think this transparency and cooperation between the services has gone too far.’
‘I think we preferred the days of opaqueness and not-so-friendly rivalry,’ added Barbara as she sipped her tea. ‘Hot enough for you?’ she asked Hector. ‘The tea?’
‘Yes, lovely, thank you.’ He took a quick gulp and smiled.
‘What do you propose we do?’ asked Henry.
‘The files are being purged of the evidence she had located. She has handed over her files to another Five junior officer. Those, too, will disappear…’
‘Is he really in the country?’ asked Henry. ‘Is Yousaf Ali here?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘More to the point,’ Henry went on, ‘was he behind the Nottingham atrocity?’
‘We doubt that. Our friends in Thames House doubt that. It’s likely a coincidence.’
‘We don’t like coincidences,’ sniffed Barbara.
‘That doesn’t mean they don’t happen,’ retorted Hector, the steel she had always suspected lay somewhere within that diminutive frame suddenly showing. ‘I have one important question. Does anyone know his real identity?’
‘We do,’ said Henry.
‘Apart from you. Did this Miss Muraski mention anything that might lead you to believe she knew who Yousaf Ali really was?’
Barbara and Henry exchanged glances. ‘No,’ said Henry, firmly. ‘I denied recognising him. Felt like the safer option.’
‘Good.’ He seemed relieved. ‘And the name of the operation?’
Hector had the old Service superstition that even knowing the name of an operation was a massive breach of security. Especially when it didn’t take an ease with The Times crossword to figure out what the operation involved.
‘No,’ said Henry. ‘She didn’t mention it by name. I assumed it was redacted.’
‘Well let’s hope so.’
Barbara examined him for a second before she spoke again. ‘And if we said “yes”? What then?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Hector asked, baffled by her sudden change of direction.
‘If we had said “yes” and told the pretty Miss Muraski we did know who Yousaf Ali really was. What then?’
Hector gave an elaborate above-my-pay-grade shrug. ‘Ah. Those sorts of decisions…’
‘Are you here to kill us, Hector?’ Barbara asked.
Henry looked at his wife with benign interest, as if she had asked Hector if he wanted a top-up.
‘Good grief, what gave you that idea?’
‘You might be doing some house clearing? Do you still call it that?’
Hector began to laugh so hard he slopped the remainder of the tea into the saucer. ‘You think I’m some sort of… hit man?’
‘Nothing so melodramatic, Hector. But we could be considered loose ends,’ said Barbara.
‘You’ve kept this secret for… decades. You are consummate professionals. Why should VX think you’d break cover now?’ Hector put down the cup and saucer on the side table. ‘Let me assure you, Barbara and Henry, you are in no danger whatsoever from me or any of my colleagues.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity,’ said Barbara.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Hector, confusion written across his face.
‘Well, I wouldn’t have bothered drugging your tea if I’d known that.’
TWENTY-FOUR
The bomb-maker had to leave the boy alone. This next task was not something that could be carried out in the house. He needed plenty of space. Luckily, he had performed most of the preliminary work already. All he had to do was check the systems were operational, that once circuit one fired, it also initiated the back-up circuit and a second set of explosives. A double bang.
He placed the boy on the sofa, propped up so he could see the television. He laid a blanket over his legs and tucked it under him. On a tray next to him he laid out a drinking cup full of orange juice and a paper plate of brides’ fingers and payra fudge. He loved sweet things. It was probably not healthy, especially as it was hard to get him to brush his teeth. They were showing signs of black decay. Perhaps, once this was all over, he should get him to a dentist. The bomb-maker chuckled to himself. He doubted they had – or needed – dentists in Paradise.
He put a DVD into the player and turned it on. He could hear Benesh, his late wife, scolding him. The boy watches too much television. Yes, my love, but there are so few pleasures left to him. Look. Look at his face.
The lad’s eyes widened as he recognised the opening credits of Mr Bean. The annoying programme was one of his favourites, along with Pingu the penguin, which was in a nonsense language, and Tom & Jerry dubbed into Pashto. ‘Bean!’ he shouted and wriggled with pleasure. The only other thing he liked to watch was football, especially if Liverpool was playing, but there seemed to be precious little of that on television, unless one paid a small fortune or went to a pub, which they would never do. He could not understand how a nation crazy about soccer could allow this to happen, that only the rich could enjoy the game created by the people. But he had long given up trying to understand the British and their ungodly ways. He had no real idea why they had come to his country and sacrificed their young men so readily. For what?
‘Yes, Mr Bean,’ he said. ‘I’m going out for some time. I won’t be long, I promise.’
The lad looked panicked. ‘Out.’
He knelt down and spoke to the boy, cupping his face in his hands. ‘Yes, I
am going out now. I shall be no longer than one hour or two. You will be fine. I will lock the door. Do not answer the bell, eh? I know you won’t. Watch TV, eat, and, as I said, I’ll be back very soon.’
The boy said something. He took a guess at what he had asked.
‘Where am I going? To work. They call it the Munroe Effect. The British and Americans, I mean. We call it the Kiss of Allah. I am going to build a wonderful Kiss of Allah.’
‘Allah,’ the boy said warmly, as if he knew very well that he would be seeing him soon. The bomb-maker thought of number 56 from the sacred text.
AL-WAQI`AH: THAT WHICH IS COMING.
And those on the right hand; what of those on the right hand?
Among thornless lote-trees
And clustered plantains,
And spreading shade,
And water gushing,
And fruit in plenty
Neither out of reach nor yet forbidden,
And raised couches;
Lo! We have created them a (new) creation
And made them virgins,
Lovers, friends,
For those on the right hand.
This, he was certain, was what awaited him and his son, God willing.
And those on the left hand: What of those on the left hand?
In scorching wind and scalding water
And shadow of black smoke,
Neither cool nor refreshing.
And thereon ye will drink of boiling water,
Drinking even as the camel drinketh.
This will be their welcome on the Day of Judgment.
We mete out death among you, and We are not to be outrun.
He buttoned up a thick coat over his khet and left the house to deal with some of those on the left hand, those accomplices who had nothing but boiling water and scorching winds to look forward to during the endless days to come. Those like Dominic Riley.
* * *
Riley was well aware that he couldn’t waste much time if he was to avoid being locked down. He had to get off base, in case what Blair had suggested was actioned and the police and his CO decided that he was at too much risk to be allowed out. Confined to quarters? That was hardly his style. In Afghan a special kind of contempt was reserved for those who never left the relative comfort and safety of Camp Bastion or the Forward Operating Bases. They had a very different war from the soldiers who went out on patrol every day from the FOBs, to see and be seen, even though they knew they were putting their arms, legs, knackers and life on the line.
No, just like in Afghan he was going out there into the wider world to find out what the fuck was going on. And if that exposed him to danger, so be it. He was used to it.
They could have killed Ruby.
I know that. I fucking know that!
Steady, pal.
The problem was, the moment he thought on what could have happened to his daughter, all logic and reason went out of the window. He wanted to punch someone or something. To grab throats, knock heads, kick shins. To scream at the top of his lungs. It didn’t help. He had to try and find an inner stillness for the moment. He focused on the task in hand.
In his spartan room, Riley laid out everything on the bed. He needed one change of clothes. Pack light for this one. Very light – he was going to feel naked without a weapon but trying to extract one from the armoury was beyond his skills. Alarm bells would ring if he so much as attempted it. Even a little target practice was supervised these days. He wished he had done what several others in his unit had and brought a ‘souvenir’ back from Afghan. But it was done now.
He looked at the two phones lying next to each other. The work one would be able to track him as a matter of routine. So that had to go. He took the battery out and then, after a moment’s reflection, put it back. Just in case someone was checking up on him at that moment. A blip going off screen might cause someone to take an interest in him. Of course, he could just be being paranoid. Probably was. But being suspicious and paranoid had kept him alive when he was dealing with IEDs out in Afghan. And someone had placed a bomb under his car. He hadn’t imagined that. So he clipped the battery cover back on and placed the phone on the bed, where it would remain.
He had checked his messages on the other mobile – Kate Muraski had called that too and was still very keen to talk to him, but there was no way he was getting involved with her lot just yet. He doubted very much that MI5 would approve of what he had in mind. He took the SIM out of the personal one and made sure it was turned off. The battery was sealed in that one. The only way to get at it was to crack the case open. He would take this one with him, although he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it again.
He sat down at his desk and used his laptop to make a money transfer to a corporal on base. He was now the proud owner of a Yamaha YBR125. He didn’t want to risk the school’s Citroen that Andy the Tank had loaned him. They would be on to that by now, the licence plate logged into computers with vehicle recognition technology.
He could have signed out a pool car, but they were all fitted with trackers too. The Yamaha was hardly the bike he would have chosen – one of the big Honda STs or a Triumph would be his preferred option, given that he had mainly A-road and motorway riding ahead of him – but it was the only one for sale on the barracks’ notice board that he could take immediately. That sealed the deal. Plus, the corporal had thrown in a helmet. So, he was good to go.
Riley had five hundred pounds in cash hidden behind the mirror which he extracted and threw in the bag. He stripped, showered and then carefully selected which clothes he would put on. T-shirt, shirt, dark chinos, Converse leather hi-tops, Carhartt jacket. Like the Yamaha, nothing to stand out. He put underwear, socks and similarly dark clothes in the black zip-up holdall he was using.
He picked up his wallet, went through the cards, discarding most of them. He went through his unopened mail and found the one that had arrived a week previously. It was a credit card that had yet to be activated. If someone was tagging him through money withdrawals or card spends, it would take a while before a newly activated card showed up on any watcher’s radar. Or so he had heard. He went through the rest, mostly junk mail, until he had located the envelope with the activation code inside and pocketed it.
When he was sure he was ready, he grabbed the bag and left the room, leaving a side lamp on just in case anyone should come to watch his digs from outside. He had one more port of call before he could collect the bike keys and hit the road. Just a little dodging of CCTVs on base. Nothing too challenging. Then he would be away and on his own. Just as an ATO should be.
TWENTY-FIVE
Following the events in Nottingham there had been incidents – ranging from yelled abuse, through to graffiti, up to bricks being thrown – at almost a third of Leicester’s seventy-three mosques and half of its twenty-eight Muslim community and cultural centres. It was hardly surprising, therefore, thought Eric Coates as he drove by in the anonymous van, that there were two armed policemen bracketing the doorway of the Islamic Community Centre on Cutler Street. Two was one more than most had. There simply weren’t enough weapons-trained officers to cover every place of worship and gathering. Not with synagogues being targeted too. Cutler Street got the brace of firearms officers because there was a community meeting, attended by the deputy mayor and the police commissioner, going on in the building. Its aim was to discuss the threat of anti-Islamic sentiments in this part of the city and tactics for defusing the situation. With people milling outside unable to get in, it appeared to be well attended, even though it was called late in the day. Which was good, Coates thought. Bit of civic pride, misplaced though it was.
Coates took the Transit van past the entrance to the centre at a steady speed, gaining hardly a glance from either of the officers with their Heckler & Kochs. He drove around the block – reaching out to catch the crash helmet on the passenger seat that nearly rolled into the footwell as he took one of the corners – and, as he had been instructed, parked up in the bay
marked ‘Loading Only’.
From there he could see the car wash that backed on to the Islamic Centre. The main building of the drive-through was cocooned behind heavy roller shutters, but the U-shaped courtyard around it was free of any gates or barriers. You could drive to the rear of the car wash and be out of sight.
Coates waited five minutes and was rewarded with a glimpse of one of the armed officers strolling around the back of the Islamic Centre. They did this every half-hour or so. Otherwise they relied on monitored CCTV located high on the rear wall of the community centre. The cameras he had been assured were no longer functioning due to petty vandalism. Recent, deliberate petty vandalism.
He had to admire this new team. He had been part of many radical outfits over the years – the English Defence League, British Action Group and England Waffen. This lot, the Real Albion Front, were better organised and better funded than any of the others. No stupid rallies, no drunken brawls, no cult of personality as with Tommy Robinson and the like. Just genuine strategy and clear goals. The main one being simple and biblical: an eye for an eye.
Coates thought of his father, now in his eighties. He mainly talked about the days when you didn’t see a brown face in Leicester. And how when Idi Amin kicked out the Asians, the city council took out ads telling the immigrants to stay away. Leicester didn’t want them. Still they came. And now? He’d read that British whites made up 43 per cent of the population. Less than half. They were outnumbered, a minority in their own country. It was the same in Luton. And Slough. Of course, not all the other 57 per cent were Asians. There were the Poles, Bulgarians, Romanians, Albanians. But that lot didn’t set off bombs in Nottingham. And the RAF would deal with them later. In the meantime, he was going to gouge out an eye in retaliation for the Sillitoe Circus bomb.
When Coates was sure the policeman had turned the corner, he started the engine again and crawled onto the forecourt of the car wash in second gear and then, foot light on the accelerator, took the van around to the rear. There was a wooden fence, topped with razor wire, separating the community centre and the car wash. He had been told a splash of yellow paint on one of the wooden staves would mark the spot where he was to park the Transit, nearside headlamp level with the mark.