State of Fear

by Tim Ayliffe

He slipped his phone inside his jacket and twisted his head around. ‘The Aussies have got some intel off Tariq Haneef’s phone.’

  ‘And?’ Ronnie said.

  ‘Some kind of coded language buried in a conversation on an encrypted messaging service. They think it’s an old conversation between Sara Haneef and Ayesha. Looks like they were using made-up names, but the comments reflect two very angry young girls –’

  ‘What about the codes?’ Ronnie said.

  ‘I’m getting to that,’ Dorset sounded irritated by Ronnie’s interruptions. ‘Here’s the first one: one-four-one-L-B-eight-one-five-two-zero-zero-four.’

  Bailey was scribbling the letters and numbers into his notebook as they were relayed by Dorset.

  ‘And the second. B-L-H-B-seven-one-five-two-zero-zero-four.’

  ‘Your people got any idea what the hell they mean?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Dorset said. ‘Might be nothing . . . or everything. Ring any bells for either of you?’

  Ronnie looked across at Bailey, who was shaking his head.

  ‘No.’

  Bailey stared at the fresh ink on the paper in front of him, wondering why the hell he was getting this information from Tony Dorset instead of from Dexter. So much for information sharing being a two-way street.

  ‘Here we are.’

  A rare word from Ben the driver as they pulled into the turning circle at the DoubleTree.

  ‘See you soon, gentlemen,’ Dorset said. ‘And Ronnie?’

  ‘Yes, Tony?’

  ‘Your guys crack those codes first – you do the right thing.’

  ‘If you’re extending the same courtesy.’

  ‘I am.’

  Great, thought Bailey. A pissing contest between two spooks. As if the excursion to London needed to get even more complicated.

  With time zones changing three times during the last twenty-four hours, Bailey had somehow managed to eat four breakfasts since Sydney. The last thing he felt like doing was sitting down to a hotel buffet. After taking a quick shower and dumping his bag in his room, he resisted the smell of bacon in the restaurant, opting instead for an apple and a walk along the Thames.

  It was 6.45 am when Bailey stepped outside the hotel and the traffic was already heavy along Millbank. Black cabs. Buses. Cars. People dressed in wet weather gear weaving through the slow-moving traffic on scooters and bicycles, the usual clobber for a grey London commute.

  A misty rain was falling, marking little dots of moisture on Bailey’s leather jacket and adding weight to his thick sandy greying hair. Zipping his jacket to protect himself from the wet and cold, he headed east towards Lambeth Bridge, crossing the Thames and skirting the edge on the other side, down the stairs and onto the Queen’s Walk. He had to step around a guy in an old weathered coat who was feeding a piece of bread to an eager seagull perched on the rail.

  Walking alone, wondering whether Mustafa al-Baghdadi really was in London, Bailey was on edge. He was studying his surroundings, taking in every detail. Did Mustafa know that Bailey was in the city too? Hopefully not. How could he?

  The sun had already started its rise, yet it wasn’t light enough for the lamp posts to rest, their yellow lights slicing through the drizzle and bouncing off the hazardous sheen on the path.

  The rain wasn’t heavy enough to dissuade the morning joggers. There was a long line of people pounding the pavement, most of them dressed in long tights and waterproof jackets.

  Across the water, the normally majestic buildings at Westminster were hidden behind tonnes of scaffolding, part of a restoration project with a price tag big enough to bankrupt a smaller nation. Even the clock tower was distorted by nets and awnings, undoubtedly leaving tourists feeling ripped off. How could anyone say they’d experienced London if they hadn’t seen Big Ben?

  The exercise and the cool morning air was helping Bailey’s brain to reopen its doors and shake off the fog of air travel. His thoughts turned again to Ayesha Haneef.

  He knew that Ayesha was tight with Sara. Like sisters, Omar had said. Bailey also knew that Ayesha’s father and mother had died many years ago in Iraq and that Omar had raised her like a daughter. He knew that she was a bright girl, having won a scholarship to study medicine. And he knew that she had been attending a prayer group at an East London mosque where a man had been trying to radicalise young people and turn them into murderers.

  That was about all that he knew about Ayesha Haneef.

  It was all the things that Bailey didn’t know about her that worried him.

  Dexter had told Bailey that Sara had changed her target once the bombs had been found. That the communications on Hassan Saleh’s phone suggested that Sara, armed with guns, had switched to an attack at Martin Place. But what was the original plan? And how did it involve Ayesha?

  After climbing the steps at Westminster Bridge, Bailey paused at the top to contemplate which way he’d go. Deciding to keep heading east along the river, he crossed the street, walking back down the steps on the other side. The London Eye was only a few hundred metres further along the Queen’s Walk and it was enormous, stretching higher than any tourist photograph could show. There must have been a magnificent view up there. When that thing was full, and spinning, it would make one hell of a target for a terrorist. Bailey hated that his brain went there. But it was true.

  His thoughts returned to Ayesha.

  If a bomb had been made for Sara, then it was possible that a bomb had been made for Ayesha too. That was an assumption he was willing to make.

  Any attack, either organised, or inspired, by Islamic Nation, always involved the killing of innocent people. Ayesha’s potential targets were many.

  As Bailey passed under a capsule dangling from the arch of the big Ferris wheel, he grabbed his notebook from his pocket, opening the page to where he’d scribbled the codes that Dorset had shared with them in the car. He stared at the two lines of letters and numbers, hoping they’d ring a bell.

  141LB8152004

  BLHB7152004

  Nothing.

  Bailey wasn’t expecting to hear from either Dexter or Dorset if, or when, they’d cracked the codes. Bailey was only there to fill in the gaps, when they appeared. He also knew Ronnie Johnson well enough to not expect a steady flow of information from him either, despite his assurances. Cops and spooks only cared about one thing – the job. Bailey could identify with that.

  He stopped walking, stepping to the side of the path, leaning on the stone wall beside the river, still staring at the scribbled letters and numbers, wondering what the hell they meant.

  He started with the first line. It had more numbers than the second and broke them into groups, trying to make sense.

  Was there a time reference in there? 1.41 pm? 2.10 pm? 8.15 am? 8.15 pm? 8.04 am or pm? The options raced through his head.

  Or a date? January 14 was one possibility, but that was months ago. The next numbers – 815 or 8152 – were too high. But 2004?

  He looked at his watch, checking that he was right. The 20th of April was today.

  He looked at the second code. The numbers 2004 were the last four digits in that code too.

  Had Sara and Ayesha originally been planning attacks on the same date? It was possible. But it was also all guesswork. Bailey struggled to remember the pin number for his bank cards. He was no code-cracker.

  He stepped back on the path and collided with a jogger, barrelling along at a cracking pace. Bailey dropped his shoulder at the last minute – an old reflex action from his days playing rugby – causing the guy to almost fall over.

  ‘Watch out, mate!’

  The guy’s headphones fell from his ears and he stepped to Bailey, shoving him in the chest with the ball of his hand. Bailey fell back against the stone wall and tried to hide the sharp pain that shot up his spine from his burn. The guy looked twenty years younger and a good deal stronger.

  ‘Easy, tiger.’ Bailey dropped a foot behind, staggering his stance, just like Joe had taught him, wondering whether the
guy was about to take a swing. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘Well, be more careful. Muppet.’

  The guy put his headphones back in and took off.

  Bailey was relieved. Despite all the boxing sessions in Joe’s gym, he’d always been better with words than he had been with his fists.

  It was 7.45 am when he made it to Waterloo Bridge, where he’d planned to loop back around to the other side of the Thames and head back to his hotel.

  Something made him stop.

  A tall red bus had stopped down the road from the bridge to pick up the people waiting in line. With the last new passengers on board, the bus headed towards him, Bailey’s eyes capturing the bold yellow writing on the black billboard on its curved red noggin: 176.

  Bailey had his notebook in his hand just as the bus passed by, studying the letters and numbers of the first code again, trying to make sense of them.

  He started at the beginning: 141.

  He took a punt and typed ‘London 141’ into the search engine on his phone, his fat fingers making it a frustrating exercise. When he finally got it right the result flashed onto the screen. He froze.

  141 Towards London Bridge

  With the notepad in one hand and his phone in the other, he started joining the dots. If ‘141’ was the bus route then ‘LB’ could stand for London Bridge.

  He pressed his finger on the screen again. The bus route started at Tottenhall Road and ended at London Bridge Station. The bus came every fifteen minutes.

  He looked at the notepad again.

  141LB8152004

  141 was the route. LB was the place.

  ‘Holy shit,’ he said to no one.

  The target was London Bridge at 8.15 am on the 20th of April. Rush hour. Today.

  He did the same with the second code, punching the start of it into the search engine. The letters B-L-H-B. Nothing came up other than a web page about abbreviations.

  He didn’t have time to mess around. If he was right about the first code then he’d just need to run with it or, at least, get a second opinion.

  He hit Ronnie’s name on his phone.

  ‘Pick up! Pick up!’

  ‘Bubba.’

  ‘I think I know what she’s doing – the target, the time, the place.’ Bailey was speaking quickly, struggling to get his words out.

  ‘Slow down, bubba. What are you saying?’

  ‘Listen, Ronnie!’ Bailey yelled, diverting his gaze from the startled man walking by. ‘One of those codes that Dorset shared with us. The fucking letters and numbers, Ronnie! I think I’ve worked it out. It’s a bus. Ayesha’s going to hit a bus on London Bridge in –’

  He looked at his watch.

  ‘– in bloody twenty-five minutes!’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Ronnie said. ‘Walk me through it.’

  ‘I’m not so bloody sure.’ Bailey sighed, knowing that if they were going to stop this thing then he needed to explain it. Slowly. ‘But if I’m right, we don’t have much time. The one-four-one is a bus route. The letters “LB” stand for London Bridge. The eight, one and five is a time, maybe eight-fifteen this morning, and the last four digits are today’s date.’

  ‘What about the second code?’

  ‘No fucking idea, mate. Maybe that was Sara’s plan, who knows?’ Bailey took a breath. ‘Sara’s in custody. Ayesha’s not.’

  Ronnie was silent on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Ronnie!’

  ‘Where are you?’ he said, coolly.

  ‘Waterloo Bridge.’

  ‘Stay there. I’ll come get you.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Oxford Circus.’

  ‘No,’ Bailey said. ‘There’s no time.’

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re going to do, then?’

  ‘I’m going to find Ayesha.’

  Bailey ended the call.

  For a guy with a history of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, this one took the cake. Ronnie was miles away and, with MI5 listening in, this information would only just be reaching Tony Dorset and his team at Thames House, which put them two miles and ten minutes behind Bailey. He had to do something. He didn’t have a choice.

  If Ayesha was going to cross London Bridge at 8.15 am, then she was probably already on the bus. And she had to be heading south, making London Bridge Station on the other side of the bridge the final stop. It would make no sense for Ayesha to be travelling in the opposite direction because the bus would have only just begun its route and there would be far fewer passengers on board. Fewer people to kill.

  Bailey went back to the bus route, studying the stops that she would pass by to get there.

  With a rough plan in his head, he turned back to the road and, seeing what he needed, held out his hand. Seconds later a black cab stopped beside him.

  ‘Where to, guv?’ A man with a beard and a north London accent thicker than oil twisted his head in the front seat. ‘In a hurry, I take it?’

  ‘Bank Station.’

  Rummaging in the inside pocket of his leather jacket, Bailey found the photograph that he’d stolen from the sideboard at Omar’s house. The photograph of Sara and Ayesha.

  He studied Ayesha’s smiling face, wondering what was going on inside her head when the photograph was taken. They were dressed in school clothes. It couldn’t have been too long ago. Time enough for these girls to be turned into killers.

  CHAPTER 46

  Six roads intersected at Bank Station.

  Bailey directed the driver to get him to the north side onto Princes Street. The route of the 141. He paid the fare and raced across the two lanes of traffic to Bus Stop B, where a short line of people were standing, waiting for a bus.

  7.58 am.

  He’d made it with a few minutes to spare. Unless the bus had come early.

  The giant grey stone wall of the Bank of England was casting a permanent shadow across the narrow footpath, where there was just enough room for pedestrians to pass by the people queuing for the bus. Bailey joined the end of the line, trying to catch his breath.

  ‘Are you waiting for the one-four-one?’ he asked the woman standing in front of him.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, politely. ‘Any minute now.’

  His next move was a gamble that he’d rather not be making. If he was right about what was about to go down, he didn’t have a choice.

  A bus came around the corner, heading in their direction. The 43.

  The woman in front of Bailey turned around. ‘You can get this one. Same stops.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Bailey didn’t know how to explain to her that he was happy to wait because it wouldn’t make sense, so he followed her to the open door of the bus, before stepping away at the last second.

  He stared inside the bus windows, studying faces. No sign of Ayesha.

  The 141 was due any second. If Ayesha was planning an attack on London Bridge at 8.15 am, then she’d be on the bus. Bailey hoped that he was wrong.

  Moments later, the 141 turned the corner, travelling like it was in slow motion until it squeaked to a halt beside him.

  He held up his Oyster card, waited for the beep, and continued down the aisle behind a fat guy with a baseball cap that was covering the tops of his ears.

  The double-decker bus was nearly full. Standing room only. Bailey grabbed hold of a handle that was dangling from the roof, balancing himself as the bus started moving. The windows had clouded with the fog of many breaths and passengers were pushing their way up the staircase halfway along, searching for seats.

  Bailey moved with the crowd further down the aisle, studying the faces of people sitting and standing as he went. People clutching tightly to handbags and briefcases, listening to music or something else through earphones, reading books or thumbing through their smartphones.

  He wanted to stay downstairs because, if Ayesha Haneef had brought a bomb onto the bus, that’s where she’d be, where the trajectory of the blast would go upwards and outwar
ds, causing maximum impact. Bailey had seen enough wreckages to know that much.

  His pocket vibrated. Dexter.

  ‘Yep?’ Bailey was speaking softly, trying not to bring attention to himself.

  ‘Bailey!’

  ‘Sharon, can you hear me?’ he said, slightly louder.

  ‘Bailey, are you there?’

  Dexter’s words were coming out quickly, almost shouting.

  ‘Yeah, I’m here.’

  ‘Where the hell are you, Bailey?’ she yelled through the phone.

  He didn’t answer.

  Bailey had a good view up both sides of the bus from where he was standing near the rear doors. He was mentally checking off each row of seats, face by face, as he listened to his phone. A bald guy in an overcoat. Check. A guy in a rugby jersey. Check. Two girls in school uniforms. Check. A middle-aged woman in a black puffy jacket. Check.

  ‘Bailey!’ Dexter tried again. ‘I’ve spoken to Ronnie. The police are on their way. Please tell me you’re not on that bus!’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Bailey said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sharon, it’s okay.’ Bailey was speaking quietly, calmly. ‘I’ve found her.’

  He hung up.

  Ayesha Haneef was sitting two seats from the back doors, across from the stairs, staring out the window. Bailey could see the reflection of her eyes in the clouded glass, wondering if she was staring back into the bus through the reflection, or at the world going by outside. A city of more than eight million people. People going about their day. Living.

  Bailey was wondering what was going through the eighteen-year-old brain inside her head. Wondering whether she had a bomb. Wondering whether she would use it.

  The woman sitting beside Ayesha was checking her makeup with a small mirror. She touched Ayesha on the arm, apologising for bumping her as she rummaged through her handbag, looking for something else to improve her face on the way to work. Ayesha gave her a half-smile, as if not to worry, and then went back to staring out the window.

  Bailey still had his phone in his hand and he fired off a brief message to Ronnie.

  She’s here

  The bus stopped again. King William Street.

  The guy with the baseball cap was complaining that no one was moving down the back of the bus. After a few loud sighs, he started pushing down the aisle. Bailey had no other choice but to follow him, because more passengers were cramming on behind him and a girl was bumping her shoulder bag into the burn on his back. Every step he took, another bump. Another shot of pain.