“I know as much as the BBC does,” was Damian’s reply to Jacob’s opening query. “Anything more you can tell me?”
“We’ve had the Heroes of Hattin under low level surveillance for about a year,” replied MI5’s Director General. “Didn’t appear to be a threat, which is why it was only low level.”
“Nothing appears to be a threat until it strikes,” said Damian wearily. And immediately regretted being critical. The security services did an amazing job under impossible circumstances.
“You’d be horrified if you knew how many crazies there are out there,” said Jacob. “But we’re not the Stasi or KGB and don’t have the manpower to keep a proper eye on all of them. To say nothing of the uproar there’d be if we started arresting every nutter that came to our attention. But we do know who’s the leader of this little lot.”
“That’s something, I suppose.”
“Name of Hamid Khan, born in Birmingham thirty eight years ago to parents originally from Pakistan. Now goes under the name of Salah-ud-Din.”
“A resurrection of the Saracen hero?”
“That’s right. Hamid Khan – let’s call him that – is older and better educated than the usual terrorist. After leaving school he took an economics degree at Birmingham University. We then lost sight of him for a while: these guys lead shadowy lives. We think he went off to fight for IS – Islamic State, after which he probably spent time in his ancestral homelands in Pakistan. Four years ago he was definitely back in the UK – he’s a British citizen, remember - and started to acquire a following, almost exclusively of unattached young men from the third world.”
“Perfect cannon fodder.”
Jacob sighed and continued: “It’s difficult to exaggerate the plight of these lost souls, millions of whom have been pouring into Europe for at least the past two decades. No homes, no roots, no women, no money, no jobs, no prospects. No wonder they flock to any pseudo messiah that offers them the slightest hope.”
“Enter Hamid Khan.”
“A clever chap, Hamid, I’ll give him that. You can no longer get away with blatant hate preaching, so the message of Salah-uh-Din, as he calls himself, is all about past glories. No arguing with that. The Islamic world of a thousand years ago was more civilised, even more tolerant than its Christian counterpart. Brainwash impressionable minds with such stuff and those not already Muslims will soon be signing on the dotted line.”
“The seventy two virgins must help.”
Jacob sighed again: “I think the media makes too much of those virgins awaiting the martyrs in paradise. I believe Salah-ud-Din’s biggest attraction is giving these men a purpose in life. A sense of belonging. Something they’ve never known before. Something worth dying for.”
“But we don’t know what this lot might be prepared to die for?”
“No we don’t. Which is a puzzle. Our best brains have been working on this and no one’s yet come up with a convincing answer. But our modern Saladin has promised us more information, so we can only wait. It’s part of the game. Meanwhile, might I suggest, prime minister, that you’d be better placed in the centre of things in London. I realise the election is important, but Oxford is rather out on a limb if this turns into a real crisis. I would also strongly urge a meeting of Cobra.”
“Good idea. I first need to tie up a few loose ends with my election agent, Alec, but we should be able to get away by ten.”
“So back in Downing Street well before midday? Allowing a break for lunch, can I set up Cobra for two o’clock?”
“Do that. I’ll see you in the Cabinet Office a few minutes before two.”
50
Damian and Chloe finished breakfast, after which Alec Warbeck arrived to discuss their election campaign, which now had to be cancelled for the day because of Saladin. This might cost him a few votes, but needs must.
Damian had left the BBC news channel on in case of further developments, which was just well because Chloe suddenly exclaimed: “Something’s happening!”
He turned the sound back on to hear the reporter say in excited but hushed tones: “….there’s to be a statement. Which will be made from inside the fort. They’ve promised us safe conduct, but are only allowing one camera team in and only a basic crew of two, the cameraman and myself. So the quality may not be…..ah, here we go.”
They saw the fort’s main gate open and two men in military fatigues emerge. One of them beckoned the BBC team forward. As they approached the gate they were quickly and expertly frisked, then allowed to continue.
For the first time viewers were able to see Fort Brockhurst from the inside. The walls, which seemed even more solid from this angle, enclosed a wide open space, with a two-storey building in the centre. About half of this open area now served as a parade ground, with a platoon of maybe thirty men drawn up on one side. They wore the type of camouflage dress common to all armies and ranks, with forage caps on top and AK-47 rifles by their sides. In front of this group stood three men also dressed in khaki but less smart, unarmed and bareheaded. In front of them, making the arrow head of a wide V-shaped pattern, was what appeared to be a single NCO: the sergeant major? Apart from the small group of three, everyone was standing at attention, clean shaven and smart. Impressively military.
After being allowed to film the men on parade, the BBC team was ordered to stand to one side and face towards a small rostrum in the centre of the square. When everything had settled, what was obviously the commanding officer appeared from the far side, striding briskly towards the platform. He was about six foot tall, sharp featured with brownish skin, his face sporting about a week’s growth of designer stubble. He was dressed in camouflage, like his men, but on his head wore a green beret adorned with a small silver scimitar. A real sword, the scabbard decorated with an intricate pattern, swung by his side.
The Commander mounted the platform and eyed his men.
The NCO yelled: “Prese..e..e..nt arms.”
Which they did. Surprisingly well.
NCO saluted.
Commander returned salute.
NCO yelled: “Orde..e..e..er arms.”
Again pretty well done. Not the Brigade of Guards, but good enough to show this was no rabble. Which was the purpose of the exercise.
The Commander spoke for the first time: “At ease, men.” Everyone relaxed.
Looking directly at the camera, he said: “My name is General Salah-ud-Din, leader of the Islamic Army of Hattin. Before going any further, let me just say that the men you see before you are only a small part of my occupying force. The rest are at their posts, alert and ready to repel any attack. I suggest you do not try.”
Hamid Khan, alias Salah-ud-Din, had thrown off any Brummie accent he might once have had, his accent classless, educated.
He continued: “There are now six million Moslems living in Britain, about ten percent of the population. In some city areas we make up the overwhelming majority. Many people grumble about ethnic ghettoes and I agree with them. This is a problem and I am here today to offer a solution.”
“There is a precedent to what I’m about to propose. My parents came from Pakistan, which was carved out of British India so that they could worship in their own way in peace. The purpose of the Hattin army is to ensure a similar outcome for Moslems in Britain. An area to call our own. We will leave this fort as soon as there’s a satisfactory agreement.”
“My earnest hope is that this can be arranged amicably, but realistically I know we may have to fight for it. I’ve taken the name of a famous warrior from the past, Salah-ud-Din, who threw the Christian interlopers out of the holy land. My ancestors, the Khans, are also know as fearless warriors. My men….well, you see them before you, all ready to die for the cause.”
As he said this, the Commander stepped off the platform and strolled towards the camera.
A smile on his face, he continued: “There’s a nice story, you may have heard it: about an admiral called Byng, who lost a few ships and….to everyone’s astonish
ment was executed for it. It was done, they said, to encourage the others.”
Salah-ud-Din beckoned the BBC camera forward. It followed him as he came to a halt in front of the three men who formed the separate group.
Turning to the camera, he said: “We raided an army depot on our way here and these three were foolish enough to try and stop us. As with Byng, life isn’t always fair….”
Salah-ud-Din pondered for a moment, then pointed to the man on the left. “You!”
Two men from the platoon came up and frog-marched the prisoner a few paces forwards.
The memory of millions watching the broadcast in real time had one thing in common: the events of the next few seconds happened with lightning speed, yet agonisingly slowly.
The NCO grabbed the prisoner and ordered: “Kneel.”
The prisoner, an ordinary looking man in his thirties, looked too bemused to refuse – not that it would have done him much good.
Salah-ud-Din drew his sword from the scabbard, stepped back two paces and took aim. The scimitar whirred. It was such a clean cut that the head rolled a few feet across the parade ground before coming to a stop. For an appreciable instant the torso remained upright, gushing a fountain of blood to a brain that had departed. As the body collapsed, a dark red stain, unnervingly like a map of Africa, spread slowly over the parade ground.
The Commander handed his weapon to the NCO: “Clean it, Sarn’t Major.”
“Sir!” The NCO took a cloth from his pocket and wiped the blood off the blade. Handed it back.
Salah-ud-Din replaced the scimitar in its beautifully crafted scabbard and turned to the camera.
Smiled and said: “To encourage the others.”
51
The journey to London in the government limo was the most miserable Damian could ever recall making. Like biblical Job, he felt overwhelmed by the catastrophes that kept cascading down on the country. And on him. The AfroAir crash had been a shock, but in a strange way stimulating; a crisis to set the adrenaline flowing. The flu epidemic had crept up on them more slowly, but again he felt they had done what they could. The first had been an accident, the second an act of God. These things happened. But this outrage was different. This was pure evil. How could one cope with wickedness on such a scale?
“Why didn’t the BBC pull the plug when they realised what was about to happen?” murmured Chloe. “We could all see what he was going to do.”
After the upcoming Cobra meeting Damian would have to remain in Downing Street overnight, so Chloe had offered to come with him. An offer he had accepted gratefully. The thought of sleeping in Number Ten alone, with nothing but the nightmare of a decapitated head rolling across the tarmac to keep him company, was beyond contemplating.
Damian answered her question: “The BBC did nothing because, like everyone, they were in shock. Couldn’t believe their eyes. Rabbit in the headlights effect. Happened so damned fast.”
“I’ll bet he planned it like that.”
“Of course he did. Islamic extremists have a long history of using the sword as a terror weapon. Quite often these executions have been filmed, but watching them is so horrific they’ve never reached a wider public. This was planned specifically to make sure the whole world would be watching. Women, children, everyone. Hamid has ‘encouraged us’ with a vengeance.”
“What happens now.”
“Cobra happens. That’s when we decide on the details. People are not merely angry, they’re incandescent, so I can promise one thing: Salah-ud-Din and his filth will be wiped off the face of the earth.”
52
The government Crisis Management room, sometimes called the Cabinet Office Briefing Room, or COBRA, is conveniently situated in Whitehall, just down the road from Downing Street. It’s an oppressive bunker-like place, lit by a harsh overhead strip light, with room for about twenty people round an oak veneer table. At the end are large screens for video links and power-point displays.
At two o’clock precisely they were ready to go, Prime Minister Damian White in the chair. Others round the table included:
Director General of MI5 Jacob Wells, slightly built and donnish, specs perched on the end of his nose.
Home Secretary Bessie Robotham, a buxom northern lass in a tweedy outfit, as though about to go for a ramble on the moors.
Minister without Portfolio Adam Tichbold, long black hair coiffed to perfection, blue hanky positioned to the inch in his breast pocket: languid and suave as they come.
Cabinet Secretary Sir Justin Hopgood, whose farmer’s looks and squeaky voice disguised Britain’s best brain.
Chief of Defence Staff Admiral Sir Harry Horrocks, all gold braid and medals, as though auditioning for a Gilbert and Sullivan opera.
There were about a dozen others, most unknown to Damian, but they would doubtless reveal themselves if necessary.
The Prime Minister tapped on the table for silence. The hubbub died. He began:
“First I’d like to clear up some points that have been bothering me: Fort Brockhurst. Who owns it? Was it really empty? And why was it so easy to gain access?”
Jacob Wells, adjusted his glasses and glanced at his notes: “Fort Brockhurst is one of the forts built during the late eighteen fifties to guard Portsmouth against a French invasion by Napoleon….” He paused. “That can’t be right. By the mid eighteen hundreds Napoleon had been dead for ages and we were allied with France in the Crimea.”
“Different Napoleon,” came the falsetto tones of Sir Justin Hopgood. “We’re talking about Napoleon the Third, who in eighteen fifty one became over-excited. Soon settled down and we were chums again by the time the Crimean war came along. But Palmerston carried on with his forts anyway; damned silly waste of money, but then he was the Gunboat Diplomacy chap…..”
An insistent and ever louder banging on the table stopped Sir Justin.
The Prime Minister had suffered under too many chairmen unable to stifle waffle: “Gentlemen, please! We don’t have all day. My question was: ‘Who owns Fort Brockhurst?”
“English Heritage,” replied Jacob. “It was empty because they can’t find anyone to run it. Even on an ad hoc basis. At one time they had tours once a month in the summer, but in recent years not even that.”
Prime Minister: “And it had poor security because there was nothing of interest inside?”
Jacob Wells: “I presume so. The cluster of buildings we saw in the square house a museum, but I don’t suppose it has much of value. Anyway, I don’t see how anyone could have foreseen what this Saladin fellow would do.”
“You’re right, Jacob. Thank you.” The Prime Minister paused for a moment, then continued: “We come now to the tragic victim. What was his name again?”
Admiral Horrocks: “Corporal John Smither.”
“Married?”
I’m afraid so. With two young children.”
“Not his lucky day,” said the Prime Minister. “How come he found himself facing a homicidal maniac?”
“Hamid and his army were able to buy most of their equipment quite legally,” replied the Admiral. “Vehicles, clothing, that sort of thing was no problem. We think they were also able to get hold of some arms and munitions from abroad, then smuggled in on a lonely beach. But they must have still been short, because on their way down, earlier last night, they broke into Longmore Camp on the A Three.”
“An army camp?”
“An ex-army camp. Borden… Longmore… there’d once been quite a military presence straddling the A Three road, but these places have been closed now for some years. All that remained was a small storage facility. Containing some arms and munitions.”
“Guarded by the unfortunate Smither?”
The admiral nodded. “And two privates. All very low key and hellishly boring. Nothing ever happened.”
“No chance for them to even sound an alarm?”
“Apparently not. First thing anyone knows is Smither without a head.”
Well…. That seems to explai
n how it happened. So unless there are any more questions…?” The Prime Minister glanced around the room. No reactions. “….We come now to the more pressing point of how to handle Hamid’s infamous proposal. Are we agreed that his demand is effectively that the United Kingdom cedes part of this country to what he calls the Islamic Republic of Hattin?”
There was a general buzz of consent.
“Treason pure and simple,” said the Cabinet Secretary. “Not even worth discussing.”
“Pity we no longer hang people for treason,” said Adam Tichbold. “Then we could string the fellow up and everyone could watch it on the telly. Poetic justice.”
“We could adopt the Quisling solution”, said the Cabinet Secretary.”
“The what?”
“Norway abolished the death penalty even before us, but then came the war and invasion. The government escaped to London, where they enacted a law making treason a capital offence. Returning home after Hitler’s defeat, they tried Quisling for treason and duly shot him. We could do the same.”
I think we may leave that question to the incoming government,” said the Prime Minister. “Our problem is not what to do with our criminal, but how to first catch him. We can’t simply obliterate Fort Brockhurst with a large bomb; first because it’s surrounded by suburban Gosport, which would suffer collateral damage; and secondly because of the two surviving prisoners still in their hands. I have therefore asked the army’s director of Special Forces, General Quilter, join us. Can you help us, general?”
General Freddy Quilter was about Damian’s size, so not large, probably in his late forties, but looking younger and very fit. Unlike the admiral, he was in standard battledress, a normal day at the office. Although his published CV was fairly ordinary, it was rumoured that the unexpurgated version included several black operations with the SAS.
“This must necessarily be a preliminary assessment,” began the general in a precise and clear voice; he had spent a career giving briefings. “All we know so far is what we saw on TV. That they have some AK Forty Sevens, the world’s most popular rifle. And, by inference from the parade Hamid put on to impress us, that his so-called army is probably well trained and disciplined.”
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