The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  ‘Yes, of course. A prevalent problem, I’m sure.’

  ‘“We will conquer your Rome, break your crosses, and enslave your women,”’ said Nina, as if sensing a slightly increased tension in the room needed defusing.

  ‘For the benefit of our new friend, Sergeant Brasov,’ said Shabat. ‘Do explain that quote.’

  Nina continued. ‘There are factions within the Muslim community who favour a return to ancient ideologies where Shia Muslims such as the Minister here are persona non grata. To their minds, becoming part of a system that involves being voted into power is a sin, and any Muslim who does so is declared apostate.’

  ‘Meaning what, in layman’s terms?’ I asked.

  ‘It means that people like the Minister are, to the minds of such people, sinners, and they should be killed. Others, like you and me, as non-Muslims, are spared death provided we agree to be subjugated. Then, we would be taken as slaves.’

  ‘And that’s a way of life they wish to see come back?’

  ‘Some, yes,’ said Shabat, interrupting. ‘And for some the notion has never gone away. Thankfully, such extreme views are still in the minority.’ He stood, and it looked like our visit was at an end. ‘What were you doing as I opened the door earlier?’ he asked. ‘On the chair with your handkerchief.’

  ‘Once a cop, always a cop,’ I said. ‘I spotted what looked like spots of blood.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I know where you mean now. I had forgotten to ask for it to be cleaned. A previous visitor with a most unfortunate habit chewing the ends of his fingers in a way that makes them bleed.’

  ‘Dermatophagia,’ said Nina. ‘Compulsive nail-biting.’

  ‘Yes … as you say. I will ask the cleaners to attend to it.’

  We bade the Minister goodbye and, with the oak doors closed behind us, headed back towards reception and the exit to the street.

  As we reached a point in the corridor out of ear-shot of any potential listener, Nina leaned in close to me. ‘That was interesting,’ she said.

  ‘Which part in particular?’ I asked.

  ‘All of it, really. But especially the bit when he wanted to talk to you about slavery. Did you get the impression he might know who you are? And what was that question about those Islamic groups I’d never heard of?’

  ‘I wasn’t quite sure,’ I said. ‘He did seem a bit ruffled when you introduced me. I wondered if it was simply because you’d brought someone along and he was testing me to see if I was who you’d said.’

  Nina shrugged without answering.

  But she was right, it was odd, and I thought at that moment I was going to have to wait and ask Toni Fellowes to see if she could throw some light on the subject.

  However, as we arrived back at the reception desk, one of the security officers called out my name.

  He had a message: the Minister wanted me to return – just me. He wished to speak to me again.

  Chapter 22

  Shabat was waiting in the corridor leading to his office.

  On seeing me he turned and pushed open a door to a stairwell, quietly murmuring an instruction to follow him. We climbed four flights of stairs, exited through a similar door and then crossed the passageway through an open entrance into what looked like a small recording room. Inside, in the centre, there was one small desk, two chairs with a set of headphones on each, what appeared to be some type of recording equipment and a television on the far wall. The single window to the corridor was made of very thick perspex material and on the walls and ceiling were tiles that resembled egg boxes. To me, it looked like some kind of sound booth.

  Shabat closed the door behind us. ‘Please, take a seat, Inspector. We cannot be overheard in here.’

  ‘Is this an interview room?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, for radio and television. The measures you see are more to prevent outside noises from interfering with live transmissions, but they have the advantage that this room can be used to talk privately.’

  ‘Handy,’ I said. ‘Why just me, though?’

  ‘I think you and I both know why I asked you to return.’

  I shrugged, feigning ignorance as I eased myself onto one of the seats. Shabat leaned back against the door. At first I thought he was trying to appear casual but then I realised, in that part of the room, he wouldn’t be seen from the corridor – wouldn’t be seen talking to me.

  ‘You have me at a clear disadvantage, Minister.’

  Shabat breathed in deeply. ‘Very well, but please don’t take me for a fool, Mr Finlay. When Sergeant Brasov introduced you, I recognised your name. I heard it first quite some time ago.’

  I made to reply, but was met with a raised hand. ‘Please, allow me to continue,’ he said. ‘I recognised your name from a meeting with a member of our Security Services in which you were mentioned.’

  ‘Can I ask by who and why?’

  ‘Who? No, of course I cannot divulge such information. But the context I will explain.’

  ‘Sounds good to me, sir.’

  ‘Good. Firstly, I asked you if you had heard of Muslim Brotherhood.’

  ‘And I explained that my knowledge is more European based.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. I also asked you about another group, and I saw your reaction to the name. That reaction confirmed to me that you were almost certainly the same Inspector Finlay who had been mentioned to me previously.’

  ‘Al Anfal, you mean?’ I replied, as I wondered where this was heading, especially given my recent conversation with Kevin.

  ‘What do you know of them?’

  ‘Well, my recollection is a bit sketchy but, as I recall, they were a group similar in nature to Al Q’aeda but they preceded them. I think they were effectively replaced by that new group.’

  ‘You believe Al Anfal is a group of terrorists?’

  ‘From what I remember, yes.’

  ‘And how did you learn of them? From a police briefing?’

  ‘Before that. I was a soldier before joining the police. During the Russian invasion of Afghanistan, I ran some training programmes for Mujahideen fighters. Amongst other things, they told us about Al Anfal.’

  ‘Mujahideen fighters, you say? So, you have known about the group for a very long time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not something you learned recently from a document that fell into your hands.’

  I frowned as a pit formed in my stomach, anxious my face shouldn’t again give away my true thoughts. Why on earth was a government minister asking me about something Dr Armstrong had warned me was so sensitive?

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Do you mind if I ask your reason for asking?’

  For a few moments, Shabat studied me without speaking. If it was a ploy, it worked, as I immediately felt uncomfortable. ‘What do you think of Muslims, Inspector?’ he asked, finally.

  It was a left-field question, of the kind I’d been taught about on a recent interview skills course at Hendon, the police training college. I answered in the way the training staff had taught us.

  ‘In relation to what?’ I said, remembering the lesson to answer a question with a question, to throw the interrogator off track.

  It didn’t work. Shabat came back at me without hesitation. ‘Do you, for example, think that Islamic terrorism is the greatest threat in the world at the moment? More than, say, North Korea, for example?’

  ‘That’s very deep, sir. Not something that people of my rank give a lot of thought to.’

  ‘But as a person, you must have an opinion, surely?’ He smiled knowingly.

  Just where was this leading? I wondered.

  ‘To be honest, sir, I have little sympathy for anyone who uses religion to justify violence, regardless of what that religion is. So, although I might understand how it can happen, I would never condone it.’

  ‘So, you understand what drives men of strong beliefs to act in such ways?’

  ‘I’ve studied it a little during my time as an army officer. It was part of the syllabus.’

>   ‘That’s very interesting. Some might conclude you to be better informed than many in your position.’

  ‘They might,’ I said.

  Shabat paused and glanced again through the observation window to the corridor before continuing. ‘Do you think others might see that as a threat, possibly? The fact that you have such knowledge?’

  I knew now where this was heading. Toni Fellowes’ words came back to me: ‘Mere knowledge of this document, of this group places a person at great risk.’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing I know that isn’t in the public domain now. Things like that may have been secret back in the 1980s, but like Al Q’aeda, I believe they’re pretty common knowledge now.’

  ‘You knew of Al Q’aeda back then?’

  ‘No, what I’m saying is their existence might have been a secret in those days, but it isn’t now.’

  ‘I see. Tell me, would you like to know more about Al Anfal?’

  Check. Like a skilled chess master, Shabat had lured me into a corner. If I said no, that would seem unnatural. Yes was the logical answer, yet if I knew the risks of such knowledge; he knew that would cause me some anxiety. I had to at least pretend to be interested.

  ‘Do we have long enough?’ I said, buying time to think. ‘I imagine you’re very busy.’

  ‘Everything has its moment, Mr Finlay. We have time, if you are interested?’ Check again; my move.

  ‘Fire away, if you’re sure,’ I replied.

  He paused again, and this time moved away from the door to make use of the empty seat beside me. I pushed back slightly, conscious of wanting to maintain a personal space between us.

  ‘Good. Islam, as you will know, is a religion steeped in great history. Within this, and spreading its wings across all the opinions, is Al Anfal.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow?’ I said.

  ‘You will, I’m sure. Al Q’aeda sees terror as a means to create a caliphate – a place where the ways of Islam are perfectly adhered to. But even with that group there are differing opinions on how this can be achieved. Some, for example, foresee a great battle in which Islam will conquer Rome, break the infidel crosses and enslave their women.’

  ‘Conquer Rome?’

  ‘These are ancient beliefs, Mr Finlay. It was foretold that in the ancient town of Dabiq, the forces of Rome would finally be defeated. In modern-day parlance, this would be taken to mean the forces of the West. Al Anfal is a philosophy; some refer to it as “The Project” – a long-term plan to create a caliphate where Islam can exist in peace.’

  ‘Peace is something we would all welcome, sir.’

  ‘Quite so. Within that plan, there are, of course, many differing opinions. But what they do share is a vision – a vision of the future.’

  ‘So, if peace is the goal, why is it that Sunni and Shia Muslims seem to be at each other’s throats?’

  ‘Ah, an easy question for me to answer as I am Shia, so I understand this very well. To some, Shia beliefs are regarded as new and innovative. And to innovate on the Koran is to deny its initial perfection.’

  ‘Well, that’s all very interesting,’ I said politely, but I was beginning to tire of the philosophical lecture and wanted to get to what I hoped would be the real reason Shabat had summoned me. ‘But it strikes me you wouldn’t ask me to return and then bring us to a sound-proof booth so we could discuss Islamic history and politics.’

  The Minister looked down at his feet, as if contemplating his next move. I waited three, four, five seconds, and was just reaching the point of thinking the conversation was over when he raised his gaze towards the corridor window.

  ‘Please be patient, Mr Finlay. I wish you to understand these aspects of Islam so you will appreciate the context of what I am about to tell you.’

  So, he was building up to something. ‘OK,’ I replied.

  ‘Very good. What I want you understand is that Al Anfal is not so much an organisation as a philosophy.’

  ‘You mentioned a project.’

  ‘Yes, some call it that. Al Anfal is something I personally subscribe to and follow.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I interrupted. ‘Are you saying you want to confess to being a member of a terrorist organisation?’

  He remained patient. ‘Not at all. Al Anfal does not support violence as a means to achieve objectives.’

  ‘Which are what, exactly?’

  ‘As I said, to further the spread of Islam throughout the world, something that people here in the West are not at all comfortable with.’

  I was confused again, not quite gaining a handle on what he seemed to be telling me. ‘Are you saying you’re part of an organisation working inside the West to eventually take over?’

  Shabat sighed, and although he remained composed, I had the feeling my feigned ignorance was trying his patience. ‘No, that is not what I am saying, although given your limited understanding of Islam, I can understand how many in your position might draw that conclusion.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s not an unreasonable one in the circumstances?’ I asked.

  ‘No, and it is a conclusion that others within the Services in this country have come to. And it is how I come to find myself talking to you now.’

  ‘Please go on, sir.’

  ‘You may be aware I first came to this country from Iraq?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was told about that.’

  ‘Were you told that I tried to warn your people that Saddam Hussein was planning attacks on the West in response to the Gulf War?’

  ‘I wasn’t, no.’

  ‘No matter,’ he replied. ‘You know now. At that time, myself and others who follow Al Anfal believed this to be a serious error, so we decided to warn of Saddam’s plans. It was then that I met an MI6 officer who helped me to resettle here in the UK and to start a new life. As the years passed, he arranged for me to improve my education and he smoothed my path. At his suggestion, I entered into politics.’

  ‘I’ve a feeling I know where this might be leading.’

  ‘I doubt that, but we will see. What you might have guessed is, as I owe this officer a great deal and he knows a lot about me, once I had achieved some status he began to ask favours.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask what kind of favours?’

  ‘I don’t, no. He would ask me to provide him with background information on certain political activists, on who they associated with, whether they had any weaknesses or secrets that could be exploited, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Normal Secret Services stuff, then?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. Quite normal for them. In recent times I have not heard much from him, but a while ago he came to see me again. In fact, that is his blood you saw on the seat outside my office door. He bites his fingers raw, quite unpleasant.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. Am I allowed to ask what this man wanted?’ I didn’t ask for a name, but I was already running through a very short list of MI6 operatives I had met over the years, wondering if it might be one of them. One name figured highly in my thoughts.

  ‘The reason for his visit is the same reason I asked you to return, Mr Finlay. He came to demand I do something for him, something he said was essential to maintain my position and the sanctity of Al Anfal.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘He asked me to arrange the deaths of two people, Mr Finlay.’

  ‘Deaths? He wanted you to have two people killed?’

  ‘To ensure the continued security of my position, he said.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I refused. I am not an animal and I will not be involved in bloodshed.’

  ‘So you risked him turning on you?’

  ‘That risk is why I now need your help.’

  ‘You need me to persuade an MI6 officer to back off and leave you alone? How on earth would I achieve that? I don’t have that kind of influence.’

  ‘I would leave the how to you.’

  ‘Well, I think I now understand why you wanted to talk in this booth,
but what on earth makes you think I’m somebody who could help you?’

  ‘Incentive, Mr Finlay. The two men this officer asked me to take care of? One of them is you.’

  Chapter 23

  Nina had left a message for me in reception explaining she’d had to head back to the office.

  I headed out into the street, dipped into my jacket pocket for my phone and was about to ring Kevin when I noticed an old text message from him was already on the screen: Have news from BM. Call me.

  Good timing, I thought. Unfortunately, my return call went straight through to voicemail. I hung up, and then tapped in a response text: Tried mate. No answer.

  My next call was to the one person I thought could help, the only person available who might have some idea what I should do in response to what Omar Shabat had just told me – Toni Fellowes.

  She answered immediately. I explained that I needed to talk about ‘our friends on the coast’. It was code, something she had insisted on upon using if I needed her urgently.

  ‘Where are you?’ she demanded, brusquely. It appeared she wasn’t too impressed at my request.

  ‘Marsham Street.’

  ‘What are you doing there, Finlay?’

  ‘That’s what I need to talk to you about.’

  The line went quiet for a moment. ‘St John’s Gardens. There’s a bench opposite the Royal Veterinary College. Wait there and I’ll see you in about five minutes.’

  I walked as quickly as I could along Horseferry Road, passed a long line of parked coaches and soon found what I assumed to be the bench Toni was referring to. To my frustration, it was occupied by an elderly woman holding a large, brown paper bag from which she scattered handfuls of seed to an ever-increasing audience of pigeons. Every time her arm swung from the bag, the flock took to the air, startled but still focussed on the growing supply of food building up on the path.

  Anxious not to move too far away lest Toni miss me, I turned back the way I had come and walked along the wide pavement adjacent to some black metal railings that marked the edge of a small park. I found a spot about thirty or so yards from the elderly pigeon feeder and leaned against a stone pillar. It supported an arched metal gate providing access to a heavily shaded oasis that looked to be popular with local office workers. I spotted several more benches inside, also occupied, and quite a number of people strolling around, most of whom seemed to be deeply engrossed in telephone calls.