This was different. Back in his comfort zone in one way, with a reliance on equipment, the oily smell of firearms, the sleek black uniform, with its boots and belts and its various receptacles where everything knew its place, and a code of silent, efficient accomplishment. A world where all the working parts meshed perfectly because they had to. A place where periodic fixes of desperate activity near the bounds of perceptual acuity and physical capability were assured, but one where he could say, with justification, that he was doing good. There was little moral equivocation here, no space for it.
Uniformed up in their trousers and boots and fatigue T-shirts, they assembled in the briefing room. The inspector came in, together with one of the young analysts from the Counter Terrorism Unit, the chief superintendent who headed the CTU and one of his chief inspectors.
‘OK, people,’ said the inspector. ‘Here we go. Operation Palmerston.’
For operational names, they were currently working their way through a list of British Prime Ministers. He presumed they skipped the inappropriate, such as Petty, the confusing, like North, and the repetitive, including the various Pitts. He wondered when they would move on to a different system. Perhaps after Churchill. Certainly before Thatcher or Blair.
‘This is an evidential briefing which will be recorded. No informal notes should be taken. You’ll each receive a summary of the relevant details after the briefing, which you will need to memorize for operational purposes. There is an intelligence background that Jodie here from the CTU will summarize for you in terms of what you need to know. The lead information we have is delicately sourced and it may not be possible to answer comprehensively some of the questions you have. This will be for source protection reasons. Questions should be directed to me once Jodie’s finished her piece. Jodie.’
The pale, bespectacled young woman took her place at the lectern and read directly from her notes in a nasal monotone.
‘Intelligence from a variety of sources indicates that a group of individuals in the Hanby area of the city are conspiring to carry out a terrorist attack within the next week. The sourcing, as I have mentioned, is various. That regarding the intent of the group is assessed as B1. The reporting indicates that the group intends to carry out a terrorist attack at the ThreeD football stadium this coming Wednesday evening, at the end of the game taking place there. There are four co-conspirators whose biographical details will be in your packs. We have no precise intelligence on the nature of the attack, other than that the attackers will approach the stadium singly at the end of the match towards four points of which we are currently not aware, in close proximity to the stadium itself. A reminder that this intelligence is classed as B1 and is not verified or corroborated by other sources. It is assessed that the attack may well be a suicide attack of some kind though this is not yet firm. We have no current information on the weapons that the group holds, though the same intelligence indicates that weapons and materiel will be sourced early next week, along with vehicles, which will be stolen by the participants. We have reasonable confidence that we will know when that happens. The vehicles, according to the intelligence, will be abandoned a walk away from the stadium with the intention of providing a distraction for the authorities as they deal with the possibility that they may contain IEDs. According to the intelligence, while efforts may be made to create the impression that the vehicles contain IEDs, they will not. One final thing: the group plans to conduct a recce and rehearsal this Sunday at the stadium towards the end of the Liverpool game.’
There were groans in the room. Jodie raised her head, alarmed.
‘The intelligence indicates that the members of the group have been specifically instructed not to carry weapons or other incriminating material on this occasion. Vehicles will not be involved either.’
She folded her paper and looked at the audience.
‘Thanks, Jodie,’ said the inspector, and waited until she had left the room. ‘Now, Chief Inspector Mackrell, who is SIO for this case.’
‘You’ve heard the intelligence background. Our task, as ever, is first and foremost to protect public safety and, second, to detect and prevent any crime and to secure prosecutions against those who are guilty.’
‘Scuse me, boss,’ came a shout from the other side of the room. Jon couldn’t see but it’d be John Pearce, the appointed troublemaker in the group.
‘Yes,’ said the DCI, and everyone braced themselves for what they knew was coming.
‘Scuse my French, but is this going to be a crock of shite like the last job? Will it be us blown to the four winds like our mates?’
The DCI paused for a moment. ‘You’ll not be wanting the politician’s answer to that, I’m taking it. Truthful answer is we don’t know. If we did know, you wouldn’t be asked to be out there.’
‘Yeah, but what I mean is we get this stuff from these spooks, or whoever it is, and it’s us on the front line, not them. We’re just the mushrooms in this, kept in the dark and the rest of it.’
‘What can I say? I’ve seen all the reporting. I can’t share it with you but I believe in it. I suppose you either trust me on that or you don’t. I need to remind you, though, that you’re all members of a disciplined force. I’m quite happy to entertain debate and to hear your concerns. But I’m satisfied this is on the level and we have a job to do. OK?’
‘No, boss I was only saying –’
‘Right. You’ve said it now. As you know Five’s people will be on the ground too. And you won’t need reminding they lost seven people in the railway blast. Any further points before we move on?’
There were none. Now they would get down to the business of planning. Once the SIO had finished his obligatory rabble-rousing speech, they would be on to interoperability, radio frequencies, call signs, code words, then the topography and timings would be flashed up on to the huge screen before a focus on the biodata of the four suspects. They would practise their drills in the out-of-town training facility, protected from inquisitive onlookers by its razor wire and the woods, in improvised mock-ups of the territory itself. They would go on the firing range for final testing. They would do their drug and medical tests and each undertake the short psychological refresh check. Then they would go out on the ground for real.
He wondered what it was that inspired them. Genuinely wondered. He still felt moved by the watching of the moving pictures, the ranting monologues and the earnest discussions in the room. The rage still stirred in him the desire to right the injustices against his people. The fact that he was an unflinching traitor to this cause didn’t alter his anger, greater since he couldn’t quantify or define it with any precision.
His people. Who were his people? Certainly not those on behalf of whom he had fought. Or rather, committed atrocities that shamed him viscerally, the atrocities he could not mention to Jake and Leila. Shame was certainly part of what he was doing now with them – with the government, in effect, though he didn’t quite see it that way. Shame towards his parents for his savagery out there. Even though they didn’t know the details, he could often see the disappointment in his mother’s eyes. He’d failed her, his father too – though he was beyond knowing – and that made him feel bad. Shame, absurdly, towards the home city that had given him not that bad a life. If he felt a grudging affection for it, why should he be conspiring to deliver such a shattering blow by murdering all those misguided but innocent people? Somehow, however inadequately, he wanted to put things right, which was why he was talking to Jake and Leila.
They were good people, whatever they represented. They were bound to be hiding stuff from him but he trusted them regardless, especially Jake. Jake had found him, seen something in him, looked after him. He’d repaid him with the necessary betrayal, in response to those relentless questions about the battlefield. Who had he met? Where had he fought? What had he done? On which dates? He’d known that honesty would have fractured the relationship, and he needed Jake. He’d looked him straight in the eye and lied. He found he was go
od at dissembling. It was a vital necessity at the moment.
He liked Leila too, he and she were kind of similar, not that many years apart. Each understood instinctively the life the other had led, felt it, sensed the traumas and the tensions. She was a Manc but it didn’t matter. She’d told him in a way that said: come on then, what d’you have to say about it? He’d liked that look, now occasionally ribbed her about coming from the dark side of the Pennines.
They’d missed Friday morning prayers to meet. In the greater scheme of things this was not such a sin, to skip the lukewarm, neutered form of their religion to engage with the reality of it, red and bloody, and to continue to make their preparations. After the log-out procedures had been completed and the screen neatly packed away, they turned to their prosaic horrors.
‘I’ve eyed up possible cars,’ said Abdullah. ‘I’ve got nine, so we have some play if some of them aren’t there on Tuesday. You’re all going to have to help come the day, though.’ He read from a piece of paper that listed makes of vehicle and parts of the city where they could be found parked overnight, and together on a fresh sheet of paper they mapped out what amounted to a plan of action.
‘You’ve been busy,’ said Adnan with a grin.
‘Yeah, well, important, isn’t it?’ said Abdullah bashfully.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Bilal. ‘Why don’t we hire a van for Wednesday? With all those people …’
‘That’s not such a bad idea,’ said Adnan. ‘But we don’t know what the sheikh wants.’
Rashid said nothing, aware of the strictures that Jake placed on him not to lead the planning or encourage any particular action.
‘The sheikh won’t mind,’ said Adnan. ‘You still got your driving licence in your English name?’
‘Yes,’ said Abdullah.
‘There you are, then. What do you think, brother?’ He directed his question to Rashid.
‘Maybe we should just see what the sheikh thinks. We’ll still have time. He is speaking to us again sometime, isn’t he?’
Abdullah had been to the DIY superstore in the new sprawling shopping complex on the eastern edge of the city. He showed the others the list of tools, boxes and other materials he had purchased, along with sketches of how he would construct the fake devices that would sit on the back seats of the cars they stole. The others murmured with approval.
‘What about the real stuff, though? When do we start?’ said Abdullah. ‘When will we get what we need to do this?’
‘I guess the sheikh would say, be patient,’ said Rashid. ‘Everything will come to pass in its own time. Only four more days after this until the day itself, so we need to keep calm. Sunday’s a big day, too.’
13
There was time to cram in another meeting over lunchtime before his commitment in the afternoon. He rang Dave Philpott to set it up.
Zaki was breathless when he entered the room.
‘You’re in a rush, Zaki,’ said Jake.
‘Always on the go. You know me. I got no guaranteed salary, no cushy pension. I have to make my own way in life. Not like you lot,’ said Zaki, beaming. ‘Only kidding. I’ll make time for you, Mr Winter, whenever you need me. Just call, and I’ll make time.’
‘That’s good of you. I’m sorry to disturb you. Shouldn’t take long. Been to morning prayers?’
‘Of course.’
‘And how are things, on the street? In the community?’
‘They’re fine, Mr Winter, fine. Considering.’
‘Considering what?’
‘All this upset, everything that’s going on. It isn’t a cakewalk being a Muslim in Britain today, I can tell you that for nothing.’
Cakewalk, thought Jake. Wherever did Zaki pick that up? ‘I’m sure,’ he said. ‘It must be very worrying.’
‘We’re not all like these animals.’
‘I know. Most people do. Most people, I’m sure, just want everyone to get on with each other. There’s just a small minority that wants to cause unrest.’
‘The newspapers. I mean, have you read them?’
‘I try not to, Zaki. They seem to be a distraction from the realities of life.’
‘Quite right. But most people do. The internet too. Social media. People in our community are worried.’
‘We’re doing a lot of work on community cohesion,’ said Dave.
‘I know.’
‘So what else can we be doing? Tell us and I’ll try to feed it into the machine.’
‘Careful. I don’t want my name coming out.’
‘It won’t,’ insisted Dave. ‘I know how to do this.’
‘Presumably part of it is people seeing what’s going on in this inquiry?’ asked Jake.
‘Yeah,’ said Zaki. ‘People are thinking, this just makes it look bad for us Muslims. There was that demo the other day. Then people are thinking, your people must be all over the place, spying on us. People are getting suspicious. I’m getting to think …’
‘You’ve no need to be concerned, Zaki. We look after you, and you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself,’ said Jake. ‘Is that not right?’
‘Of course it is. We’re a team. Work close together.’
‘Exactly. We can both see that tensions are running high, inside the community and outside. Which is why we need to know everything, one hundred per cent, about anything that’s happening. However absurd it seems to you. It might just be relevant in some context. What’s going on, Zaki?’
‘What you mean?’
‘It’s a simple enough question,’ said Jake calmly.
‘I’ve not been doing nothing wrong,’ said Zaki. ‘Whatever people been saying, I’ve not been up to no good.’
‘And who might be saying that, Zaki?’
‘I don’t know. Malicious people.’
‘And what might they be saying about you?’
‘You know.’ He looked at Jake and Dave, for confirmation. Their faces were expressionless. ‘What I used to get up to. I learned me lesson. Don’t go nowhere near it.’
‘So you said,’ soothed Jake. ‘I was thinking more of what you may have heard on the street. At times of tension hotheads begin having ideas. Anything occur to you?’
‘Why? Have you got wind of something? Is there something up?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. I’m just conscious that we need to keep turning over every stone. All the time. So.’
‘Yes?’
‘Just think, Zaki. Is there anything or anyone you’ve seen that gives you pause for thought?’
Zaki looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Can’t say as –’
‘Think carefully, Zaki. Now is the time we need your help.’
‘No, nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘OK. It’s all right. As you say, feelings can run high. Just let me know if you hear anything. I’ll meet you anytime.’
‘Sure.’
‘And Zaki?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Don’t take any risks. If I need to contact you at short notice, to try some names on you?’
‘I’ll be around. You know me. Up all hours. Call me anytime.’
‘Thanks.’
Zaki was gone and Dave Philpott returned to the room. ‘Coming on a bit strong, Jake? Don’t really think he knows anything about anything real, do you?’ Dave was realistic about the business, his place in it, and Zaki’s too.
‘You never know. Not really. Zaki’s just a bag of wind. I wanted him to feel the heat, though, about the other stuff.’
‘The heroin.’
‘He has to know we’re on his case. He has to desist. He has to know that neither of us has any options if he doesn’t.’
‘So there isn’t anything on the boil at the moment?’
‘Not that I know of,’ said Jake, looking into Dave’s eyes. Dave had no need to know.
He was unsure of his judgement. Was Zaki really just an irritating, harmless albeit repulsive creature? Or with his finger in so many pies was he something entir
ely different, backing all the horses? Would this be Zaki’s downfall in the end? Would one of his criminal associates finally lose patience? Not Jake’s problem.
They sipped tea in the living room and she offered him a shortbread biscuit, which he refused.
‘I don’t work on Fridays,’ she said, ‘and my husband will be away until at least three. He meets friends after Friday prayers. Since it happened, he’s spent longer with them. He tries to find the reason for it, in religion. I can’t help him in that regard. I’m much too straightforward. He has this young preacher he talks to.’
‘Really?’
‘A young man. Tawfiiq. A sweet boy, from Somalia. My husband doesn’t trust the older men. He says they’re corrupt. Whereas this young man has an aura of innocence, so he says.’
‘And you?’
‘I don’t trust any of them.’
‘I see.’
‘I wouldn’t want him to know I’m talking to you, you understand.’
‘I am discreet. It’s the least you can expect from someone in my job.’
‘Yes. Thank you. I see you haven’t arrived in a big car parked outside the house. For that I’m grateful.’
A Fatal Game Page 14