No one stopped him.
He walked through the front door quietly and stood in the hallway, listening, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The door at the end of the passage, the door to their room, was open. He didn’t allow himself to think, simply covered the distance in delicate steps that he tried to keep silent, and stood before the door. He could see light in the room through the gap. He edged the door open and stepped forward.
‘Stop there,’ said the familiar calm voice. ‘I wondered how long it would take one of you to summon up the courage. Well done. Fetch the others and we’ll get down to business.’
Rashid went back to the front door and jerked his head in the direction of the interior. ‘Come on. He’s here.’
No one needed to ask who.
They filed in and each took a chair in the row lined up just inside the room. He was seated on the floor in his robes, beyond the light that glowed between them and him. Those boots, thought Rashid. Ridiculous for a holy man.
‘So,’ said the sheikh, smiling. ‘Here we are.’
‘What’s happened with the electric?’ said Abdullah.
‘You’ve no need to worry about the electric,’ said the man. ‘You no longer have any need for this place. This will be our last meeting, my friends, before you meet your destiny. You won’t return to this place. You have your plans?’
‘Yes,’ said Adnan. ‘Shall we show you?’
‘Are you happy with them?’
‘Yes,’ said Rashid.
‘Then I don’t need to see them. You are diligent men.’
‘We thought –’ began Abdullah.
‘Yes?’
‘We thought of hiring a van. You know, like –’
‘Fine.’ He seemed not to be interested. ‘If you wish, of course. It’s a good idea. And the cars?’
‘All worked out,’ said Bilal.
‘Good. And the rest of your preparations?’
‘They’re done,’ said Rashid.
‘Well. Behind the door you will find four rucksacks, for your run-through tomorrow. You will need them next week, too.’
‘Is that everything?’ asked Rashid.
‘Almost. You will meet on Monday and Tuesday to make your final arrangements. Sort that out between you. Be vigilant when you do this. I can trust you to ensure the security forces are not aware. Do not return to this place. It is forbidden. On Wednesday none of you will go to work. Take holiday, fall sick, whatever you need to do. Wait for me to contact you. This is the last time we shall all meet, but I need to see each of you separately on Wednesday, to supply you with what you need to carry out your holy mission. I will contact each of you by the messaging app. After that point you must not meet each other again.’
‘But what if our plans are not suited to the weapons?’ asked Abdullah.
‘Don’t fret. They will be. On Wednesday, wait for me to contact you, and be patient. It will be at hand. Be calm. Now go to your homes. Be normal. Enjoy these days. Do your work tomorrow and I will speak to each of you on Wednesday.’
Most of the afternoon they were busy at the laptops provided in one of the windowless rooms, tracking their routes through the streets on the mapping software. Every so often a group covering one of the subjects would gather together in a quiet huddle to discuss tactics, but most of the time it was silent in the room. Jon’s team of three had been allocated Romeo, the boy called Rashid. He looked so innocent in the photograph, but then they all did, even down to the assassins in the markets in Kabul. He knew better than to trust a photograph.
At four the coach containing the Five surveillance contingent arrived and then, on the other side of the compound, the other buses with the role-players, some of them designated as innocent bystanders and four of them the lads who would play the boys themselves. Where did they get these people, he wondered, and how did they maintain secrecy? It was time to confab with the Five guys and gals, to map out their dispositions in advance of the first run-through.
By five thirty it was getting dark and they took to the mock-up streets. This Romeo was not dissimilar to the real one and they were third up in playing out the scenario. They ran it through, Jon and his two oppos and their driver, their weapons concealed under jackets, in the slipstream of the joint police/Five surveillance team as it progressed unimpeded to the stadium. Then once more, this time with a hard stop just before they reached Stadium Way. They were called through and the surveillance pointed out the subject. They concluded the stop safely, the three armed officers surrounding Romeo, Jon the lead shot while the other two scanned the vicinity. Simple as. A final run-through with all the subjects in motion towards the stadium, this time with a thinner smattering of pedestrians, and coordinated stops of all four. Then back to the canteen for steaming hot lasagne served out of those long steel trays.
As he ate he thought of it, if it came to it. Shoot-to-kill, to protect the public. A legal execution, in effect. He had no issues with that, provided it was justified. He relied on the system to tell him, and then it was his call in the moment. To kill or not to kill? What is the risk, what is the intent, what are the time tolerances? And then, all these computed, the cold language of the double-tap to the head. It wasn’t technically a classic double-tap that they’d exercised; you ran it so that you were close enough not to need to re-aim. Just two rounds pulled off, as quick as. Often, of course, more – and you’d put in six or seven rounds for good measure once the target seemed neutralized. At which point your buddies would be joining in, too. No risks permitted here. The double-tap was to cease brain function instantly and to minimize the possibility of fingers wrapped round initiators actually doing the deed. The brain had to be stopped before the heart.
‘No technical,’ said Leila to Jake.
‘You what?’
‘The technical’s gone down. There’s been a power outage in the block.’
‘Surely there must be back-up. Batteries?’
‘It seems not. Beside the point now. It’s up the spout, that’s all we need to know. We’re blind as to what they were discussing.’
‘Did we get surveillance down there?’
‘Some. But there was a big deployment to the training facility. By the time the surveillance got down there, there was no sign of anyone.’
‘And the unit?’
‘Locked up. As normal.’
‘I’d better go collect Rashid.’
‘OK, let’s be as quick as we can,’ said Jake. ‘What’s new?’
‘All right. We met. You’ll never believe it. That man was there.’
‘What man? The sheikh?’
‘That’s right. There was no power in the area and the door was open and there he was, large as life. Grinning away. Those stupid boots he wears.’
‘No power in the room?’
‘No. He had this battery lamp or something.’
‘Did you get a better view of him?’
‘Not really. Keep your distance, he says. Same old rigmarole.’
‘Boots?’ said Leila.
‘Yeah, these fancy boots. Snakeskin, I reckon. A Flash Harry holy man,’ he said with a laugh. ‘But the plan’s still the same. He’s going to contact us on Wednesday, to give us the necessary. We’re not to go back there any more. Abdullah’s idea about the van, that’s a runner. So he’ll book that on Monday. Man gave us these bags.’ He showed Jake and Leila the rucksack. They checked it carefully. It was a supermarket brand, one of hundreds of thousands. They checked the seams and felt the fabric for hidden compartments. Nothing.
‘Mind if we keep hold of this until tomorrow, Rashid?’ said Leila.
‘Course not. But I do need it then.’
‘We’ll need to see you tomorrow anyway, before the action starts.’
‘All right. It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?’
‘That’s why we’re talking to you, Rashid. To make sure it is all right.’
‘Yeah,’ said Rashid.
‘We’re going to have to trust ea
ch other one hundred per cent, Rashid,’ said Leila.
‘I do,’ he replied, looking alarmed. ‘Don’t you?’
‘That’s the point,’ she said. ‘We do, and when it comes to it, that needs to be at the front of our minds. That’s what’ll get us through. We’ll be there with you throughout, though you won’t see us, looking after you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Rashid.
‘Right. Until tomorrow.’
‘Yeah.’
Stuart Calloway sat in the living room of the Home Secretary’s constituency home. The Private Secretary said, ‘Weekend surgery over. On their way back, so the protection team says.’
‘Weekend surgery? I thought ministers were above that.’
‘The Secretary of State is very keen to be seen to be conducting surgeries when possible. Of course, with such a busy schedule … in which case the constituency chair steps in.’
They were interrupted by the sound of the cars drawing up outside. The front door was opened and the Private Secretary went into the hallway, closing the door behind him. The door opened again and the Home Secretary walked in, bringing, so Stuart fancied, a brisk breeze of business.
‘Well then, Stuart. Let’s have it. Make it quick. I have a family even if you don’t.’
The Private Secretary peered round the door. ‘Tea, Mr Calloway?’
‘No,’ said the minister, ‘he won’t be here long enough. Will you, Stuart?’
Stuart grinned inanely.
‘Leave us, will you, Angus? All right, Stuart, let’s get to it.’
‘The counterterrorist operation I was briefing you on the other day, Home Secretary. You recall?’
‘How could I forget?’
‘It’s nearing the end game. Wednesday, to be precise.’
‘End game. I hadn’t realized you people actually used that language. Go on.’
‘The police, to be blunt, are getting twitchy. Between us.’
‘As I understand it, they’ve a reasonable amount about which to become twitchy.’
‘Indeed. You should be aware, however, that we remain rock solid on our assessments and our prognosis. This operation needs to go forward. We cannot afford to miss the boat.’
‘And? What are you asking of me?’
‘Nothing. Simply consider this. If this were brought to fruition the benefits would be immense all round.’
‘Including for government, you mean. And if not?’
‘It would be a police decision to intervene prematurely.’
‘You’re surely not asking me to interpose myself? We’ve discussed this.’
‘Of course not, though a brief encouraging word to the Chief Constable might not go amiss. I was thinking of the inquiry.’
‘The inquiry?’
‘Its considerations might be heavily influenced by a successful outcome. In fact, its work might well be considered to be of somewhat less general value. It might be considered to be rather … marginal.’
‘Not to the families.’
‘That’s true. But matters might become less pressing.’
‘I’m rather tired of going round this buoy repeatedly, Stuart. We can’t and don’t want to influence the inquiry.’
Stuart looked sceptical. ‘Of course not. But given the delicate juncture of the inquiry with regard to the US angle, if we could see our way to a short adjournment while the operation plays out?’
The Home Secretary looked at him. ‘There may be some legal arguments that could bear airing. They might take up a few days. Wednesday, you say?’
‘That’s right.’
‘If this comes out all right, you’d better have your off-the-record briefings sorted out. Clear blue water between the old ways and the new. Lessons learned. New working practices, comprehensive internal reviews and so forth. Heads have rolled, etcetera.’
‘Indeed.’
‘If you aren’t seen to be cleaning out the sewers, then someone else will have to do it. I have given you fair warning. That it?’
After dinner there were more briefings as they waited for the right hour in the mess room. Intel had been received that the group intended to hire a van. This added a new dimension that would need to be played out on the mock-up. Other kit would need to be brought in. At eight forty-five they filed out into the darkness.
The mock-up town had become more real as darkness fell. It was less easy to spot the makeshift nature of the set, and the street lights that had been built lent the scene a more dramatic quality. In any case, disbelief had been suspended by everyone concerned as they concentrated on their small portions of this whole. This was the one, they were rehearsing for the final denouement and everything had to be spot-on.
Smooth as silk, he thought afterwards. The follow was routine, and he and his colleagues were called through before Romeo hit the main drag to the stadium. There were only two outcomes to be simulated here: the hard arrest and the double-tap. The third option was not to be contemplated. There remained some work to be completed over the next three days on tactics with the van – whether to puncture the tyres, to ram it or to kill the engine technically. But it could be dealt with.
Buoyed, they returned to their barracks. No beers tonight, and early to bed. If tomorrow went well they might afford themselves a modest sherbet, but even then they would be back on the mock-up on the Monday, and the Tuesday, so that they would be ready for the perfect op on Wednesday. There would be little if any sleep had tonight, but in the dorm he prepared for bed and wondered whether everyone, like him, was thinking: what if it all goes off tomorrow? Like last time. They were ready, that was all he knew.
Abdullah
He sat in his flat reciting the texts as he read them. A networked war movie ran in the background.
He had arrived. Truly arrived. These boys were his brothers. He could weep to think of them: proud Adnan, Bilal with his spectacles, Rashid with that serious frown. In fact he was weeping. They had accepted him, the fat white loner everyone took the piss out of, as a fellow warrior. Islam had welcomed him, who repented of his sins and would wash himself of them in the hot blood of the unbelievers. Death was but a warm balm, the accomplishment of a life in submission and acceptance. He would drive that van at speed, slicing through the crowds with a calculated precision, killing as required. At a certain point he would emerge from the driver’s seat and continue the killing with whatever weapon was provided, a machine gun perhaps, or even a machete. He would kill without mercy but without ravening lust. Though inwardly exultant, he would need to remain measured and calm if he were to maximize the numbers.
Eventually he would be killed himself. He hoped only for momentary realization, that fleeting chance to anticipate his delicious passing.
Bilal
He spent the evening at home with his parents watching television. This had been the pattern of their lives on a Saturday evening for as long as he could remember, interrupted only by his absence on the battlefield, a subject never mentioned in the household. ‘Stay at home for once, Bilal,’ his mother had said, ‘like we used to.’ He’d felt obliged.
His father slouched on the sofa, the mound of his paunch rising and falling as he stared, open-mouthed, at the screen. The bright colours and sharp movements reflected off his spectacles. It came to Bilal that from the other sofa he was mirroring the posture and expression.
‘This is crap,’ said his sister, only fifteen, and no one picked her up on her language.
His mother dozed next to his father, her laboured breath the beginnings of the inevitable snoring that they all joked about.
‘Can we turn over?’ said his sister, and when no one said anything she reached for the remote control and changed channels.
Still he watched, dull-eyed, submissive, complicit. Not for long, though. He’d had his doubts about everything. Those people he’d killed out there in the name of Allah. It seemed absurd, obscene and unreal. Now he planned to inflict further suffering and death. But was it any worse than this, an indolent Saturday eveni
ng in front of the TV? Perhaps in death he could acquire significance.
Adnan
His last Saturday night on this earth and he did not intend to waste it. To himself, he made no bones about leading a double life, though he kept each element carefully separated from the other. Adnan felt no shame at being two men in this single body. They existed at the same time, in the same breath and thought.
He put on the black trousers and the black silk shirt. Silk socks too, and the shoes that he’d shined before taking a shower. He’d annoyed his flatmates by hogging the bathroom. Never mind, it wouldn’t be too long before they didn’t need to worry about that. He didn’t care about them, anyway. He checked his hair and went out to the waiting taxi.
Once, he’d had a few weeks of pretending to be a Bollywood actor. But the strain of maintaining the accent and explaining how, when he got someone home, a wealthy film actor bummed it in the squalid, poky flat was too much. He found anyway that there was a certain type of white girl who was attracted to the likes of him. Was it the intimation of spice, the dicing with danger? He didn’t know, but there was a certain je ne sais quoi to him, that was for sure.
He’d booked the hotel. A suite, £658, but the credit-card bill wouldn’t arrive until he was dead. He picked up the key at reception, checked the room out, helped himself to a Johnnie Walker from the minibar, and headed for the clubs.
He was well and truly bladdered but in control by the time he hit the Meet Market, which was the way he liked it. He never danced, got impatient doing the chatting-up bit, so it was the ideal place. It did what it said on the tin. Fifty quid to get in, so the riff-raff steered clear. He’d be able to score a line as well, for sure.
She was blonde and to his liking, tall, nice face. Big eyes, snub nose, full cheeks. Tits not too big, like some inflatable doll. Said she was a model, but they all did. It hid a multitude of sins anyway, and by sins he meant sins.
‘What do you do?’ she said. The music here wasn’t too loud, this joint was sophisticated, so they didn’t have to shout.
A Fatal Game Page 17