Soft Target (Major Crimes Unit Book 2)

by Wright, Iain Rob

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Sarah,” Howard said.

  Palu nodded. “I think you better watch something we received this morning.” He produced a tiny remote control from the breast pocket of his shirt and pointed it at one of the television screens. The TV blinked to life and a grainy video started to play. A man with good, yet accented English spoke. He was flanked by two others: a stocky man with hairy arms, and a smaller figure hiding in the shadows to the left.

  “People of the United Kingdom, today you have been struck by a warrior. A martyr in the battle for humanity, itself. Through Jeffrey Blanchfield’s sacrifice, all of you have been given a chance to cleanse your souls of impurity. Reflect upon your depravity and the degradation of your nation before it is too late. Today, many of you have been taken, and soon more, but if you seek the holy path, all may not yet be lost. My name is Al Al-Sharir and Allah has given me a divine mission to save you from your own moral annihilation.”

  Sarah stared hard at the screen. The video feed was grubby, possibly from a VHS cassette tape, or perhaps filmed on a low-spec mobile phone. The man who was delivering the message was wearing shalwar kameez — loose pajama-like trousers beneath a long tunic. He was also wearing a red and white shemagh — a checked head scarf. His right wrist was emblazoned with a symbol of a scimitar, inked in henna so as not to permanently alter the temple of his flesh. The symbol of the sword was something all members of Shab Bekheir wore.

  Sarah turned to Palu and shrugged her shoulders. “They’re just trying to capitalise on a tragedy. It’s terrorism 101.”

  Palu shook his head. “Just keep watching.”

  “In twenty-four hours,” the man on the video said, “your nation will be hit again. Jeffrey Blanchfield was a hero, avenging his dead wife, killed because of your decadent ways. The next attacks will be greater, and we will not stop until Prime Minister Breslow denounces the people of the United Kingdom as heathens and sinners. Only then may you all be saved. Shab Bekheir will show you the way.”

  Howard tapped his fingertips against the glass desk. “The videocassette was sent to Downing Street from the Knutsford postoffice. The postage date was two days before the attack.”

  “I tried to track down the sender,” explained Bradley, “but the postoffice doesn’t have CCTV and the fee was paid in cash.”

  Sarah leaned back in her chair and let out a long, lingering sigh. There was lots to think about, and many things that didn’t make sense.

  “What are your thoughts?” Howard asked her. “The reason I brought you here is because you’ve dealt with Al-Sharir before, first hand.”

  “Yes,” Palu said. “What do you make of the videotape, Ms Stone?”

  Sarah chewed at the side of her cheek. “My first thought,” she said, “is that it’s a fake.”

  LEARNING THE ROPES

  “What do you mean it’s fake?” cried Howard, apparently angered by her assertion. “I verified it myself.”

  “Do you people do this for a living?” she asked them. “No wonder terrorists think they can win.”

  Howard glared at her, but Palu took over the conversation before an argument erupted. “Why do you think it’s a fake, Ms Stone?”

  “I don’t think it, I know it.”

  “How?” asked Bradley. “It looks pretty real to me. We’ve identified the accents as Pashto, which is consistent with members of Shab Bekhier. Their origin is the southern regions of Afghanistan, where you served, Captain.”

  Sarah, for a brief second, doubted herself. It had been a long time since she’d been in the game, and a long time since she’d been in Afghanistan. Did she really have cause to be so confident?

  “The first thing that tells me this isn’t Al Al-Sharir,” she said, “is the fact that the red and white headscarf is more common to Jordanians. Al-Sharir and his men operate in Afghanistan. They would wear Pakol or Lungee.”

  “That’s a bit of a stretch,” Howard said in a voice patronising enough that she wanted to punch him.

  “Fair enough,” Sarah said. “How about the fact that the man standing to the right of the frame is white? His hands and wrists are visible and you can see tufts of fair hair on his forearm. Al-Sharir might take advantage of a grieving old man to blow up a village, but I doubt he would work directly with a westerner. He’s too much of an extremist. To him, we’re different species, two different animals fighting for supremacy. He wouldn’t work closely with someone he considered part of the other tribe.”

  “That’s a jump,” said Palu. “The white man could be a Muslim of mixed birth.”

  Sarah nodded. “You might be right, but the main reason I know that the man delivering the message is not Al Al-Sharir is because the scimitar on his wrist is pointing the wrong way. The tip should be pointing at him, not away.”

  Howard huffed. “It’s a henna tattoo. I’m sure Al-Sharir pays very little attention to a bit of ink on his arm.”

  Sarah groaned. “That only proves how incompetent these impostors are, and how little you people know about the man you’re blaming for this. That tattoo means everything to the members of Shab Bekheir. Al-Sharir would only ever have the scimitar pointing at himself. It signifies his willingness to die for Allah. It signifies him being a martyr. Having it point the other way, at his enemies, would signify that they are the ones dying for a righteous cause.” Sarah folded her arms in front of her chest. “You’ve been played. This whole thing is some kind of dupe. The small details are the ones that matter most.”

  Palu remained still. He seemed more willing to believe her now, but there was still a certain degree of obstinacy tin his tone. “How can you be so sure about all this?”

  “How can I be so sure? Maybe because I’ve met Al-Sharir and I know his way of doing things. He pays too much attention to detail to be the guy in that video. I don’t know who’s behind the attack on Sunday, if it really was more than just an angry widow, but I’m telling you that it was not Al-Sharir.”

  Palu rubbed at his forehead, and then stood up. “Okay, let me go and check a few things out. Howard, Bradley, a moment, please?”

  All three men left the room.

  Sarah was left alone for almost an hour. For all she knew, they were planning on leaving her there for another hour. Unfortunately patience wasn’t a virtue of hers, so she decided to interrupt them. She had a life to be getting back to — a shitty, lonely life, but one she preferred to waiting for a bunch of government asshats to take her seriously. She’d already helped out more than she’d intended to.

  When she’d thought there had been a chance to help take down Al Al-Sharir, or even just stymie him in some way, she had been willing, perhaps even eager, but it looked like things had been a wild goose chase all along.

  Sarah headed in the same direction that they’d all left, and found that the door they’d all entered was unlocked. She stepped into the following corridor and realized there was another half-dozen rooms leading off to both sides.

  The sound of voices led her to the second door on the left. Sarah was about to shove her way inside, when she realized she could make out the conversation from the corridor.

  “She’s a liability,” Palu said. “It was a mistake bringing her here, Howard. I should never have authorised it.”

  “I know,” said Howard glumly. “I assumed she’d jump at the chance to get away from her pathetic life, but she’s done nothing but fight me. She’s not the woman she was in the Army. She’s a mess.”

  “Guys, you’re missing the point,” Bradley said. “Captain Stone was right; the man in that video isn’t Al Al-Sharir. You brought her here to offer her expertise on Shab Bekhier, and that’s exactly what she’s done. I think she’ll make a great replacement for me. You need someone that’s faced these monsters on their own turf, someone with real experience.”

  Palu grunted. “What are you talking about, Bradley? She’s not going to replace you. We needed her expertise and we’ve gotten it. The sooner we send her on her way, the better.” />
  “Oh, so who is going to replace me, then?”

  “No one,” Palu said. “The cost to train another Officer is too high. To tell you the truth, it’s unfortunate things didn’t work out with you, Bradley, as we’re going to be left even more shorthanded now.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Nothing that can be done about it now. Your clearances have come through and you’re free to leave as soon as we finish with Ms Stone,” said Palu.

  “Captain Stone,” Bradley corrected. “I think if you showed her some respect she’d be more helpful. She’s given up a lot for her country and has nothing to show for it. Asking for her help isn’t enough, we need to earn it from her. She was a Captain in the British Army and she was wounded fighting for our country, facing the very enemy we’re trying to stop now. Don’t you think her help will come in handy?”

  Howard disagreed. “We don’t need her help. It was a mistake me bringing her here. She’s been nothing but a pain. I thought she’d be… different.”

  “You mean you thought she’d be grateful,” said Bradley. “That’s the problem. You’re acting like you’re the one doing her a favour, when really it’s the other way around.”

  “Let’s get back to the conference room,” Palu said. “We’ve already been too long.”

  Sarah flinched away from the doorway. She thought quickly and decided to rush back to the conference room rather than betray that she’d been listening. The more she knew, and the less they did, the better.

  The office door opened. Sarah slipped back into the conference room just as Palu and the others stepped into the hallway. By the time they got to the conference room, Sarah was sitting with her boots up on the desk. “You chimps finally finished your tea party?” she said.

  Palu cleared his throat and remained standing. “It appears that you were right… Captain. We have accessed existing surveillance footage of Al-Sharir and reviewed previously verified footage of Shab Bekhier. You’re right, the details don’t match. Based on that, we’re assuming that Sunday’s attack was the work of someone else. Perhaps the videotape itself is the act of terror, hoping to put us all on high alert.”

  “Probably,” said Sarah. “If a suicide bomb in Lancashire wasn’t enough.”

  Palu sighed. “With all of our technology and surveillance, the one thing we can’t do is police every person on the planet. The fact that the bomber was an elderly white man meant we were entirely unprepared. He didn’t exactly fit our profile of an extremist.”

  “One thing I know about crazy,” said Sarah, “is that it doesn’t wear a uniform or keep set hours. You can’t profile hate. It can infect any of us.”

  “Do you think there will be further attacks, Captain?” asked Bradley. “What’s your gut feeling?”

  Sarah pulled her boots down off the desk and looked at them. “I’m not sure. If the men in the video were organised enough to be behind Sunday’s attacks, then perhaps there’s still a threat, but why would they hide behind a charade, pretending to be Shab Bekhier? If the real Al-Sharir finds out somebody’s using his name, they’re signing their own death warrants within the terrorist community. Best case scenario, it’s somebody trying to exacerbate an already distressing situation. Maybe a small group of extremists talked Jeffrey Blanchfield into blowing himself up. Perhaps that’s all there is to it.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Palu said. “Needless to say, I thank you for your assistance, Captain. It was enlightening.”

  “Yes,” Bradley said. “You definitely know your stuff.”

  “Thank you.” For some reason, Sarah couldn’t be a bitch to Bradley. He was like a scolded puppy. Plus, he’d stood up for her in the other room, and she owed him for that.

  “I’ll take you back up top,” Howard told her. “Mandy will be waiting to take you where you want to go.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Disney World,” said Sarah. “I hear they have a giant golf ball you can ride around in.”

  “Domestic flights only, I’m afraid,” Howard said.

  “Come on, then. The sooner I get out of this place, the sooner I can get the government stink off me.”

  There was a sudden electronic chirping. Everyone looked to Palu, who plucked a small tablet from his trouser pocket. With his free hand, he motioned for Howard and Sarah to get going. Sarah was more than happy to oblige; her claustrophobia was starting to return. She was just about to leave when she noticed Palu’s face had become horror-stricken.

  Howard tried to pull Sarah away, but she shrugged him off and remained standing by the glass conference table.

  Palu muttered weakly into the phone. “When, sir? I understand, sir. We had no intel concerning that. I… yes, I agree, sir. I’ll await your instructions.” He hung up.

  “What is it?” Howard asked. “Who was on the call?”

  Palu shook his head and looked like he was about to throw up. “There’s been another attack,” he said. “Another suicide bombing.”

  Howard kicked a nearby chair. “Damn it! Where?”

  Palu closed his eyes and looked sick. “Three more villages — Studley, Dartmouth, Aborfield — all hit within ten minutes of each other. Downing Street are still getting all the information they can; they’ll forward it to us.”

  Sarah bent forward, leaning on the table. Three villages all at once? The country was under attack.

  Bradley looked close to tears. “It doesn’t make any sense, hitting tiny villages in lieu of bigger targets. What’s the significance?”

  Sarah knew immediately. “It means nobody is safe. It means that you don’t have to live in London or Manchester or Birmingham anymore to be the target of a terrorist attack. You can live in the smallest village and still get blown up. It’s smart, if you think about it. Terrorists want to cause terror. What better way than to make the entire country afraid of being attacked? No place is safe anymore and the public are going to know it. The whole of the United Kingdom is about to become terrified.”

  “Shit,” Bradley said.

  “Yeah,” Sarah agreed. “Shit is the right word because it just hit the fan.”

  SITTING THE TEST

  Palu turned on the television and a breaking news report came on. A BBC journalist stood rigidly before a scene of devastation.

  The quaint fishing village of Dartmouth was aflame. Its picturesque harbour had become ground zero of a devastating attack. Bodies cluttered the marina, floating face down in the water. Further out, a blackened ferry sank into the River Dart’s estuary, yachts and pleasure cruisers went down beside it. Dogs howled from the wooden jetties, while shell shocked survivors wept in the street. An ash-covered child wandered around, with no parent or guardian to watch her. The little girl repeatedly cried out for her mummy.

  The reporter wiped a tear from his eye and cleared his throat before speaking. “T-Today, as I report to you, I am truly lost for words. After the events of this past Sunday, Britain was a nation already in mourning. Yet, today, the tragedy worsens, as yet another mass killing has occurred. Worse still, the village of Dartmouth behind me was not the only target. The villages of Studley and Arborfield have also been hit by what appears to be a co-ordinated terrorist attack. Whether or not today’s atrocities are linked to Sunday’s incident in the village of Knutsford is, as yet, unclear, but the death toll and devastation Britain has witnessed in the last forty-eight hours is the worst in its entire history. The Prime Minister is due to give a speech within the hour, but right now the question on everybody’s mind is: who is behind this? I’m Jack Millis, reporting to you from the village of Dartmouth, Devon.”

  Sarah felt winded. If anything, Britain had recently started to put the fear of terrorism behind it. Bungled attempts at carrying bombs aboard planes in shoes and other useless attempts had reduced the modern-day terrorist to a cartoonish villain foiled at every turn. They had become fodder for South Park and Private Eye newspaper — a joke, not a threat.

  Someone had screwed up. Sarah clenched her fists as she
thought about the three men in the room. This was their job. They were supposed to stop things like this from happening. “Did you people know anything about this? Was there anything you could have done? Did you let this happen?”

  Palu answered the question in a firm, authoritative voice. “No, we did not. If there was anything we could have done, we would have.”

  Sarah shook her head and tried to understand. “You tell me that your job is to catch terrorists, so how the hell did this happen? Why didn’t you know about this?”

  Bradley still had tears in his eyes. “Captain, I promise you that we do all we can.”

  “Shut up!” Sarah shouted. “People are dead because none of you caught this. Why did you people even bring me here? You’re too late. The damage is done.”

  Palu strode towards Sarah. For a moment it looked like he might strike her, but instead he looked her square in the eye. “If you think we’re all a bunch of idiots, Captain, then help us. Help us find who’s responsible.”

  “No,” Sarah said. She couldn’t help these people. They were undermanned and ignorant. And she was…broken, and of no use to anyone. They called her Captain, but the truth was that she was nothing anymore. The thought of diving back into that dangerous world, filled with murderous men and their cold, callous actions was enough to make her feel faint. Her father has warned her not to get involved in such serious business, and when she’d defied him, she’d paid for it dearly. She wasn’t stupid enough to do it a second time. She turned towards the door.

  “Sarah!” Palu shouted. “Before you leave, let me show you something.”

  Sarah turned around. “What? You people don’t even want me here. I heard you talking about me in the other room.”

  Palu stared her right in the eyes. There was sadness there, but something much darker bubbling beneath. “I just got the stats on the attacks,” he said. “You should see them before you make any decisions.” He pointed the remote at the television. “I may have wanted you gone,” Palu said, “but right now we need all the help we can get. You have knowledge of Shab Bakhier that we can use. Can you really walk away, knowing that you could help us?”