Locked and Loaded: A Riz Sabir Thriller Omnibus

by Charlie Flowers

  ‘Riz, I’ve had enough of this crap with the Met, the CIA, and God knows what else. I’m going to reactivate RPOC.’

  RPOC. The Resistance and Psychological Operations Committee, which was a fancy name for the UK’s secret underground army. The original RPOC had been created within the Reserve Forces Association in 1970, which was the last time the powers that be had thought the wheels were really going to come off. It encompassed elements of MI5, M16, SAS and SAS reserves and any other useful MOD and ex-military people. As far as I was aware it had been disbanded in the late Seventies and forgotten, and any hope of a revival had died along with the bomb that had killed Airey Neave.

  ‘You can do that, boss?’

  He smiled. ‘Of course. I’m the last surviving member. Listen, Riz. Post the attacks, the country is teetering on a knife-edge. The communities are at the point of boiling over, we’ve got the EDL trying to march on every Muslim city centre going, there are guaranteed to be orchestrated riots very soon…that’s bad enough. You’ve heard about what the Infidels are talking about?’

  I had. The Infidels were the people who thought the EDL weren’t hard enough. They’d split and teamed up with a resurgent Combat 18.

  ‘Yep boss. The chatter is that they want a spectacular. A revenge attack on a Muslim target.’

  ‘Riz, that is not going to happen on my watch. Which is why I want my two favourite kids and my favourite gang of Blackeyed lunatics on the case. Job two for your intray. By the way, we raided the CIA Station chief’s house last night.’

  I turned in shock. ‘You did WHAT?’

  ‘What I said. Of course, he has immunity, but we took his computers. Couldn’t find anything yet.’

  Up near the house, the Colonel’s wife Sandra was fussing about with some garden chair covers.

  I spoke. ‘Reckon we can find who took Holly still?’

  His shoulders twitched. ‘That area has more camera coverage than most conurbations, and straight after the attacks we got our surveillance planes up. There’s bound to be something. We should be able to track them. If it’s the Septics, they’ll leave a trail.’

  He looked at me. ‘How are you bearing up?’

  ‘I’m OK, boss, honestly I am. Ready to go.’

  ‘Riz, let me read your tealeaves son. Your head is, at this moment in time, a mess. You may think you’re functioning but you’re not. You’re not sleeping. You’re having nightmares.’

  He cast me a glance. ‘Am I right?’

  The breath went out of me and I nodded.

  ‘You’re missing her. You have, what is called, a “Man Down”. Want to know about Man Down? I’ll tell you.’

  The Colonel looked out over his wife’s beautifully manicured lawns.

  ‘Have you got a cigarette on you?’

  In all the time I’d known Colonel Mahoney, I’d never seen him smoke even so much as a cheroot. I did have some on me. I handed him a Silk Cut and a lighter, and he lit it, and took a long drag. Finally he spoke.

  ‘Listen in. Provinces, 1986. We had an operator in Divis Flats. She hit her beacon. She’d been spotted. Her name was Stella and she was one of my best operators. When we finally got to her she’d shot three of the opposition but it was too late, they’d run her over with a car, and then dragged her to some lockups nearby. They’d kneecapped her with an electric drill and then bludgeoned her to death with a sledgehammer. I was first to find her.’

  Jesus Christ. If this was his way of bolstering my morale…

  He wasn’t listening. ‘I thought I was coping at first, but then the nightmares started. Then the waking nightmares. Then-’

  His monologue was interrupted by Sandra, storming across the lawn towards us. She didn’t look happy.

  ‘David! Leave the poor boy be, the last thing he needs right now is your war stories!’

  She took my shoulder. ‘Look at him, David, he’s in a state. And WHAT are you doing smoking?’

  The Colonel dropped the cigarette like a hot rock and stubbed it out. Then he looked even more guilty and picked up the butt.

  Sandra glanced at me and clucked at the bruises on the side of my face. ‘Come back inside, Rizwan. You need some tea.’

  All the life had gone out of me.

  ‘Colonel…the only woman I have ever loved…the only woman who ever had any time for me is dead, shot dead. Or dead in the hands of the Americans.’

  The Colonel barked an order.

  ‘Rizwan Sabir!’

  Christ. I raised myself to an assemblance of attention.

  ‘If you loved her, you would damn well find her, alive or dead. And I’ll help you all the way. Tomorrow you will get to it.’

  ‘Sir.’

  It had grown chilly and rain was coming. We went back inside. I suppose you could have called that shock therapy.

  3

  22nd September

  8am the next morning at 2 Marsham Street, headquarters of the Home Office. It was a Saturday, so there was hardly anyone in the building apart from some Technical Group people sweeping our meeting place for bugs and checking the microphones had been disabled on all the PCs and telephone speakers. We could tell where they’d been by the trail of red stickers they’d left on everything.

  I was slightly hungover from the testimonial revue at the Windmill Club last night so I was making the most of the very strong tea I’d gotten the canteen lady to make me.

  In the corner of the room a television was tuned to Sky News. A ticker tape was saying that the youth wing of the Venezuelan Movimiento Primero Justicia was claiming responsibility for shooting up and setting fire to the London embassy. I raised an eyebrow at the Colonel. He grinned back. Oh, our office could be creative when needed. That was good. The news then went to a piece on French embassies on high alert worldwide because some idiot had made a film disrespecting the Prophet Mohammed. I muttered a short prayer under my breath as I watched the riots. Back in the studio someone from government was trying to explain why the Chief Whip had been swearing at the Downing Street coppers.

  Suddenly the Home Secretary swept in from the corridor with a grim expression and a slim file in her hand. The Colonel and I got to our feet. Something told me that someone somewhere was in for a bollocking.

  The Home Secretary was a slim woman with a rather severe grey bob haircut and a terrible reputation among the police. They hated her with a passion, but that was fine because she absolutely loathed them back. This, in itself, made her alright in my eyes. Anyone who hated coppers even more than me was halfway OK.

  She slapped two letters down on the desk, took her chair and gestured to them.

  ‘The world has gone mad. David. Look at these…these…clowns in blue is too mild a term.’

  The Colonel walked over to the letters and read them, then started chuckling.

  ‘Oh, so we’ve upset a professional Muslim and the Chief wants my hide, does he?’

  He turned. ‘Riz - come and have a read.’

  I went over and read them. Bloody hell.

  “The Director of Public Prosecutions has instructed me…” read the Colonel out loud and laughed. ‘More like the Chief has asked the DPP to instruct him, over a nice Met expense account lunch.’

  Suddenly the Home Secretary seemed to register my presence in the room and stood.

  ‘And you must be Rizwan Sabir. I’m terribly sorry, it’s been such a rushed morning.’

  She extended a manicured hand. For a second I thought about dropping to my knee and muttering ‘Don Corleone’, but I resisted the impulse and shook the hand with as much decorum as I could muster.

  ‘Home Secretary.’

  ‘Rizwan, I’ve heard many great things about you, and I am so sorry for your predicament.’

  I smiled weakly. ‘We can fix it Ma’am, I’m sure of it.’

  My left side still ached. I supposed she knew about my busted ribs and bullet wound sutures. They were invisible under my clothes but I still had dressings on and was on major painkillers.

 
‘Indeed we can. I would like to see two things resolved swiftly. Firstly, we are going to assist you in finding Holly. Secondly, you, I, and Colonel Mahoney are going to establish a plan that neutralises these elements within the police, or, if needs be, the Metropolitan Police Service itself, as an impediment, irrevocably.’

  The Colonel and I looked at each other and I raised an eyebrow.

  ‘All the way, ma’am?’

  She nodded. ‘All the way. They have gone too far this time. Personally I feel the sooner they’re all put out to pasture and the whole thing is outsourced to G4S, the better, as far as I’m concerned.’

  She barked a harsh laugh. Christ, this was like a briefing from Good Queen Bess. We’d better not screw up.

  There was a knock at the door. The Home Secretary looked up and beamed. ‘Philip! Come in!’

  And in walked the Defence Secretary, and that made a full house. Both our nominal bosses were in the room. This was getting serious. He strode straight up to the Colonel and gave him the full grip and grin. ‘David. How’s Sandra? Let’s talk about RPOC, shall we?’

  Again, the politician-gaze settled and focused on me. We’d actually met, some time back. ‘Hello Riz.’

  We shook. Good memory on the man. No more fripperies. Phil delved into his carry case and produced some folders, which he handed out. They had a black diagonal band on the cover and the title “Resistance and Psychological Operations Committee Re-Spiral”.

  I had no idea what a Re-Spiral was. I supposed some bright spark in the Defence Secretary’s team had felt like slipping some new jargon in. I opened my folder. Page one started off with-

  “TOP SECRET/ CODEWORD/FLINTLOCK

  Counter Extremism Measures

  JS 449 N/K/34

  Army Combat Development Committee.

  A meeting was held at the Ministry Of Defence (in Horseguards), in conference room 5, Tuesday 18 September 2012.

  The meeting discussed a 'Table Of Circumstances And Typical Military Response On Request From Civil Authority'.

  Ref ACDC/F(12)B 18 SEPT 2012

  The report formed part of their studies on Counter Extremism Operations and Military Aid to the Civil Power. These may include:

  1. Threat Circumstance

  2. Typical Military Response

  3. Military Aid to other Government Departments.

  Military Aid to other Government Departments (MAGD) covers assistance provided by the Armed Forces on urgent work of national importance or in maintaining supplies and services essential to the life, health and safety of the community. MAGD is controlled under orders made under section 2 of the Emergency Powers Act 1964.

  4. Military Aid to the Civil Power.

  Military Aid to the Civil Power encompasses the provision of military assistance (armed if necessary) in its maintenance of law, order and public safety using specialist capabilities or equipment in situations beyond the capability of the Civil Power.

  5. Threat Assessment and Dissemination.

  5. (a) MOD Counter Extremist Advisory Group.

  Within MOD, the CEAG is the focus for all counter terrorist and extremist matters in UK, excluding NI. The main purpose of CEAG is to receive and consider assessed intelligence on current or future terrorist and extremist activity from both indigenous and international threats which are of concern to defence interests world-wide. CEAG usually meets on the first Wednesday of each month and issues an extremist threat assessment signal. Should any new intelligence become available or terrorist incidents occur between the regular meetings, the CEAG would meet in special session. All members of the CEAG are on call at all times.

  5. (b) Warnings.

  Warnings are passed to the Defence Crisis Management Centre (DCMC). DCMC informs the CEAG Secretary who arranges for a reassessment to be made by members of the CEAG if required. The DCMC disseminates any change in the Alert State to the MOD on authority of the chairman of the CEAG. In the event of immediate danger to life, the DCMC Duty Officer may issue instructions on his own.”

  Wow. Someone had been busy.

  The Defence Secretary broke the silence.

  ‘We’re not talking Wilson coup plots or anything of that type. It’s just come to the point where the police are proving a hindrance and we need free rein to get on with the mission. As of today, RPOC is reinstated, and KTS is officially part of the MOD and RPOC, and therein, retains responsibility for the defence of the realm.’

  The Colonel and I glanced at each other and shrugged. Fine by us.

  ‘Item one point five. Your crazy Muslim friends, the…’ he paused and looked at his notes… ‘Hur al-Ayn. We like their style. Get them on board.’

  The Colonel started chuckling silently then stopped. The Defence Secretary continued. ‘Since the girls are UK nationals and civilians, we feel the best way forward is to place them under the auspices of the MOD’s Military Stabilisation Support Group. That gives us a bit of leeway.’

  I nearly laughed as well. But it made a kind of sense. MSSG was a joint MOD-TA-civilian group specialising in training forces for operations in places like Afghanistan. A bunch of lunatic Muslim girls would fit right in to the order of battle.

  ‘OK. Item two. It’s now obvious to everyone that there has been major penetration of the Met and its associated PSCO elements, by al-Qaeda. We were watching some of these people but we didn’t realise how bad it had got. That changes as of today. We’re going for them.’

  ‘Item three. The late Lord Khalil. In case you’re wondering, we tasked E Squadron to take him out and they did a great job. Looked like an accident AND sent a message to his associates.’

  The Colonel raised a hand.

  ‘How are the Prime Minister and his deputy on all this? Is this OK with them?’

  The Defence Secretary met his gaze. ‘You bet they are, David. They’ve had enough. They’ve also been reminding all who need reminding that we all swore an oath of allegiance to the Crown and that is the trump card here. When all is said and done we serve Her Majesty the Queen, and not some overpromoted ticket puncher from Scotland Yard.’

  The Colonel gave a stiff nod of his head. ‘Agreed. All the way.’

  ‘And item four. Assessment of the involvement of the Socialist Workers Party in the logistical support for the September 13th attacks. Obviously we figure it’s quite heavy so at some point their leadership is going to have to be taken out.’

  It was my turn to speak.

  ‘All of them? Including the two who are Security Service assets?’

  ‘All of them, Mr Sabir.’

  The Home Secretary interjected. She’d just got off the phone.

  ‘Just so you know, gentlemen, that letter from that jumped - up little semi-literate shit from the Muslim Police Association spurred me to action. I’ve just authorised the cutting of all of their funding.’

  That was a relief. No funding for a group normally meant…no group, after a short while. We talked military logistics for ten minutes or so and the Defence Secretary pronounced himself satisfied. 'If you're happy David, then so am I. I'm signing off on it. Try not to get blown up.'

  The Colonel laughed again, but only for half a second. He'd known Airey Neave.

  All these references to Airey Neave were making me uneasy. Officially he’d been assassinated by the INLA, a loony offshoot of the IRA, but plenty of people in our world thought differently. Some of them even maintained MI6 elements had carried it out, or, and this made more sense to me, allowed the INLA to do the deed.

  The Home Secretary spoke. ‘My turn.’ She slid her own folder across to us. The cover read ‘Infidels/C18 intentions and capabilities’. This one I had seen before, as myself and Duckie had been some of the advisors on it.

  She turned to me. ‘I’m told you’re the best in the business at getting inside groups like this.’

  Cheers, Colonel Mahoney, I thought inwardly. ‘I have my moments.’

  Again that harsh bark of a laugh. ‘Get yourself, or one of your friends, inside the Infid
els, and or, Combat 18. We want to know what they’re planning. They’re almost impossible to get a handle on. And the last thing we want is a lone wolf attack on British soil. No lone wolves, Riz, no Breiviks.’

  I looked at the Colonel. He tilted his head in assent.

  OK. ‘Home Secretary. One thing though.’

  I stood.

  ‘Before I do everything else, I’m getting my fiancée back, alive or dead. Ma’am.’

  She stood. To my left and right, as though by some strange magnetic pull, my boss and the Defence Minister stood too.

  She nodded. ‘Whatever you need, Rizwan. Go find your jaan.’

  Jaan? How the hell did she know that word?

  ‘I will.’

  We left for our various cars.

  4

  Noon found me at the NPIA Data Centre in Hendon. 100 years earlier I’d been sat in this bunker, watching blurry footage of my late friend Iqeel. OK, it wasn’t really 100 years, it had been but months. But that was how I felt, and that was how much older I felt. I was in the next data centre along from the main centre. This was the national police automatic numberplate recognition site. I was acting on a regular nine-to-five hunch, the assumption that whoever had taken Bang-Bang Kirpachi’s body from the scene of the shootout had left Westfield in a vehicle, maybe an anonymous one that could carry a team. After all, you couldn’t just carry a blood-smeared Asian girl onto a bus in Stratford, could you?

  On the desk before me was a pile of blown-up scene of crime photos from our final shootout in the Armani Jeans store. None of them were good. It was like Francis Bacon had decided to do location shots for the day. Blood. Scraps of clothing. Al-Qaeda corpses sneering into space. Overturned display racks. And the ubiquitous little Met Police yellow numbered chocks that indicated something of forensic interest. I kept coming back to photo J28. A massive slick of blood, and Holly’s rifle. And no Holly. No Bang-Bang. The blood smeared off to the left, out of shot.