Locked and Loaded: A Riz Sabir Thriller Omnibus

by Charlie Flowers

  A hush fell on the room as we tried to picture a number that big, and failed. Maryam rolled her eyes. Bang-Bang carried on regardless. ‘Now what if we were to put every person on Earth, right now, onto this shuffle project? The total population of the Earth, is about, errrrrr, 7,138,429,418. So, each person would have to shuffle...’

  Her eyes were blissfully shut as she recited an impossibly long series of zeroes ‘...decks of cards before all the possible shuffles were exhausted. ‘But we don’t seem to be getting any closer to all those combinations. How long would it take in real life? Let’s put all those people on Earth to work, on a more realistic goal: shuffling one deck of cards every ten seconds, eight hours a day, five days a week, and let’s see how long it takes.’

  She rattled off another string of numbers and shuffles. ‘And we should see all those shuffle combinations coming up in about...’ This time the number was insane. Probably about the age of the known universe; ‘... years. Don’t hold your breath.’

  We didn’t hold our breath. We watched.

  Bang-Bang lit a cigarette and breathed out a trail of smoke. ‘But it will still repeat at one point. Because nothing is ever truly random, if a person has a hand in it.’

  She stopped. ‘Get me?’ We got. We finally all got what she was getting at. A curl of smoke. ‘So… how can these decks be manipulated?’

  Bang-Bang reached into her bag and brought out a strange contraption made of Meccano and Knex parts. It had some sort of chute or magazine sticking out the back, into which she poured the shuffled cards.

  She twisted a key, placed it on the table, and it began chugging away behind her. After a minute it gargled and coughed like an Espresso machine and spat out a hand of cards. She took the card-hand and displayed it like a Spanish fan, and, eyes closed, recited.

  ‘Ace of clubs, two of hearts, jack of clubs, Queen of hearts, King of Spades.’

  And she handed them to me. I looked. I laughed. It was.

  She carried on. ‘Obviously I made the shuffling machine from scratch so I can predict the semi-random patterns. So where is all this going?’

  She sat back and smiled. ‘The machine is human-made. Humans ain’t ever really random, however hard they try. Even nature isn’t always random. The Ripper has a pattern, and all we have to do is find it. And when we do find it… the Blackeyes have to be there to fix it. F3EA, people.’

  The gang gave her a round of applause. Fuzz came over, hugged her, then went back and uncorked another champagne bottle, and poured a glass for all of us. Even herself. Fuzz was normally hardcore about not drinking but obviously tonight was a waiver. She raised her glass. ‘Holly has it right. F3EA be ready.’

  Bang-Bang raised her own glass. ‘Find, fix, finish…’

  I took a gulp of the champagne and spoke. ‘Patterns.’

  Bang-Bang went back to tidying her accoutrements. ‘Yep. Game theory and patterns. Game theory applied to murder patterns. Crowds. The Devil’s Staircase, Power Law. The John Nash stuff, bhai.’

  ‘Yeah, and John Nash spent ages scouring publications looking for patterns to lead to mythical Soviet suitcase nukes. And he was entirely nuts.’

  She arranged some ostrich feathers. ‘So am I. You lot got a problem with that?’

  Fuzz looked at her. ‘Nah. I knew that.’

  Bang-Bang looked over her shoulder and grinned. Calamity inspected her nails and said ‘I blame all that heroin’ under her breath. Maryam put a hand up. ‘I’ve got a question. Why doesn't my iPod get heavier when I download songs onto it? Only I've got 1300 on there now and –’

  The manager knocked and came in with a bottle of champagne and some glasses. We cheered. Then he took one look at Maryam. ‘And precisely how old is she?’

  I stood. ‘She’s with us. And we’re taking her home.’

  Behind her, the card-shuffling machine made a pinging noise, a spring flew out of it, and cards started spraying everywhere. Bang-Bang cursed at it and started hitting it. The room swung into party mood. Fuzz poured more champagne. We toasted the star of the show, who bowed and packed the card machine parts into her bag.

  I explained what had gone down at the curry house to Bang-Bang. Then I explained the killer-in-the-audience theory. She listened. ‘Does Tara reckon the Curry King is deep into this?’

  ‘She does.’

  ‘Well Tara knows this neighbourhood’s tides better than anyone, so…’

  Fuzz held up her smartphone. ‘I’ve just been looking at the photos I took. Some, when the stage lights were up, are very good. Shall I email them to you?’

  I dipped my head. ‘Please do. I’ll send them straight to Lennie and we’ll go over them tomorrow.’

  Bang-Bang went over to fuss with Maryam’s fringe. ‘Doll, you need a haircut. Why d’you let it grow out like that? It’s messy.’

  ‘Hides my face.’

  ‘Really? Sheesh, kids. Riz babe, pass me those hairgrips.’

  I gathered up some grips from the dressing table and handed them over.

  Bang-Bang continued fussing with Maryam’s hair. A cigarette dangled from her lips as she worked on her hairstyle. She ruffled it and said ‘Ya Allah, what do we have here?’ and produced a Joker card from behind Maryam’s right ear. Maryam giggled and took the card.

  ‘Shows promise. Don’t forget you have school in the morning.’ Maryam rolled her eyes. Bang-Bang stubbed her cigarette out and placed her hand on mine. She smiled. ‘Bhai. Husband. Get me some mainframe time. I mean serious mainframe time. I’ll show you something.’

  ‘We can't use KTS’s servers right now, they're being plumbed back in and we're running at max capacity with UPBRAID.’

  Fuzz stood and stretched. ‘And I suppose you’ll want a helicopter and all that stuff, Holly.’

  ‘You got it, Farzana.’ Bang-Bang turned and batted her eyelashes at me. They were stage eyelashes, and they looked like two crows that had flown into a wall. I started laughing and gave in. ‘OK. I’ll ask around some MOD clients tomorrow first thing. We’ll get something, don’t you worry.’

  She pecked me on the cheek.

  26.

  DAY FIVE

  The material on the roof opposite Sussex House had finally been discovered. Within hours, the mainstream media had clued into the fact that it hadn’t been a tragic gas explosion after all. The Guardian’s front page was calling it the worst right-wing bomb attack in UK history. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  Traditionally in the UKSF and Intelligence community, when you killed a target, the HQ would celebrate by baking you a cake. I’d had to send out a terse cc’d email saying that I wouldn’t be requiring any cake, thanks.

  I was looking at the shots we’d taken of the audience at the Mystique Club. Nothing in the photos had excited our various databases. Dead end. I went back to looking at the Guardian front page.

  ‘Doesn’t count,’ said the Colonel as he leant over and read the story. ‘They weren’t actual people. Right, I’m off to the Wheeler Inquiry. You and Toots hold the fort. Congratulations on finally getting your degree by the way young man!’

  That had been the good news in today’s mail. I now had a degree in Terrorism Studies from Saint Andrews University. The irony had not been lost on me. It also meant that, going by KTS Company rules, I was now eligible to go up a pay grade. Which meant a hire-purchase car again, and a nicer pad. My desk phone rang as I was pinning the certificate to my office board. The display said it was Toots ringing from downstairs. ‘Yes love.’

  ‘HMP Bedford number-one Governor for you?’

  I sat up straighter. ‘Ay?’

  ‘Get with it, Riz, it’s the call you put in. Tommy.’

  Of course, ‘Sorry. Put him through.’

  ‘Mr Sabir?’

  ‘Hello. You have me at a disadvantage.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m authorised to put Tommy Robinson in touch with you. He received your letter.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The Governor cleared his throat. ‘Mr Sabi
r? We normally don’t allow letters through to Mr Robinson with the phrase “EDL” in them. Just so you know.’

  Shit. ‘Ah. Sorry. By all means, tell him to ring this number. I’ll be here for the next two hours. I’ll wait for his call.’

  At 11.14 the phone rang. ‘Ello Bodie.’

  ‘I’m Doyle, you twat. How’s the wing?’

  ‘Oh it’s fantastic. I finally got some new clothes sent in today. OK I’ve got a couple of minutes on this card. What do you need to know?’

  ‘Snipers. Loyalists with a stolen Army rifle, L86 Light Support Weapon to be precise.’

  I waited. ‘Tommy. You still there?’

  ‘Yeah. I think I know who you want. Guy called Jerry Hanlan; kicked out the EDL for violence believe it or not; ex-Territorial Army; Loyalist. You heard about the two LSWs that got nicked from the 4 Lancs barracks in Preston last year?’

  Heard about it? We'd ended up with one. And it had sat in Uncle Khan’s shop until I’d picked it up. According to an Army Special Investigations Branch report, the other one had last been seen being test-fired on a balcony in Liverpool, and was thought to have gone to Derry. Obviously it hadn’t.

  ‘Yeah we know about that. Just between you and me, Tommy, we’ve all received a second video this morning from the same Youtube channel. “EDLSniper” is now promising to lock down Whitechapel if the Ripper doesn’t hand himself in within 48 hours. In this video, he dry-fires the rifle. He’s coming, no doubt about that.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Tommy was thinking. In the background I could hear the clanging ambience of your average prison. ‘Riz, I don’t wanna tell you your job, but did you contact YouTube to find the IP?’

  ‘Yeah. Whoever’s set the channel up and posting the videos used a masked IP, probably via TOR. Dead end.’

  ‘Alright. Still, look for Jerry Hanlan and any Loyalist connections.’

  ‘OK Tommy. That’ll work.’

  ‘No probs. Say hello to Holly from me. And congratulations you two, I’m glad you survived.’

  ‘Thanks. I will. Anything you want in the mail?’

  He laughed. ‘Yeah. A Quran.’Click.

  I typed an email to Finance. Tommy would be getting a postal order from us. It was the least we could do. Sniper meant terror, and terror meant it was in SO15's remit. I also typed an email to Emlyn, and cc'd it to the boss and Toots. Now it was up to them.

  Within minutes, SO15 and the MOD had swung into action, and copies of Jerry Hanlan’s army files and photo were pinging into all our email inboxes. We had a lead, a name, and a face.

  And now I had an appointment with Fuzz Shaheen and a helicopter.

  27.

  3pm at Battersea Heliport. I hadn’t been here for a while. MI6 used it now and again. While I’d been away it had been rebranded as Barclays London Heliport. I drove into the underground car park and checked in upstairs at the secure reception area. The duty staff had known I was coming since last night. All was in order. I handed the car keys over.

  ‘Mr Sabir?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Miss Shaheen is waiting for you airside. She’s brought the S76. A posh one, she hasn’t skimped.’

  I nodded. ‘Nice.’

  He wasn’t wrong. Outside on the pan was a Starflight Aviation VIP-configured Sikorsky S76. Leather lounge seats, the works. Fuzz was sitting in the open cabin, talking to Roadrunner, who was fussing with some maps in the cockpit. Both were wearing grease-stained khaki flight suits. From the interior, the rumble and boom of a Cypress Hill track echoed across the pan towards me.

  Fuzz stood up from the helicopter cabin deck and pimp-rolled towards me. She still had the low centre of gravity of a street fighter. ‘Well hey Benny, how’s it goin’’ she grinned. Her aviator shades were perched on the back of her head. I noticed the scuffed Confederate flag patch on her left breast pocket. Here we go, I thought. We walked back to the helicopter and I peered inside. It even had a drinks cabinet. Fuzz noticed my approving look.

  ‘Nice isn’t it. OK, flightplan-wise, we’re filming for the SIO today. Me and Roadie have spent all day trying to figure out how to strap the kit to the underside of…’ She patted the fuselage, ‘but we got it figured. We just have to keep the undercarriage down. All good.’

  Roadrunner grinned as she folded a flight map. ‘Oozing professionalism as usual.’

  I hugged her. I hadn’t seen her since the car chase in Birmingham. I looked her over. ‘So you’re out of jail then? Where’s the tag?’

  She grinned. ‘What tag?’

  Just then I noticed something. A teardrop tattoo by her left eye. I traced it. ‘Get that in prison?’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah. I killed a bunch of guys, didn’t I?’

  How could I forget. My inner ear replayed the sounds of tearing metal, crashing vehicles, and shots heard over the radio. She certainly had. It was part of the secret history of this country, and hopefully would remain so.

  Now for the talk. ‘Roadie darling. Please lay off the local ATMs. Just for a week or so?’

  I got the I-am-a-butter-storage look. ‘Of course, Riz akhi. Thought never crossed my mind.’

  ‘Right.’

  Fuzz reached into the cockpit and flipped a switch. The Cypress Hill cut out. ‘OK. To work.’ She took the map and started pointing at areas on it with a pen. ‘We take off then set down here... the De Beers building, just off Holborn Circus, to pick up your other half and help her install the kit. Mr Oppenheimer knows we’re coming and he’s cool with it. Me and Mr Nicky go way back. Anyway. Then we’re cleared for evidential filming, in racetrack patterns east, into Whitechapel. When we’re done we set down again, at Vanguard on the Isle of Dogs… here. And that’s where we’ll leave you.’

  ‘Are we going as far as Westfield?’ I asked. Fuzz laughed. ‘No, bhai. Not if I can help it. They’re probably still clearing up from last time.’

  She looked around. ‘Ready? Then let’s fly. Thames H4 Roadie.’

  Roadrunner nodded as we all clambered in. ‘Thames H4. Got that.’

  I slid the port cabin door forward and it thunked shut. I put on the nearest set of headphones and listened on the channel as Fuzz and Roadrunner started going through the checklists in the cockpit. I watched out the window as an R22 was refuelled on the pan. For once, I was in a helicopter with enough time to go through stuff.

  ‘Batteries on.’

  ‘Check. Batteries on’, said Roadrunner in my headset.

  I craned my head to look into what I could see of the cockpit over the forward seats. The multifunction display panel lit up like a Christmas tree and the pilot’s side moving map display started to scroll. Things started to get loud. Outside, rotors and control surfaces waggled slowly. The engines throttled up. Fuzz placed her sunglasses over her eyes and spoke in my headset. ‘Ready to fly the friendly skies?’

  I nodded. ‘Ready.’ We were off. The river glittered brightly below the helicopter’s fuselage. We took route H4, and soon St Pauls and Holborn viaduct loomed in the windscreen.

  Fuzz’s voice scratched in my headphones. ‘All good in the back there bhai? How d’you like the leather seats?’

  ‘They’re lovely. Makes a change from the last time I was in a helicopter with you, being shot at and spattered with jet fuel.’

  A laugh. ‘Shut it Sabir, I’m the best pilot you know and I’ll get you to where you wanna go.’

  I couldn’t argue with that. She was.

  The helicopter slowed and veered above the high-rise buildings. Here, on our nine o’clock, was a long grey office block with a big white-on-green “H” circle. Our landing spot. We looked down into the dark canyons between the blocks. Below, in the junction, the traffic was backed up behind stacks of red buses. Fuzz was watching the clearance to the two buildings south on Charterhouse Street.

  ‘Clear.’ She spoke into her mic, to traffic control I guessed.

  We rotated into the wind and flared. The winds whipped treacherously here, but Fuzz had the measure of it. Hydraulics
whined and thumped as she lowered the landing gear. She lined up on the rooftop and dropped like a feather onto a bathbubble.

  And without any further fuss, we were down. Fuzz placed her shades on the back of her head and started turning things off. She reached up and closed the overhead throttles. The turbines whined down.

  We opened the doors. It was breezy up on the roof. We got out and stretched as the rotors wound down.

  ‘Ya Allah,’ said Roadrunner, ‘Bit narrow up here isn’t it?’ She made her way to the escarpment and looked down. ‘Whoah.’ She came back, doing a little Twenties Flapper wobble.

  Fuzz came back from her walk-round of the Sikorsky and joined us. ‘Interesting place, this. Downstairs is the De Beers head office. The reason it has a helipad, is that most mornings Nicky Oppenheimer lands his lil’ Twin Squirrel helicopter here and goes downstairs to oversee their multi-billion dollar diamond operation.’

  Roadrunner’s eyes lit up. ‘Diamonds? Downstairs?’

  Fuzz shook her head. ‘Behave, Roadie. Your charge sheet is long enough as it is.’

  Five minutes later the fire escape doors clanged open and Bang-Bang emerged, cursing and hauling a trolley loaded with two black Peli cases and a strange-looking white pod. She lugged the trolley to the centre of the pad and stopped, out of breath. ‘Ladies and Gentleman – I give you – the Streetmapper laser mapping pod. 360-degree field of view, a range of 300 metres and a capacity of 300,000 measurements per second per sensor, to the millimetre. And it’s a bit heavy. C’mon ladies, help me get this thing strapped up.’

  I sat on the roof ledge and watched the three of them bicker good-naturedly as they fitted the pod to the chopper's undercarriage with sets of heavy-duty truck straps, ‘liberated,’ called Roadrunner, ‘from Eddie Stobart!’ I smiled and nodded back at her.

  The three of them seemed to be in their element. After a while they had it snug and Bang-Bang started taping down leads into the cabin and flipping switches inside the Peli cases. She stood and hit a button on a remote control and a light blinked green on the pod. ‘Active.’