Sterling

by Robert Cameron

  Cam’s small group of intelligence, linguists and communication specialists had been based in a small, fortified house called ‘Seaview’ on the outskirts of the city. Every once in a while the rebels would try to take back parts of the town – usually on nights like this one. Cam had spent many nights leaning out of one of the top-floor windows of ‘Seaview’, watching and listening, nervous on hearing the rebels moving around in the jungle that surrounded the house. As a five-man team they could easily have been overrun. Cam knew he would fight to the death. From what he had seen since he had arrived in the country, it would not be worth getting captured. These rebels were always high on drugs and could commit acts of extreme violence.

  ‘One step at a time,’ he thought, his four other senses sharpened due to the lack of vision. ‘Slowly does it!’ Cam felt sure he could hear his heart beating through his chest. They had to get to the infantry group stationed only a few miles from their house. When the power went down, so had their lines of communication to the Gurkhas – the team’s only form of help. He and Ritchie had to get to them and arrange some transportation for the rest of the team. Important equipment and documents could not be left behind for the enemy.

  Unsure whether his eyes were playing tricks on him, he moved silently towards the dark shapes in the distance. ‘Is that someone there? I see some movement.’

  It was after the city’s curfew – perhaps it was the Sierra Leone National Army at one of their check-points. Then it happened.

  There’s no sound like that of an AK47 being fired in your direction. It has an unmistakeable, loud, metallic crack. Both Ritchie and Cam instinctively dived to the ground; both crawled into cover behind trees, and lay as flat and as still as they could. If it had been possible, Cam would have dug a hole in which to hide. The whiz and crack of the rounds flying over their heads was enough evidence that this was very accurate fire.

  ‘British Army, don’t shoot!’ Ritchie was shouting at the top of his voice, in the hope that it was the SLNA. The silence that followed lasted less than a second before the firing re-started.

  Cam had the awful realisation that these were rebels, and they wanted to kill them. Soon the tree which Cam was cowering behind was being hit. Splinters of wood and bark showered down on him. Then, just as suddenly as it started, the firing stopped. Cam peered round his shattered tree. Surprisingly he could see better – perhaps the adrenaline improved his night vision. There were two of them – he could see their silhouettes. Both were struggling to change their magazines. Ritchie caught Cam’s gaze, and instantly they knew what had to be done.

  Now in a kneeling position, leaning on the splintered tree, he raised his weapon into his shoulder. Taking aim down his sights, he felt anger towards these two amateurs. ‘How dare they take us on! How dare they think they could kill us! We are better than they could ever be!’

  Cam was an excellent shot – he always had been. With the shadowy figures in his iron sight, he squeezed the trigger. Single rapid fire, round after round. Although he could not see Ritchie, Cam knew he was doing the same. He had no idea how many shots he had fired before he finally stopped. Lowering his rifle he waited for movement. Nothing. He had definitely seen them go down. Looking at each other Cam and Ritchie knew now was not the time to hang around; they had to get out of there. In an instant they were up and running, changing magazines as they were moving. Cam was surprised how his training automatically took over. Once he had a fresh magazine in his rifle, he slid the empty one down his half-opened shirt. At a safe distance they stopped.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, you?’

  ‘Yeah, do you think we got them?’ Cam asked.

  ‘Well, I didn’t see them get back up.’

  Cam knew he hadn’t missed – he never did.

  ‘OK, let’s get going, we’re nearly there,’ said Ritchie. ‘Keep your eyes open and better spacing. Move.’ As they moved off he thought, ‘It was either them or me. And it wasn’t going to be me.’

  * * * * * * *

  The Adl Ghaffari Mosque was in the suburbs of Birmingham, in an area called Small Heath – a mostly Muslim part of the town and a pleasant area to live in with very little crime. The locals were friendly, even to the obvious outsider sitting in the park across the street from the mosque. The Adl Ghaffari Islamic Centre had funded and built this park for the community. It was good to see. Such a shame a few bad apples could give that peaceful religion a bad name.

  Hours had passed and he knew he had been sitting there far too long. It was going to start looking suspicious. Looking around for a new place where he could watch unseen, he spotted a building, a schoolhouse converted into desirable flats. The building had an old flight of metal stairs leading to the roof. After crossing the street and ascending the staircase, he looked across the rooftop. The building was deserted and had a low wall, perfect for watching over. He found a few bricks to sit on, giving him just enough extra height to see over the wall. Now it was a waiting game.

  He knew who he was looking for – a man called Affan Jabour. He was a member of the mosque’s council and therefore spent most of his days there. This man was innocent, guilty of nothing more than being a relative of Abu-Al-Khayr Barakat – the man everyone was looking for. Barakat was an Al Qa’eda fundraiser. He was also a known terrorist, and had been involved in many atrocious acts of death and destruction. Barakat had blood on his hands.

  Cam had information that linked these two men. Before leaving the military, Cam had taken copies of classified documents with information about all terror suspects in the UK. This was a serious crime and could land him in jail if it was ever found out. These documents revealed their suspected crimes, what they were known to have done and every movement they had made while in the UK.

  As the light began to fade, the temperature dropped. Cam pulled his coat up around his neck. Every time the door to the mosque opened, Cam looked up, hoping to see the relative. Nothing. Soon it would be too dark to see from that distance and he would have to find another vantage point.

  Cam stood up, about to leave his position when two men walked through the door on to the street. He stopped and watched. They stood for a short time, having a conversation. Cam stood on the rooftop, straining through the low light to see who it was. ‘That looks like him,’ he thought. A little older than the photos he had, but most definitely him. He rushed down the metal stairs as fast as he could to street level. From the shadows of the alley, he could see the two men talking to each other across the park.

  The two men finally said their farewells and walked off in different directions. At a safe distance Cam broke cover and followed. Jabour was heading off in an easterly direction. He was wearing smart trousers, expensive shoes and a long black coat, making him easy to follow at an extended distance. In one hand he carried a paper bag.

  The man was heading home. Cam already knew where he lived. His aim was to gather as much information about him as possible. Keeping a good distance, Cam began to get a familiar feeling – all the surveillance exercises he had done those many years ago, following practice suicide bombers down Edinburgh’s main street. He had all the covert experience in the world. He knew how to blend in, what type of clothes to wear – no logos, since people automatically read what’s on t-shirts. No bright colours; no light-coloured shoes, as all people will see is a white pair of shoes walking down the street. He knew all the tricks.

  Also, he had to be aware of anti-surveillance techniques. Sometimes terrorist groups used dickers. These guys would surround the target and watch for people trailing, but this was highly unlikely here tonight.

  The feeling of being let down by the government was as strong as ever. Cam had been a member of a highly elite team of surveillance experts, trained for dangerous anti-terrorist operations; the group was called Charlie Troop. Cam’s particular speciality had been covert infiltration. The team had been involved i
n tackling the potential suicide-bomber threat in the UK, and for this they had been well trained in the most up-to-date bomb-disposal techniques. During a training exercise for a suicide-bomb scenario, a horrible truth came out.

  The boss of the troop gathered the men and began to explain that, in the event of a real attack, the possibility was that COBRA, the collection of government officials, were unlikely to order the killing of a suicide-bomber on the streets of the UK. This would be seen as murder as the bomber would be innocent right up until the point he set the device off – meaning they would probably let the first one go! Then the government would have the backing of the public to do what had to be done the next time it happened. No thought about the destruction of one of the UK’s major city centres, or the death and horrific injuries it would cause. The fatalities in Cam’s team would be high. The scene played back in Cam’s head as if it had been the previous day.

  ‘If anybody wants out,’ the boss said, ‘now is the time. No one will think any less of you.’ Nobody wanted out – this was what they were there for, and their silence was all the confirmation the boss needed. ‘One more thing,’ the boss continued, ‘the police won’t allow us to carry our weapons. They are too worried about us tapping the bastards – so potentially you will be unarmed.’

  They were right to worry; no one in the team would think twice about taking the target out, if it meant it would save lives, especially their own. Better to be tried by twelve, than carried by six.

  ‘However, keep this between us – I will make sure you’re armed,’ said the boss. ‘Just remember, it will be seen as murder and you most likely face prison.’

  * * * * * * *

  That was the moment Cam realised the UK government was weak. Not one of them was prepared to risk loosing their jobs, even if it meant death and destruction for the general public. If the job of protecting the innocent was to be done properly, he would have to take matters into his own hands.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Focus. Must focus. Now is not the time to let your mind wander. This is the time for concentration.’ With the target making his way towards his home, Cam followed like a ghost. ‘So far so good,’ Cam thought, as he looked around. He scanned the corners of buildings and randomly placed lamp posts for cameras. He did not need to be caught on CCTV following the relative of the man who was about to be all over the news. Luckily the area around the mosque and Affan Jabour’s house was a safe place to live, and had very little need to be covered by police.

  At that time of the day it was easy to stay inconspicuous. The crowds of people on the streets, as they left their places of work, steadily grew, providing many hiding places. However, that can also help the target. If they want to disappear, that time of day is perfect, but Jabour displayed no sign that he thought he might be being followed. He was taking the most direct route home. He wasn’t crossing the road, changing direction or suddenly stopping, such as to look into shop windows. He was simply walking home.

  Weaving between the pedestrians, Cam tried to keep up with his target. Then he was gone! He only lost sight of him for a second – then he vanished. ‘Where the hell did he go?’ thought Cam. ‘He must have entered one of the shops on the street.’ Cam increased his speed, desperate to know where he went. As he drew closer he could see that Jabour had stopped at a clothing shop, a well-known one. ‘Damn it!’ Cam couldn’t go in after him; those places were always completely covered by cameras to catch shoplifters. He walked straight past.

  In the few seconds that it took to walk by the shop, Cam took in as much information as possible. He strained to see the entire shop out of the corner of his eye, not wanting to turn his head and be seen looking in. He saw Jabour at the returns counter, handing over a pair of jeans. There were cameras everywhere; every inch of the shop floor was covered. Now past the store, Cam crossed the road. He needed a good view of the main entrance. Once again he was in the shadow of an alley; he could see the door to the clothes shop, now all he could do was wait. Cam hoped he would walk out the door.

  Soon enough he left the shop. Away from the centre of the suburb the streets were less busy. The stalk resumed. Cam knew that the longer the chase went on, the greater the risk of him looking suspicious. Not far from his home, Jabour made another stop – the Jalfrazi House. ‘Must be stopping for his dinner,’ Cam thought. Still on the opposite side of the street from his target he crossed the road, heading directly towards the takeaway. Jabour spoke into his phone. What wouldn’t he have paid to be in on that conversation?! Checking the layout of the curry house, Cam spotted only one camera, covering the counter, not the door. He entered the takeaway and headed for the corner of the waiting area. Grabbing a menu he sat down to read it. Cam knew he had taken a risk, but he was not on camera, and Jabour had not noticed him enter.

  Cam listened to him place an order; it was for someone else. He then put his mobile phone into his pocket and placed an order for himself. Jabour took a seat two to the left of Cam. Far too close for comfort. Cam could do nothing but sit and wait – but this looked suspicious. To Cam’s relief, Jabour showed no interest in him. Cam looked at his watch and made a noise suggesting impatience, hoping to give the impression that he was waiting for someone or something. It seemed the only thing he could do.

  Jabour got up to take his order from the woman behind the counter, so close Cam could smell his aftershave. Jabour said goodbye. Noting that the man seemed very polite, Cam followed again. ‘I must keep a longer distance between us now.’ Entering his house and closing the door behind him signalled the end of the stalk. Cam backed off to the far end of the street; he would go nowhere near his house tonight. ‘Who was he talking to on his phone? Why a take away for two?’ Affan was known to live alone.

  There would be no more work that night, but Cam had plenty to think about. Only one more stop before heading back to his accommodation for a well earned rest. It was 6pm, and closing time for the clothes shop. Cam waited for the last member of staff to leave and lock up. The lights went out. He hoped that meant that the cameras were off, or at the very least, that the store interior would be too dark for details to show up. The manager’s assistant was closing the metal shutters as Cam approached.

  ‘Excuse me, I know it’s late and you’re closing up, but I think I lost my wallet in the changing rooms earlier today.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry but I’m about to lock up and can’t go back in or the alarm will be set off,’ she said, tilting her head to one side.

  ‘Please, I really need my wallet – I can’t leave it overnight. Is there no way you can quickly have a look to see if it’s there? I’m hoping it’s been handed in.’ He replied, slightly mimicking the woman’s stance and putting on a mild Birmingham accent. Cam had a way of getting people to do as he needed. Affability got him a long way.

  ‘Well, OK. Just wait here and I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Cam said, as she ducked under the half-closed shutters.

  He waited a few seconds then followed, making his way to the returns counter with his head down in case the cameras were still recording. The lights were off on the shop floor. Cam breathed easily, confident that he was almost invisible. Over the other side of the counter was a rail with returned items hanging on metal coat hangers. Only one pair of jeans was on the rail. Cam checked the pockets. Nothing. Looking at the size, he noted they were a 42 waist. He put the jeans back and silently slipped out under the shutters.

  ‘Sorry, no wallet in the lost-and-found box.’ She seemed genuinely sorry for the man who was still standing outside.

  ‘OK, never mind. I’ll find it. Must be somewhere I’ve been today. Thanks for looking. Bye.’

  As he turned and walked away he considered what he had discovered so far. Two takeaways when Jabour lived alone, and a pair of jeans that were far too big for him, returned to a shop. Jabour couldn’t be more than a size 34, and he
was on the short side. No way would he accidentally buy himself a pair of jeans that big. ‘I know who is around a size 42: Barakat.’

  Chapter 5

  He had to find a way in. The average terraced house had to have a weak spot. Although there had been no signs of movement since Jabour left for work that morning, Cam was certain that Barakat was in there. But if he suspected that, who else did? Were the intelligence services there? Were they watching too?

  Having completed a sweep of the area around the residence of his target, he concluded they were not. No vehicles coming and going or stopping in the street. Nobody hanging around. The rooftops were clear and the windows overlooking the property didn’t have anything out of the ordinary going on behind them… but he could never be sure. If anything should alert him that any agency was watching, it would have to be called off.

  Sipping on his takeaway coffee, he made another pass by the house. The front door had a large porch, making the entrance to the property rather dark. However, probably to combat this, the owner had installed a movement sensor and this would activate the intruder-light, illuminating the main entrance. The door itself looked simple enough: one lock, a standard pin and tumbler system, a doorbell and a thick ‘welcome’ mat.

  Modern windows had been recently installed on both floors. Both doors and windows seemed to be connected to an alarm system. The flashing box high up on the side of the building could be a fake, but Cam could not take that chance. Most alarms were connected to monitoring services. Jabour’s system was handled by Household Security; a company like that would alert the police to a possible break-in. Also, some firms would send their own security guards round to secure the property. Alarms could be set to ‘silent’, so the intruder would be unaware that an alarm had been set off, allowing them to be caught red-handed.