Sterling

by Robert Cameron

  The warmth in the passageway spilled out past Cam and into the night. After taking a good look into the hallway, he spread out the small blanket on the floor just inside the doorway. Standing on the edge of the blanket, he closed the door behind him. ‘I’m in!’ He stood as still as possible, breathing quietly and listening for sounds of movement. The house was silent.

  Cam pulled the shoe covers out of his pocket and put them on over his boots; he would leave no trace that he had been here. The covers were a tight fit so they wouldn’t make any sound as he moved. ‘Can’t see much… my night vision still hasn’t adjusted to the low light.’ He needed to find a safe place to hide until he could see more. The small passageway led straight to the living room. He picked up the blanket and moved silently forward. Pausing in the entrance to the room he noted a large chair in the corner. Manoeuvring in behind the chair he placed the blanket on the floor and sat down cross-legged. Here he would wait until his eyes adjusted to the dark.

  * * * * * * *

  Cam’s eyes gradually adjusted to the dark, and he was able to have a good look around the room he had been sitting in. He had been there for about twenty minutes. Eyes normally took about twenty or thirty minutes to fully adjust to dark conditions.

  A well-looked-after living room – religious decorations covered the walls and shelves. From his hiding place behind the corner chair he could see a large couch, an oblong coffee table and some shelving displaying miscellaneous items. He had plenty of room to move around without disturbing anything. The floor was carpeted; he could tread silently. To avoid making unwanted noise he would stay close to the walls, minimising the risk of any squeaking or cracking.

  Once his eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness, it was time to make his way upstairs. Cam stood up and picked up his blanket, folding it and sliding it under the shoulder strap of his bag. Keeping as close as he could to the wall he made his way towards the door at the far side of the room, which opened into another corridor leading to the stairs. Looking the other way along the corridor, he could see the older back door that would lead to the courtyard at the rear of the house. This was the alarmed old wooden door that he had utilised on his previous visit. Opposite the living room was another door that had to lead to the kitchen. No need to go in there. The occupants were fast asleep and the bedrooms were upstairs.

  One step at a time, placing his feet at either edge of the steps so that they wouldn’t creak if loose, he made his way to the first floor. When his head reached floor height he could see the layout of the landing. Three closed doors led off it. Cam would have to have a look behind all of them.

  Only two were bedrooms. One had the light switch outside the door on the landing, indicating that it was the bathroom. He was close to at least one of the occupants of the house and it was crucial to move as silently as possible. He had to concentrate on every step towards the first door. Bending his knees slightly to provide more suspension to his steps, he allowed each foot to make contact with the floor. Heel first, rolling slowly towards his toes on the outer edge of his foot. He remembered the technique of tightening muscles in the pelvis to give stronger control while moving slowly. At each step he moved his legs round in a slight semi circle to avoid his feet or knees rubbing against each other. He could feel the anticipation and nervous energy buzzing louder and louder as he approached the bedroom door.

  Taking a firm stance, Cam placed his gloved hands on either side of the frame, then leaned in to listen against the door. With his ear less than an inch away he could hear muffled snoring on the other side. To stop any possible squeaking, Cam applied upwards pressure on the handle as he turned it. Alleviating any downward force on the hinges would stop the two parts grinding against each other. Clasping the handle and turning it all the way, so the bolt was completely withdrawn from its housing, he opened the door millimetres at a time. With the door opened a centimetre or so, he checked around the doorframe. There was nothing behind the door that could alert the occupant to his presence. No change to the snoring, except that it was slightly louder now the door was open.

  From the open doorway Cam could now see the bed from which the snoring came. He could tell right away that the man in the bed was Affan Jabour, the owner of the house. No need to go any further there. With the door now closed, Cam pulled it firmly against the frame, so that when the bolt was released it wouldn’t snap back into place. Older doors could do that when they didn’t fit well.

  He released the handle quietly and moved on, repeating the slow, silent progress along the landing.

  Missing what was evidently the bathroom door he reached the last door. Pressing his ear to it he could hear nothing. Glancing around, he could not see any sign of more stairs, but there was definitely another floor. His man had to be up there. The room proved to be some sort of office. On the far side of the room, a set of stairs with no banister led up to another door. He wanted to leave a clear route of escape so he placed his rolled-up blanket at the bottom of the doorframe, so it would prevent the door from slamming shut – sometimes pressure built up in houses and it could slam doors shut as others opened, and Cam could not afford for that to happen.

  Sneaking around the edge of the room, he listened to every sound. The house was still quiet as the sound of Affan snoring had now faded away. He moved cautiously up the stairs to the door at the top. Listening he could hear nothing. He lowered his hand to the bottom of the door; he could feel warm air, not cold, on his bare wrist. The room was lived in, and not used as an attic or storage space.

  With the handle turned down all the way he began to push the wooden door open. Cam froze as he heard the creak of the door hinges. Standing as still as possible, he strained his ears – hoping to hear nothing. Relief. No movement, nothing. Cam placed his other hand in the centre of the door and pressing forward firmly, he hinged it open. The extra pressure worked – the door stopped creaking.

  The man lying in the bed was sound asleep, unaware that an intruder was in his room. This man was much bigger than Jabour – this was what he expected. But Cam needed a closer look to confirm his identity. He couldn’t afford a mistake, so at the risk of discovery, he crept towards the head of the bed. Crouching low, foot over foot with his arms out for balance, he sneaked sideways towards the face in the bed. The closer he got, the greater the risk that the man might wake – he might be a light sleeper. Cam visualised the location of his gun. On the left side of his bag was a net with an elastic band for carrying water-bottles, also handy for holding silenced pistols. If he should wake, Cam could draw the gun in one smooth movement over his shoulder.

  Right up close to the man’s face, he stopped to squat down, elbows on his knees. He hunched over. Barakat! His distinctive beard gave him away. He’d seen enough photos of the man to be sure that it was him. He hated him and everything he stood for. He took a few slow steps backwards, then made his way past the bottom of the bed to the other side. Still looking at the back of the sleeping man’s head, he drew the pistol from its makeshift holster, straightened up and took aim.

  However he tried to justify it, the act was cold-blooded murder. But this man was the murderer. He was a known terrorist, suspected of having involvement with the Bali bombings back in 2002. He was an active Al Qa’eda fundraiser – and that’s why the authorities wanted him. He might also have been planning something in the UK. If he were to be caught, he might go to prison, but these guys had a way of postponing the inevitable, claiming the western world was against them for reasons of religious persecution. To take this monster out of the equation he had to take matters into his own hands. He was reminded of an observation by the philosopher Edmund Burke – that all that was necessary for evil to succeed was for good men to do nothing.

  Thump, thump. The double tap was the most effective way of ensuring the target was dead. Cam holstered the smoking pistol, then took a moment to think about what he had done. Looking at the man’s broken head
he could see blood soaking into the pillowcase and sheets. He had rid the world of a dangerous man. Bending down, he picked up the two spent cartridges and put one into each trouser pocket so they wouldn’t clink together as he moved. He couldn’t leave them behind – they could be used to identify the gun that fired the shots. He did not want to jeopardise any of his future activities.

  Without looking back he left the room, completely focused now on getting out undetected. Halfway down the stairs into the office room one of the stairs creaked. Subconsciously the adrenaline was making him speed up. ‘Must slow down. Concentrate.’ Passing his blanket door-stop he stooped and picked it up, replacing it between the bag straps and his body. Soon he was back in the hall by the alarm control box. As he entered 4929 into the key-pad, the box flashed once again. Cam knew he had fifteen or so seconds to exit the house. In one swift movement he opened the front door, spun round into the fresh outside air and quickly closed it. With his crime sealed inside the house he grabbed the camera shield that had been covering the movement sensor. He took a few steps away from the front door and was lit up as if the sun had risen early. His night vision was now ruined, but it didn’t matter – he was leaving.

  Seconds later he was on the street, walking away. It was early morning and in a few hours it would be sunrise. Wondering what the day would bring, Cam removed his shoe-covers and stuffed them into his trouser pocket. He thought about how to get back to the bed and breakfast. Strangely enough, this was one thing he forgot to consider, but how hard could it be to find another taxi?

  * * * * * * *

  The sun was just rising as Cam let himself back into the bed and breakfast. Nobody was up yet, so he simply went back to his room, where he would wait until it was time to go down for breakfast.

  Cam turned on the shower heater and while the water was warming up he packed his backpack. He placed everything he had used the previous night, including the clothes he wore, into the bag. He’d already packed the rest of his belongings into his holdall, except for a set of clothes, now folded on the foot of the bed, that he would wear for the journey home. Cam was ready to leave.

  The warm water poured over his head and collected in the bottom of the shower. He had put the plug in so it would gradually fill up and warm his feet. With the adrenaline wearing off Cam could feel the familiar feeling of fatigue. He looked forward to having something to eat, and then the train journey back up north.

  He stepped out of the shower dried himself and dressed. When it was time he made his way down into the dining room. The other guests had not emerged from their rooms for breakfast yet. Cam had placed an advance order for a ‘full English’ and was sitting watching the news in the dining area. So far there had been no mention of anything happening in Birmingham. However, it was only ten to eight and the crime might not have been discovered yet. He thought that it might be one of the first reports at the turn of the hour.

  Sitting alone in the dining room his eyes felt heavy, as if they had sand in them. He was so tired. The warm feeling of exhaustion wrapped around him like a duvet and only the sound of the morning news being recapped roused him from his lethargy.

  As he ate his breakfast, he focused his full concentration on the television in the corner of the room. Surely a murder would make the news – but still nothing was mentioned. He finished his breakfast and sat waiting for the story to break. ‘It’s possible that the body hasn’t been discovered yet,’ he thought. Perhaps Jabour didn’t normally see Barakat before he left for work. He would have no reason to believe that anyone had been in his house during the night. Cam would have to wait until he was back home before he could check the news again.

  After paying for his accommodation he took a taxi to the train station. Everything paid for by cash – no electronic trail. With his holdall high up on his shoulder he walked through the station. The holdall would hide his face from the CCTV cameras that he had spotted as he arrived in Birmingham. Standing in the area of the platform that he had noted was a dead spot for the cameras, he looked forward to the nap he was going to have on the train.

  Chapter 7

  He loved the countryside and as the train wound its way through the fields heading north he was reminded why. No people. People just made things awkward. When he was on his own he could do things his own way, without any hassle. The empty fields and distant trees, although bare at that time of year, looked so beautiful. It was turning into a pleasant day – blue sky and very few clouds. The sun was bright and high in the sky. If he hadn’t known any better he might have thought it was a summer’s day.

  The previous night’s activities played round and round in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he worried – but not about the actual act of killing – taking that man’s life did not bother him in the least. What Cam was thinking about was how it would be seen. Would it be viewed as a hate crime? Some kind of racist attack? Cam hated the thought of being branded a racist. On his travels after leaving the military he had encountered so many different cultures and religions. Remembering the people he met in Malaysia, all of whom were Muslims, brought back such happy memories of good people whom he managed to get to know and work alongside. For some time he had worked on a small island as a diver, living on the beach, listening to the sea at night, eating the local food. It had been one of the only times in his life when he had felt free. With the sun warming his face through the train window, he could almost feel himself back there.

  The dead man lying in that house in Birmingham was the start of a battle against the people intent on destroying a peaceful religion and anyone who threatened the free western way of life. There were just as many white terrorists… one of the last terrorist campaigns in the UK was carried out by a white British man, David Copeland – or the ‘London Nail-bomber’ as he was known. Back in 1999 he had conducted a thirteen-day campaign against the black, Bangladeshi and gay communities in Soho. In all, three nail bombs injured thirty people and killed two, including one pregnant woman. He was eventually captured and given a fifty-year prison sentence. David Copeland had strong ties to the British National Party, and if that son of a bitch was still on the loose he would be right at the top of Cam’s list.

  One of the United States of America’s top ten wanted men was a white US-born man. His name was Adam Gadahn. In 1995, aged seventeen, he started studying Islam. In 1998 he moved to Pakistan, married an Afghanistan refugee and converted to Islam. In the late 1990’s he began to support Jihad, and had since become the main interpreter and spokesperson for Al Qa’eda. He became known as Azzam al-Amriki or ‘Azzam the American.’ He was the first American charged with treason since Tomoya Kawakita was sentenced to death in 1952, for torturing US prisoners during the war. Adam Gadahn was most definitely on his list – but low down. Although an important figure, he would be virtually impossible to track down and find. Cam did not have the resources for a target like that… at least not yet, but one day maybe he would.

  The list was endless; inwardly Cam thought of all the expendable people. He knew he could only make a small impact, so he would start with the easiest targets such as Barakat, and work his way up. The process had now started and Cam had to play it through to the end, however it was going to end. He only hoped he would make at least a small difference.

  Cam looked around the train carriage, examining the faces of people sitting blissfully unaware of what happened in the background of society. If they only knew what really went on to keep them safe – what monsters were out there. Many terrorist cells operated in the UK, some of them planning suicide attacks. For Cam, profiling suicide bombers was at one point Charlie troop’s main focus. That had used to be easy – but then it grew far more complicated. The average suicide bomber was typically a well-educated male in his mid-twenties, usually at college or university.

  They were never the mad fanatics people assumed they were. The mad and the crazy couldn’t be trusted to carry out their
highly-organised missions – they needed level-headed individuals who could be brainwashed and coerced into becoming martyrs for the cause… an easy task if the recruiters picked the right candidates. Eighty percent of suicide bombers had some kind of medical problem, such as limbs already missing or a disease like cancer, leprosy or HIV. Disabilities like that would bar them from entry into the afterlife, but becoming a martyr for the cause would automatically allow them entry into eternal paradise. Those types of people were also used to provide an extra fear factor. Even if you survived a bomb blast, you might have to live with the after-effects of being injured by someone with a terminal disease such as AIDS.

  That had all changed, and suicide bombers were no longer easy to profile. They were recruiting people from all backgrounds. A sixteen-year-old female music student blew herself up at a wedding party at which most of the guests were her friends from university. The youngest recorded recruit was an Afghan boy, perhaps only thirteen years old. He was spotted walking towards an Afghan police checkpoint wearing a heavy coat in hot summer weather. As he approached, it was noted he had a big smile on his face; the boy knew he was about to die. After failing to stop when ordered, he was shot dead by a police officer. As he fell to the ground, his eight-year-old brother, hiding only a few yards away, detonated the bomb via remote means.

  Now anyone could be a suicide bomber and that makes them virtually impossible to profile. Furthermore, they would become increasingly more difficult to identify as the recruiters became better at their jobs. Maybe it was preferable to be like one of those passengers on the train and not know the truth. Their lives were more straightforward than Cam’s.