by Matt Johnson
Bowler also updated me on the reason for the office meeting I was now excused from attending. There had been a breakthrough in the enquiry. Interpol had DNA confirmation the second suspect from the hideaway we’d discovered was definitely Marius Gabor. The dead gunman had been fingerprinted and was now known to be Constantin Macovei. Both men were from Romania and had been confirmed as employees of the Cristea syndicate. DNA from the priest hole had also been matched to the scene of Relia’s murder.
We had our suspects.
I was returning to the car, take-away coffee in one hand, when my phone rang again. This time it was Toni Fellowes. I hoped it was better news about Monaghan.
‘Hi Finlay … where are you? I rang Jenny; she said you were headed down to Wales to see a friend.’
‘That’s right. You didn’t tell her what we discussed yesterday?’ I felt my heart pound.
‘No, of course not.’
I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Good. She accepted my explanation about the Cristeas not being anything to worry about – in this country anyway.’
‘Good,’ Toni answered. ‘Look, why I’m calling – I had a meeting last night to sort out the idea that had come up about why your friends were killed.’
‘Not really friends, Toni. There was only one of them I actually knew. And I have to say I’m not sure I agree with you about Monaghan and the others.’
‘Well, no matter, now. What I wanted to say is not to worry … and no need to call Kevin Jones about it. It looks like the alternative idea was a false lead, no basis at all. I’m sorry I even mentioned it to you.’
‘You mean that the Anti-Terrorist Squad were right? It was Monaghan behind it?’ My voice trembled as I flopped back into the car seat. I briefly closed my eyes.
‘Yes … it looks that way. I mean, well … it is that way. It’s certain now he was behind it.’
‘What was the alternative theory?’ I asked.
‘Oh … nothing. My researcher had this crazy theory about stolen treasure from Afghanistan.’
‘Is that what “Al Anfal” is, some kind of treasure?’
‘No … it turned out to be just another terrorist group. Your friend Bridges was on an operation that took them out. I’m sorry, Finlay. I must have scared you.’
‘You did … just a bit. Do you still want to see the document?’
‘No … I know all about it now. It’s a work of fantasy, just an old man’s dream of making the world all one under Islam. If I were you, I’d stick it in the confidential waste.’
‘That’s all it is? So, what Collins said in the book about the Increment men having a fall-out isn’t right?’
‘No … just one more thing he made up. There’s one other thing.’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s an apology.’
‘What for this time?’
‘Taking my eye off the ball. It’s no excuse, I know, but I’ve had some distractions of my own lately. I must have rattled you a bit … I’m sorry.’
‘For making me think we’d got it wrong, you mean?’
‘Yes. For making you think there was another reason for the deaths of your friends.’
I accepted the apology, and we ended the call. But, in the back of my mind, I was wondering if Julian Armstrong would share Toni’s opinion on Al Anfal.
Chapter 82
To describe the road to the Armstrong house as a lane was being generous to its design, its surface and its incline. The 2CV swayed gently over rocks and through the ruts as I made steady progress up the mountain.
‘Ty Eira’ – Armstrong’s house – really did feel like it was on top of the world. The views of the surrounding Black Mountains as I got out of the car were magnificent. Looking west I could see the familiar tip of Pen y Fan poking through the clouds. To the south was Sugar Loaf mountain and to the east, Ysgyryd Fawr, the Skirrid, all names and places I remembered from exercises during my SAS days. The pale-green slopes looked imposing and beautiful from this distance.
‘Robert Finlay?’ A voice from the door to the house startled me for a moment. I had been away in a world of my own.
I turned to where Julian Armstrong was standing. In his hand he clutched the cardboard document folder I had given to Rupert Reid. I waved. ‘Yes … nice place.’ I opened the ironwork garden gate. The rusty hinges squeaked, loudly.
‘Do I call you Robert or Finlay?’ he asked. ‘Rupert Reid tells me most people just use your last name.’
‘That’s true,’ I replied.
My host was one of life’s great enthusiasts. Everything about him exuded energy. He spoke quickly, moved hurriedly and did everything at speed. He even seemed able to make the kettle boil faster than anyone I had ever met. In the space of just ten minutes he gave me a guided tour of the house, a description of the outbuildings and a potted history of the local area. He couldn’t have been more thorough if he had been an estate agent trying to sell the place.
There was no-one else at home. I saw the doctor’s eyes sadden as he described how his wife had died of cancer just two months after they had finished making their home habitable. They had spent their last few weeks together, at the house, enjoying the views and taking ever-shortening walks as Mrs Armstrong’s strength had waned. In every room there were photographs of them together, from university days through to her final walk.
I’d noticed the Bob Bridges’ document was now lying on a small table just inside the front door. Finally, we returned to the front room and he picked it up.
‘I suppose we should talk about this?’ he said. ‘It is what you drove all this way for.’
‘Did you manage to translate it?’
‘I’m nearly halfway through it. Wasn’t easy, mind. It was written by different people, different languages and several dialects of those languages. Before I explain what it is, I need you to answer me a question, and please be honest. Can you tell me where you got hold of this document?’
I decided, instantly, to tell the truth. If the document was of any significance, I suspected Dr Armstrong would return the compliment.
‘A friend of mine died,’ I answered. ‘He had it amongst his personal effects. It was in a box left over from his time in the army.’
‘Special Forces was he, your friend?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Like you, I would guess, Finlay?’
I didn’t respond. Not being sure how much Rupert Reid had divulged, I didn’t allow myself to be drawn on the suggestion.
‘Have you ever heard of “Al Anfal”?’ Armstrong continued.
‘Rupert Reid asked me the same question.’ I said. ‘We thought it might be some kind of treasure … or an old terrorist group.’ I wondered now if Toni’s claim was about to be trashed.
‘It’s neither, although it would have great value in the right hands. You’re quite sure you’ve never had any contact with Al Anfal?’
‘No, none at all. It’s not a thing, then?’
‘No, it’s not a thing.’
‘I was planning to look it up on one of the internet search thingies, but I haven’t had the chance.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You type that name into a search engine and I guarantee that someone at GCHQ or similar will know about it.’
‘GCHQ? Are you telling me this is a document they’d be interested in?’
‘Yes … and no. It’s a secret document, yes … but it’s not a UK secret. I wouldn’t mind betting that each and every secret service in the world would love to get their hands on this. I’m just surprised it’s never surfaced before.’
‘Are you sure it’s not fiction, a work of fantasy, maybe?’ I quoted Toni, already thinking that her explanation was unravelling.
‘Definitely not. I could see how it might be mistaken for such but, trust me, it’s the real deal.’
‘You think the Intelligence Services will be looking for it?’
‘If they know about it, yes. That’s why I decided not to use the internet to
try and validate its authenticity. I prefer to use my reference books, in any event.’
‘Is it authentic?’
‘Based on what you say was its source, yes it certainly is.’
We talked for nearly an hour. Armstrong’s analysis was incredible to hear. It meant that whatever Toni Fellowes said or believed, the Al Anfal document was real.
My host confirmed Rupert’s analysis that the document was actually called ‘Political Jihad’. It contained guidance, ideas and historical anecdotes explaining how long-term takeover could only really be achieved by political means. Armed action was only justified where such a course supported a strategic aim. It represented an incredible insight into the true plans of people like Osama Bin Laden.
The doctor’s interpretation was that Al Anfal was more of a philosophy than an organisation, more of a policy than a plan. One chapter was called ‘Al-fath, the One Hundred Year Plan’. Armstrong explained that ‘Al-fath’ meant conquest. The chapter detailed an argument for wanting America – the great Satan – to attack Iraq and Iran, Egypt and Syria. And it suggested the same for Libya and the several other African countries. The aim was to create a power vacuum into which Islam could move and, thereby expand the areas that it covered. In the greater scheme of things, the documents showed that events like 9/11 were a distraction, and sometimes a bait, to entice Western powers into the Middle East.
The document, as a whole, was a very long-term plan to gain control of countries from the inside. It was devilishly straightforward, yet required infinite patience. It also needed to be kept absolutely secret.
‘You could call it a guide book on political control,’ he explained, ‘or to put it in simple terms, a step-by-step manual on how to take over the world.’
I laughed quietly at the ‘James Bond’ type plot suggestion. ‘A mate of mine was thinking of selling it to the newspapers,’ I said.
Armstrong held both his hands up in a gesture of horror. ‘No … no, you mustn’t do that.’
‘Too sensitive?’
‘If I were you, I would distance myself from it as quickly as possible. This document has the word “danger” written on every bloody page.’
‘Would simple possession of it put someone at risk?’ I was starting to think about the searches that had being going on – men in suits checking the homes of my old mates, looking for something.
‘Only if it was known you had it. The authors would certainly kill to protect it and, I’ve no doubt, the Security Services would be prepared to kill to get their hands on it.’
‘Or to keep knowledge of its existence a secret?’
‘Possibly.’
‘So we’re now at risk.’ I said.
‘Only if it is revealed that we know about it.’
‘So, what do you suggest?’
‘Destroy it … and then forget you ever saw it.’
‘It’s that sensitive?’ I asked.
‘For Christ’s sake, Finlay, this is why I needed to discuss this in person rather than over the telephone. If I’m right about this text, and I’m certain I am, then we have to destroy it. If I take it to the Security Services they are going to want to know where it came from, who had it and all the background. You want to be answering those types of questions?’
‘I guess not,’ I answered.
What Armstrong was saying made perfect sense, but I was too distracted. Toni had said her researcher, Nell, had an alternative theory on the deaths, and Kevin shared the idea. What if they were right? What if the document was the reason for the attacks? Anyone found with a copy would be toast.
‘Could we send it to MI5 anonymously?’ I asked, thinking – even as I spoke the words – that I was being naive.
Armstrong just stared at me, his eyebrows raised.
‘Burn it,’ I said.
Chapter 83
Time was pressing. I would have to move quickly if I was to get to Gloucester, do the interview and then get back to London.
As I left, Armstrong was already lighting up his log burner. The more I had listened to what the Doctor said, the more I realised why Bob Bridges had kept the document. If Bridges had managed to get even the smallest part of it translated then he would have known it would be of huge importance to the Security Services and of even greater interest to the press. It had value, if he could find a buyer. Perhaps, like Kevin, Bridges had imagined it was going to be a nice little contribution to his pension.
Flicking the phone menu through to Kevin’s number, I tapped the call button. The connection failed. No signal. Kevin wasn’t going to be best pleased, but I knew I had made the right decision. I didn’t have time to keep calling so I typed him a quick text.
‘Call me ASAP.’
It took me about an hour to reach Gloucester. The drive through the winding lanes of Monmouthshire and the Forest of Dean was scenic, if not as spectacular as the Black Mountains. Gloucester HQ was a fairly new building just south of the main city in an area called Quedgeley. I found it easily by following the local signs.
After parking the Citroen, I checked my phone. Kevin had replied.
Later OK? Bit busy watching Billy’s porn collection. I smiled to myself. If they were still doing that on the morning of the wedding, it was going to be an interesting day in Hereford.
The PC on the front counter at Gloucester was expecting me. No sooner had I introduced myself than I was shown through into an interview room and asked to wait. ‘Superintendent Russell wants to speak to you, sir,’ he said, before offering to fetch me a tea.
I accepted the offer of a brew and asked about the woman who had been brought in.
‘She’s being looked after in the rape suite. The Super called in the Domestic Violence team to help you talk to her.’
‘Does she need a translator?’ I asked.
‘No, she’s as English as you or me apparently, sir.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Your Superintendent? Could you ask him to give me a few minutes while I take a leak?’
‘Sure. But it’s not a ‘him’ sir, it’s a ‘her’.’
A figure appeared in the doorway, just behind the PC. I caught a glimpse of bright red hair, a uniform, and then the faint scent of a vaguely familiar perfume.
‘Hello, Robert.’
I knew the voice instantly. Wendy Russell.
Chapter 84
In many ways, policing can be a small world, so bumping in to old colleagues wasn’t unusual. But this was a treat; I knew Wendy well from when we had been on the same intake at Hendon Training School.
‘Well look who it isn’t,’ Wendy said, returning my smile.
She turned on her heel and suggested we started in her office.
‘Since when were you in CID, Finlay?’ she asked, as we climbed a set of stairs. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was your type of work.’
‘Long story,’ I said. ‘I left Royalty Protection a few weeks ago and then this job came up. It was too good to turn down. What about you? How have you been? I would have thought you would be a Chief Constable by now?’
‘I’m fine. And it’s a long story for me as well, mostly to do with quality of life. When I came here it was supposed to be a stepping stone. I found I liked it and decided to stay.’
As we reached the upper landing, Wendy explained that London had been in touch with instructions to keep the slave girl safe until one of their officers would arrive to debrief her. The girl was being looked after in the rape examination suite and any food or drink was brought in to her from the police canteen. There was a PC posted with her at all times and another guarding the outside of the door. Nobody was allowed in to see her without official sanction. Given the nature of the information that the girl claimed to possess, I thought they seemed sensible safeguards.
Wendy was her usual businesslike self. At the second floor, a young woman in a dark-blue suit was waiting for us. Wendy introduced her as DS Fleming and then walked through the open door into her office. Wendy sat down, rearranged some papers on the des
k and then indicated that Fleming and I should use the seating opposite her.
‘So, how did this girl come to our notice?’ I asked.
‘She was picked up on the motorway,’ said Fleming.
‘Hitchhiking?’
‘Not exactly,’ Wendy said. ‘Have you ever noticed those traffic cars that park up and watch the cars going by?’
‘Don’t we all,’ I said. ‘Everyone slows down as soon as they see them.’
‘Well, picture the scene. Middle of the night, two slightly bored traffic cops, engine running to keep themselves warm, watching the occasional car go by. One of them is paying attention, checking speeds, when a Mercedes goes past travelling just below the speed limit.’
‘And something happened?’
‘The PC doing the checks watches the tail lights as they disappear into the distance and notices they are flashing, as if they were faulty.’
‘So they stop the car?’
‘Not at first … the PC noticed a pattern to the flashing. Three short flashes, three long, three short.’
‘Morse code, S.O.S,’ I said.
‘Exactly. The girl they had slung in the boot had the presence of mind to signal for help by working the tail light wiring loose and then tapping it on and off like a flash light. When the traffic crew attempted a stop, the two men ran off into the darkness and were lost before backup could arrive.’
‘Good effort by the girl. They found her locked in the boot, I assume?’
‘She was,’ said Fleming as she opened a small folder on her lap.
‘Have you had a chance to interview her?’ I asked.
‘We have,’ replied Wendy. ‘After the two men decamped from the car, the night-duty CID spoke to her. To start with we thought it was an abduction, with the two men holding her prisoner in the boot of the car. It was only when we were able to get her to talk about the sex trafficking and she said she knew about a WPC who had been kept with her that we decided to call your guys. Since then she has been treated as a sex-crime victim. DS Fleming leads our local team.’