The Trap: terrorism, heroism and everything in between

by Alan Gibbons

  ‘You say you want to do something. You are ready to risk your life to stop Bashir Mirza. Here’s the thing: I want to be crystal clear about your motives. Not so long ago, you thought the British state was your sworn enemy. Why would you want to help us?’

  He was looking at her as if she had crawled out from under a stone.

  ‘I want the violence to stop. I want peace. Is that so hard to understand?’

  ‘Why the sudden conversion to peace?’

  ‘I thought I was bringing down a dictator. I went out to provide medical support. It got … complicated.’

  Kate pursed her lips.

  ‘Complicated? We have footage of you holding an automatic weapon.’

  ‘It was self-defence: kill or be killed. Have you seen what a barrel bomb can do?’

  ‘Don’t try to shift the argument, Majid. There is footage of you standing over bound men. That is hardly self-defence. What made you walk away?’

  Majid persisted in his explanation.

  ‘I was unable to make a difference out there in Syria. It was utter horror.’

  Still Kate picked away at everything he said.

  ‘You took up arms. You chose to go to war. You were willing to kill.’

  ‘I wanted to fight the dictator, not my own brothers. I wanted to defend women and children, not …’

  ‘Not abuse them.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You decided Bashir had used you?’

  Majid’s face twisted, as if in pain.

  ‘He lied to me. Misled me. Betrayed me. He made me feel like a hero, put me on a pedestal; then he threw me to the ground. All I found out there was blood and shame.’

  Kate knew it was time to go for the kill.

  ‘But you think you can make a difference at home?’

  ‘Maybe.’ There was a hesitation. ‘I can do something you can’t. I can find the man you want.’

  ‘Bashir is intent on bloodshed. Can you help us stop him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Everything hinged on Kate’s judgement.

  ‘Kate?’

  Jen’s voice scatters her memories, pulling her back into the room in Thames House. Kate knows what to say.

  ‘Bungee is ours. He is sickened by what he saw in Syria. He had a young man’s dream. It didn’t turn out the way he expected.’

  Jen’s face gives nothing away. After three decades in the service she has learned to play her cards close to her chest.

  ‘That doesn’t make him a loyal servant to the British state.’

  ‘Can I speak frankly, Jen?’

  ‘Feel free.’

  ‘I have heard you criticise the war on terror yourself. You said it was a blunt instrument.’

  Jen is not fazed.

  ‘What’s your point, Kate?’

  ‘If you, a senior figure in state security, can think the war on terror became a war of terror …’

  Jen’s face registers displeasure.

  ‘I never went that far, Kate.’

  ‘OK, if you think the war on terror is part of the reason for the problems we have now, imagine how a young Muslim feels.’

  ‘Don’t preach to me, Kate, and don’t make excuses for your protégé. I am aware that your sympathies are on the liberal end of the spectrum. The war on terror does not excuse violent extremism. Let’s cut to the chase. Convince me that Bungee is still our man.’

  Kate makes her pitch.

  ‘He went to Syria to protect women and children. In however distorted a way, he thought he was fighting oppression. He saw himself as somebody who was on the side of the angels.’

  Jen interrupts.

  ‘He fought alongside militants who would go on to butcher innocents. Would you like me to list their crimes: the beheadings, the torture, the massacres, the abuse of women?’

  Kate glances at Jack for support. For now, he holds his peace.

  Kate continues, ‘Bungee believed in a cause, like millions of others throughout history. Bashir Mirza convinced him of that cause and it became a nightmare. He hates his former mentor for that.’

  Finally, Jack speaks. Kate has always had him down as somebody who placed his career before his convictions. To her surprise, he is on her side.

  ‘Bungee has put his neck on the line, reporting Bashir’s plans to us. I trust Kate’s judgement.’

  ‘You’ve read Nabil’s report?’

  ‘I have, and I have spoken to Nabil about it. There are signs of instability, that’s true, but this is a young guy. Bungee is under stress. Who wouldn’t be shaky in the circumstances?’

  ‘So you concur with Kate? We take his words on face value?’

  Jack appears to consider the question carefully before answering.

  ‘Yes.’

  Jen nods.

  ‘Fine. Let’s get to work.’

  10

  Rose Cottage is set back from a country lane, along an uneven track. In this part of rural Hertfordshire there are farms, an equestrian centre and a number of B&Bs. They are a mile away. There is nobody to watch the comings and goings. Rose Cottage belongs to a local farmer. He let it out to a smartly dressed, well-spoken man in his early thirties, somebody in financial difficulties and grateful for the generous amount of cash he received for making the booking. Its occupants are two Asian men: Jamil and Bashir. The third member of the group is a man of Nigerian descent, David, who prefers to use the nom de guerre Abu Rashid. After breakfast and prayers, Abu Rashid opens the door, gets in the car and drives off without a word.

  ‘Where’s he going?’

  Bashir watches the car bumping along the track towards the lane before replying to Jamil.

  ‘He’s got things to do.’

  Jamil isn’t satisfied with that.

  ‘I’m the last man standing.’

  Bashir stiffens and turns round.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m talking about the little group you put together back in the day. There were four of us when we first met, Bashir. Yusuf, Majid and yours truly. Now it’s just you and me.’

  There is an edge to his voice. Jamil would never be bold enough to accuse Bashir of using him, but there is a hint of accusation in his tone. What Jamil wants is trust. Bashir interprets his words differently.

  ‘Do you wish you had chosen martyrdom like them? I offered to help with your passage.’

  Jamil sidesteps the question.

  ‘They both got to fight. People will remember them. All I do is sit around places like this.’

  Bashir points out of the window at a sunlit valley.

  ‘When did you ever sit around somewhere like this before, city boy?’

  It is true, of course. The rural scene before them might as well be an alien landscape. Jamil has spent his entire life in the estates of inner London, amid the traffic congestion, streetlights and wail of sirens. The first night here he stood marvelling at the star-studded sky, wondering how there could be so many winking lights in the heavens. He felt tiny and insignificant before the majesty of the universe. Now he feels equally insignificant in Bashir’s eyes.

  ‘You keep telling me we’re going to hit back at the enemy, make the world sit up and notice, but nothing ever happens.’

  Bashir sits down, crosses his legs and folds his arms.

  ‘Something will happen. Soon.’

  ‘That’s it? Soon? I’m not some stupid kid.’

  Bashir uncrosses his legs, plants his feet apart and rests his arms on his thighs. He leans forward, scrutinising Jamil, lips forming a tight, ill-tempered line.

  ‘So you want to know what’s going down?’

  ‘You want me to be a mujahid. I deserve to know.’

  Bashir nods, head and shoulders moving slowly.

  ‘Fine. All I have to say is seven/seven.’

  Jamil takes a moment to understand.

  ‘We’re going to hit the anniversary?’

  ‘Got it in one, Einstein. We are ready, Jamil.’

  Bashir glances at the calendar on the wall
. It hasn’t been changed since March. He tears off the pages until he comes to July.

  ‘We will make it the month of the martyrs.’

  WINTER, 2013

  Majid braced himself and turned the key in the lock. He breathed a sigh of relief when he entered an empty house. Bashir called from the car.

  ‘Get the rest of your stuff. We’ve things to do.’

  Majid nodded and jogged upstairs. He went straight to the drawer and rummaged around until he found his passport. That’s when he heard Bashir hit the horn. By the time he had reached the foot of the stairs there was Dad.

  He took a step forward.

  ‘I saw Bashir outside.’

  ‘Let’s not quarrel, Dad. I just came back for some stuff.’

  Dad looked suspicious.

  ‘What stuff? Your hands are empty.’

  ‘Dad, I’m going.’

  As he tried to push past, Dad grabbed his sleeve.

  ‘Don’t walk away, Majid. You are breaking your mother’s heart.’

  Dad picked up a letter from the hall table.

  ‘This is from the university. You’ve been missing lectures. What do you think you’re doing? You are throwing your whole life down the toilet.’

  ‘Bashir is my university now, Dad. I’m learning things you never told me.’

  A frown darkened his father’s features.

  ‘What are you talking about? What can you learn from a cheap gangster?’

  Majid shook his head.

  ‘You can’t even imagine, can you? I am learning about the Americans and their Zionist-crusader allies. I am learning about the apostate Gulf Arab states. They’re the global gangsters. I never understood why Muslims were targeted until now.’

  ‘What is wrong with you, Majid? You are talking in slogans.’

  ‘I am telling the truth, Dad. Live your life of obedience if you like, but I will not stand by while my Muslim brothers and sisters are slaughtered.’

  His father persists.

  ‘Stay. Your mother is worried.’

  ‘This isn’t home any more. For the first time in my life I have a purpose. I mean something.’

  Majid’s words provoked a groan of dismay from his father.

  ‘You always meant something. You are my son. That man is brainwashing you.’

  Majid shrugged him away.

  ‘I will make my jihad my own way, Abbu-ji.’

  Horror filled his father’s eyes.

  ‘Jihad. You don’t know the meaning of the word. What are you saying?’

  ‘There is an obligation to defend women and children. I have skills. I can save lives.’

  ‘You have only studied medicine for two years. What do you think you can do? Majid, this is madness.’

  ‘Do you want to know what madness really is?’ Majid retorted. ‘It is madness to live quietly in the house of your enemy while your brothers and sisters die. London is a prison. I feel as if I have a noose round my neck. What is there here for me? I want freedom, honour. I want my life to mean something.’

  Majid had opened the front door now, and he and his father were standing on the step. He was aware of Bashir watching from the car. His mentor didn’t like the raised voices, drawing the attention of neighbours. Majid’s voice faltered and he looked round at Bashir.

  ‘We need to go.’

  11

  FRIDAY, 1ST JULY

  Abu Rashid is back. He senses a problem and flashes a silent question with his eyes. Bashir raises a finger to his lips.

  ‘I’m going to tell you something. Don’t react.’

  Abu Rashid glances at Jamil then back at Bashir.

  ‘What is this? Why are the curtains closed?’

  Bashir tugs at the corner of the curtain.

  ‘We’ve got company. See those trees? There’s a surveillance team in the lane beyond.’

  ‘Special Branch?’

  ‘Most likely Five. I saw one of them earlier.’

  ‘Do they know they’re rumbled?’

  ‘I don’t think so. My guess is it’s just a watching brief. There won’t be a raid unless there is something to find. Now to business. The consignment, did you see it?’

  Abu Rashid is sweating.

  ‘Yes, the packages have come.’

  ‘Packages?’ Jamil says, glancing from Abu Rashid to Bashir. ‘What packages?’

  Abu Rashid produces his phone and brings up a photo. It shows a machine pistol.

  ‘It’s the guns. I got to see a sample.’

  Bashir scowls.

  ‘You took a photo? You were meant to check the quality of the merchandise and that’s all.’ He seems twitchy. ‘Not a word until we’ve got some background noise.’

  He turns the TV on. Loud. The three men cluster round, keeping their voices low. Abu Rashid’s eyes betray a measure of excitement.

  ‘To be specific,’ Abu Rashid continues, ‘I got to see a Škorpion vz.Sixty-one sub-machine-gun. These babies are light and easy to use. More importantly, you can carry them like pistols. They’re perfect.’

  Jamil stares excitedly at the photo.

  ‘Have you got the guns?’

  Abu Rashid and Bashir react visibly. Abu Rashid registers his irritation.

  ‘Not with me. Do I look like I was born yesterday? I got to examine a sample. The rest are going into storage now the deal is made. Only Bashir knows where.’

  Jamil pounces on the admission.

  ‘So Bashir doesn’t trust you either?’

  Bashir reaches out and taps Jamil’s forehead with his finger.

  ‘Only one member of the cell gets to know the location of the weapons. It’s basic security.’

  ‘I was only asking.’

  Bashir gives Jamil’s shoulder a bump.

  ‘What’s with all the questions? I thought we’d told you, everything is on a need-to-know basis. I need to know.’ It’s his turn to jab Jamil with his finger. ‘You don’t.’

  His eyes stray around the walls of the cottage and he wags a finger at his surroundings. ‘This has all been swept for devices, yeah?’

  Abu Rashid looks insulted.

  ‘I told you. We didn’t give Five a chance to bug the place. It’s clean.’ He glances outside. ‘We’re out of range of any listening devices.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  12

  Kate is processing the information that has just come in from the surveillance team: snatches of poor quality chatter picked up by a bug, grainy long-distance shots of Abu Rashid arriving, earlier CCTV footage of him having a meet with two men, both unidentified. It is confirmation of what Majid told her. She circles a couple of words from the patchy script: July, martyrs, packages. They all add up to one thing.

  Terrorist status: Critical.

  Risk of attack imminent.

  A call interrupts her train of thought. It’s Majid.

  ‘You must be a mind-reader.’

  ‘Come again?’

  His voice is shaky, fractious.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Kate, I don’t know if I can do this. Bashir is suspicious.’

  ‘Suspicious how?’

  Majid is on edge. There is no mistaking his unease.

  ‘OK, it’s just a gut feeling. It’s the way he looks at me.’

  Kate moves to reassure him. The material on her desk says Majid is more important than ever. They have a date. They need a time and place. She has to be in control. Without Majid, Five will be whistling in the dark and the attack could be days away. The surveillance team had eyes on Abu Rashid, but he lost them in a shopping mall. Bashir Mirza’s team is always one step ahead. Its members slip out of sight for hours at an end, but Five’s resources are stretched.

  ‘Can you give me concrete proof that he suspects you?’

  ‘No. It’s just a feeling. Kate, I’ve got to get out of here.’

  Kate’s been here before. Irritable Agent Syndrome.

  ‘No, you don’t, Majid. What you�
�re doing takes courage, but it’s the right thing. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Bashir wants to kill and maim innocent people. You said you wanted to stop him.’

  Majid is over the worst.

  ‘OK, OK.’

  He is back from the brink. She can steady him. She has to.

  ‘Have you done anything to make him suspect you?’

  This time the reply is prompt. Kate sucks in a deep breath. She has stemmed Majid’s slide into panic.

  ‘No, nothing. I’m not stupid.’

  ‘Then you need to relax. We’re watching you.’ She doesn’t mention the way they were watching Abu Rashid and lost him. ‘We’re here for you, you’ve got to believe that.’

  She wants him to know the service is his support system. He has to believe. He distrusts the security services as an institution so he has to have faith in his handler. The sense of attachment is crucial. ‘There is an A4 surveillance team watching your every move. We are ready to move in at a moment’s notice. You’ve got time on your hands. Try not to dwell on things.’

  She can hear the suppressed anger in Majid’s voice.

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. I’m the one in the hot seat.’

  Kate concentrates on steadying his nerves.

  ‘This is the worst time, when you are waiting for things to happen. It’s natural that you’re a bit worried, but we’ve got your back.’

  She wonders whether she is reassuring him too much, but he barely notices. She goes on, ‘We’ll be with you every step of the way. We walked you through it, remember?’

  They are beginning to go over the same ground.

  ‘Have there been any more developments, any clues about the target?’

  ‘No. Bashir is keeping me in the dark. I just can’t help feeling they know something.’

  That again.

  ‘It doesn’t mean they’re suspicious of you. This is the whole purpose of a cell structure. Decision-making lies with the fewest number possible. Leaks are minimised.’

  ‘OK.’ Majid’s voice is calmer. ‘What about my family? You promised to keep an eye on them. I need to know they’re safe.’

  Kate has been here before, trying to reassure an asset when there is nothing she can do. It makes her skin crawl every time, but her job is to save lives. She has no new information about his family. She made the usual promises, but resources are stretched thinly and it isn’t a priority. She doesn’t tell him any of this. There is no point.