The Trap: terrorism, heroism and everything in between

by Alan Gibbons

  ‘Let’s put it down to experience. We should have had somebody round the back.’

  ‘So we underestimated Bashir?’

  Kate drops her old chewing gum into a dumpster and pops in a new stick.

  ‘That’s about the size of it. He let us think we had everything under control then, bang, he sprang his surprise.’

  She meets Jack by the car and reviews what they have.

  ‘Hamid and Faisal. Mm. That’s two pretty generic Muslim names. I doubt whether the computer will turn much up on them. Abu Jihad? A vanilla jihadi. Sounds a better bet. He may have come up on the radar in the recent past.’

  Her phone goes.

  ‘Yes?’

  Jack sees the look of disappointment.

  ‘No go on the registration number?’

  Kate shakes her head.

  ‘Looks like a cloned plate.’

  Jack drums his fingers on the roof of the car.

  ‘You know what this means? Bashir Mirza, Abu Rashid, Jamil Daud. That’s cell one. Hamid, Faisal, Abu Jihad. That looks like cell two. Our job just became more complicated.’

  They are still talking when Kate’s phone goes again. She answers, puts her hand over it and mouths a name.

  Jen.

  26

  Abu Rashid and Jamil Daud are on the move. Under cover of darkness, they slip out of the back door and make their way through the woods to a narrow country lane where Abu Rashid has left his car. They drive to Knebworth station and catch the train into London.

  In less than two hours they are walking through the door of the maisonette. Abu Rashid announces their arrival.

  ‘I’ve brought somebody to meet you, Jamil. He says he’s an old friend.’

  Jamil seems bewildered. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Then he sees who is sitting in a worn armchair in the corner of the room.

  ‘Majid! What the …?’

  Majid laughs.

  ‘What’s a little death between friends?’

  The two men embrace. Jamil has tears in his eyes. Majid’s familiar voice echoes around the room.

  ‘So you didn’t forget me then?’

  ‘How can you even ask? It’s good to see you, bruv.’

  Jamil stammers out a reaction.

  ‘You’re alive. How? I saw that video. It was on YouTube until they got it taken down. Everybody was dead. Everybody. I mean, how did you survive something like that?’

  ‘Allah spared me. I was standing over the prisoners, then boom. I came to twenty metres away with my face half burned off.’

  ‘Yes, I can see. So you got your battle scar. Does it hurt?’

  ‘Only when I laugh.’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘I get some discomfort on this side of my face. Other than that, I’ve fully recovered.’

  Jamil is babbling with excitement.

  ‘You were spared for a purpose. Where’s your phone, Abu Rashid? Show him the gun.’

  Majid’s eyes drift from Jamil to the other guy.

  ‘Gun?’

  So, not explosives. This is new. Abu Rashid shows him the picture of the gun. He is enjoying the attention when the feel of the phone in his hand reminds him of something he has to do.

  ‘Phone,’ he says. ‘I need the phone back, Majid – Bashir’s instructions.’

  Majid hands it over.

  ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you guys trust me?’

  ‘Of course we trust you, brother. You’re the Rocket Man. But it’s the same rule for everybody. Strictly radio silence from now on. Three days. Got that? Three days.’

  He turns to the group.

  ‘The Kuffs say never again. What do we say, mujahideen?’

  Fists punch the air and they chant. Majid chants as loudly and eagerly as everybody else.

  ‘Again, again, again.’

  27

  TUESDAY, 5TH JULY

  ‘We’ve screwed up. We’ve screwed up big time. First the London safe house, now bloody Hertfordshire. Everybody we’ve been watching is on the move and we don’t know where. The word “surveillance” is in A4 surveillance team for a reason.’

  Jack Cole frowns for Kate to keep her voice down.

  ‘What’s the time, Jack?’

  He glances at his watch.

  ‘Twelve seventeen.’

  ‘The CTC meeting started at nine. Jen said she would be back by half past eleven. I don’t like this.’

  Jack is on edge himself. The CTC is the Counter-Terrorist Committee, established in the immediate aftermath of nine/ eleven. It comprises the Home Office, the Metropolitan Police, the signals intelligence centre, GCHQ and the security services MI5 and MI6.

  ‘We’ve got two terrorist cells on the loose and nobody knows where the hell either of them are. This is a foul-up of titanic proportions. Either Bashir Mirza is a very lucky man or a tactical genius. Neither option gives me much comfort.’

  Kate stares at the large screen at the front of the briefing room in the heart of Thames House.

  Regnum Defende.

  Defend the Realm.

  We have to succeed every time.

  They only have to succeed once.

  At that moment stiletto heels click in the corridor outside and Jen Sherbourne walks in alone. She proceeds straight to the front of the room and slots a memory stick into the laptop. A new menu replaces the MI5 crest. There are no formalities.

  ‘You may know that I have come here straight from the CTC. It would be an understatement to say that the Minister is angry. The word “ballistic” might sum it up more accurately. The service is in the spotlight.’

  She uses her clicker to bring up a series of slides.

  ‘This is Jamil Daud, twenty-one years old. Not the brightest blade of grass in the lawn, according to his school reports, but a convinced jihadi.’

  Second slide.

  ‘This is David Obi, a twenty-eight-year-old man of Nigerian descent from East London. He has no criminal convictions and seems to have been radicalised while at university. Acquaintances have testified to his cold, impersonal nature. He goes by the name Abu Rashid.’

  Jen trains her ice-cold eyes on her audience then brings up the next slide.

  ‘For those of you unfamiliar with him, this is Bungee – aka Majid Sarwar, twenty-one years old. Bungee is Kate’s agent. We have lost contact with him. We assume Bashir Mirza is preventing the use of mobile phones as they prepare their attack on the seven/seven commemoration.’

  Next slide.

  ‘There is some cause for caution, however. This is Majid Sarwar’s younger brother, Amir, sixteen years old. Amir was arrested during a demonstration outside a London mosque on Saturday.’

  A murmur goes round the room.

  ‘The police have made a referral under Prevent’s Channel scheme. It is only a matter of time before the media makes the connection with Bungee.’

  A man at the back of the room raises his hand.

  ‘Let me get this straight. One brother goes to fight in Syria. The other comes up on the radar here. That is two extremists in the same family. On what grounds are we trusting Bungee?’

  Jen hears him out.

  ‘We have no evidence that Amir has been radicalised. For the time being, we will proceed on the assumption that Bungee is our asset, but we must be prepared to act on the alternative explanation for this period of silence. He gave us information. It could all be false.’

  Next slide.

  ‘This is what we know about the alleged second cell. We have three names: Hamid, Faisal and Abu Jihad.’

  ‘As yet, we have no more information.’

  She takes a breath.

  Next slide.

  ‘Last but not least, meet our ringleader, Bashir Mirza.’

  Bashir’s name gets a reaction.

  ‘He is thirty years old. He actively groomed Majid Sarwar and Jamil Daud. We believe Bashir to be extremely dangerous. He has a string of convictions for drug offences and violence, including putting a police of
ficer in hospital for six weeks.

  ‘Bashir Mirza is intelligent and ruthless. He has had contact with Turkish drug gangs in the past. He seems to have learned his logistical skills from them. Are there any questions?’

  ‘What are their targets?’

  Next slide.

  ‘You are all familiar with the images of July seventh, 2005. Bashir Mirza seems to want to enact a repeat. It would be the most extreme provocation ever carried out on British soil.’

  Next slide.

  The image provokes another hum of apprehension around the room.

  ‘We fear that the attack on the commemoration may only be phase one of a more sophisticated plan. Many of you will recognise the Manchester Central Convention Centre, built on the site of the old Manchester Central Railway Station. It is here that the Home Secretary will address the Anti-terrorist Alliance Conference on Saturday afternoon.’

  She lets the details sink in. ‘Here’s the bottom line, people. We have lost track of two dangerous cells. They may be planning not one, but two spectaculars: in other words, a coordinated multi-target assault. We have to find them and put them out of action.’

  She removes the memory stick and heads for the door.

  ‘Let’s get to work.’

  28

  Karen Morgan has just made a connection. She is ambitious and intelligent and she may just have stumbled across the story that will secure her a move up from the local paper on which she has worked for six months to the nationals. It is the name of the boy arrested at the England Awakes march.

  Sarwar.

  Amir Sarwar.

  The moment she read the copy from her colleague, she could feel her skin tingle with anticipation. Her last job was on another small local rag, six miles across the city. Their biggest story was about a local guy, a medical student, who took off to Syria and died fighting for the Islamic State. She has followed a digital trail and it has led her from a mouthy sixteen-year-old on a demonstration to a much bigger fish.

  She murmurs a name to herself and makes a call.

  ‘Mark? Hi, it’s Karen. Yes, I’m good. I know, long time no see.’ Mark used to fancy her rotten and he is obviously hoping this phone call is pleasure, not business. ‘Anyhow, can I pick your brains about something?’

  She hears the disappointment in his voice. A short phone conversation tells her everything she needs to know. She spends the next half-hour checking and double-checking. With each confirmation, her pulse rate quickens.

  ‘Gotcha!’

  Five minutes later, she is sitting across the desk from her editor, Tom Carrick.

  ‘So what have you got, Karen? What makes Amir Sarwar so important?’

  ‘He isn’t important in himself, Tom, but I found an article from last year. It’s about his brother.’

  Karen reads out loud:

  ‘Two British citizens have died fighting for Syrian rebels linked to Islamic State, amid fears that the country’s civil war is radicalising young people in the United Kingdom.’

  Tom stares at Karen and starts to laugh.

  ‘You and your sixth sense, eh?’

  She reads on:

  ‘Two of the Britons, both from London, were killed in a rocket attack near Raqaa, an Islamic State stronghold. They were among a dozen British extremists fighting for the rebel group, also known as ISIL or Daesh. The men are named as Yusuf Al-Suri and … Majid Sarwar, both twenty.’

  ‘You’re quite sure this Majid Sarwar is Amir’s brother?’

  ‘They’re brothers all right.’ She hands him a print-off. ‘Same address. Here’s a family photo.’ She is enjoying watching Tom’s reaction. Two more printed sheets land on his desk. ‘Here is corroboration.’

  Tom examines everything carefully.

  There is no mistake.

  29

  Majid feels somebody kicking his bare foot and opens his eyes. Bashir is grinning down at him.

  ‘I hope you slept well.’

  ‘This sofa wasn’t built for a six-footer,’ Majid grumbles.

  Abu Rashid is asleep in the armchair opposite.

  ‘He could sleep on a washing line. There is as much life in him as a sack of rice,’ says Bashir, delivering the same non-too-subtle wake-up call to Abu Rashid. Then he rouses Jamil, who is curled up in a sleeping bag on the floor.

  ‘We’ve got to go. Now.’

  Faisal has just walked in the room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes like a little boy.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Bashir scowls.

  ‘You know better than to ask.’

  Majid’s mind is racing. There are two days to go. If he does what Bashir says, countless people will die. He has to push it.

  ‘That’s not good enough, Bashir.’

  The shock around the room is so heavy he could touch it.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘We’re not kids. Either you let the rest of us in on this plan of yours or I walk. Warriors fight best when they understand their mission.’

  Bashir’s eyes blaze with indignation.

  ‘What gives you the right to question me, Majid?’

  He is aware of Abu Rashid, Jamil and Faisal watching. OK, Kate, this is me pushing it.

  ‘What about a year on the battlefield, months recovering from my injuries? How long did you spend on the front line, my brother?’

  Majid’s neck is burning. Has he overdone it? Bashir’s gaze roves round the room. Everybody is waiting to see how he reacts to this challenge to his authority. He reaches into his pocket and Majid’s nerves melt. To his relief, Bashir laughs out loud and slaps him on the shoulder. Majid sees what Bashir has taken from his pocket. He is gripping his phone.

  ‘Do you see? This is what jihad does to a man. I sent a boy to war. He returned a mujahid.’

  Majid rejects the crude attempt at flattery.

  ‘The plan, Bashir. You’re asking us to be martyrs, but you don’t give us respect. What’s the plan?’

  Faisal is the one who speaks.

  ‘In two days we surrender our lives to Allah: me, Hamid, Abu Jihad. Does that answer your question?’

  ‘Just you three?’

  ‘Just us.’

  Majid turns shocked eyes on Bashir.

  ‘And the rest of us?’

  ‘The commemoration is only stage one, Majid. Remember this?’

  He mimics the sound of an automatic rifle. Jamil frowns.

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  Faisal shakes his head and goes to a cupboard.

  ‘Is this enough explanation for you?’

  He is holding a suicide vest. Majid’s flesh crawls. Bashir rests a hand on Faisal’s shoulder.

  ‘Stage one. The bomber.’

  He walks to Majid and forces the phone in front of his face. ‘Stage two. The shooter. This is why we wanted you. You’ve got experience on the battlefield. You’re the main man.’

  Experience on the battlefield? Yusuf forced a gun into his hands, got him to train, got him to fight. Majid stares at the image then hands the phone back.

  Majid is back on an exposed hillside just a few miles from Raqaa, standing over the three Al Nusra fighters. First you fight side by side. Then Omar tells you to put a bullet in the back of each man’s head. This is their jihad.

  You become the executioner of your own brothers.

  30

  Majid has the address. Now he needs a phone. Bashir isn’t going to make it easy. When Majid went to brush his teeth, Bashir told him to leave the door open. ‘Just precautions.’ He said it with a wink that gave Majid no comfort.

  They walk to the tube, each of the four men keeping an eye on the other three. They travel two stops and pick up Bashir’s latest vehicle from a private car park. There is no opportunity to get a message to Kate. Now they are driving north. All the signs are for the M1.

  Time to press it again. Majid stretches, trying to look casual.

  ‘We still haven’t eaten,’ he reminds Bashir.

  They pull over a
t a fried chicken restaurant called Chik Chik Chicken. Majid cracks a joke.

  ‘I hear this one’s got a Michelin star.’

  There are only six tables. Most of the trade is in takeaways. There has to be a way to contact Kate, let her know what’s going down. He sees a man going through the back door. Bashir is at the counter, ordering the food. Majid sees his chance.

  ‘I need to take a leak.’

  Jamil is staring out of the window. Abu Rashid shrugs.

  ‘You don’t need my permission.’

  Majid crosses to the door, hoping Bashir hasn’t noticed. There is another man, washing his hands. Majid has to be quick. The instant Bashir sees he’s gone, he will be in here like a flash.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Majid says. ‘Can I ask a favour?’

  The man, a black guy in his thirties, looks at him with a certain amount of suspicion.

  ‘I need to make a call. Could I borrow your phone? Thirty seconds max. I’ll pay for it.’ Remembering Jamil, he adds, ‘It’s my mum. She’s got cancer.’

  The man’s features relax.

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ He hands over his phone. ‘Take as long as you like.’

  Majid rings Kate’s number, the one she told him to memorise in case of emergencies. She picks up on the third ring.

  ‘Where are you?’

  Majid’s eyes are on the door. His throat is tight with anxiety.

  ‘Chicken joint. Look, I don’t have long. The first cell is going to hit the commemoration. They are at this address.’

  There is silence while Kate makes a note. Majid can’t take his eyes off the door.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘He’s got something else planned for us. No details yet.’

  ‘Where’s he taking you? Any clues?’

  He sees the phone’s owner staring and rushes out an answer.

  ‘North, I think. I’ve got to go.’

  He kills the call and hands the phone back.

  ‘Your mum, you say?’ the guy grunts. ‘That isn’t how I talk to mine.’

  He walks out, clearly angry. Bashir comes through the open door.

  ‘What are you doing here, Majid? You’ve been a while.’

  ‘What, are you timing me now?’

  Majid sounds tough, but he wants to throw up. He washes his hands, fighting the shake in his fingers. His legs are like jelly. Bashir considers him for a moment.