Critical Threat hc-10

by Nick Oldham

  Donaldson took him to a door marked ‘toilet’ and said, ‘Get in there, wash yourself off, and I’ll be back in a few minutes with some new clothing for you.’

  Henry complied and found himself in a tiled loo with a couple of wash basins and mirrors. He leaned on a basin and stared at his reflection. His eyes were sunken, his whole visage a scarred, swollen mess. His cheek was swollen and purple and he thought he could see it throbbing.

  There was blood streaked all over him.

  He slid his leather jacket off and had a look at the slashed arm, grateful that Kate had brought it for him when he’d set off for London. Its thickness had probably saved him from being seriously wounded. Four hundred quid to replace, he thought sourly, pulled his shirt off and tossed it on the floor. It needed to be incinerated. Then he got to work, washing himself down, aware that his jeans were a mess.

  The water did little for him, other than to clean off the excess blood and make him look a little more presentable.

  Donaldson reappeared bearing a change of clothing over his arm.

  ‘These should all fit you,’ he said and handed it all over — jeans, T-shirt, boxer shorts, socks. Henry stripped in front of him and stepped into the fresh, clean clothes, which fitted him snugly. ‘Sorry, but I ain’t got any trainers for you. You’ll have to stick with the ones you’ve got.’

  ‘No worries,’ Henry said.

  The toilet door opened and a pretty, white-coated black woman in her late twenties entered, a stethoscope dangling around her neck and a notepad in one hand.

  ‘Walking wounded,’ Donaldson said, nodding at Henry, who managed a pathetic smile. ‘This is Dr Arlene Chambers, Henry. She’ll give you a quick once-over, see if your brain has been permanently damaged or not.’

  ‘Hi,’ she said brightly. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Er … been in a fight, was well on the way to losing it, got slashed by a knife.’ He held up his left hand, which he had washed and was bleeding again. ‘And got whacked in the face.’

  ‘OK — let’s have a look at you.’ She turned to Donaldson. ‘Karl, a bit of privacy, please.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said, and Henry saw the doctor quiver with pleasure and flutter her eyelashes. He reversed out and left them alone. Dr Chambers began a fairly thorough inspection, concluding with taping up the cut on Henry’s hand.

  ‘That cheekbone is undoubtedly broken. An X-ray will confirm it, but that’s one thing we don’t have here. Your hand could do with stitching, but those strips will hold it together for the time being … I know you’re not going to have time to go to hospital just yet.’

  ‘I’m not?’ Henry exclaimed.

  ‘The rest is just bruising, soreness and swelling — all the usual things you get when you fight. These will help with the pain.’ She handed him two tablets as big as pebbles. ‘Army issue — very effective.’

  ‘If you can swallow them.’

  The door opened and Donaldson came back in. ‘Finished?’

  ‘He’s all yours,’ the doctor said, smiled at Henry, looked up gooey-eyed at Donaldson, and left them.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Never better.’ Henry put his mouth to a tap, filled it with water, then swallowed the tablets with a bit of difficulty.

  ‘I think you’re only supposed to have one,’ Donaldson said.

  Henry shrugged.

  ‘Follow me.’ Donaldson led him back out into the corridor and in through a door which had ‘The Swamp’ scribbled on it. Beyond was a large office with a big window, blinds drawn. A roomy old settee dominated one wall and three easy-looking armchairs and two plastic chairs made up the rest of the seating. A microwave, oven, kettle, coffee-maker, toaster, fridge and an array of loaves of bread, packets of bagels, jam, marmalade, peanut butter, tea, coffee and milk cartons covered a worktop next to the sink. This was obviously a chill-out room.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Donaldson said, and Henry lowered himself gratefully into one of the armchairs as the American boiled the kettle and made two mugs of instant coffee, handing one to Henry.

  ‘Fuck, I’m sore,’ Henry said, adjusting his position.

  ‘You look it … but Arlene’s magic medicine will work wonders in no time, especially a double dose of it.’

  Henry raised his eyebrows. Chit-chat time was over.

  ‘OK — quick story from me,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘The American Secretary of State is visiting the north of England at the request of your Foreign Secretary, who is also your local Member of Parliament.’

  ‘That much I know.’

  ‘She’s due to reach Lancashire this afternoon after visiting Liverpool,’ Donaldson said. He settled his big frame into the seat next to Henry, crossed his long, muscular legs. ‘As you can imagine, the security arrangements are way up there.’ His index finger pointed skywards.

  ‘I QA-d the Operational Order,’ Henry said.

  ‘That only tells half the story … no doubt you are aware that your English cops and security services have been in constant contact with their American counterparts?’ His voice rose at the end of the sentence with that curious American inflection that seemed to make every statement a question. ‘Even if the world wasn’t in the state it is, the security arrangements for the visit would still be massive and as it is, they’re well beyond that.’

  ‘But there’s more?’ Henry prompted.

  ‘Much more,’ Donaldson said gravely. ‘Think you can stand up?’

  They were in a darkened room, two rows of chairs, five in each row, facing the front where there was a brightly lit, but blank, projector screen. Henry sat in the middle of the front row, the only member of the audience. Donaldson stood at the front of the room to one side of the screen, bending to look at the keys of a laptop computer, hooked up to a data projector, which was throwing bright light on to the screen.

  Donaldson spoke as he faffed around with the computer, occasionally muttering something about ‘hi-tech shit’ under his breath. ‘This will have to be quick, Henry, and I make no apologies for that … shit! … computers!’ he tapped a few keys, then said, ‘Ahh, here we are … found it.’ He picked up a remote mouse and sat next to Henry. ‘Since your Foreign Secretary visited Condoleezza Rice in her hometown of Birmingham, Alabama last year, we’ve known she was invited back by him to visit this backwater … so far, so OK. Our security service, your security service, start to get heads together with the politicos to arrange the visit. High profile, lots of cops, lots of spooks. However, a seed of information came to light, then blossomed into a flower, if you will.’ He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the metaphor. ‘An arrest was made in Spain … do you recall the Madrid train bombing?’

  ‘Who could forget that?’ The carnage wrought on a morning commuter train into that city, bombs exploded by Islamic extremists, killing and maiming many.

  ‘To this day suspects are being pulled in. Two months ago Spanish police arrested a guy suspected of involvement and interrogated him-’

  ‘Interrogated?’

  ‘OK, tortured him,’ Donaldson said flippantly. ‘Turns out he was very peripheral to the actual bombings.’

  ‘Because torture always elicits the truth?’

  Donaldson gave him a cold look. ‘Don’t get all moral high ground with me, pal,’ he warned Henry, who shuddered. It was a definite shot across the bows. ‘We don’t have time for any of that.’

  ‘OK.’ Henry shrugged, chastened, but experiencing something very nasty crawling through his lower intestine.

  ‘This guy dropped some names, one of which was this fella.’ Donaldson pointed the mouse at the computer. A face appeared on the screen. It was a grainy, black and white head-shot of a bearded man of Middle-Eastern origin. The sort of photo Henry had seen hundreds of times in the media over the last few years, particularly after 9/11. Dark-haired, bearded, staring, deadly eyes peering out accusingly.

  Clicking the mouse again, a caption slid across the screen a
ccompanied by a sound effect: a machine gun firing. It made Henry jump.

  ‘Mohammed Ibrahim Akbar,’ Donaldson said. ‘That’s only one of his names, by the way — he’s got dozens of others. And just so you know where I’m coming from, I’ve been hunting this son of a bitch down ever since he was involved in the bombing of the Nairobi embassy in ’98 … as well as doing my day job. Two of my closest friends died that day.’

  ‘I never knew,’ Henry said simply.

  ‘You didn’t have to.’

  Something else. Another hidden facet to Karl Donaldson which slightly scared Henry.

  ‘Anyway, he’s been on the FBI most wanted list for maybe eight years now. He’s an Al-Qaeda enforcer, very, very skilled at brainwashing, explosives, firearms, torture, a superb marksman and good at killing people at close quarter … connected to many atrocities around the world, both as a planner and executioner, if you will. Extremely good at his job. And one of Osama Bin Laden’s top travelling men.’ The words were tinged with a grudging respect. ‘But if I didn’t have a day job, and I’d been given the permission, I’d’ve tracked the bastard down by now single-handed,’ Donaldson said bitterly, with no bravado. ‘Do you recall the American journalist kidnapped in Pakistan last year, guy called Lonsdale, a Reuters man?’

  Henry shook his head. There were so many, a new kidnapping hardly even registered with him now.

  ‘He was beheaded. It was shown on the Internet.’ Donaldson clicked the mouse and a fuzzy video clip began to run on the screen. This showed a dishevelled man sitting tied to a chair, his face a terrible mess of cuts, bruises and swellings. His head lolled loosely.

  A figure appeared behind the man dressed in loose white overalls. He took up a position to one side of the hostage.

  ‘Guy on the chair is Lonsdale. Guy behind is Akbar.’

  Suddenly Akbar grabbed Lonsdale’s hair and yanked his head back, exposing the throat. In his free hand he held a large, curved knife, which he placed against Lonsdale’s throat.

  ‘You’re not going to show me what I think you’re going to show me?’ Henry asked with dread.

  Akbar tipped Lonsdale’s head forward so he was looking directly at the camera recording this terrible event. His eyes were wide, bulging with fear. The knife was still at his throat.

  ‘Know why he did that?’ Donaldson asked.

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Pushed his head forwards again?’

  Henry shook his head.

  ‘Because if his head is back, it’s kind of counterproductive,’ he said, matter-of-fact, his eyes staring emotionless at the screen. ‘It allows the main arteries to slip back and be protected by the windpipe. And I’ll bet you thought the guillotine was bad. That’s a walk in the park in comparison to this.’

  With one smooth, practised, hard stroke, Akbar slit Lonsdale’s throat.

  Henry recoiled in horror, turning his head away. ‘Jesus!’ he croaked.

  ‘Allah,’ Donaldson corrected him cynically. ‘He then proceeds to hack his head off …’

  ‘Turn it off,’ Henry said disgustedly. ‘Point made — whatever the point was.’ He was appalled by the spectacle.

  Stone-faced and silent, Donaldson clicked the mouse and the picture dissolved into white screen.

  ‘He used that knife and a tenon saw. Fortunately we believe Lonsdale was drugged up to the eyeballs, if that’s any comfort … his body hasn’t yet been found, nor his head.’

  ‘OK, where is this leading?’ Henry demanded. This whole thing had started off as a killing of a squalid private eye, leading to a domestic murder and now here he was, head reeling, plunged into a world of terrorism. He could hardly believe what was happening.

  ‘Our friend in Spain had come across Akbar as the Madrid bombings were being planned and a couple of times since,’ Donaldson said, going back to his original story. ‘Akbar does a lot of work brainwashing young, gullible Muslims who then merrily strap explosives on to themselves and walk into a crowded market to kill a hundred people and then they go to their vision of heaven. The suspect blabbed that he’d heard Akbar was operating in Britain, masterminding a series of bombings which were to culminate in the assassination of Condoleezza Rice on her visit to your good country — a coup that, Akbar claims, will be his crowning glory, one he would gladly die doing, apparently.’

  ‘Ahh,’ Henry said.

  ‘Consequently, all our efforts have been concentrated on that little gem of gen … and incidentally, the guy in Spain was released without charge. He was found murdered two days later, having been subjected to real torture.’

  ‘Hence the Blackburn Field Office of the FBI.’

  ‘We set up here six weeks ago. Only your chief constable and a few people higher up the ladder know about us and we’ve been pulling our guts out trying to track Akbar down. It’s a joint task force — FBI, CIA, Secret Service, the military … there’s a helluva lot of territory arguments.’

  ‘Is he definitely in this country?’

  ‘Intelligence says yes … and intelligence brought us to East Lancashire last week in a hastily prepared series of raids, carried out by you guys — remember?’

  ‘So I was right to whinge that the whole thing was poorly set up.’

  ‘Not only that, pal — you missed Akbar. You!’ Donaldson pointed at him, then smiled and patted him on the knee. ‘Not your fault.’ He winked. ‘But he was there, DNA at the scene proved it.’

  ‘He was getting those two young lads to do his dirty work?’

  ‘In one! The intelligence was that he was spending time with young rebels and was about to push them out and cause merry mayhem on the streets of your cotton towns. Until you knocked on the door and spooked him … that’s the way it goes, sometimes.’ Donaldson took a breath. ‘But earlier today one of our surveillance teams slotted in behind a guy in London called Fazul Ali, a known associate of Akbar. They tracked him all the way to Lancashire — to Blackburn, actually. Ali is Akbar’s right-hand man … and if you’d had the stomach to watch the video you’d’a seen him help his mate to decapitate Lonsdale … Anyway, we follow Ali to Blackburn, then we lose him.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Henry said sardonically.

  ‘These things happen, as you well know … but the interesting thing for me is, Henry, how did you end up knocking on that door this morning?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Shorten it,’ Donaldson said, checking his watch. ‘We’ve got two hours before the lovely Condoleezza Rice sets foot in this county.’

  Henry related his story quickly, feeling as though he was telling a sordid tale of everyday life, grubby murder, sleazy passion and cultural issues which had no relation whatever to the world of terrorism. He had been dealing with the sad story of a woman who thought she could break free of a life that was strangling her and of an ex-cop who was trying to make a quick buck by leaning on somebody. What both had done was to underestimate the person they were dealing with. Just another tale of everyday folk caught in a vortex of mixed circumstances … but the sad reality was that terrorism now often overlapped into day-to-day life. It wasn’t something that happened on the other side of the world anymore; it happened on the doorstep, as evidenced by the 7/7 London bombers, boys who lived next door.

  ‘Mansur Rashid? I wonder what we’ve got on him … Name doesn’t ring any bells,’ Donaldson said as Henry finished.

  ‘I haven’t had the chance to do any digging yet, either.’

  Donaldson stood up and switched on the lights. ‘Next door,’ he said. ‘Think you can stand up?’

  The pain relief administered by Dr Chambers had actually kicked in, numbing down Henry’s injuries. ‘I might need a Zimmer frame,’ he joked.

  Donaldson took him next door. Four people sat at computers, tapping busily away. No one looked round. Donaldson approached the nearest operator and laid his hands on the guy’s shoulders, making him jerk out of his concentration on the screen.

  ‘Mansur Rashid,’ he said simply. With a nod,
the man began to interrogate his PC. ‘Access to thousands of databases,’ Donaldson said to Henry, ‘including every single thing Lancashire Constabulary has on computer record — and every other force in the country.’ He wasn’t bragging, just being matter-of-fact. Henry didn’t even raise an eyebrow. Nothing surprised him anymore.

  Ten seconds later, the man said, ‘Mansur Rashid.’ He leaned back to allow Donaldson and Henry to look at the screen. ‘This is from Special Branch files in Lancashire.’

  The two officers looked at the computer.

  Donaldson read out, ‘Mansur Rashid, date of birth 22/10/64 in Pakistan … address on Balaclava Street, Blackburn … attends a local mosque … and that’s about it, a one-line entry … very thorough, you lot,’ he said critically, then more magnanimously, ‘Though to be fair, there’s a hundred thousand entries like this the world over, one-liners about people who might be of interest.’

  The computer guy scrolled down the screen and said, ‘This file has been looked at twice today, by the way.’

  Angela Cranlow and Graeme Walling, Henry guessed. That’s how they discovered his address. And Jenny Fisher accessing it for the same reason following Henry’s instructions: to find Rashid’s address.

  ‘No trace on any other database,’ the guy said.

  ‘Anyway, Karl,’ Henry said, ‘you haven’t told me how you magically appeared on Balaclava Street and saved my life.’

  ‘Eavesdropping,’ he admitted. ‘Our surveillance team lost Fazul Ali, then not long after I hear the chatter on the local radio channel that we are monitoring. I recognized your voice and picked up that a couple of your officers have gone missing in the same vicinity as Ali was mislaid, and you were investigating. I just decided to take a look … and in case you haven’t worked it out, pal, this is the second time that you’ve missed Akbar because I’m pretty sure that he was in the house when your people knocked … and how do I know that? The dead cops, for one thing, and for another, the guy who wanted to slice you up.’

  ‘Is Fazul Ali?’ said Henry, deadpan, suddenly realizing he’d been in hand-to-hand combat with one of the world’s most dangerous men.