Critical Threat hc-10

by Nick Oldham

  Iqbal’s open hand came from nowhere as he cracked her across the face and sent her crashing against the cigarette shelves next to her shoulder. ‘This man does not lie,’ he screamed. ‘Mansur is evil. You have come under his spell. You must speak or more people will die.’ He raised his hand. She cowered.

  ‘Iqbal — no,’ Henry said, leaning across the counter and gently taking the old man’s arm.

  ‘Sometimes it is the only way.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe.’ Henry looked at Najma, who was down on her haunches in the narrow space behind the counter. To her he said, ‘He killed Sabera and today he’s going to kill again and I want to stop him before he does.’

  Najma’s frightened eyes darted from Henry to Iqbal and back again. Iqbal still had his hand hovering for the follow-up slap.

  ‘I don’t know where he is,’ she said simply, totally deflated as tears welled up and cascaded over her face, ‘but I know what he plans to do.’

  Henry turned to Bill. ‘Tell them all to clear off’ — he gestured with his hand at the confused customers on the forecourt — ‘the garage is closed and they’ve just had a free fill-up.’

  The office behind the counter was tiny, just big enough for a small computer workstation and a couple of chairs. Najma sat at the desk sobbing into a piece of kitchen roll. Iqbal sat on the other chair, staring angrily at her, his arms folded, whilst Henry perched on the corner of the workstation and Bill filled the door with his bulk. The petrol pumps had been turned off from the main switch behind the counter and the shop door had been locked.

  Henry was speaking softly. ‘I’m sorry about Sabera. I know you were close.’

  ‘How could you know?’ she demanded through her tears.

  ‘I’m a detective. It’s my job to find out things about people.’

  ‘He promised he would never hurt her for what she did.’

  ‘You are a fool, child,’ Iqbal sneered, still fighting back the urge to slap her again.

  Henry held up a placatory hand. One slap had been quite enough, thank you. Her face was a livid red from the blow, almost glowing.

  ‘Are you in a relationship with him?’ Henry probed.

  Najma’s head rose, her face distorted cruelly from the anguish. ‘Not one you mean,’ she said disgustedly. ‘I am a good Muslim girl. We don’t think about sex all the time, like you westerners …’

  ‘You were bloody well born in this country, you fool!’ Iqbal snarled. ‘Your mother was born here, too — and your father. You are a westerner.’

  She regarded him coldly. ‘Mansur and I are joined together in our fight against people like you — and you,’ she turned to Henry. ‘I have been assisting him to prepare for this day, a great day for Islam … but he promised me Sabera was fine.’

  ‘How have you helped?’ Henry asked urgently.

  ‘By recruiting a martyr.’ She bit her lip and held up her chin. ‘Someone proud to die for Islam.’

  ‘One God whose name is Allah,’ Henry said scathingly — and Iqbal exploded and smashed her hard across the face.

  And that martyr was a young man by the name of Abdul Hussein, who had been a regular attendee at the mosque frequented by Mansur, Najma went on to tell Henry. He had shown great promise and great faith, rejecting the poisoned ways of the west and declaring himself a foot soldier of Allah. There were many like him attending the mosques, but because there had been so much negative publicity about the role of mosques in brainwashing idealistic young people, the process of turning someone from a person with high ideals into a potential mass murderer had to be done with more subtlety, away from the place of worship, in the terraced houses of Blackburn or Accrington — which is where Rashid came in. He targeted promising individuals, moulded them, fired them up, ensured they were trained and ready to give their lives for the cause, ably assisted by Najma Ismat, and provided the premises which could be used for such long-term aims.

  Abdul Hussein had been groomed for two years and suddenly, at the peak of his fanaticism, he had found himself in the right place at the right time, because as well as being a follower of Islam, he was also a fanatical follower of Blackburn Rovers.

  During the week he worked in the souvenir shop at Ewood Park and on match days he donned a steward’s hi-viz jacket so he could direct people and get paid for watching the match.

  When the visit of the American Secretary of State was announced, it became common knowledge within the Rovers’ camp that she would call on them together with Jack Straw, the local MP and Foreign Secretary, who was an avid Rovers fan.

  And Mansur could not believe his good fortune.

  He already had someone in place, someone who the police could ‘vet’ for ever and find nothing untoward.

  With one explosion, the British Foreign Secretary and the American Secretary of State would be destroyed.

  And Mohammed Ibrahim Akbar would assist with the final preparations for this triumphal event, giving it the wholehearted blessing of the Al-Qaeda leadership.

  They were in the ARV, Henry and Bill upfront, Iqbal and Najma in the back, their identities protected by the smoked glass windows.

  ‘I don’t know the details,’ she screamed. ‘I only know it will happen at Ewood Park.’

  Bill accelerated down Preston Old Road and did a skidding left through a red light into Spring Lane, blue-lighting it through an area called Mill Hill, towards the football ground.

  Henry was twisted in his seat, chucking relentless quick-fire questions at her.

  ‘Come on, you must … how are they going to do it?’

  ‘I think Rice will meet the staff and Abdul will be wearing a bomb underneath his yellow jacket. When he shakes hands with her …’

  ‘How has he got the explosives into the ground?’ Henry’s voice went quiet at the end of the question, because he could answer it himself: Abdul Hussein worked at Ewood Park. He would have already secreted the explosives and detonator somewhere in the ground. Someone like him who had worked there for some time would know all the best hidey-holes and all he would need to do today would be to go into work as normal, go through all the police searches, kill time and at the last possible moment grab the explosives, line up, shake hands, smile, hope his courage didn’t desert him — then boom!

  Two dead politicians, lots of dead dignitaries, cops and colleagues. And probably a big hole in the pitch.

  ‘How come you’re not directly involved in this today?’

  ‘I have orders just to have a normal day.’

  Bill flicked on the two tones as he overtook on Hollin Bridge Street, then cut back before having a head-on with an oncoming car. He bore left into Hamilton Street, under the aqueduct, reaching the junction with Bolton Road, and Ewood Park came in sight.

  He slowed and eased through the busy lights and a few moments later braked sharply on the car park behind the Darwen End stand — where he and Henry had paused earlier — near to the entrance to the police cells.

  Henry organized his thoughts, remembering what he had read in the operational order. ‘Right — all staff entering the ground are required to sign in, produce ID, and they all enter through the staff door on Nuttall Street round the front. Let’s go and see if Hussein has landed today.’

  He looked at Bill.

  ‘You want me to drive round the front? I’ve just driven past that entrance.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He raised his eyebrows, did a quick spin-reverse, driving out of the car park and pulling up amongst the multitude of no-parking cones which had been placed all the way along Nuttall Street. They were immediately swooped upon by a young patrolling constable.

  Bill wound his window down.

  ‘Sorry, you can’t park here, ARV or otherwise. Nothing’s allowed on here today.’

  Henry jumped out and flashed his ID. ‘Yes we can,’ he said, almost adding ‘son’, but refraining from being too patronizing. The constable peered at the warrant card and shrugged.

  ‘Makes no difference, sir.’

&
nbsp; ‘Makes every difference.’ Henry strutted past him and went to the staff entrance, ID still in hand, where he was greeted by a uniformed private security guard in a booth by a turnstile. He was aware that behind him, the PC was having heated words with Bill in the ARV. ‘You checking in staff this morning?’ Henry said.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Is Abdul Hussein on your list?’

  He ran a thick finger down a typed list. ‘Yep.’

  Henry loved laconic people. ‘Has he shown up for work this morning?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Uh — ten minutes.’

  ‘You’ve been a great help.’

  ‘Ta, mate.’

  He spun away from the booth and crossed back to Bill who was just staring blank-faced at the foot patrol PC, who was only doing his job by trying to get the vehicle to move on. Henry tapped him on the shoulder, smiled at him and said to Bill, ‘He’s in,’ then to the PC said, ‘Get the venue commander down here, please — now.’

  Henry’s heart sank to depths never before experienced when he saw the hastily summoned venue commander walking along Nuttall Street. It was often the case that headquarters wallers with career aspirations grasped at opportunities out in the real world of policing to show that they could still do the job and enhance their CVs. Henry didn’t even know what a CV looked like, but he suspected that the venue commander for the day did. His name was Andy Laker and his day job was the chief constable’s staff officer.

  Laker’s expression was one of sheer annoyance. ‘This better be good, Henry. I’m expecting the Foreign Secretary and the American Secretary of State to arrive any time now,’ he said imperiously, as though they were coming to see him.

  Henry had no wish to get embroiled in any discussions with Laker, so he got straight to the point.

  ‘You’ve got a suicide bomber in the ground — how does that grab your balls?’

  The CCTV control room was situated slap-bang in the centre of the Darwen End terrace. A huge picture window overlooked the pitch and the three other stands and Henry took a moment to appreciate the view. The pitch looked excellent. He knew it was one of the best in the league.

  Then he turned back to the room and the bank of monitors along one wall hurriedly being switched on by a technician. Coloured images came on to the screens one by one, giving myriad views from the many cameras dotted around the ground, inside and out.

  The souvenir shop had already been checked for Hussein, but he wasn’t there and none of the other staff knew where he’d disappeared to.

  ‘Let’s see if we can spot this guy,’ Henry said. He jerked his head to Najma, standing in one corner of the room with Iqbal. She came to stand next to Henry, her arms folded tightly across her chest. ‘Start looking,’ he said sternly to her. ‘If you spot him, yell.’

  The CCTV room door burst open and FB rolled in, accompanied by Dave Anger and a harassed looking Andy Laker.

  ‘I gather things have moved on a-pace, Henry,’ FB said and patted him on the back.

  ‘Yeah — and I haven’t had to torture anyone yet.’

  Najma was sitting next to the CCTV operator, looking at the monitors.

  FB, Dave Anger and Andy Laker were silent, standing next to Henry. Their combined tension was palpable. Iqbal sat in a chair behind them. Bill came back into the room, having been out to the ARV following the authorization to arm himself overtly. He had his Glock holstered at his side and a Heckler and Kock MP5 machine pistol slung across his chest. He sported a chequered baseball cap. He looked pretty cool, even though he was weighed down by all his equipment, which also included a Taser gun, CS gas, rigid handcuffs and his expandable baton.

  Henry glanced at him and nodded.

  ‘Najma — seen him yet?’ Henry asked her. She looked drawn and exhausted, her eyes red raw, face a mess. ‘Is it really true about Sabera?’ she whispered.

  ‘Sorry.’

  She seemed to slump inside herself for a moment. Henry thought she was going to collapse and topple off her chair and half-moved to catch her. ‘I can’t see him,’ she said hopelessly.

  Henry turned to FB. ‘Cancel this part of the visit,’ he said.

  FB shook his head. ‘She’s on her way, Henry, and nothing will stop her from coming here. She’s already had to do a lot of chopping and changing and she won’t do any more.’

  Then Najma suddenly shouted, ‘That’s him!’

  Everyone rushed to look over her shoulder at the screen.

  It showed one of the internal concourses under one of the stands, a wide concrete area on which there were toilets and on match days bars and counters selling beer and pies, the staple diet of football fans. Now the shuttered screens were locked down. And it was deserted other than for one person walking slowly along.

  ‘That’s Abdul,’ she confirmed as the camera zoomed in on him. He was a small, thin youth, wearing a hi-viz steward’s jacket.

  ‘Where is that?’ Henry demanded of the CCTV operator, just as Abdul stopped, looked cautiously around, then directly into the lens of the camera which he had no reason to suspect was recording his movements. He inserted a key into a door, opened it and stepped inside, out of sight. ‘Where is it?’

  The operator pointed down at the floor. ‘Here! Right below us. It’s the Darwen End concourse … it’s a store room … he’s right underneath us.’

  ‘He must have hidden the explosives in there.’ Henry turned urgently to FB and the two other men. ‘Stay here and make sure she doesn’t disappear.’ He pointed at Najma. ‘Bill — you up for this?’

  Bill nodded and gripped the HK firmly. ‘It’s what I live for,’ he said, tongue in cheek.

  ‘Gimme the Glock,’ Henry said. Both men looked towards the chief constable for the nod, which he gave immediately. Bill handed Henry the pistol.

  Henry tore out of the CCTV room, followed by Bill. They sprinted down the corridor, then twisted left into a stairway which doglegged down on to the concourse below. They turned left off the bottom step and ran down the deserted concourse towards the door Hussein had entered. Ten metres before they reached it, he backed out, not noticing them initially.

  Henry and Bill came to a sudden halt, side by side. Bill had instantly adopted the classic firing position for the HK: butt pulled into his right shoulder, left foot forward, left knee slightly bent, his right eye sighted down the short barrel. He did not flinch.

  Henry dropped into a combat stance, feet shoulder width apart, the Glock in his right hand, supported by the left, safety off, right finger tip resting on the trigger.

  Both guns were aimed at Hussein’s head.

  He saw them, went rigid.

  Henry’s eyes quickly took him in and could see something between the gap in his jacket around his waist, about the size of a paperback book. Was it a belt of explosives, strapped around him?

  ‘Abdul Hussein,’ Henry said. The young man blinked on hearing his name. ‘Yes, I know who you are … please raise your hands — slowly — or we will shoot you.’

  He did as instructed. But his right hand remained clenched in a fist and Henry saw something black, like a pen, poking out from his grasp and also a thin wire running down his sleeve.

  A switch connected to a detonator.

  His thumb hovered over it.

  All he had to do was press.

  This time Henry knew it would be connected.

  ‘It’s over, Abdul,’ Henry said. ‘There is no need for this, no need at all.’ Henry offered his left hand in a gesture to him to surrender and took a careful step towards him, but kept the Glock aimed.

  ‘No!’ screamed Hussein, jerking as though an electrical shock had been passed through him. His thumb quivered. ‘You don’t understand. I have lived my life for this day.’

  ‘Now you cannot achieve your aim,’ Henry said. Inside he had turned to jelly, terrified of the position he was now in. ‘This doesn’t have to be, Abdul. You know the Quran’s teaching is about the brotherhood of ma
nkind,’ he went on, desperately digging up some of the stuff he’d been taught on his wonderful Race and Diversity course, ‘and you will not enter paradise if you injure your neighbour.’

  ‘You dare preach the Quran to me?’ Hussein demanded.

  Henry brought his left hand back under his right. ‘Abdul … it’s over … if your thumb moves again, you will be shot dead …come on, man, this is not worth it … both of us will blast you.’

  Hussein slowly uncurled his fingers to reveal the switch, which he allowed to fall out of his grip and hang there on the wire, and he descended slowly to his knees, with both weapons covering him all the time, ready to kill if necessary. Henry saw all the fire and determination leave the young man like a relieved ghost.

  The radio blared at that moment and announced the arrival of the security escort at the front of the football ground.

  The package had arrived safely.

  Nineteen

  He was at home now, staring blankly into space. Kate sat next to him on the settee in a silk dressing gown. The TV was on, showing the rolling news on BBC 24; images of the smiling American Secretary of State visiting Blackburn accompanied by Jack Straw, the Foreign Secretary. The sound was off. Henry’s eyes focused momentarily on the screen, but then his thoughts meandered again. Confused, self-pitying, desperately blaming himself for the deaths of two innocent cops. What an absolute fool he had been, firstly to even think that members of the Special Projects team were anything like capable of being a murder squad, and secondly to allow Angela and Graeme to go and arrest Rashid. He should have insisted that they waited for him.

  He groaned as he massaged his eyes tenderly. His face throbbed like a jackhammer.

  Kate squeezed his leg, looking worriedly at him. He had told her all the details of the day with the exception of his visit to Karl Donaldson’s torture chamber and she had listened with a growing horror and sympathy.

  On his way home he had managed to call in at Blackpool Victoria Hospital’s A amp;E department where they had confirmed his cheekbone was fractured and that nothing could be done with it, other than to allow it to heal naturally. His hand wound had been clipped and bandaged. Everything else, bar the inner emotional turmoil, was superficial.