Terror in Britain

by Martha Twine

  He also said that their plans included the British mainland as well as the European continent. I responded that, in that case, the British military must have blocked their plans, as there had been no recorded successful Islamic State terrorist attacks on the British mainland in the last three years. The terrorist confirmed that the British military had indeed blocked their plans regarding the British mainland.

  It was a month later that we learned of the murder of a policeman outside the Palace of Westminster, and the deaths and injuries of pedestrians on Westminster Bridge. I did not get any insights into that attack. By now the IRA had ordered their staff and subcontractors not to discuss anything about Islamic State on Syntel ever again.

  The British military’s interest in Islamic State activities locally became so obvious that in the end, the terrorists moved their cell to a site about a mile away. We could tell where it was, because the military helicopters kept going there. The military always let us know when Islamic State officers arrived on Wednesdays and Saturdays, because we could hear the aircraft escorting them up the road. I hope that British citizens will be reassured by this. Our military and security services are second to none.

  BOATS, DRONES AND UNDERGROUND TUNNELS

  The IRA, Al-Qaida and Islamic State work co-operatively, running a complex import-export business involving people and drug trafficking. Terrorists from Asia, Africa and the Middle East are trafficked into Europe, and drug consignments run in parallel. The IRA are active at ports across Europe, running a tracking service to ensure that people and drugs can be followed at every stage of their journey. The goods are mainly transported by sea to European ports. Their time of arrival has to be known exactly, so that IRA units can organise unmarked vans to pick up and drop off their cargoes. One of the main drug routes from Kabul goes across Turkey to the Mediterranean Sea, from where cargoes travel by boat to various ports in the UK and Europe.

  The IRA’s operations sometimes started in distant places, but I had recently learned a new method to travel the world. It works a bit like cell-phone roving, because you need to be connected by wi-fi and satellite connections to achieve it, and I was permanently connected to Al-Qaida’s satellite system, so I could do it.

  I would find a photograph of the place or person I wanted to visit and attune my frequency too the frequency of the photograph, and then suddenly, in my mind’s eye, I would be there! I hope this is the travel method of the future, as it is a lot quicker than present arrangements. I also found that if I ‘took a picture’ of someone in my mind, I could go back to that picture and make contact with the person concerned. This was useful if terrorists were running away, and I wanted to get at them. I would just snap their picture, and then pull them out of the ether. A similar method worked for sounds. If someone was talking on their mobile, I could tune into the sound of the other person’s voice, and either be in their location, or pull them out of the ether.

  After I learnt how to manipulate the terrorists’ electromagnetic computer system architecture and found I could travel anywhere in the terrorist world, I decided to carry out a fact-finding exercise. A good deal of the IRA’s business seemed to be transporting people from place to place. I wanted to understand more about this.

  I saw an IRA port office outside Calais. It was in a light airy white building with three floors. The boss sat in a penthouse, with soft filtered light coming in through opaque glass roof windows. He was at the hub of a business that hummed with activity, but his office was always quiet. On the next floor down, there were three offices, in which IRA staff sat at white tables, with large daily work sheets, plotting imports and exports through the day. The chart required constant updates, as arrival times changed, with additions and cancellations. In the next room, telephones rang with updated information on the actual position of cargoes. Another room dealt with interaction between exporting and importing terrorists to and from IRA units across the British Isles and parts of Europe. On the floor below, there was a room with less natural light, where finances were managed.

  I watched as two external consultants were ushered into the top office to meet the boss. He was an elderly man with greying hair, and a grey suit. He greeted the visitors and wasted no time in getting to the point.

  ‘Can you provide us with a sufficiently high view to survey all our sea transport across the Mediterranean? I want minimum visibility for your device: just a speck in the sky’.

  The two entrepreneurs nodded. They were an ‘Own Drone’ business, and there was nothing illegal in the services they were offering.

  ‘We can do all that. Whatever your requirement, we can meet it. But costs will vary depending on specifications.’

  ‘We need clear, accurate, timely information,’ the boss continued.

  He regularly imported drugs, arms and Islamic State terrorists from the Near East, by boat. He looked cautiously at the two men, wondering if they were up to the job. I left them haggling over prices and went to visit the ‘downstream activities’.

  It was somewhere in Northern France, on the border with Belgium. A French couple were eating a meal in a modest Victorian cottage. Their parlour was dimly lit, with dusty curtains, and the view of their back garden was a patchwork of dark and light greens – all foliage, and no flowers. In the living room across the hall, two Frenchmen and a uniformed Islamic State Officer were working on projections of business for the coming week. They were expecting several consignments of Islamic State soldiers, to be dropped off at various points across Europe. They also had to co-ordinate Islamic State soldiers needing to join the delivery vans on various points along the route, for onward delivery to a range of destinations.

  The details of these pick-ups and drop-offs were being plotted on a large chart in a room in the cellar. Four men were sitting round a table under a naked electric light, working out every point of the complex delivery system. There was a plasma screen against one of the walls. It was linked to a camera outside the house. A man wearing long white robes could be seen peering into the camera, waving. He was requesting permission to enter. One of the terrorists at the table operated an automatic door lock, and the robed man appeared in the front hall. There was a large trap door in the hall, which lead to a brightly lit underground corridor. I followed it for what seemed about half an hour. It stretched for about three kilometres, with rooms leading off along the way. It would be possible for a large number of men to live down there without difficulty, provided provisions were brought in regularly.

  A sturdily built Asian man with a black beard emerged from the trap door and went into the living room. He reported that a convoy of five lorries was due, and that preparations were now ready to receive several groups of Islamic State soldiers, who were to be dropped off at various points above ground. The robed man in the hallway bowed and waved to the group in the living room, to indicate that he was the driver of the first lorry and wanted to know where to park his vehicle.

  Two French men got up from the table and went out to guide the first lorry to the side of the road. As they did so, two Islamic State soldiers jumped out of the back of the lorry, and one jumped in. One of the French men climbed into the cab of the lorry alongside the robed driver and guided him out into the main road. Looking back along the road, I could see four identical lorries, waiting behind. The convoy proceeded in a North Easterly direction towards a roundabout. I was watching from the first lorry, and, not being used to driving on the other side of the road, got a shock, as a car overtook the entire convoy from the left side and turned into the roundabout.

  The first lorry stopped at the junction, its parking lights flashing. Two men leaped from the back and brought out a step ladder. Five Islamic State soldiers emerged from a culvert below the side of the road and climbed into the lorry. Then all five lorries took off towards Belgium.

  I decided to go ‘upstream’ to places from which Islamic State soldiers and drug consignments originated. The first place I visited was in Saudi Arabia, in Riyadh. I was inside a m
arble building. It looked like a bank. The boss had an imposing office. His desk was on a raised step, so that he looked down on those arriving, putting them immediately at a psychological disadvantage. He wore Arab dress, a long white robe and head-covering.

  As I crossed the spacious cool entry hall, I could see women and children running in all directions.

  ‘She is here, we must get out now,’ a woman shouted.

  The boss’s wife came running from a side-door into the top office.

  ‘Get out now, come on’, she cried, tugging at his arm. There was obviously some kind of radio wave detector warning them of my presence.

  ‘It’s my duty to stay here,’ said the boss; and he stayed at his post.

  He was one of those responsible for routing funds for Al-Qaida out of Saudi Arabia. I wondered where the funds were destined for next.

  Looking across the Saudi Arabian desert, I searched with my inner ear, like a bird listening for worms. I picked up a frequency transmission coming from way down underground. I tried to find the source, but it was so far down underground that I almost gave up.

  ‘I must have made a mistake,’ I thought.

  Then, suddenly, I saw light. It was a corridor, with arched ceilings, leading into a wide hall, with ornate marble columns, and marble tiles on the floor. There was cool fresh air pumping through the place, and a fountain playing in the centre courtyard. It felt pleasant and relaxing. I entered a very ornate dining room, with alcoves, and a raised floor level at one end, reached by marble stairs, with doors leading to adjoining rooms. The high ceiling was domed. Underneath it was a marble table, laid for a delicious meal, with fresh fruit and fruit juices, to accompany it.

  Two men in white robes and turban headdresses were sitting eating. They appeared to be enjoying a happy time, laughing and joking. They were warned of my arrival by Al-Qaida’s efficient communications system. They both scrutinised their smartphones and seemed to be receiving information from them. As I appeared, in my long black down coat and hood, they greeted me respectfully. They explained that they were the recipients of Al-Qaida funding, engaging in drug and arms trafficking in support of Al-Qaida objectives.

  ‘I am just a humble drug-trafficker,’ said one of the men.

  ‘Business is obviously doing well,’ I replied. But I knew that their business covered a good deal more than drugs.

  I did not see any soldiers in this subterranean place, but I was aware that Al-Qaida had troops to call on in neighbouring Yemen, and many parts of Africa and Asia. I looked across to Afghanistan, and found two sites, both underground, with long tunnels and rooms. I remembered the complex underground dwellings in Cappadocia in Turkey, carved out of the lava of extinct volcanoes. The Afghan tunnels were dustier, and the rooms more basic. The soldiers, variously clad in dark robes or loose-fitting jackets and trousers, were at home in their environment, negotiating their networked pathways like mountain goats. They did not look like Islamic State soldiers, but Al-Qaida was funding them just as generously as those we were used to seeing in Syria and Iraq from our television screens.

  It was not just Al-Qaida we had to deal with. I had become aware from IRA funding meetings that, somewhere in the Far East, there was a rival group of terrorists that also funded the IRA. I tuned into the frequency that seemed to go with this group and found myself in a part of the world that I did not recognise. The scenery was lush and tropical, with jungle and mountains emerging out of it. There were beautiful empty beaches – empty until you looked out to sea. There were large ocean-going liners, similar to, but smaller than the Queen Elizabeth II, parked out there, and a small frigate.

  Inland, there were domed palaces. The buildings were not ostentatious. They blended into the background, and some of the architecture looked ultra-modern American in style. I visited one palace. It was located entirely on the ground floor, or on floors below ground level. An obese, elderly man was swimming in a pool with colourful mosaics on the walls. There was also a rather unappealing casino, with a rich red carpet and red furnishings. Hardly anyone was in there, except a man and a woman drinking coffee. They seemed to be staff. A little way back from the beach there was an outdoor pool. A tall glamorous young woman with long dark hair and tanned skin was strolling by the pool. She wore a black swimsuit, and over it a long black robe with slits around the bottom, which blew this way and that in the breeze as she walked.

  I boarded the liner in the bay. The top floor was occupied by a portly elderly man dressed like a sultan. His family of wives and children were also living there, and his two eldest sons were in attendance, in his private office, assisting with day-to-day business. The floors below were more familiar to me, being occupied by the usual terrorist staff, sitting at laptops with headsets, connected via private satellite to units in different parts of the world, intent on carrying out remote electromagnetic attacks on those whom they chose to target, assisted by local operatives in the targeted locations. This was part of the other group that was funding the IRA. I tried to place the location in the atlas. It looked as if it could be somewhere in Malaysia.

  Something had to be done about these sea-going terrorists. It seemed a good idea to take them out of circulation, so I lifted them into dry dock, hundreds of feet above the sea, and surrounded them by a strong electromagnetic field that concealed them from view.

  I paused in my travels, to take stock of what I had learned. All the people I had seen or met were well organised and hard at work. They made our local terrorists look like lazy couch potatoes by comparison.

  ‘If they and their like could see how our local terrorists wasted their funding, perhaps they would put pressure on those responsible for allocating funds to the British Isles to reallocate their investments elsewhere,’ I reasoned, somewhat unrealistically.

  I decided to carry out a propaganda exercise, to try and discourage further funding to terrorist operations in our area. I went back to all the places I had visited and transported the people I had met into large cage-like living spaces, suspended from tall wooden structures about forty feet above our garden. The structures and their contents were invisible unless you had a computer-brain interface connecting you to the terrorists’ computer system networks. I constructed an opulent dwelling for the Saudi potentates and merchants, and an exclusive domed dwelling for the Malaysian sultan. A more modest construction with white carpets and self-assembly furniture housed the IRA and their French counterparts from the Calais office.

  The constructions I built were at a higher frequency level than those normally experienced by the terrorists. When contained in them, the terrorists stopped experiencing fear, pain, cold, heat, hunger, thirst and fatigue. Those on drugs came off immediately. You could say their environment was a half-way house to the after-life, because once people entered the electromagnetic architecture, there was no return to the everyday world. Within a few days, they all disappeared, moving on to whatever their future destination might be.

  These visitors attracted considerable attention across the Al-Qaida networks. Terrorists watched via satellite, from their smartphones, and several sent large baskets of flowers to the Saudi potentates. I brought out groups of our local terrorists to explain themselves to the Al-Qaida visitors. The sorry crowd of criminals, drug addicts and traffickers who made up the IRA subcontractors locally, shocked the visitors considerably. The locals shouted obscenities at the Malaysians and the Al-Qaida guests, and picked fights with each other. Women from the child brothel brought out children as young as a year old and held them up for sale.

  ‘Look Sir, here is a very nice young boy, see, he has all his male parts fully developed’, shouted one of the gross women.

  The Saudi potentates shuddered, but one of the Middle Eastern drug traffickers asked for the child to brought nearer.

  ‘Just give us your credit card details’, continued the woman, and we can do things to the child while you watch.

  That was her last word on the subject. I removed her at once, and put the poor
little boy in a large cot with a safety net round it, suspended from the construction that I had created.

  The propaganda exercise did have some effect. Al-Qaida instructed the IRA to stop funding one of its subcontractors, but overall, not much changed. Well, it was worth a try.

  I decided to return to France, to the start of the long underground corridor. In a room underneath the terrorist safehouse, there was a meeting in progress. Two men in Arab dress, with white robes and black headbands around their head-coverings, sat on one side of the table. On the other side were two Asian men in battle fatigues, that I took to be Islamic State soldiers. Chairing the meeting was a European man in his late thirties. He spoke in French, but it was not his first language. I suspected he was IRA, because I had seen Islamic State soldiers from the IRA’s Calais office dropped off at the safe house. I listened for a moment. They were discussing timing of the next consignment of Islamic State soldiers later that night. Another European man was busy in the next room. He was surrounded by filing cabinets, and sat at a table, examining papers, matching delivery notes to invoices.

  ‘What happens at the other end of the corridor?’ I wondered. I made myself transparent to avoid detection, and floated along the top of the corridor, looking at side roads that led off in different directions. As I got towards the end of the corridor, I saw three Arabs in white robes like the ones in the safe house, lounging against the walls, as if they had nothing to do. Then I saw a patch of daylight. The corridor was coming to an end.