TARGET BRITAIN: a political thriller

by Owen Bennett-Jones

  As he made his way back home from the Regent’s Park Mosque he was thinking about the Christmas decorations he could see all around. The British, it seemed to him, really did not have strong religious beliefs – that was obvious - and yet here was all this evidence that they still valued the birth of their prophet. It always had confused him and, he concluded, with a shrug as he reached the door of his terraced house, it still did. There were some things here he would perhaps never understand.

  He turned the key in the door and called out to his wife. “Hallo!”

  “Hallo love!” She walked out of the kitchen to greet him. Although she too had been born in Karachi and arrived in the UK a couple of years after him, she was unusual amongst first-generation Pakistani immigrant wives in that she had taken a job – in the local library - and if anything had become even more Anglicised than him. “Ali OK?” Ali with whom he went to prayers each Friday.

  “He’s fine, yes. Sends his best.”

  As they walked into the kitchen he handed her the Tesco bag. She put it on the kitchen table and started taking out the food, putting it into the fridge or various cupboards. She had already started cooking supper and a pan with rice was boiling on the stove, its steam collecting on the windows as condensation.

  “I spoke to Sonia today …” But the doctor was interrupted.

  “What’s this?” She was holding a phone she’d found in the bottom of the shopping bag.

  “Show me.” The Doctor reached out and took it. It was switched off. He looked up with an expression to indicate he had never seen it before. “It’s not yours?”

  She shook her head.

  Examining the phone again the doctor saw the red symbol of the on and off switch. He pressed it. The red light at the phone’s top right-hand corner blinked and the screen lit up and he read the phrase “searching for signal …”

  *****

  There were to be many different versions of what happened over the next two hours.

  The memo Craig later sent to the DG accused the police of over-reacting. Rather than making a quick, quiet arrest they had deployed too many personnel, too slowly. The internal CTC enquiry blamed MI5 for failing to clarify the status of the suspect. With no guidance as to whether he was armed or not, they had to assume he was and to follow the appropriate protocols. The House of Commons Intelligence and Security Committee found that no blame could be ascribed to any single organisation but that valuable lessons could be learnt. But the biggest and most independent enquiry was set up by the government in the face of growing public pressure about the whole bombing campaign. Chaired by a High Court judge, it described the police raid on Webber Street as fundamentally flawed in conception and execution. And in a confidential annex it criticised MI5 for failing to accept the authority of the police once the arrest operation had begun.

  The various enquiries, however, did reach agreement on the sequence of events. After going to St Thomas’ for the body parts, Jasir Khan returned to his flat. He left shortly afterwards to ring his girlfriend from a phone booth. He returned to the flat and, using a spoon and funnel put the explosives into the Coke bottles. He attached the detonators and alarm clocks and by 5:45 p.m. he had removed the completed bombs from his flat and loaded them into the boot of his car. He was back in the flat when the joint MI5 and MI6 team was approaching Waterloo. For that team, the reports all agreed, things started to go awry the moment they left Thames House and headed for New Scotland Yard.

  *****

  Monty called CTC as he was heading towards them in a cab.

  “With you in five.” He looked at the dashboard. “In a black Lexus.”

  “Sorry mate. We’re chokka. You better go under your own steam. We’ll see you there.”

  Natasha looked at her mobile. Five unanswered calls and all from the same person. She scrolled onto the number and pressed call.

  “Hallo, Miss Coatesworth?”

  “Speaking.” She sounded cross.

  “How’s Rosie?”

  “She’s asleep. We are in the room waiting for you now.”

  They’d agreed six o’clock. Natasha looked at her watch.

  “Miss Coatesworth. Look, something has come up at work. It’s really very important. Is there any chance ...?”

  “I started today at six thirty.”

  “I know. And you’ve been fabulous. It’s just that ...”

  “Mrs Knight I have an arrangement for tonight. A Christmas party.”

  Oh Christ, thought Natasha. What a bloody disaster. “You can order something on room service. Anything you like.”

  Natasha heard a deep sigh down the line.

  “Perhaps I could ask the agency for a replacement.” Then thinking that struck the wrong tone: “To relieve you.”

  “Mrs Knight. What time will you be back?”

  Natasha looked at her watch but could not begin to work out what lay ahead and how long it might take.

  “Three hours?”

  “What can I say Mrs Knight?” She hung up.

  “Problems?” Monty was looking at her.

  “You could say that.” But then recomposing herself. “Not to worry. All sorted.”

  They were being driven across Waterloo Bridge. To his right a huge yellow and red poster had just three words on it: MUSIC DANCE FILM. Well dressed couples in furs and tweed coats walked towards the National Theatre. A placard advertised “Blood and Gifts: An Afghan Tale.”

  At a street near you, Monty thought. Nip out in the interval.

  He was looking at a street map on his iPhone and leant forward to the driver. “No need to go to Webber Street itself. Drop us anywhere here and we’ll do the rest on foot. I’ll call you when I need you.”

  “What now?” Natasha asked as they stood on the pavement. “Wait for the cavalry?”

  “That’s about it.” Monty said. “But we can take a quick look. Better avoid the road itself. Let’s take a peek around the back.”

  He consulted his iPhone again. “Next left.” And then half to himself as he looked up “so which one is Quentin House?”

  It was then Natasha saw Ethel Sugden and Joyce Connolly. They were destined, she guessed, for the pub on the corner with a big red and white plastic banner above the door advertising Sky Sports.

  “Excuse me!” she called out looking left and right before crossing the street, “I wonder if you can help.”

  The two ladies stopped and subjected Natasha to close examination.

  “Fire away,” Ethel said. Joyce nodded her agreement.

  “I was looking for Quentin House.”

  “You’re looking at it. Here.” Ethel pointed at the building from which they had just come out.

  Natasha beckoned Monty to join them. “Which flat number was it?”

  He reached into his pocket and consulted a sheet of paper. “33,” he said “33 Quentin House”

  “Told you,” said Joyce looking at Ethel. “Mr Minicab.”

  Ethel said: “Third floor. That side.” She pointed to a top corner of the building. “The main entrance is on the other side. And mind my washing.”

  “You police then?” Joyce asked.

  Monty: “Why do you ask?”

  “Well we were just saying this morning he was up to no good that boy. He’s a multicultural.”

  “A multicultural?” Natasha asked.

  “You know, a foreigner.”

  “Up to no good?” Monty asked.

  “He was up all night. And he has a brand new bike. Probably nicked.”

  “And he had loads of rent money.” Joyce added. “You are police ain’t you?”

  “Sort of,” Monty said.

  Ethel: “Sort of. What does that mean?”

  “Oo! It’s the flying squad,” Joyce cackled.

  It was at that moment Jaz saw them in the street. He’d gone to the window for some air and was just about to close it when he heard the laughter. He looked down and saw the old women talking to a man and woman. And the man was looking up at Quen
tin House.

  He pulled back his head with a jerk, knocking it on the window frame. Rubbing it, he rushed to the other side of the flat, opened the door a few inches, crouched down, and peered over the edge of the balcony. All clear. Still keeping low, he scuttled to the other end of the balcony and looked down from there.

  “What the...?” There, beneath him, were 10 or so vehicles, with more arriving. Their lights were all off and men were milling around waiting to be deployed.

  As well as the Transit vans he could see police motorbikes, cars and a fire engine. A policeman opened the back door of a Land Rover and two alsatians jumped out. Their handlers whistled some commands and disappeared with the dogs into the shadows. Jaz thought they must be going into the gardens across the street. One of the street lamps allowed Jaz to see a policeman wearing a flak jacket with a radio and other paraphernalia strapped to it. And in his arms he was cradling a stubby machine gun. Another policeman walked past him unrolling red and white plastic tape, cordoning off the street.

  His only hope was to use the back entrance. With one last look around the flat to make sure he had not left anything he would need he went through to the outside corridor, staying close to the walls as he moved to the stairs. A step at a time and quietly.

  He reached the second floor balcony. It was his last chance to make the switch to the other side of the building. He crawled through the unlit passage that led to the backside of Quentin House and as he did so, knocked an empty vodka bottle. He froze as it rolled along the concrete floor.

  With a last clink, the bottle stopped. Jaz moved again. He could see the old women now, the two of them, walking towards the pub. He darted into the back stair well and ran down the remaining two floors until he was at ground level looking out over a scraggy patch of grass.

  His car was just one street away and Jaz figured the best chance was to move towards it fast before the police were all over the back of the building too. To his right he saw the man who had been looking at Quentin House. He was on his own now moving towards the police and waving at them trying to catch their attention.

  Those bloody women, thought Jaz. He skirted back through the garden and with a burst of pace ran through the back gate swerving left away toward the far street corner.

  Natasha saw him the moment he came through the gateway. Realising she was alone she ran for the corner to try to cut him off. Jaz was in the middle of the street. Without stopping he swerved between two parked cars and, as he reached the pavement, smashed into her knocking her shoulder and pushing her over. Natasha tried to absorb his force but her right ankle buckled under his weight. Her skull hit the pavement with a heavy thud.

  Jaz lifted himself up and moved her over so that she was face up. Blood trickled from her forehead into her eye. There was noise at the end of the street now and he could see the man darting back and forth along the parked cars looking for Natasha. But she was too low for him to see. They both were.

  Jaz ran. It was cold on the streets and few people were out. Within seconds he was by his car fumbling for his keys. He thought about rolling into a ball in the foot well of the vehicle. But there were too many police. They would be crawling all over the place and bound to find him. Jamming his key in the ignition he started the engine and drove off, tyres squealing. .

  “Slow down,” he told himself. “Slow down. Don’t attract attention.” He jammed his foot on the brake and forced himself to drive steadily indicating that he was about to turn right. As he did so he looked in the mirror and caught a glimpse of the man kneeling on the ground tending to the woman. She still seemed to be unconscious. Then he saw police, fanning out to search for him.

  Christ, thought Jaz, I may have killed her. Where the fuck do I go now? And then he remembered. Aysha was expecting him. At eight o’clock.

  “Ambulance!” Monty yelled and someone must have heard because within seconds there were sirens coming from the other side of Quentin House. As the flashing blue lights lit up the street Monty stood pointing to where she was. The driver flashed his lights to signal that he’d seen. As the vehicle came to a halt a paramedic in green trousers, green shirt and a bulky fluorescent jacket jumped out of the passenger seat and opened the vehicle’s double door. Monty caught the smell of disinfectant and looked up to see the ambulance’s interior, bright with light. The paramedic was on the pavement with a torch examining Natasha’s head.

  The driver joined him.

  “Deep cut to the forehead,” his colleague said. He put his ear to her mouth to see if he could hear breathing. He went to the back of ambulance and emerged with an oxygen tank. Without bothering about the strap he put the plastic cover over her mouth and turned the tap.

  “I’ll hold this. You get the stretcher.”

  Monty watched the two men work. Within minutes they had her in the back of the ambulance, strapped on a trolley, wrapped in a bright crimson red blanket.

  One of the paramedics looked at Monty.

  “Are you her partner?”

  Monty hesitated. “Yes, guess I am. How is she?”

  “Can’t say. Needs a scan. Do you want to come with us?” he said and then looking at his colleague. “Tommy’s or Guy’s.”

  “Tommy’s is closer. I’ll see if they can take her.”

  As his colleague spoke into a radio the paramedic said to Monty: “You can sit in the back if you like. Hold her hand. Never does any harm.”

  But then Monty thought about it and shook his head.

  “You carry on,” he said. “I better look after the baby.”

  As Monty spoke, 12 policemen and women were silently climbing the staircase that led to Jaz’s flat.

  The first policeman to reach the balcony looked back and signalled to the two men behind him that they should move right to see if there were any other exits. Obeying the instruction, they followed the route Jaz had taken just a few minutes before. One of them knocked the empty vodka bottle causing it to roll on the concrete floor once again. Catching the sound, the other police all stopped moving, looked in the direction of the bottle and then waited to see if anyone had been alerted by it. After nothing happened for 20 seconds they started moving again.

  “Come on boys!” one of them said into the earpieces they were all wearing. “Steady now.”

  With another two officers hanging back to block the staircase there were eight by Jaz’s door. A teenager who lived three flats down from Jaz opened his door. He obviously hadn’t been expecting to see anyone and before he was even out of the door he stopped and, from beneath his hoody, gawped at the scene on front of him. One of the two policemen on the staircase rushed up and put his foot against the inside of the door so that the young man could not create an alarm by slamming it.

  “Come on mate. Stay indoors,” he said in a low voice.

  “But whassup?”

  “All in good time. Come on. It’s dangerous here.”

  Confused, the teenager went back into his flat and shut the door. The policeman stayed standing outside to make sure he did not try to open it again.

  The rest of the police were now ready. At the front was the biggest of them – over six feet tall. He stood at 90 degrees to Jaz’s door and was holding a pneumatic battering ram, the size of golf bag, at waist height. The police nicknamed it the enforcer. With the likelihood of splintering wood flying back into his face he wore not only a flak jacket and a helmet but also goggles shaped like beetle eyes.

  To his left were two dog handlers. One had an alsatian sitting on a lead, alert at his feet, his head moving rapidly from left to right as he took in everything that was happening. From time to time the dog whined with excitement. The second handler, his left forearm protected by a thick gauntlet, was there to capture any dogs that might be inside the flat. In his left hand he held a shiny metallic snare: an extendable pole with an open loop of wire at the end. And in his right hand he had a small carbon dioxide fire extinguisher – not much bigger than a deodorant can - that experience had taught him was the si
ngle most effective tool for keeping an angry pit bull at bay.

  Four men behind them cradled submachine guns next to their chests, the barrels pointing down at the floor. Beneath their caps, their noses mouths and chins stood out, reflecting the moonlight. The only other bit of flesh visible was their hands: each had their right forefinger resting on their gun’s safety catch. The lead officer did not have a submachine gun but instead carried a pistol in a Velcro-sealed holster attached to his belt.

  “I knew something was up the moment I saw him coming with all that stuff.”

  Joyce Connolly and Ethel Sugden had never gone to the pub. Intrigued by Monty and Natasha they had bustled down to Webber Road to find an ever-increasing number of police moving in, like a small army of occupation. The ladies’ insistent claims that they needed to get back to their flats had been politely but firmly rebuffed. Undaunted they had pretended they were going back to the pub but instead had nipped through the garden and up the back steps – retracing Jaz’s route in reverse.

  “Who’s that?” It was one of the two policemen sent to check the back exit.

  Although all the other police on the balcony and some others in the street could hear him in their headphones, no one responded. No one else could hear the women.

  “How many police were there? Can’t just be for nicking a bit of stuff,” said Joyce.

  “Must be more than that,” Ethel agreed.

  “Drugs I suppose.”

  “Unless he’s one of them religious ones.”

  “Like a terrorist? Nah. Didn’t look the type. No beard.”

  “What? They all have beards?”

  “Terrorists? Yeah, they do these days.”

  The two women, heads bent down as they climbed, didn’t even see the police coming down the stairs, looming above them. As he approached one of them spoke in the microphone in his cuff. “It’s alright gov. Just two old ladies. I’ll deal with it.”