“Roger.”
“Now ladies I am sorry to say that we need to go downstairs.”
“What’s going on?” It was Joyce.
“Sorry luv. You can say what you like. We are going to our home and you can’t stop us,” Ethel added.
“Ladies there is a major security operation going on. It could be dangerous. We all need to go downstairs.” The old ladies were so small he was tempted to lift one in each arm and carry them down.
“Dangerous? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“There are armed officers about to make an arrest.”
“Well we know that. We saw them on the street.”
“If you saw the police in the street how did you get up here? What are you doing up here?” He sounded slightly more hostile.
“We have rights you know. We were going for a cup of tea,” said Ethel.
“The right to tea,” Joyce agreed. “That’s a human right.”
As they argued the men by Jaz’s door were ready to move. The senior officer raised his right hand and then with a sudden, rapid movement moved it down as if he were starting a school running race. “Go! Go! Go!” he yelled.
As he did so the policeman holding the enforcer rocked back and, with a pendulum motion, swung the battering ram toward the door directing 3.5 tonnes of force not at the locks but the hinges. The door came off the frame at the first attempt. Moving backwards he put the battering ram down on the ground and let the other police run past him into the flat, grasping and kicking at the loose pieces of wood as they did so.
With the need for silence gone, a helicopter moved overhead and pointed a powerful beam of light at the roof of the flats and the gardens. The circle of light was harsh and slightly blue as the operator in the chopper scanned back and forth looking for the rapid movement of a man on the run. Instead he illuminated two elderly ladies being escorted off the premises, each grasping the arm of a policeman, apparently talking as they moved.
The first two policeman were in the small hallway of Jaz’s flat.
“Armed police! Get on the ground.”
Silence. As they moved forward another two moved into the flat taking their place. Their earphones filled with an increasing number of voices sometimes talking over each other.
“It bloody stinks in here!”
“Sitting room clear.”
“Chief you better get in here.”
“Bedroom clear.”
“Bathroom chief! Soonest.”
“He’s gone. Its empty.”
“You know better than that. Keep looking.”
“What the fuck ...”
“I know, I said you should take a shufti.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Looks like pizza doesn’t it.”
The chief and the policeman who had called him in were looking at the bath. It was filled with a glutinous brown and yellow material that lay on the bottom of the bath and was also smeared all over the enamel.
“Need a bloody gas mask in here,” the policeman said.
The chief looked at him and nodded. “Everyone out! Out now!” he ordered as he left the bathroom. As they left the junior policeman asked him: “Explosives?”
“I hope so.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well it could be anything couldn’t it? What do we know?”
“What? You mean chemical weapons?”
Chapter Thirteen
“When people kill us, they should be killed in greater numbers.” -- President Bill Clinton, 1993
10:00, 23rd December, Dera Chamak, Baluchistan
Jaz had been gone three days.
The sheikh and the colonel sat in the garden, a collection of Pakistani newspapers – Urdu and English - laid out on a glass-topped coffee table in front of them. By their side Ravi had set up a satellite TV and put on Sky with the volume off. The colonel was engrossed in the sports pages, but every few minutes the sheikh glanced up looking for a banner strap line with “breaking news”. Of a bombing. Or of an arrest. Restless, he picked up one of the newspapers and tried to read but, failing to concentrate, put it down again and asked a servant how long his guest would be. “He’s on his way,” he was told yet again. “Any moment now.”
And eventually, wearing an ill-fitting, shiny black business suit with brown leather shoes, he did arrive. Flustered, the man approached the sheikh.
“Sir, they told me at the airport to come straight to you,” he said.
“Thank you,” the sheikh said signalling that he could take the seat next to him. “You travelled well?”
“Fine, sir. Fine.”
“Your family is well?”
“Very well, sir.”
The sheikh remained silent for nearly a minute. And then: “So what news?”
“Well sir,” the man made a slight writhing movement in his seat. “There may be a small problem, sir.” And then with an expression of innocence spreading over his face: “or all may be well.”
The sheikh closed his eyes but said nothing.
“I left the money, sir. Five thousand pounds. Mixed denominations, exactly as you wanted. No problem at all, sir. Used notes. And it was picked up, sir. I went the next morning and it had gone. No doubt about it, sir.”
The sheikh, eyes open again, looked at him impassively.
“But just after I left the money a police vehicle arrived and, so to say, disturbed the scene sir.”
“Police?”
“Yes sir. But I could not see anything sir. As per your instructions I moved away immediately. Immediately sir,”
“So who took the money?”
“I don’t know sir.” And then once more he tried to look on the bright side. “But it was picked up.”
“Anything else?”
“No sir.”
The sheikh dismissed him with a wave and, as the man scurried off, tried to make sense of it. He summoned a servant.
“I am going hunting. Have the tents arranged and tell the colonel and the major I want to leave within the hour.”
Within ten minutes the major joined them on the lawn. “Park’s police,” he said. “They may have seen your courier. And of course, the courier could have helped himself.”
“No,” the sheikh said. “But if the police have the money we wouldn’t know. They’d have no reason to put that on the news.”
As the two men speculated the colonel stared out the window trying not to listen. Eventually he spoke: “Look it’s all bloody guess work. We don’t know. We won’t know until Jasir returns.” He corrected himself: “if Jaz returns. So there is bugger all point playing guessing games.”
It was the colonel who saw the TV strap line first: BREAKING NEWS: LONDON TERROR ARREST.
“Look! Volume!”
As the sheikh waved to a servant to adjust the controls the colonel put his head in his hands, murmuring to himself. “Not Jasir too,” he said. “Please Allah, no.”
“It’s not Jaz. Look”
And sure enough the TV screen had filled with the picture of a middle-aged man being led from a terraced house in handcuffs.
“Who the hell is that?” the colonel wondered aloud.
The TV could be heard now and they listened as the report came to its conclusion.
“The Muslim Council has condemned the arrest and demanded the police explain why it is targeting Muslims. But the authorities insist they are investigating a series of plots against the UK and have asked the public to remain vigilant. Liliane Nugent, Sky News.”
The major was approaching them and the sheikh beckoned him over.
“Jaz?” the major asked.
“I don’t think so.”
The TV host was interviewing another correspondent who was standing outside of the arrested man’s home.
“What can you tell us Damian?”
“Neighbours say the man arrested is Dr Iftikhar Chaudhry. He is a local GP who has lived in the area for over 20 years. Everyone I have spoken to is saying they are
shocked he has been arrested because he is known as a public opponent of militancy. One neighbour said he is one of the few people in the community who has spoken out in public on the issue.”
“I understand he has taken part in government consultations.”
“That’s right. In 2007 Dr Chaudhry was part of a working group appointed by the Home Office to produce printed material arguing against the use of violence in the Muslim community. It was all part of the so called PREVENT strategy. It opens up the possibility that the government has been consulting a man who is now facing terrorism charges.”
“Damian thank you. In Syria today …”
The sheikh signalled that he wanted the volume turned down.
“Connected?”
The major and the colonel both looked unsure. “Have you had word from Mohammed Altaf?” the major asked the sheikh.
“No. I told him not to contact me.”
“Well I think he has just done his job. If that doesn’t confuse them, nothing will.” He turned to the major. “If I might say so that was a top-rate idea.”
The major gave slight bow. “Allah be praised.”
*****
The hunt began the next morning.
They had breakfasted in the tent watched by five falcons sitting on specially designed perches. “She cost a hundred thousand dollars,” the sheikh boasted as he selected his favourite. He stroked its white tipped, golden feathers and tickled its soft breast. “Last year she was magnificent. But it all depends on the Americans.”
“What the hell have they got to do with your falcon?” the colonel said.
“It’s all the airplanes and helicopters in Afghanistan,” the sheikh replied.
While international environmental organisations had for years claimed the houbara bustard was going extinct because it was being over-hunted, the sheikh preferred an alternative explanation. Years of conflict in Afghanistan had disorientated the birds and disturbed their normal migration patterns from Central Asia.
The sheikh handed the bird to one of his falconers. “So, let’s begin.”
The falconer wore a robe that reached down to the sand and a turban protected his scalp and face from the sun. Only his nose and almond eyes were visible. His right hand and forearm were covered in a thick gauntlet and the falcon, hooded now, stood proud on his wrist, its talons gripping the leather. To calm the bird the falconer made a noise rather like a horse galloping on sand.
They were walking in the desert now in single file, a small retinue of servants at the back carrying food and water.
“The Arabs now do all this in four wheel drives,” the sheikh said. “I can’t see the point myself. I prefer the older ways.”
It was the falconer who saw the houbara first. It was so far away that no one else could make it out even when he pointed towards it. He took the hood off the bird that scanned the horizon searching for its quarry. Suddenly the falcon was alert, twitching and moving its head up and down. The falconer jerked up his forearm and the falcon took off.
It started low, staying out of sight and, as it approached the houbara, suddenly soared upwards towards the sun. The sheikh was walking fast now in hope of being able to see the kill. The falcon, ready to stage its attack, dipped down and accelerated toward the desert floor. “Strike!” the sheikh cried out, “Strike!” As it went in for the kill the falcon was obscured by a puff of houbara feathers.
But the houbara wasn’t dead. With a damaged wing it flew at a strange angle up and then down again toward the ground. When it landed it stood perfectly still, relying on its natural camouflage. The falcon was circling above now trying to see where its prey had gone.
Without warning the houbara began running on the sand. It moved fast and the falcon caught the movement. With its wings spread wide it swooped down for the final attack. The houbara tried to fly in a last attempt at escape but the falcon grasped its breast and plunged its hooked beak into the houbara’s eyes. Giving up, the houbara went limp as the falcon bit its neck and twisted until it snapped.
Elated the sheikh rushed up to the falcon as it landed and stroking its neck, looked into its eyes. “Bloody hell,” muttered the exhausted colonel, “true love.” It was then he saw the figure on the horizon. One of the sheikh’s men was standing on a dune with his right arm extended. The colonel pointed at him. “Where the hell did he come from?”
The sheikh looked up and waited to see if the man made any other movements. But he remained still, silhouetted on the horizon.
“We must go back,” the sheikh said.
“Is it Jaz?”
“Don’t worry, Colonel,” said the sheikh still looking at the messenger, reading his signals. “It’s not bad news and we are not in danger. But it’s news of some sort.”
When they reached the sheikh’s fort, servants ushered the three men from their pickup and told them it was Ravi who had called them and that he was working in the eyrie. As they climbed the stairs, Ravi heard them approaching. “I’m in. It’s worked,” he called out.
The three men gathered around the computer and watched as Ravi concentrated on the screen. “You told me to send a message. I did the right thing?” he asked the sheikh.
The sheikh gripped his shoulder. “You did the right thing.”
“And you want me to go ahead?”
The sheikh nodded and turned to the major. “It tells us that he put the memory sticks into the pub. But that would have been before Hyde Park.”
Ravi, for the umpteenth time, was trying to explain to the colonel how the memory stick worked. But he only seemed to understand the first part of it, when the manager picked up the memory stick with playboy symbol on it and went home to look at the porn.
“So while he was doing that,” Ravi said. “My virus downloaded onto his laptop. Then he checked his work emails and the virus went on to the National Grid network. And then the grid people rebooted their system to install some updates. They’ve just done it. That’s why I called you.”
“I see,” the colonel lied.
The whole exercise took Ravi an hour. First he found the port opened up by the virus that had installed itself so that early in the booting process that he could gain access without even needing a password. Using a programme he had already written he set it up so that all his instructions would come in to effect on the morning of the 26th December. He then entered the instructions themselves: he changed the load settings and put a divert on all messages from the National Balancing Engineer to the grid’s suppliers.
“I’m out,” he said exhaling and switching off his remote access. “I can go back in whenever you like but that will increase the chance they find me. So we leave it. It’s done.”
The sheikh gripped Ravi’s shoulder and beamed with pride. “Good lad Ravi. You are a credit to us all.”
*****
The first thing Natasha became aware of when she woke was the sound. Footsteps, and then a trolley rattling by. She opened her eyes and saw cheap, beech-veneered modern furniture and a plain, white washed wall. Then the unmistakable, antiseptic smell of iodine.
She was in a hospital.
The throbbing began almost immediately. Waves of pressure pulsed and swirled around her head. She tried to move her forefinger. It worked. All her limbs did.
“Hallo!” It was Monty. She saw him put a newspaper on the floor and turn his eyes towards hers. “Blimey! You’ve been out cold for over an hour. All well though. Scan fine. Saw it myself.”
She shut her eyes and thought about pretending to be asleep again. But then she jerked up: “Rosie?” She tried to prop herself up on her elbows but failing to do so fell back into the pillow. “Where is she?”
“Don’t panic. All in hand. With the sister and now being fussed over by five other children ranging from the age of well ...” he thought about it but gave up the effort. “Well, ranging from one foot long to three foot six. Roughly.”
“Where is she Monty? Where’s my girl?”
“I am telling you.
She’s fine with my sister Charity.”
“Charity?”
He patted her shoulder. “Really don’t worry. Rosie is fine. I’ll call Charity now and you can talk.”
“Why is she with your sister? Where is your sister?”
“Barnes. After you rather ruled yourself out for mothering duties, young Miss Coatesworth was somewhat at the end of her tether. Bit beyond it actually. And not being a specialist when it comes to sprog management I called Charity.”
“I want to see her.”
“Calling her now. Don’t tell the nurses. Not meant to use them in here,” he said pointing at his phone.
“What happened? He leapt on me. Knocked me down, right?”
“Leaving a bit of a calling card. I am afraid.” He touched his forehead and looked at hers. She tried to reach up but he held her arm to prevent her touching her dressing. “I’m afraid it’s rather Harry Potter.”
She groaned: “Did you find him? Jasir Khan?”
“Disappeared into thin air.”
“And his flat?”
“Bathtub full of explosives. Well not full actually, mores the pity. It looks like he has already removed some of it to a place unknown.”
“So it’s real. They are planning something?”
“It’s real, yes.”
“When can I get out of here?”
As he spoke a nurse in a lime green, loose fitting, polyester uniform bustled towards Natasha’s bedside.
“You were meant to tell us when she came round,” the nurse said, fixing Monty in her gaze. He jammed the phone into his pocket.
“Sorry it was this very moment: just right now.”
“She’s spoken?”
“She has.”
The nurse held Natasha’s hand and no longer brusque, spoke in a singsong patter: “Hallo. I am a nurse. In the hospital. You’ve been in the wars a bit. Bit of a bump. Now my love, what’s your name?”
“Natasha,” she said in a tone that suggested she didn’t want to chat. “How long do I have to stay here?”
“Well Dr Laxton has left for Christmas now. And he hasn’t discharged you.”
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