“But I really have to leave. I have to look after my daughter,” Natasha said emphasising the last word. And then worrying she had been too abrupt she looked the nurse in the eyes. “Please. I must.”
As the nurse left the room Natasha looked at Monty. “Leave it to me,” he said. “I’ll have you out of here in no time.”
And with that he left the room thinking it might just be time to show MI6 a little bit of what he could do.
*****
Jaz walked to the pub and arrived before her. At the bar a couple of old men sat in silence sipping pints. The barmaid was wearing a Santa Claus hat with long greasy fair hair sticking out from underneath. He reached for his money with one hand and pointed at one of the taps with the other. “One please.”
“A pint you mean?”
“Yeah.”
They would be in his flat now. They would have his name. Would they have his picture? Probably. He looked around the pub and saw there was no TV.
“Well hallo Jaz.”
“Hey, you good?” He tried to concentrate on her. To put everything else out of his mind.
“Where you been? I missed you,”
“I had to go away.”
“You said.” She waited for more.
“I went to Pakistan. Baluchistan. It was my brother. He was.... Someone ...” And eventually: “He died.”
She put her hand on his. “I am so sorry. How old ...”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen? What happened?”
Jaz leant against the bar. “Don’t want to talk about it. Know what I mean? But that’s why I was away. Sorry. And my phone was out of range.” They stood in silence until he said: “How about a drink?”
“Sure. Vodka and tonic. With all the extras - ice, lemon, umbrella, everything! I’ll find a table.”
By the time he’d come back from the bar he had decided that he needed to stay in her flat. It would give him time to think. They spoke of London and the English and of Waterloo and the football. And of being alone at Christmas. And talking to her was easy. Easier than just about anything he’d ever done.
“So Jaz, walk me home?”
“Yeah. Right,” he said wondering whether she’d noticed his nerves.
As they approached her flat he nearly put his arm around her waist but thought better of it. Her teeth glistened as she unlocked the door smiling and then, as they climbed the stairs she turned back to him with her finger to her lips: “I am not supposed to have visitors,” she whispered.
As the door closed behind them Jaz couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He put his hands to her head and directed her mouth to his. She drew away giggling.
“Slowly, slowly.”
He pulled back unsure what to do.
“Jaz. And such a good looking boy. Come here.” She was sitting on the single bed pulling him towards her. “No need to rush.” As his body came on top of her she lay back and reached for his trouser button.
*****
With the CTC now the lead agency, they met in the Met Commissioner’s conference room in New Scotland Yard at midnight. The room was lined with dark wood panelling with framed portraits of previous commissioners. The only full-size one, behind the head of the table, was of Sir Robert Peel himself. Under one of the tall sash windows there was an antique chiming clock on a mahogany desk with burgundy red inlaid leather. Beside the clock there was a decanter filled with water and four glasses standing bottom up to keep out the dust. Most of the people attending the meeting were unaware that the panel on the back wall, to the left of the window and clock was, in fact, a door that led onto a small bedroom with en suite bathroom. On the wall opposite, attached to the wood with a cable trailing to the floor and incongruous amidst all the antiques, there was a large flat screen TV split into four quarters and showing BBC, Sky, ITV and CNN.
ACSO sat at the head of the table working through a pile of files. His baldness accentuated the impression that his face was almost perfectly round from his smooth chin, up past the full cheeks, to the arc of his forehead. The portraits, all in uniform, looked down on him. Only one of them was smiling.
The search for Jasir Khan had just become the top national priority. And they didn’t have a clue where he was.
The assistant commissioner knocked a glass of water three times with his pencil. The room fell silent. He looked at his watch. “Happy Christmas Eve. Thanks for coming. This meeting is now a Gold Coordinating Committee. Anna Mackenzie will be our Gold Commander.”
He looked around the table to see who else was attending. He counted seven police officers including Anna Mackenzie, himself and to his left his chief of staff who, with an A4 pad and pen at the ready was preparing to take notes. As he scanned the table he nodded at the outsiders to acknowledge their presence: the chairman of JTAC, the head of the Met communications office who was a civilian, Monty from MI5. He was surprised to see Keane from MI6 had also turned up. Maybe he didn’t like Christmas at home.
“I will be briefing the home secretary after this and need to be up to date. So, Gold Commander. Tell us about the apartment.”
Anna Mackenzie, a middle-aged woman in clothes that suggested she’d been at a party replied: “Waterloo. Lived there alone. We’re still testing the material found in the bath but forensic says it looks like peroxide-based explosives. They found the bottles and some car batteries with the acid taken out. Also drain cleaner.” She hesitated and then added: “They say the stuff in the bath looks like pizza. Just out of the oven.”
“Pizza?”
“That’s what they say.”
“When will we have proper analysis?”
“At least 24 hours.” The assistant commissioner looked as if he were about to object but she cut him off. “Not the best time of year.”
“What else?”
“So far remarkably little. Prints and DNA of course. We are cross-checking now. His neighbours say he’s been away for a couple of months and only just returned.”
“How many units have we on standby?”
“At full strength - inspector, three sergeants and 19 constables - just one. We are trying to scrabble another one together now.”
“That’s a priority.” Anna Mackenzie nodded and noticed the chief of staff writing something down.
“MI5?” the assistant commissioner said. It was Monty’s turn.
“Apart from what we have already circulated, little new. There’s not much CCTV around Quentin House. We are trying Waterloo Road shops to see what they have. Also Waterloo tube station. But that’s obviously horrendously busy. The buses may be more hopeful. Again, though, Christmas is not really helping us. You’ll find a file there about the minicab firm he worked at. Basically it all tallies. He went to Pakistan for a couple of months and just came back. He has bombs. We must assume he is about to attack.”
“Can you work at a minicab company that young? My daughter’s his age and can’t afford car insurance so how on earth could he?” It was the JTAC chairman.
“It was a company policy,” Monty said.
The assistant commissioner coughed to indicate that he didn’t appreciate the digression.
The chairman of JTAC said: “The home secretary has bumped up the threat level to severe. The press should have it in about 15 minutes.”
Monty picked up his thread: “he is a completely new face. Totally off our radar screen. We’ve put the word out with all our people: contacts, informers, community leaders and so on. Not a word. So far, no one has heard of him.”
“Who was he working with? Where’s the support team?” The assistant commissioner looked up to see a table surrounded by blank faces. “Mobile? Landline?”
Monty again: “No landline. As you know the mobile was in the doctor’s house. In Wembley. It has not been used for months. But the last time it was used was in Pakistan. We’re working on it. And we’re trying to find his new one.” And then to show there was some good news: “We do have a voice recording from the minicab company.”
“Happy Christmas to you,” said the assistant commissioner. “What about his car?”
“We have all the details from DVLA,” said a policeman in uniform. “But it’s a silver Mondeo so there are plenty about. If the patrols don’t find it tonight we should have it on ANPR the moment he moves. And we’ve put out mobile ANPR patrols to increase the chances. ”
“Target protection?”
The woman from CTC spoke again. “Critical National Infrastructure will receive the JTAC advisory and follow their protocols. Hopefully that is, if Christmas allows. All the royals are gathered at Sandringham so that’s easy. Everyone there who needs to know already does. Cabinet ministers are being informed as we speak, but we don’t have anything specific that says they need more protection than normal.”
“And I suppose we will need a line for the press.” There was silence. “Anyone?”
“Obviously keep Natasha Knight out of it.” It was Keane. “She’s conscious by the way.”
“I heard. OK I’ll deal with the press,” the assistant commissioner said looking at the head of communications. “Set up a pooled statement to a single camera at the BBC in Millbank. I’ll say something like ‘intelligence led to an investigation of a flat in Waterloo. The operation is ongoing. The Met, you brush up the language, is aware of the increased threat level and is acting accordingly.’” He looked up the table. “Enough?”
The head of communications stopped taking notes and looked up. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? These situations …”
The assistant commissioner laughed. “You want to do it?”
“Well maybe it’s better if I do. It’s my job after all.”
“No. The public need reassurance. They need the police leadership out front.”
“Fine. Obviously you need to add that the public must remain both calm and alert and so on.”
The assistant commissioner nodded. “Which leaves just one thing. Do we put his picture out?”
“I say we should,” said Monty. “He’s at large so to speak. And he’s armed and dangerous.”
“Yes, but are you totally sure that you have the right picture. This is him. The right man.”
“Sure. Yes. I am sure. We are sure.”
“So let’s do it,” and with a final nod at the head of communications the assistant commissioner closed the meeting. And then he called the home secretary to explain what they knew. And what they didn’t.
*****
Simultaneously anxious and elated, Jaz barely slept. Aysha lay with her head on his chest, her body moving up and down with her breathing. He curled a few of her hairs around his finger and with his other hand stroked her shoulder. He looked at the studio flat with its kitchen attached to the wall just a few feet from her single bed. Her football kit hung from a hook on the back of the door that led into a cubicle with a shower, sink and toilet.
He felt safe and hidden. But he knew it couldn’t last. He’d be a wanted man by now. He saw a radio by her bed. His name might already be on the news.
The sheikh had been clear from the outset. At the first sign of trouble, concentrate on escape. You can always fight another day, he’d said. But I won’t be able to, Jaz thought. There would be no second chance. If he made it to Pakistan he’d have to stay there. In the shadows. Never to return the UK. And everything was ready. In just 48 hours he could have it all done.
Aysha stirred and he held her tighter. And it was then he saw the framed picture by her bed. There were four of them. The parents and two children. A boy and a girl. Aysha and her smiling brother. It was at that moment Jaz finally made up his mind.
He tried to extricate himself from Aysha without waking her. But they were too closely entwined. She grasped him more tightly and without moving her head or opening her eyes said: “What time is it?”
“Five. Just after.”
“Go back to sleep.”
“Sorry. I have to go to work.”
She was more awake now and with her arms splayed on his chest looked up at him. “At five in the morning? Who wants a cab at this time of day?”
Without replying Jaz gently moved her off him, got up and started to dress. She moaned.
“You going to spend Christmas with me Jaz? A London Christmas?”
As he looked down Jaz felt a tide of sadness wash over his body. Too late, he thought. He’d met her too late. He knelt down on the floor stroked her and kissed her on the cheek. “Aysha, I have to go.”
“I don’t even have your number.”
“I have yours. I’ll call.” He thought about the day ahead. “How about nine at the London Eye? Nine tonight.”
“Why so late?”
“Can you make it?”
“Of course I can.” She smiled and slid deep into the warmth of her bed.
Jaz scanned the room to see it he had left anything and above the kitchen sink saw a bottle of deep green washing up liquid. It reminded him of something the major had said. Checking she was not looking, he put it in his pocket. And then he was off.
The cars parked in the quiet, empty streets were covered with frost. Jaz rubbed his hands together and headed to the Mondeo.
He was on his fourth set of number plates now and wanted to switch again. As he approached his car he looked up and down the street. Five in the morning in Christmas week. It was as good a chance as any. Opening the boot he found the next set of plates and the screwdriver, and started at the back of the car. He was quick at it now but just as he tightened the second screw he heard footsteps approaching. They rang out crisp and even in the silence of the city.
Jaz didn’t look up. Gathering his screwdriver and number plates he edged out onto the road using the body of the car as cover. The footsteps were louder with every step. As they passed Jaz looked up and saw a man with black overcoat walking away from him. He ducked back down and waited.
But then he heard a car. Still on his haunches, he scuttled to the back to the boot and waited for it to pass.
Driving with two different plates would be crazy. Staying low he moved to the front of the car and made the switch. The job done, he rubbed the windscreen with his sleeve, opened the front door, started the engine, switched on the radio which was half was through “Don’t They Know It’s Christmas?” and set off for Golders Green.
He saw the police the moment he turned towards Vauxhall Bridge. They had vans parked askew on the pavement and, from what he could see, were stopping cars moving to the north side of the river at a checkpoint.
“Lockdown in London as government issues Christmas terror alert.” Jaz looked at the radio and then at his watch. Six o’clock. The news. He switched it off. He needed to concentrate.
His minicabbing experience kicked in. The approach to bridge was one of the most complex junctions in London, with roads from all directions converging in a tangle of one-way lanes dotted with traffic lights and pedestrian crossings. Taking care not to jerk the car, Jaz changed direction, heading west, leaving the bridge to his right, and headed towards Battersea. As he drove he kept looking right, towards the river, to see if there were more police around. The first bridge he could see clearly was Albert Bridge. No checkpoint. He could have crossed but decided to give central London a still wider berth and kept moving west. He could cross the next bridge down.
He reached Chelsea driving past the tall, sturdy white-painted homes of London’s moneyed families. The doors were a uniform, glossy black, glinting with the reflection of streetlights. Many of them had expensive looking laurels of holly and ivy attached to the brass knockers. Jaz scanned left and right for police but couldn’t see any. Although the traffic lights were still changing colour, there was no traffic to obey their instructions.
Jaz thought of heading further west and driving out of London altogether so that he could approach Golders Green from the North. But as he worked out the possible routes in his head, and pictured the major roads he’d have to travel on, he found himself thinking about police vans, blue flashing ligh
ts and policemen wearing reflective vests, waving him down. He’d keep to the narrow residential streets. The ones where they could not put checkpoints because, if they did, the whole road would be blocked.
With his strategy decided Jaz looked left and saw the kind of road he was after. Lined with parked cars on either side and speed bumps. The car was his biggest problem. A silver Mondeo. There was nothing he could do about that. But he could work on his appearance. Ahead Jaz could see a gap in the line of parked cars. Taking his chance he parked, nipped back to the boot and removed his bag. Within a few seconds he was back in the car with the bag on the passenger’s seat. Looking up and down the road to make sure the coast was clear, he searched its contents with his left hand. He found a baseball cap and, putting it on, pulled the peak as low down over his eyes as he could manage. That prompted him to think that with sun still low in the sky maybe he could get away with sunglasses too. He dismissed the idea. Shades at Christmas would more likely attract rather than deflect attention. Instead he lowered the two sun visors above the windscreen. Looking in the mirror on the back of the visor he realised that the cap didn’t help much. But what more could he do? It was just a question of improving the odds. Nudging the balance in his favour.
Jaz started driving again and switched on the radio to see if he could glean any more information about the police deployments.
As he headed north Jaz had to cross some of the major roads that carried traffic heading in and out the city centre. At Notting Hill he looked left and saw two policemen standing outside the tube station. But the residential streets he was using were all clear. There’s plenty of time he told himself. Just keep going. Slow and steady. One road at a time.
By the time he was close to Golders Green Jaz was beginning to relax. He was well north of central London now and much as he tried to think of any important buildings that they might be guarding in the area, he came up blank. It was just houses and shops. Nothing unusual. No reason for the police to be present. Unless …
The problem occurred to him just as he turned left onto the A5 and saw a queue of cars ahead. He was on the approach road to the M1. One of the major exit routes from London. And the police had a checkpoint. He wondered if he could swerve right and head away from it. But it was too late: he was already committed to turning left. Surely he’d be noticed. There were police everywhere. He completed his turn and joined a queue of traffic waiting to go through the checkpoint.
TARGET BRITAIN: a political thriller Page 24