TARGET BRITAIN: a political thriller

by Owen Bennett-Jones

  “What do we know?” asked the prime minister.

  “About the targets? One was outside a church just as a Christmas service was beginning. A little girl there is confirmed dead. And the bomber too of course. But even though I say it was outside a church, he was also near a mosque so really I can’t tell you if his intended target was the church or the mosque. In fact he was moving away from the church when he detonated himself. The others were in Pakistani residential areas. One went off in a car. We are thinking it was on the way to a target and detonated prematurely. It’s early days though. And I should say the media are gathering in force outside the church where the girl died.”

  “Reprisal attacks for the pub bombing in Dagenham?”

  “Can’t be. Not if they are suicide attacks. But then the targets make no sense for jihadis either. Except perhaps the mosque; the Imam there is known as a moderate.”

  “What about out on the streets. Any unrest?”

  “There’s bound to be. I am raising everyone I can but, with it being Christmas, some are away. We have four separate crime scenes. We’ve asked for help from neighbouring forces but it’s not the easiest time for anyone.”

  The prime minister looked at the lieutenant general but seemed to change his mind. “Nothing has actually happened yet? On the streets.”

  “We have a report of a mixed-race couple being beaten up at a petrol station. But we are still investigating that. So it’s not confirmed.”

  “OK. We can put the army on standby. Outside London too. But that’s all at this stage. Not visible on the streets yet.” Turning back the room he said: “General will you need somewhere near Bradford?

  “There will be a designated site,” he replied. “We’ll coordinate with the chief constable and Director Special Forces. If we end up in full view we may have to invoke the Military Assistance to Civil Power Act. ”

  The prime minister looked at the cabinet secretary who was already making a note and then turned toward the commissioner.

  “Is the BNP bombing connected?”

  “Early days but it looks like it. We thought it was a timed device or remotely detonated but the forensics people have found the body parts of a victim they can’t identify suggesting it was a suicide attack too. But just to add prime minister that I am sure the police can cope without the need for the military.”

  It was a bureaucratic turf war the prime minister had seen too many times before. “How many helicopters do you have in reach of Bradford?”

  Startled, the commissioner paused as he tried to think of a reply.

  “So don’t tell me you don’t need the military,” the prime minister said. And then to the room as a whole: “Five suicide bombers. Who are they?”

  “It bears all the hallmarks of al Qaeda,” said the head of MI6. Even if he didn’t have any hard information he always tried to speak at COBRA.

  The prime minister pursed his lips as if he were acknowledging an unwelcome truth.

  “In which case we have to respond.”

  “For a couple of days now we have been aware of a Jasir Khan,” the police commissioner said. “We sent you a file.”

  The commissioner caught the eye of the cabinet secretary who, with an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, acknowledged that Number 10 had received it. Whether he had passed it on to the prime minister remained unclear.

  “We are still awaiting proper results, but we found unstable explosives in his flat and indications that he had moved some to another place. We put his picture out yesterday.”

  “He’s still on the run?”

  “Yes.”

  “Completely fresh face. He flew in from India,” said the head of MI6.

  “India?”

  “But he was in Pakistan before that. Travelling on a British passport.”

  “Home grown,” the prime minister said.

  “Seems so.”

  “And the doctor in Wembley?”

  “Total mystery. He had Jasir Khan’s phone in his home but claims it was planted on him. In fact I am sorry to say I actually met the doctor a couple of years ago. He was put forward by the Muslim Council of Great Britain. He’s still in custody. ”

  The prime minister looked incredulous: “He has worked with Home Office?” he asked with a barely audible groan. “What is the press saying?”

  There was a stirring of interest on the politicians’ side of the table and the home secretary spoke: “They are all over that of course. If the good doctor is innocent he will be able to retire on his libel earnings. Dagenham is still the lead, but the victims are not the ones the media want so I expect them to move to Bradford in a big way even though the death toll is lower. The arrest of the woman at the London Eye was on Sky. They had pictures of it somehow. She was Jasir Khan’s friend right?”

  The head of MI5 nodded.

  “Well the press hasn’t joined the dots yet.”

  “And what is she saying.”

  ACSO put up his hand. “Not a lot. She met him recently. Only just started a relationship with him. Had no idea what he was up to. That’s it really. But she did confirm his identity.”

  “There are too many loose ends here,” the prime minister said shaking his head to indicate his confusion. “If these are suicide attacks are we clear on rules of engagement?”

  “We can fire if we see any immediate threat to life,” the assistant commissioner said.

  “Well you better be sure.”

  “Ironically I think Christmas makes it easier,” said the home secretary. “We really only have essential workers away from home. So the message is: cowardly attacks, stay calm with your families and report anything suspicious. That should do it.”

  “Don’t panic but there could be more to come? That’s not a coherent message,” the prime minister said.

  Silence.

  The transport secretary raised her hand: “We need to be seen to have equal sympathy for the Bradford victims and the BNP ones.” No one seemed to understand her point so she added: “Even if they are BNP.”

  “Should we organise some statements from both sides?” the prime minister asked ignoring her.

  “Which sides?” The home secretary asked

  “Church and mosque,” the prime minister said, irritated at having to spell it out.

  “By the way, the BNP are protesting outside some mosques in the East End. Set up pickets,” the home secretary said.

  “And just to mention another point,” said the head of MI5, “we would normally go to the imam at the Regent’s Park Mosque for statements calling for tolerance and so on. But our Wembley doctor actually prays there. So probably we need to leave Regent’s Park alone for a while.”

  The prime minister sighed looking for someone to make sense of it all.

  And then to everyone’s surprise the governor the Bank of England spoke: “Not my department I know but, just to respond to your point home secretary, it always seems odd to me to call these attacks cowardly. I’d have thought deliberately blowing yourself up would be a bit nerve wracking.”

  The prime minister shot him a withering glance. “Two of these attacks have been at carol concerts. I want all religious sites searched today and I think we should search all critical national infrastructure too,” he said.

  The home secretary leant back as if physically rocked by the suggestion. “Oh come off it. How can we do that on Christmas Day? And there’s no sign yet of infrastructure being targeted.”

  “Home Secretary,” said the prime minister, using the formal designation to indicate that this would be his final view on the matter: “If the army has to do it then so be it. But it needs to be done. We are under attack. Some of these Bradford bombers may have cocked it up and blown themselves up early but we have no idea what they are trying to do or when it will stop.”

  More silence.

  “Get me some facts and we can be more focused. Come on guys. How were the bombers connected?” He looked at the row of security officials. “How many bill
ions do you have to spend a year? This bloke in Waterloo supplies five bombers with explosives. A full-blown plot right across the country and you don’t have a clue? And before you suggest it, don’t tell me you want to start doing stop and search on the basis of racial profiling. The answer is no.” And he added as an afterthought: “But if you need to bring in people you are currently investigating in relation to apparently unrelated plots – even if it seems too early and jeopardises your enquiries - just do it. There must be links somewhere. We are totally blind on this. I want some fucking progress on this NOW!”

  Britain’s security chiefs looked down pretending to examine their notes.

  The chief constable on the screen from Yorkshire coughed to indicate he wanted to speak. He was looking at a typed sheet of paper. “I have just been told that two of the bombers were not shaved.”

  “What on earth to you mean?” the prime minister asked.

  “Not shaved …” he searched for the right words “down below.”

  “What the …”

  The head of MI6 came the rescue. “Prime Minister. It’s something suicide bombers do – to be clean and pure as they ascend to paradise.”

  The prime minister had had enough. “Get more and get back here in six hours.”

  But as he left the room his voice was already softer again. He beckoned one of his staff: “I’d better have a word with the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

  *****

  Behind barbed wire and 20-foot high walls, the British high commissioner in Islamabad, Jeremy Allan, was thinking about what ground he wanted to cover in the nine a.m. meeting, which, much depleted by Christmas leave, would be attended by only three people. As normal he was the first in the room and sat at the head of a light wood rectangular table waiting for the others to arrive. On the table in front of him and slightly to his right there was a tray with a white china teacup, a teapot with steam coming from the spout and a cold jug of milk.

  He scanned the room with distaste. Like so many British embassies and high commissions, all the architectural detail had been stripped out in favour of straight lines, beige furnishings, brown carpets and cream curtains. The only splash of colour was in the form of crimson military jackets in oil. Whilst he had acquiesced to his wife’s desire to have some of the Government Art Collection’s contemporary works at the residence, in his own domain the he had selected a series of oils depicting important moments of British imperial history in India. A small notice attached the wall said: “The Glorious Victory of Goojerat and the advance of Europeans and Native Infantry under Brigadier Penny before they stormed the village of Kalra in 1849.” There was no need, the high commissioner believed, to be ashamed of Britain’s past.

  As he was never slow to point out the Allan name itself was a link to a bit of that past. The high commissioner’s grandfather, Bartholomew Allan, had spent his whole career on the subcontinent and, for his pains, was remembered with warmth in the provincial Sindhi town of Allanpur that still bore his name. Jeremy Allan had inherited not only his grandfather’s love of the subcontinent but also a certainty that he knew what was best for it. So just as Bartholomew Allan had been prone, as his diaries revealed, to wax lyrical on the virtues of discipline, cold baths, railways and a missionary education, so Jeremy Allan worked tirelessly to promote the modern-day fashionable truths: democracy, female education and good governance.

  The High Commission was located in Islamabad’s diplomatic enclave. Newcomers from London were often told by their more world-weary colleagues as they sipped canned beer in the staff bar (no Pakistanis allowed) that the scale of the American defeat in Afghanistan could be measured by the extent of the security measures within the enclave. Back in 2001 the High Commission had been protected by a six-foot wall with some somewhat somnolent armed guards at the gate. As each year had passed, and Taliban power had inexorably grown, the health and safety auditors who came each year from London had added layer upon layer of extra security. They insisted that the walls were made higher; the roads blocked to traffic; that scanners be installed to screen all visitors and concrete blast walls put around the perimeter. By 2010 it was virtually impossible for anyone not employed by the FCO to get within 100 yards of the High Commission building. Which, the high commissioner suspected, suited many of his staff just fine.

  The first person to join the high commissioner, a few minutes before 9 o’clock, was the 2nd political secretary, Geoffrey Nicol, a 24-year-old social science graduate from Edinburgh University. The high commissioner had asked if he would mind staying in Islamabad over Christmas to provide cover. With no family to worry about, the unmarried Nicol had been happy to oblige. The high commissioner liked the look of him. Much to the irritation of the resident security team Nicol had requested accommodation in Islamabad itself rather than in one of the high commission’s houses within the diplomatic enclave. Despite the costs of making the house secure with new fences, barbed wire, guards and panic buttons, the high commissioner had backed the idea, pleased that at least one of his staff wanted to live among Pakistanis rather than mixing only with expats within the enclave.

  “Happy Christmas Nicol. Sorry to call everyone in.”

  “Happy Christmas High Commissioner. I don’t think you had much choice sir. ”

  “Terrible news from London.”

  “Yes, it’s five now.”

  “I heard. Bradford too.”

  “Any connection to here?”

  “If it’s Bradford there will inevitably be a connection. But I have nothing to suggest causality.”

  Unsure exactly what the high commissioner meant, Nicol said nothing.

  “No hold-ups at the checkpoints?” the high commissioner eventually broke the silence.

  “I am delighted to say that security today seems to be lax. I whizzed through sir.”

  The high commissioner gave him a thin smile. “And we also have Jane today don’t we?”

  “I believe so sir.”

  Just as he spoke Jane Harvey came into the room clutching an armful of files. The high commissioner sighed, reflecting his mixed feelings about her. Whilst the chaotic air that always followed her progress through the High Commission building and her chronic lack of punctuality were both exasperating, he had to acknowledge that her elegantly crafted emails and telegrams to London reflected well on her and the High Commission as a whole. If she put her mind to it she could get anything past the South Asia desk and she even had a good track record when dealing with the foreign secretary’s private office as well.

  “Merry Christmas!” Since she lived only 200 yards away from the High Commission there really was no excuse but the high commissioner had learnt to accept the situation with as little rancour as he could manage.

  “Good afternoon,” he said.

  “I just heard the news. Isn’t it awful?”

  “We were just saying. Terrible,” said Nicol.

  “So what does it mean for us?” she asked.

  “There are bound to be requests from London and we’ll just have to deal with them as they come. But so far we really have nothing to connect Pakistan to the attack. Except that it happened in Bradford.”

  “The government here will want details.”

  “Tell them to watch the BBC. That’s all I have so far.”

  The high commissioner knew that the chances of Jane Harvey having read in ahead of the meeting were nil and sure enough she sat down and, without any show of embarrassment, started reading the overnight traffic. He would have to mention it in her annual appraisal.

  “We’ll do the best we can,” he said, “but I can’t see us achieving much with so few of us here. We can’t expect to get too much done before everyone’s back after New Year,” he said. “A case of holding the fort really. Jane you will have to set up a meeting with ISI. To tell them what we don’t know.”

  “I’ll ask for their assistance.”

  “You can always ask.”

  Receiving no reply he changed the subject.

&
nbsp; “I had dinner with the Saudi ambassador last night. They have a whisper that Heaver has been moved from South Waziristan to Karachi.” Heaver, the journalist for The Times who had been kidnapped by the Taliban and held for four months. The Taliban were trying to swap him for some of their people held in Pakistan prisons but the Pakistani authorities, while willing in principle, had not yet agreed to the precise terms of a deal. “We haven’t heard anything like that have we?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “You better tell them upstairs,” said Jane Harvey. Upstairs where the ‘friends’ from MI6 and GCHQ had their secure offices, never visited by the mere mortals below.

  “Talking of our friends upstairs,” Nicol said, “they tell me that they have been following up on the request that came from Natasha Knight in Peshawar. About any colonels called Azam. You asked me to keep an eye on the file.”

  “Remind me.”

  “She wanted details of any retired or serving colonels with the name Azam.”

  “And are there any?”

  “They have found two. Both retired.”

  “So what next?”

  “Knight is in London now so our friends are passing the details on to her. In the meantime they suggested that we take a peek at both of them by inviting them to the New Year’s party.”

  The high commissioner looked at Jane Harvey.

  “Why not? We’ve even gone down to major from time to time. Can’t see any harm in it. But they should issue the invitations today – this morning really - if it’s not going to look very last minute.”

  “Do we know what her interest is? What she is working on?” Allan, like most high commissioners and ambassadors, resented the fact that he had so little control over the MI6 staff. After all when the Pakistani government complained about something ‘the friends’ had done, it invariably came knocking on his door. Responsibility without power.

  “No idea. And if she’s home for Christmas it can hardly be that urgent, but if you’re OK with it I’ll tell them upstairs to go ahead and invite them.”