by RJ Mitchell
“Talisker mate, make it a large one,” Meechan requested. Drink in hand he took his seat and trained his eyes on the big screen beaming the Old Firm game live to The Rock.
Taking a slug of whisky Meechan let the sense of excitement tingle over him as the wonderful spiciness of the iconic malt aroused his palate.
His concerns had been heightened by the radio and TV reports that Tariq had been slain and his underground lair exposed. But the fact there had been no mention of a bomb plot had reassured Meechan that Tariq had taken the precaution of making sure the lethal substances were elsewhere.
That place could only be Ibrox.
This was it. Revenge on a scale he could never have dreamt of when he had left. Now, here he was, about to enjoy entertainment that none of the Old Firm fans filling the Rock with their colours and age-old taunts could ever dream of. Prime time carnage about to erupt right here, right now, or at least in the next 90 minutes.
Meechan took another slug of the malt and gave all his attention to the giant screen as the first whistle blew.
44
AABAN MOVED silently through the crowds of supporters, smiling benignly. His package had been placed in the target area and now all he needed to do was punch in the code on his mobile phone at the designated time and carnage would ensue.
That time would be when the referee’s half-time whistle blew. Aaban listened to the roar of the crowd from outside the stand. The game had kicked off and there were 45 minutes until the final act of the Imam’s Jihad was completed.
He was sad that Tariq would not be here to enjoy the fruit of his labours but he knew his master, who had welcomed him into the Glasgow Central Mosque from war-torn Somalia, would be congratulated in Paradise by the prophet.
His mind swept back to the car bomb he had laid for the girl Aisha. He felt more regret for her death than he would for his own and the kafirs who would enter hell in the moments ahead. But then her relationship with the detective had made her a source of concern which could not be allowed to disrupt his mission.
After today the fear that would grip every major city in the west would be a hundred-fold greater than that wreaked by 9/11.
He, Aaban, would be enshrined and elevated in the consciousness of the faithful.
The detectives approached gate twenty one and were met by a burly female security steward. Cherry-red unruly hair dropped from under her yellow baseball cap. She was none too impressed to see them.
Hardie flashed his warrant card. “Detective Constable Hardie and Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood with Major Munro. Would you mind letting us in, doll?”
Cynicism swept across her face. “Don’t ‘doll’ me, mate. If I had a fiver for every copper trying to get in through this gate for free I wouldnae be sitting here in this ridiculous luminous jacket would I? Naw mate, you and yer muckers can go and pay at the turnstiles like everybody else.”
Thoroughgood’s self-restraint snapped and he pushed passed Hardie. “Listen to me, I don’t give two flyin’ fucks whether you think we are takin’ the piss or not, we are comin’ in. Radio your superior officer and tell him to speak direct to the Strathclyde Police match commander. Do you understand me?”
It was all too much for the steward and her indignation melted in a stream of tears. “There’s no need to take that tone, I was just trying to do my job. You polis are always at it. How am I supposed to tell when you’re genuine?”
Faither tried to calm the trembling steward, “Listen darlin’, it’s kinda important we get into the stadium. We’re lookin’ for someone and we need to get a hold of him quick.”
The Major’s face said it all. If this was the first line of stadium security after the police cordon what hope was there?
Etherington’s voice broke through their headsets. “Bad news gentlemen. All emergency service commanders have reported back. No suspect persons within their ranks. Repeat no potential suspect persons within their ranks. You are open all mics. Thoughts, please.”
In the background the steward was now speaking into her radio, presumably making a complaint to her supervisor. Hardie spoke up. “What if we are looking at the wrong emergency service?”
Thoroughgood’s eyes wandered to the still plainly upset steward. “That’s it! The bomber has got to be a member of the stadium security staff. He can gain access to almost anywhere unseen, trussed up in his yellow jacket. He’ll no doubt have been working with the security company and doing match days at Ibrox for months so his knowledge of the lay-out will be spot on.”
Hardie broke in. “It’s gotta be. The vetting for these companies is pathetic. He’s gotta be a steward and ten to one he is on duty in the main stand.”
Munro added his voice to the deliberations. “Mr Etherington, I’m switching all my resources to the main stand. If the detectives are correct we may have only a matter of moments to intercept the bomber.”
Just then the sound of raised voices came from the direction of the fast food outlet. A posse of yellow jackets were coming their way.
“I don’t believe this,” said Thoroughgood. An angry female voice behind him said, “That’ll teach you to throw your weight about, you ignorant polis bastard.”
Hardie turned to Thoroughgood. “Let me deal with this.”
“Just who do you think you are upsetting my staff and reducing her to tears?” raged the security supervisor.
Hardie raised his hand in a placatory gesture. As he did so Munro and Thoroughgood traded nods and the Major made his way unnoticed down the corridor behind the yellow jackets.
“Look sir, I can appreciate your anger but can we talk about this over here?” said Hardie attempting to usher the supervisor away from the growing crowd of Rangers fans who were taking an amused interest in the confrontation.
“Look mate, you need to listen and then I’m gonna need your help,” said Hardie in his most conspiratorial fashion.
The supervisor wasn’t having any of it. “What? You verbally bully my staff and now you want my help. That’ll be right.” His radio went off and he listened to his controller barking a set of instructions that brought a look of outright shock to his face. The supervisor handed Hardie the radio.
“There, that wasn’t too difficult, was it, mate?” Hardie spoke into the radio. “DC Hardie here. How can I help?”
“Jim Smith, match controller, Total Security, here. We have been brought up to speed by Mr Etherington and believe we may have the male in question on duty within the stadium,” said a no-nonsense voice. “His name is Aaban Mansour. He is on duty within the main stand.”
“Description?” demanded Hardie.
“I believe he is of Middle Eastern appearance and wearing a yellow jacket.”
“Fuckin’ amateur,” shouted Hardie and he threw the radio back at the head steward. “Satisfied now? Get out of my way.”
The detectives marched forward through the bustling red white and blue legions that had assembled for the contretemps. Turning right they faced the main stand’s first level stairs.
“We’ve gotta check the directors’ box first. What time you make it?” asked Thoroughgood.
Hardie checked his watch as they climbed. “Nearly 12.55. We’re 25 minutes into the game. Shit, this all depends on the optimum time for the detonation to have maximum impact.”
Reaching the landing they passed the members’ lounge and came out the vomitory just below the directors’ box. But they had already been beaten to it.
Major Munro was being met by a torrent of verbal indignation from the exalted inhabitants of the box comprising of club directors, the First Minister and his entourage. But there was one face in the box that was even more familiar to Thoroughgood and her eyes met and locked on his.
Standing next to his mate Hardie heard one word escape Thoroughgood’s mouth. “Vanessa.”
Hardie’s incredulity was apparent. “How the feck did she get here? Christ she scrubs up well mate and she’s comin’ your way by the look of it.”
Hard
ie was right, the reality TV-star-turned-business woman was out of her seat and descending the stairs from the directors’ box, her blonde hair, savaged by Tariq’s barber work, unevenly protruding from a black velvet fur-trimmed hat. The eyes of every male she passed transferred from the field of play to her svelte form descending the stairs in a figure-hugging red trouser suit.
“Hi Gus, we keep bumping into each other! What are you doing here?” she asked.
In his peripheral vision Thoroughgood saw Hardie and Munro descending the stairs two at a time.
“I’m sorry Vanessa it’s a long story and I’m gonna have to go. Take care.” Before he left she leant forward and kissed him and he felt something being pressed into his jacket pocket.
“Go and do what you’ve got to do, Gus.” She winked at him and turned on her three inch heels and climbed the stairs back to her VIP world.
Hardie was back. “Directors’ box is clear. I’ve gotta hunch the Major reckons is worth a check.”
As they made their way back to the main internal stair case Hardie filled him in on his theory. “There’s a bookies on the second floor which shuts before kick-off and re-opens at half-time. If our man has been in with the rest of the security staff then he’ll have had time to place the device in there before the bookies’ staff came in. He’ll also have been able to return before the staff are back in at half-time and prime it.
Munro chipped in. “That’s 13.10 hours. We have five minutes to find him or his device if you’re right. Jesus, we’re leavin’ it late.”
Inside the main stand Thoroughgood swept his eyes over the individuals in front of him. The corridor was still pretty quiet as hungry punters and those desperate for the urinals hadn’t dragged themselves away from the action yet.
Munro was also searching for the bright yellow jacket that would locate the renegade steward then the thought hit him. “Shit! What if he’s taken off his luminous jacket and is in civvies?”
But the DC’s attention had now been drawn by something that riveted him to the spot. “Got him. There, 20 yards to your left. Male, sticking a high-vis’ jacket in the bin.”
The DS reacted, “Right, this is it. Major, get behind the urinal entrance and wait for my signal. If he spots a uniform we’re fucked. Hardie, we split up, I take the left flank and you the right and whatever happens we have to take him before his hands get anywhere near a pocket. If he has a remote on him then he is about to make for the exit and press the button when he gets out of the stadium but if we alarm him he’s gonna do it on the spot.
“Major, the minute we have him immobilised it’s up to you to get in the bookies. There’s no way this is coincidence. The bomb is in there and he is walking away ready to blow it during half-time. You were right faither. Okay gents, this is it. Good luck.”
“God save the Queen,” said Hardie and they were off.
Aaban rammed the high-vis’ vest and cap into the bin. So far so good. The bomb was primed on a timer, which meant even if he failed to detonate it manually for some unforeseen reason it would still explode within 10 minutes. Either way it was long enough for him to be out the stadium and well away from the blast radius.
He’d been patient over the weeks assembling the key elements of the bomb. It had taken nerve but every home game he was on duty he would bring the rucksack with him, a deadly cargo of fertilizer, acetone peroxide, nails or explosives concealed under his packed lunch. His experiences in the Yemen and Somalia had made it easy for him to link up the elements of the bomb before the bookies opened that morning. Final check done he’d started to make his way for the exit knowing that, one way or another, carnage was on its way.
As he turned from the bin Aaban was hit by a violent blow that smashed him against the concrete wall opposite the bookies.
His face filled with panic as he looked into a pair of furious sea-green eyes. He tried to get his hand into his jacket pocket to the detonator.
“You fuckin’ bastard, keep your hands out of your pocket!” shouted the fiend who had locked his left hand. But his right hand was still free as the duo rebounded off the wall and dropped to the ground. His attacker was now on top of him, his head coming straight at him. Aaban felt the smash of the male’s forehead on the bridge of his nose which exploded in a spray of blood. Another blow rammed into his left hand side but his hand was still free and going for his jacket pocket.
“Noooooooo!” screamed the man. He grabbed Aaban’s head with both hands and smashed it off the concrete floor of the corridor. The terrorist’s lights went out.
Thoroughgood spoke into his head set. “Major, you’re on. Suspect immobilised, make your way to the bookies immediately.”
Thoroughgood rifled the terrorist’s jacket pockets. He found the control he was looking for and slowly removed it, aware that if a digit slipped the game could be well and truly over.
Turning his gaze to the bookies he saw Hardie and Munro booting in the wooden door. As it gave way Munro surged in and Hardie looked over his shoulder towards the DS who gingerly held the remote aloft.
Hardie gave a thumbs up then drew his warrant card from his breast pocket and walked away from the door. “Police. Please clear the area. Clear the area.”
Thoroughgood placed the remote on a window sill and slapped cuffs on the unconscious male. As he did so, he noticed two figures in green army fatigues sprinting through the startled crowd, making for the bookies. The Major had summoned his subordinates and Thoroughgood could only hope that whatever awaited the ATO within the bookies they would be able to diffuse it.
Standing up he added his voice to Hardie’s. “Police, back off and clear the area.” It took a moment for the detectives’ instructions to hit home but slowly the surprised punters retreated as an increasing number of fluorescent uniforms began to filter through. Within minutes a police cordon had been set up clearing the area either side of the bookies for fifty yards and gradually advancing to clear the whole floor.
Another green-uniformed figure joined Thoroughgood.
“Afternoon sir! Major Munro ordered me to attend. You have the control,” the ATO stopped in mid-sentence as he saw the control on the window sill. “Very good sir. If you move away I will deal with it.”
“Be my guest, mate,” was all Thoroughgood could say.
The DS was joined by Hardie and the pair shook hands warmly. “Well done Gus, sad to say the job is only half done. The rest is down to the Major.” They looked over to the bookies where one of the attending ATOs was handing a minute wire cutter through the doorway.
“Brave men these ATOs,” said Thoroughgood. “Without Munro and his men we’d be fucked.”
Their gaze remained transfixed on the doorway.
Munro lay prone on the concrete floor as he removed the fascia of the bomb. The luminous red digits flickered. 240 and descending. He had four minutes to disarm the bomb or Armageddon awaited.
“Wipe,” he ordered in a calm measured voice and his lieutenant removed the moisture from his glasses.
“Crude but deadly, looks like our bomber has spent time in the Yemen,” said the major to his subordinate.
The bomb had been placed in a wooden box that in turn had been inside a locked cabinet under the counter. As he eyed the explosive and the wiring linking it to the vials the awful truth was confirmed to Munro that they were indeed dealing with a dirty bomb.
The timer reached 120.
A voice in Munro’s head offered reassurance. ‘Yemen trained, come on you’ve diffused these bastards’ best efforts before. They keep it simple so little can go wrong, which means one connecting wire. Where is it though? Bastard’s concealed it.’
“Where, where, where?” Munro realised he was thinking out loud.
“There you are,” he said. There were two suspect wires, one blue and one green. Cut the wrong one and it was all over.
Thousands of deaths on his tombstone and a one-way ticket to oblivion.
He had 32 seconds.
Munro’s hand hove
red and he could not stop the tremor in his arm shuddering down to the instrument he held poised in his right hand.
Twelve seconds and he was frozen. The counter reached single digits and descended and Munro remained paralysed in fear and indecision. Seven, six, five . . .
“Come on man, find your balls!” shouted the Major and clicking the incisor he put all his money on green.
The blades seemed to take an eternity to slice through the wire. Munro saw the timer reach two and realised he had left it too late.
Then the wire broke under the attack of the twin blades. A click sounded as the timer froze at one.
He’d done it. They were safe. Munro lowered his head onto the cold concrete of the floor and breathed again.
“You’ve fuckin’ done it Major, you’ve done it sir!” shouted his lieutenant and Munro felt a pat on the back.
It was over.
Thoroughgood and Hardie had heard the words, “You’ve done it,” shouted from the bookies and a shudder of relief broke over them.
Munro’s grey head popped round the door and with it came the thumbs up sign.
“Mission accomplished, gentlemen!” he shouted.
“Amen to that,” said Hardie and, his self restraint melting, the burly DC bounded over to Munro and shook his hand furiously. Thoroughgood was next in the queue.
“Thank God for you, Munro, you’ve saved our bacon,” said Thoroughgood.
“I can’t take all the credit, mate, you didn’t do too badly yourselves,” replied Munro, adding, “Christ I need a beer!”
“Can I suggest the Burnbrae in Milngavie? Excellent selection of real ales, good pub grub and a Ned-free zone, Major. That tickle your fancy?” enquired Hardie before adding with wolfish relish. “But before beers and debriefs and all that, though, think I could take a wee butcher’s at the game?”
Nodding his head Thoroughgood replied, “You know what mate? Someone else can take our friend here to the cells. I reckon there are two seats in the directors’ box with our names on them.”