They had successfully evaluated an attack on the military but had failed to prevent a nuclear submarine being lost. They had correctly ascertained an attack on the Church, which had resulted in the saving of York Minster, but had failed to protect a number of parish churches around the country being hit. They clearly had seen that the police were to be next and that New Scotland Yard would be the preferred target, but could not see how it could be achieved. They were, for once, in error in underestimating the ability and determination of Yasser Lahham.
***
Midday on a Thursday, the weather was mild and the number of tourists waiting for a guided tour of the Houses of Parliament in Westminster, moderate. It was only a thirty-minute wait before the next tour. Ayub Askar, armed with an iPhone taking the inevitable tourist snaps, was one of those waiting.
Yasser Lahham, a smart dresser, had taken care to ensure that the normally sloppy dresser Ayub wore a good pair of jeans, a polo shirt, a new pair of Reeboks and his wispy, adolescent beard had been shaved off. He would have passed for a tourist from Spain or Italy, apart from the bulge hidden loosely under the jacket that he wore.
The ticket for the guided tour, booked online, entitled him to stand in the queue for entry. It would, however, not allow him to get past the stringent security checks, but that was not on his agenda. His instruction was to get as close to the entrance as he could, to surround himself with as many people as he could and then, at fifteen minutes past the striking of twelve on the clock at Big Ben, to detonate the suicide vest on his body.
It was Isaac’s prompt action that saved his life on hearing of the bombing at the Houses of Parliament. Ed had stayed back to maintain the office, there was no point in the two rushing to the site, and there was always the possibility of further attacks around the city.
It was obvious to the two Islamists waiting not far from New Scotland Yard, that the attack at the Houses of Parliament had been successful; the increased activity of the police, a clear testament to that fact. As instructed, five minutes later, they used their magnetic cards and passed through unchallenged into the main building at New Scotland Yard.
Ahmed Yousef was quick in entering the first available lift and moving up to the fifth floor. Fouad Abdulla, the less intelligent of the two, could not find a lift and quickly ascended the stairs to the fourth floor. It had been remarkably easy, too easy, and both had succumbed to a feeling of invulnerability.
Back at the Houses of Parliament, the only part of Ayub Askar that remained was his head, which had been blown off at the moment of detonation. The other fatalities, at least fifty by Isaac’s initial evaluation, were mostly unrecognisable. All streets leading to the Houses of Parliament were rapidly being closed off, due to an overtly excessive response by the police and the emergency services.
New Scotland Yard was chaotic, with police officers and civilian employees moving around quickly trying to ascertain the situation, to evaluate other possible targets. Ten minutes after Ayub Askar had departed this world to meet with his seventy-two virgins, and five minutes after Yousef and Abdulla had entered the building, the security at the police headquarters was tightened.
It was Police Constable Ben Cameron’s second day watching the surveillance cameras and monitoring the magnetic access cards. It was he who first noticed that two cards had activated the barriers which were not registered in the system.
‘We’ve been breached,’ he said over the phone to his superior officer Detective Inspector Kate Ladd.
‘You know what to do. Lock the place down, sound the alarm,’ she said.
‘I’ve already locked it down, but they’re in the building somewhere.’
‘Find them and quick,’ she said, her voice elevated in tone.
‘I’m on to it. I’m checking the public areas, the lifts, but I’m on my own. If they’ve passed through, I’ll have to look at the recordings. It may take time.’
‘We don’t have time,’ she said. ‘If it is related to the attack at the Houses of Parliament, then we’re in trouble.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ PC Cameron replied, ‘but in the meantime, we need to check everyone in the building is secure. They need to move to areas deemed safe.’
‘Constable, you’re right, but where is safe?’
Ahmed Yousef moved steadily from the lift exit on the fifth floor and towards the Commissioner’s office. It was no more than sixty metres, and he had covered the first fifty with no issues. The final barrier was manned by two armed police officers.
‘Drop to the floor!’ the first of the officers shouted.
‘I’ve come to see the Commissioner,’ said Ahmed Yousef calmly.
‘What is your business here?’
‘My business is with the Commissioner. It is a personal matter.’
Constables Hampshire and Ellingham were both following the normal procedures. Shooting a civilian without due warning was prohibited by regulations and the individual standing in front of them was, on initial appearances, both unarmed and harmless. They had failed to understand the seriousness of the situation, although they had received the warning of unknown individuals in the building.
Aware that he had gone as far as he could, Ahmed Yousef made a rush for the final barrier. The barrier proved to be only a wooden door. It was another three metres before both constables levelled their pistols and shot him in the back. It was too late for them, however, as Yousef pressed the switch and martyred himself.
The two constables died in the resultant explosion and the Commissioner, Sir Richard Hardcastle, sitting at his desk, was hurled backwards against the wall in his office by the blast. He survived, but not without some severe bruising, a broken wrist, and damage to his pride that he, the head of the premier police organisation in the country, had nearly been killed by a lone suicide bomber.
Fouad Abdulla, on the fourth floor, had not been challenged, and he entered Room 202 with no difficulties. Ed was on the phone with Isaac discussing the situation when Abdulla pressed his switch. Detective Inspector Ed Pickles died instantly.
***
Clifford Bell, the Prime Minister, suffered another slump in his approval rating, which was now down to sixteen percent, as a result of the attacks on the Houses of Parliament and New Scotland Yard. Anne Argento had not fared better, her seventy per cent had dropped by three points to sixty-seven. She was clearly the preferred leader, but the confidence of the people in even her ability to resolve the situation had been shaken. She had been in the Houses of Parliament at the time of the bombing. It was pure luck that she had avoided the blast.
‘Clifford, you’re the Prime Minster. When are you going to resign?’ she shouted in the party room at an extraordinary meeting two days later.
‘You are showing gross disloyalty.’ The Prime Minister was a man lost, with no clear direction, no solution and no senior adviser of substance.
‘I have every right to do so,’ she continued the attack, attempting to force him to declare his position open. ‘You have shown no leadership to this party, or this country. The situation worsens, yet you still procrastinate.’
‘You just want to declare war.’ the Prime Minister fired back at his disloyal deputy.
‘It is war,’ shouted Anne. ‘The sooner you resign and let me get on with it, the better this country will be.’
‘You will isolate the vast majority of Muslims in this country,’ the Prime Minister continued to argue with his deputy in the party room. ‘They are a peaceful people.’
‘I am not isolating anyone. They need to make a decision. They’re either with us, or they’re not.’
‘How can you say this, or do this?’ the Prime Minister asked.
‘Prime Minister, I must say, and I must do. You’re incapable of recognising the seriousness of the situation.’
‘That’s a slanderous comment. Your way will only inflame the situation.’
‘You’re right,’ she continued. ‘It will inflame the situation initially. The peaceful, law-abiding
majority of the Muslim population will need make a decision as to who they are with. They came to this country for its democratic values, its peace and its buoyant economy. They have to decide whether to choose an Islamic extremist and barbaric organisation or the democratic system that we offer.’
‘Your approach is too simplistic. It just won’t work,’ the Prime Minister stated emphatically, but without any true conviction.
It was Angie Butler, the blue-blood daughter of an aristocrat and now reluctant supporter of Anne Argento, who made the suggestion. ‘Prime Minister, it may be preferable to declare your position open.’
‘I will not do that. We need unity in parliament. To declare my position open, two days after both Westminster and New Scotland Yard have suffered deaths, will show disunity within the leadership of this country. I will agree to a ballot two weeks from this date, but you know what will happen if you vote in the wrong direction.’
‘I am in agreement,’ Anne Argento replied. ‘We will wait for two weeks.’ She had to agree that two days after another Islamic State bombing was premature for a leadership battle.
***
Mohammad Sohail Shafi was a broken man. The rogue with the cheery, optimistic disposition had been replaced by a sullen, devout and obedient servant of the Master.
‘Shafi, I have a job for you.’
‘Yes, Master. What is it that you wish of me?’
‘I want you to contact the Counter Terrorism Command.’
‘I no longer serve them. I serve only you and the Islamic State.’
‘That is why we want you to contact them. We want to know what they are involved with, what they are planning.’
‘I am told that we attacked them,’ Shafi had not contacted Isaac Cook or Ed Pickles since his conversion.
‘It was a great success. We killed one of your contacts,’ the Master declared.
‘DCI Cook?’ Shafi asked.
‘No, the other one.’
‘DI Pickles.’
‘Yes, he is dead. Does it concern you?’ The Master looked for a reaction from Shafi, a sign that his conversion was not total.
‘Master, he was an enemy of the cause. It is good that he died.’ Shafi was in a dilemma. Ed Pickles had been a decent man. He felt some lingering affection for his enemy, but he did not understand why.
Isaac was a sad man when Shafi met him in a café on Tottenham Court Road a few days later.
‘I am sorry to hear about DI Pickles,’ Shafi said.
‘It is hard to believe. They managed to get into our office. How did they do this?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Shafi, are you on the inside now?’
‘They have trusted me with some work so far, but they are not convinced that I am a true believer.’
‘Are you a true believer?’ Isaac Cook was concerned with the changed manner of his undercover operative.
‘It is hard to convince them when I am not sure as to their cause.’ Shafi had been versed by the Master to be cautious in his responses. His brain was convinced, as was his heart, but he still had his doubts. Any attempt to rationalise would cause him to remember the pain that he had endured, the pain that he did not want to revisit.
‘You have some doubts?’ Isaac Cook asked again.
‘Doubts, no. But they’re continuing to take control of this country, or at least certain areas.’.
‘I know, and we seem impossible to stop it.’
‘What is it that you want from me?’ Shafi asked.
‘You were absent, out of contact for some time. Where did you go?’
‘I was up north, arranging some deliveries.’ It was a rehearsed answer.
‘Why did you not answer your phone?’
‘They monitor my calls. They would have seen if I had spoken to you.’
‘These deliveries, are they of significance to us?’
‘No, it was purely related to the Master’s business,’ Shafi said.
‘You’ve met the Master?’
‘Yes,’ Shafi replied.
‘Is it the same person as the voice on your phone?’
‘No, he is not the same person,’
‘Then who is he? What’s his name?’
‘I do not know. I met him at a warehouse in the East of London. Apart from that, I know no more.’ Shafi gave another of his rehearsed answers.
‘What’s his nationality? What does he look like?’
‘He’s Egyptian, a tall man in his late thirties.’ Yet again, the Master had counselled him in what to say. A complete denial of anything related to the Islamic State would have been more suspicious than giving misleading facts.
Isaac Cook knew who the Master was; he was keenly aware that Shafi had lied.
***
Farhan Ahmed had intended to speak to Ed Pickles first about Sara Styles, but with his premature death, he informed Frederick and Andrew instead.
‘Sara Styles’ original name is Sara Aslam. She’s a Muslim, born in this country.’
‘Our suspicions are correct,’ Frederick said. ‘She always seemed the most likely suspect.’
‘It appears that way, although how she came to be radicalised is unclear,’ Farhan said. ‘She had a good upbringing, attended a prestigious school, and by all accounts was a model student.’
‘What do we know about her family?’ Andrew asked.
‘She is the daughter of Faisal Aslam, the voice at the end of Shafi’s phone,’ Farhan replied.
‘What do we know about this Faisal Aslam?’ Frederick asked.
‘We know him to be addressed as the Master and that he’s involved with the Islamic State.’
‘So why haven’t you pulled him in?’ Andrew asked.
‘His function is still unclear.’
‘Why don’t you pull him in at least for questioning?’ Andrew asked again.
‘It’d be best to ask DCI Cook that question,’ Farhan replied. ‘I’m a field operative, not a policymaker.’
‘Where is Sara Styles now?’ Frederick asked.
‘She’s staying with her in-laws down in Devon. We’re keeping a discreet watch on her,’ Farhan said.
‘Are you intending to tell Ray Styles’ parents about the person they are harbouring?’ Andrew asked.
‘You better ask DCI Cook that question as well. I would have thought it best if they don’t know at this point in time.’
‘But aren’t they in danger?’ Andrew asked.
‘It’s unlikely. They’re not of any strategic value. If Sara Styles, or Sara Aslam, is planning any further activities, it will be easier to monitor her down there.’
‘You’re leaving Ray Styles’ parents with a person involved in the murder of their son?’ Frederick asked.
‘It’s unfortunate, but it seems to be the best move at this present moment,’ Farhan said.
***
Clifford Bell, without the benefit of a senior adviser, had called in DCI Isaac Cook and Commander Richard Goddard.
‘What’s going on here? They attack the Houses of Parliament, New Scotland Yard, even take out a submarine, and so far, I’ve seen no tangible results.’
‘We prevented York Minster from being destroyed.’ Richard Goddard attempted to defend his organisation.
‘And then they hit twenty churches! What’s so great about that?’ the Prime Minister asked.
‘It’s a difficult situation, but we remain confident of success,’ Commander Goddard said without any great conviction.
‘That’s what I say,’ replied the Prime Minister, ‘and I’m shouted down in public by the Leader of the Opposition and by my loyal deputy. You’re just giving me rhetoric with no substance.’
‘We’re still working behind the scenes,’ said Isaac Cook, leaping to the defence of his superior officer.
‘You lost one person as well, isn’t that correct?’ the Prime Minister asked.
‘Detective Inspector Ed Pickles. He was my partner.’
Don’t you know who the leaders of this bar
baric group are?’
‘We know some.’
‘Then why don’t you bring them in for questioning?’
‘It’s not conclusive,’ Isaac Cook said. ‘Then there’s always the risk that there are people behinds the scenes who will take up the baton and commit more savage acts of terrorism.’
‘More savage than what we have now?’ the Prime Minister queried.
‘Yes, of course. The deaths are relatively low so far.’
‘Relatively low? How can you say that?’
‘They’ve targeted areas with the aim to demoralise society,’ Isaac said. ‘They’re acting strategically. If they wanted to, they could introduce a disease, a virus, even poison gas and take out millions.’
‘Do you have proof this is a possibility?’ the Prime Minister asked.
‘Not as such.’ Isaac’s boss, Command Richard Goddard, felt the need to enter into the conversation. ‘It’s pure conjecture.’
‘Maybe my honourable deputy is right,’ the Prime Minister said.
‘Right about what?’ Commander Goddard asked.
‘That this is a war, and we should respond accordingly.’
‘She is right,’ Isaac said. ‘It’s war and it’s going to get worse.’
‘What do you mean?’ the Prime Minister asked.
‘They’ve only disrupted the country so far. They still need to reduce it to its knees. They need to turn large sections of the country into Islamic State homelands.’
‘That’ll never happen,’ the Prime Minister stated. ‘We will not allow it.’
‘There are already parts of East London, Birmingham, Leeds and a number of other cities up north where a Christian cannot walk,’ Isaac reminded him.
‘I know that. Are you saying it will get worse?’ the Prime Minister asked.
Murder Without Reason (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 5) Page 28