LATENT HAZARD: On the Edge

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  The minister looked around the room ‘We need to deflect the TV coverage and show the public that we’re playing hard ball with the terrorists. I have a colleague working on this. Do I hear any other suggestions?’

  ‘Perhaps COBRA should start vetting everything going on air, as was the case in Iraq?’

  ‘Good idea. We should implement this now,’ he turned to his colleague, who had come up with the idea. ‘Derek, would you please look after this personally?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Derek stood up to leave when the door suddenly opened and the Prime Minister walked in with the Defence Secretary and his personal secretary at his side. The PM, as the screen at Wood Street showed, beckoned Derek to sit down, strode over and stood facing the minister.

  The room fell silent.

  ‘Minister, am I right in believing that last night you declined an invitation as the Home Secretary’s stand-in to meet with the commissioner of the City of London police force and three very high ranking officers of the State?’

  The minister looked most put out and went into bluster mode.

  ‘But I wasn’t told who would be there and I was extremely busy. I had a speech to make. I’d already issued a press release and I knew that there would be excellent press coverage. Anyway, I rearranged the meeting for this morning. So no harm was done!’

  The Prime Minister’s voice took on a steely tone.

  ‘Your judgement call was fundamentally flawed. Events have moved on. You should have been a safe pair of hands on which the commissioner could have relied. Instead you placed personal spin above the needs of your country.’

  ‘That’s quite untrue, Prime Minister; the press conference was for the good of the Government.’

  The PM beckoned to his personal secretary, who walked over to the minister and placed a typed letter in front of him.

  ‘For your signature,’ said the PM.

  The minister read the short letter and looked up at the PM, his eyes conveyed hostility. ‘Why should I resign at this of all times, when I’m needed here?’

  The PM looked at him as if he were a bad-tempered schoolboy. ‘That meeting you were too busy to attend last night is still going on. The stakes have been so high that we haven’t been able to trust anyone unless they’ve been within a secure intelligence-monitored environment. Suffice it to say that the two gentlemen missing from this meeting aren’t the only moles we’ve found in senior places.’

  ‘What do you mean….? But I am needed here.’ ‘

  Sign the letter or I will be forced to fire you.’

  The minister was livid and intent on letting everybody know it. He hesitated, signed the letter and was escorted out of the room by the PM’s personal secretary.

  The Prime Minister looked at the statue-like faces around him. ‘I think that we can now get back to business. Let me put you in the picture as to the events of the past thirty-six hours. However, lest you worry that things are being left to drift, let me assure you that a fully staffed Operations Room has been up and running since yesterday evening and is dealing with matters as we speak. The Defence Secretary and I spent the night there, and were there less than an hour ago.’

  The PM, with input from the Defence Secretary, gave a detailed description of the events of the past thirty-six hours and the strategy that had been put in place for dealing with the terrorists.

  A little earlier, back at Wood Street, at 9.39 a.m. Kate’s phone had rung. It was the main desk.

  ‘A junior minister from the Home Office is here to see a Mr Khan. I’m advised that you might know something about his whereabouts? He wants to see him, with two senior officers, in an interview room now!’

  ‘Leave this to me,’ said John. ‘I will tell him this is a very inconvenient time.’

  Kate looked at Rafi. They were now alone in the room. ‘How are you holding up?’ she enquired in a concerned manner.

  ‘OK, but I wish we could find the last terrorist. I’m on tenterhooks with this waiting for Rick Feldon or Roger Harewood to get back to us.’

  Kate’s phone rang. It was a very disgruntled John. ‘The junior minister is insisting that he sees Mr Khan. He says that he has a direct order from the Chair of COBRA, his boss. It seems he hauled himself and his press entourage over to Paddington Green police station only to be kept waiting and then to find Mr Khan wasn’t there. He was redirected to MI5 headquarters and they sent him here. He’s furious - says he’ll throw the book at us unless we let him see Rafi immediately. He refuses to understand that things are at a very delicate stage and won’t take no for an answer. He has told me that he’ll use his powers under the Civil Contingencies Act to make us cooperate, or else.’

  ‘I have spoken to Beverley. Giles and David have gone to a meeting with the deputy commissioner of the Metropolitan Police to brief COBRA’s police liaison unit and can’t be disturbed. I can’t find Ewan. So it’s down to us. The minister keeps saying that he has to find out how much more Mr Khan can tell him about the Bishopsgate bombing and the recent attacks. Basically, I reckon all the self-obsessed cretin wants is a smokescreen : a story to tell the news teams outside in order to deflect all the bad publicity the Government is getting.’

  ‘Damn it! Why the hell now?’ blurted out Kate.

  ‘Because the man doesn’t live in the real world!’ Tiredness had reduced John’s ability to remain calm.

  ‘Sounds like the old saying: “They came to do good; they stayed to do well”,’ added Rafi.

  ‘Thank you, Rafi,’ said Kate in a frustrated tone.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued John, ‘I suppose we’ll have no option but to let him see Rafi.’

  ‘OK, but we keep the interview as short as possible,’ Kate replied.

  Over the phone she heard John shouting to the duty officer at the reception desk.

  ‘Oh no! Get those naming journalists away from here! Get the area outside the station cordoned off and keep the bloody press away – at least fifty bloody yards from the front door!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ came the prompt reply.

  ‘Sod it! We need this like a hole in the head,’ said John irritably over the phone to Kate. ‘You and Rafi – meet me in the third floor interview room. I’ll bring the junior minister up.’

  ‘This had better not take long,’ remarked Kate to Rafi, who sensed her nervousness.

  In the stairwell she stopped him, put her hand on his head and roughed up his hair.

  ‘We can’t have you looking kempt.’ She pulled his rugby shirt out of the back of his tracksuit trousers and looked at him. ‘You’d better take your shoes off.’

  ‘Seriously? My socks stink!’

  ‘Don’t worry; it’s all part of the illusion.’ Kate looked him over. ‘Yep, you’ll do. You look awful, and yes, your socks reek!’ To his surprise, she leant forward and planted an affectionate kiss on his cheek. ‘No doubt you’ll be worth knowing after a wash and brush up!’

  Kate and Rafi were the first to arrive at the interview room. They sat down and waited. Minutes later John and the politician arrived.

  ‘Sorry for the delay,’ apologised John. ‘The junior minister had to wash his hands.’

  The junior minister, flanked by John and Kate, sat opposite Rafi.

  ‘I went to see you at Paddington Green this morning only to find you weren’t there. I was redirected to MI5 headquarters – most irregular – and they said I’d have to come here for the full story. I’ve wasted much valuable time and am in no mood to be messed around. Mr Khan, what I need to know is why you aren’t helping the police with their search for the terrorists,’ said the frustrated junior minister.

  Rafi looked blankly across the table and remained silent.

  ‘Thanks to you we had more terrorist attacks last night. Your resistance and reluctance to help are setting a very bad example to the Muslim community. I am advised that a growing number of extremist youngsters are becoming your followers. This is extremely bad for the country. I am here to give you an ultimatu
m: either you cooperate or I will throw the book at you and your family, do you hear? What do you have to say?’

  Rafi looked at the junior minister: at his pale blue doublecuffed shirt, the light pink tie, the immaculate grey suit and the perfectly combed hair. If things weren’t so serious he would have laughed at his pomposity and the bizarre nature of the interview.

  ‘Are you threatening me and my family?’

  ‘Damn right I am! Your type should know what they’re up against when they tangle with the Government. You’re outside the laws that protect decent and innocent Englishmen. You should be sent home.’

  Rafi’s temper was rising – valuable time was being wasted. ‘I am dark-skinned and a Muslim. Why does that make me and my family undesirable? Answer me that and I’ll help you with your questions.’

  The minister was silent for a moment. ‘It is your damn fundamentalism that’s the problem – only permitting one God.’ He paused. ‘And you debase all other religions and criminalise the pursuit of wealth and personal advancement. Your brand of fundamentalism is not only myopic, but it is detrimental to a modern society. You’re all the same: out to undermine our democracy. We will stop you, you know. Your approach to life will be stamped out and the likes of you will be removed from this country.’

  Rafi sensed the junior minister was spouting forth a well-rehearsed monologue. ‘Is that your view or the view of others?’ he said trying to conceal his anger.

  ‘My boss, a senior minister in the Home Office, agrees with me. Fanatical Muslims have no place here. Once our backs are turned, all you want to do is to bring down our democracy.’

  Rafi wanted out. Time was ticking away and the idiot on the other side of the table was being absurd.

  ‘Sir,’ said Rafi, ‘I’m innocent until proved guilty. Find the evidence and then try me.’

  The junior minister lost his cool. ‘Of course you’re bloody guilty - we all know that! The CCTV footage alone will convict you. I’ve the press outside waiting for me. I need something to tell them which will make a good story to deflect the coverage of all the horrors you’ve caused. Will you cooperate? Or shall I personally make your life and your family’s not worth living?’

  Rafi sat there, too furious to answer.

  Without warning, John stood up. ‘Sir, you’re not making any progress. Mr Khan is obviously not going to help you.’

  ‘What the devil are you talking about, Inspector? Don’t you know who I am? I’m your boss’s boss! I won’t take orders from anyone, let alone a junior policeman!’

  John kept his cool.

  There was a knock at the door. The telephonist burst in.

  ‘DI Adams, I’ve an urgent message for you.’ She passed the piece of paper across the table to her.

  The junior minister grabbed it. ‘I’ll see that.’

  Kate looked at her. ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Rick someone asked for you to call him urgently.’

  ‘Oh shit!’ said Kate and dashed for the door.

  The junior minister was taken aback. He shouted after her. ‘You can’t leave until I’ve finished with you. Come back here this instant!’

  Kate was long gone.

  John stood up and looked piercingly at the junior minister. ‘I strongly suggest you stay here,’ he said authoritatively. ‘The constable outside and I will escort Mr Khan back to his cell - in case he does any more damage. You should see the mess he made of the three guards at Paddington Green - nearly killed one of them. He’s a third Dan karate black belt. See his right wrist? He felled a nineteen-stone guard and fractured his jaw.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ squealed the ruffled junior minister. At this Rafi stood up and started to move towards him.

  ‘No, get back!’ shouted John. ‘He isn’t worth it.’

  ‘Get him out of here!’ shouted the squirming junior minister.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll take Mr Kahn to the cells and return to discuss how we can give your press friends a good story.’

  ‘Do that and don’t be long.’

  John and Rafi left. John locked the door, turned to the police constable and handed him the key.

  ‘Under no circumstances let him out until the commissioner or I get here. Understood? Whatever the minister says, ignore him!’

  ‘Yes sir. But what about Mr Khan here? Will you be safe with him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But, what about his karate skills?’

  ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear!’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Rafi, go and help Kate; I must contact the commissioner before the minister gets on his mobile and does something even more crass.’

  Rafi raced back to the office. Kate was on the phone to Rick; she switched on the speaker.

  ‘I’ve had another go at interviewing Mr Wesson,’ said Rick. ‘By accident, Wesson overheard Basel Talal and his property director discussing a building in Stratford, which they said would be untraceable. Basel described it as the jewel in the crown and added that its location was one where they’d make a killing. You’re looking for an industrial property in Stratford, East London; it’s undergoing refurbishment.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Kate, ‘You’re a star!’

  She hung up and rushed out of the room. Rafi was about to follow her when her phone rang. It was the switchboard.

  ‘There’s an urgent message from Roger Harewood; he wanted to check that you got the fax.’

  Rafi hung up, rushed over to the fax machine, scooped up the sheet of paper sitting there and ran to the Ops Room, oblivious to all his aches and pains – and his lack of shoes. He briefly looked at the contents of the fax as he ran. It read: URGENT - I tried to phone. My notes are sketchy. The cold store is a large industrial building located between Billingsgate and the A12 in East London. It is being refurbished. Hope this helps. - Roger Harewood.

  As he passed the meeting room where Emma was, he banged on the door and called for her to follow. Seconds later he barged into the Ops Room, skidded to a halt and shouted to Kate, waving the fax in his hand.

  ‘Roger confirms: it’s between Billingsgate and the A12; a large industrial property currently being refurbished.’

  Rafi prayed that they weren’t too late and that the valuable minutes wasted with the junior minister would not be their undoing.

  At 9.56 a.m. the PM finished briefing COBRA on the events of the past thirty-six hours.

  The video-conference link showing the Wood Street Ops Room was switched on. The PM introduced the Air Chief Marshal, Sir Nigel Hawser, and asked him to update COBRA on the whereabouts of the missing terrorist.

  Suddenly, the door behind the Air Chief Marshal burst open and in rushed a scruffy looking policewoman closely followed by a dark-skinned individual with an unshaven face, in a Harlequins rugby shirt, waving a piece of paper and shouting…

  Kate and Rafi didn’t stand on ceremony and cut across the PM.

  ‘We have found the location of the last terrorist. He’s at a large industrial property in Stratford, East London, between the A12 and Billingsgate fish market. It’s being refurbished. I hope it won’t be too difficult to spot from the air.’

  ‘What’s the target at Stratford?’ asked the PM.

  ‘Could there be a nuclear waste train in transit near there?’ suggested Emma, who had arrived at the door. ‘It is the only thing left on our list that could fit.’

  ‘Find out, now!’ instructed the Air Chief Marshal to Colonel Turner. ‘Find the building and then the target should become obvious.’

  At that moment John walked in. He sidled over to Rafi and passed him the tape of the interview with the junior minister. He said quietly, ‘I thought that you might like to have the tape as a memento.’

  ‘Thanks…’ said Rafi tucking the tape into his pocket. ‘They’re looking for the last location; it’s near Stratford, in East London.’

  Meanwhile the Air Chief Marshal was on the scrambler. ‘What air cover do we ha
ve? A fighter over Sizewell in Suffolk? Excellent! Get it over Stratford as quickly as is physically possible.’

  ‘There’s also a Tornado preparing to land at Marham, in Norfolk,’ said the squadron leader on a video link with the Ops Room.

  ‘Get it here in double quick time,’ ordered the Air Chief Marshal.

  ‘Commissioner, alert the nearest police helicopter and get it to Stratford. The first to arrive will have to locate and take out the terrorist.’

  The brigadier called across. ‘The Tornado will be at Stratford in seven minutes and the Jaguar from Suffolk will be there in eight and a half minutes. I’ve alerted the nearest anti-terrorist squad and they’ll be in the area in twenty-two minutes.’

  ‘Tell the pilots to look for a scaffolding tower, or a platform on the roof of an industrial building overlooking the railway tracks,’ ordered the brigadier.

  The colonel meanwhile was getting agitated. He was having a frustrating time finding out where the nearest nuclear waste train was. The clock showed it was just after 9.58 a.m. He’d dialled through on the direct line of the control room coordinating nuclear trains, but he was being given the runaround by the computer-controlled switchboard.

  ‘Oh damn it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Bloody lift music! What on earth do they think that they are – some poncey retail store?’

  A woman finally answered, apologising for the delay. ‘If you’ve come through to me, it means that either the phones in the control room are engaged or the people are busy.’

  ‘Do you work in the same building as the control room for the nuclear trains?’ enquired the colonel.

  ‘Yes; they’re on the floor above me.’

  ‘Excellent! Go right now and get someone in authority to pick up my call immediately. There’s an accident waiting to happen. This is vitally important – do it now!’

  With that, the phone reverted back to what the colonel described as ‘bloody bog music’. His face had gone from a normal shade of pink through the spectrum to a bright red. A meek voice came on the phone a minute later.

  ‘Please excuse the delay… You caught me with my trousers down. How can I help?’ came the response.