by Dc Alden
‘What rumours?’
Mousa shrugged. ‘Rumours of a new energy source. The details are sketchy, but our mole reports a sense of some excitement amongst Defence Department officials.’
‘We cannot concern ourselves with rumours, Faris. Do the Americans pose a threat to the operation?’
Mousa shook his head. ‘No, not yet. It’s possible they may come to Europe’s aid in some way, but the speed of our operations will leave them little time in which to counter our forces. That may change in the future, and for that we must be prepared. Europe has to be conquered quickly for us to consolidate our positions.’
‘And the Chinese?’
‘Co-operative, because they need our oil,’ Mousa sneered. ‘But they have no love for westerners, or anyone for that matter. Yes, they destroyed the spy satellite for us and they will be interested bystanders as the operation unfolds, but they are untrustworthy, Godless pigs. They will study our tactics, probe our battle plans for weaknesses. There will be trouble in the future.’
‘I agree,’ nodded the Cleric, ‘but for now they remain allies. And Europe itself?’
‘The economic depression has crippled their military forces, as predicted. Islam is strong everywhere, particularly in northern Europe, and our people cry out for justice. Yes, in my heart I believe we will succeed. But we must strike hard and fast.’
In the shadows of the old fort, moonlight glinted off the Cleric’s glasses, the brown eyes behind burning brightly. ‘It will be so, Faris. In my meditations I have seen the future of Europe, and the flag of Islam flies above its capitals. The eleventh day of June will indeed be a day of liberation.’
Beyond the fort the helicopter waited, its rotors lazily chopping the night air. Khathami stopped short and turned to face a puzzled Mousa.
‘Your Eminence? Is something the matter?’
‘I’ve decided to relieve you of your duties, General Mousa.’
Mousa’s blood ran cold and his eyes instinctively darted to the bodyguards, their weapons held tightly to their chests. His mind raced back over the previous weeks with the Holy One. Had he caused some offence? Imparted some slight?
Khathami’s yellowed teeth glowed in the darkness. ‘Relax, Faris. As much as you would have me believe that your place is at my side, I know that the soldier inside you craves the roar of battle.’ He raised a bony finger. ‘I trust those paratrooper wings on your tunic are more than a soldier’s vain decoration?’
Mousa was both relieved and perplexed. He offered a slight bow. ‘I am at your service, your Eminence.’
‘You will command an airborne unit that will seize control of Whitehall in London,’ Khathami explained. ‘When we return to Baghdad you will organise transport on to Cairo, where you will be met by your new liaison officer, a Major Karroubi. He will brief you on the details.’ Mousa began to speak, but Khathami cut him short with a raised hand. ‘Do not concern yourself now, Faris. The mission plans have already been rehearsed many times. Your new men will not disappoint and Major Karroubi has come highly recommended. What is important is that I have your eyes and ears on the ground in England.’ Khathami paused, his voice suddenly quiet as he gazed up at the stars in the night sky. ‘It is a strange land, Britain. Although we are strong there, I believe the Infidels have the potential to resist us. That’s why I need you there, Faris, my best and most gifted warrior.’
Mousa felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, the Holy One’s words triggering strong emotions.
‘I will not fail you,’ he breathed, taking Khathami’s offered hand and kissing it reverently. The old man smiled briefly and turned towards the waiting helicopter. Mousa followed behind, exhilaration coursing through his veins. He was going to war against the Infidels, about to become a major player in events that would see the maps of Europe redrawn, a witness to Islam’s resurgent history. It was once said that the Holy One could see into the minds and hearts of men, to know their private thoughts and feelings. For a brief moment Mousa almost believed those peasant superstitions.
As they boarded the Blackhawk, Mousa ran through a mental checklist. At 44, he was still in good shape, but a five-mile run every morning for the next few days wouldn’t hurt. Some refresher parachute jumps too, and time on the weapons ranges. As the rotor blades reached full speed, Khathami gestured to Mousa, tapping his headphones. Mousa dialled in his own headset to the internal comms channel.
‘You will never make a politician,’ Khathami chuckled, his voice crackling through the headphones. ‘It is plain to see the joy in your heart. You are ready for the task ahead?’
Mousa’s brief surge of excitement had passed and now his professionalism took over. He spoke with quiet determination. ‘Whatever it is, I will ensure its success, your Eminence.’
‘I do not doubt it, General Mousa. It shall be written. In one month, the continent of Europe will no longer exist.’
‘Insha’Allah,’ smiled the General.
Crisis Management Centre: 11th June: 10.44 am
Harry Beecham, the British Prime Minister, shifted impatiently in his chair and glanced at the men and women around the conference table, wondering if they detested this room as much as he did. Lately he seemed to be spending far more time in the fortified bunker beneath Downing Street and he didn’t like it. In fact, if truth be known, Harry was a little claustrophobic.
He glanced up at the reinforced concrete ceiling as the discussions continued around him. Twenty-seven feet above was the rear garden of Number Ten. Twenty-seven feet. It was like being in a tomb – a modern, high-tech tomb, of course, with direct subterranean access to Downing Street and the Ministry of Defence, but a tomb nonetheless. Harry had been reliably informed on his first visit that the complex, constructed in great secrecy in the 1960s, could withstand a nuclear attack in the ten-kiloton region. Harry was more sceptical. A tower block in Poplar had collapsed some years ago, killing over two hundred people. That had also been constructed in the sixties, Harry had pointed out to the bemused aide. He smiled at the memory, then refocused his mind to the business at hand.
The Cobra Intelligence Group breakfast meeting had been a long one and, despite copious amounts of coffee and croissants fuelling the heated debate, it was beginning to show on the tired and strained faces around the air-conditioned room. The CIG was made up of representatives from MI5, MI6, GCHQ, the Joint Intelligence Group, Defence Intelligence Staff and Special Branch and each and every agency had taken the opportunity to demonstrate their own specialist insight into what was fast becoming a national crisis.
Over the last eighteen months, the economic recession gripping Britain had developed into a full-blown depression, plunging Harry’s administration into a state of permanent crisis and the country into despair. Despite the bailouts and intervention from Brussels and the IMF, nothing seemed able to halt the slide of the pound, the rise in interest rates and double figure inflation.
Harry had ordered a programme of sweeping financial cuts, prompting a campaign of industrial action that plagued the public and private sectors. Schools and hospitals had begun to close, while mountains of rubbish piled up on the streets and power cuts rolled across the country. On strike days, public transport ground to a halt and every week more and more people took to the streets, the seemingly endless demonstrations resulting in ever-rising levels of violence. Britain was being crippled by militant action, stirred up by thousands of hard left agitators, anarchists and general troublemakers. With unemployment pushing the five million mark, people were desperate. Harry understood their frustration – the skyrocketing fuel prices, interest rates heading towards twelve per cent and the cost of food production that triggered long queues at supermarkets. Recently, in his darker moments, Harry had begun to wonder where it would all end. The chants were getting louder, the newspaper headlines more hysterical, his own car pelted with missiles every time he left Whitehall, the twisted faces of hate that screamed for his head – any head – on a pole outside Downing Street. The same
despair had also gripped Europe, the scenes of public protest and violent disorder mirrored right across the continent, where many had been killed in clashes with the police and security forces.
As the meeting wore on it was clear that the CIG attendees were pretty unanimous in their conclusions. Hard times called for hard measures and the use of water cannon and tear gas, emergency arrest and detention powers, even a partial military deployment, had been debated around the room. Harry, feeling increasingly isolated, had refused to invoke such measures. This wasn’t South America, he pointed out. Not yet, as someone from Defence had grimly noted. But if the thin blue line crumbled, if the mobs turned uglier, then all the measures discussed this morning might be unavoidable. And once they went down that road the country would never be the same again, Harry realised. A way forward had to be found, and found quickly. The people needed hope, enough to calm the palpable frustration on the streets. But hope was in short supply.
The economic depression had been triggered by the Russian energy field failures, the Arabians using the opportunity to ramp up the price of gas and oil to previously unimaginable levels. They had insisted it was due to production problems, but Harry wasn’t buying it. Meanwhile the Chinese, always ready to take advantage of a western crisis, waited in the wings to become Europe’s biggest creditor as they sought to buy up the ever rising mountain of European debt. Quiet diplomacy, once the soothing balm of British foreign relations, wasn’t working either. If Harry didn’t know better he’d probably entertain the anti-western conspiracy theories being bandied around the room, but to do so would invoke a siege mentality within the administration and that would be bad for everyone. Besides, he argued, what good was a broke and busted Europe?
So the meeting had ended, grim looks in evidence as the attendees left the room. Harry left too, his Communications Director, David Fuller, hurrying behind him. As they made their way back upstairs into Number Ten, Harry’s thoughts turned to the forthcoming dinner that night with the US Ambassador. After years of Euro-centric governments in Whitehall, Harry had focussed significant diplomatic efforts in re-kindling long neglected Anglo-American friendships.
The US economy, in difficulties for nearly a decade, was now beginning to show signs of a marked recovery. After the Gulf and Afghan withdrawals, and the Arab Spring that had eventually given birth to the Arabian super state, America had been badly let down by her allies in Europe. No one had fought her corner when the Grand Mufti Khathami had decided to cut off oil exports to North America, when the same economic woes had gripped the US as they had here in Britain and, as a result, Washington had pursued a somewhat isolationist foreign policy. Harry didn’t blame them for that, and had often felt ashamed at the almost unbridled joy exhibited by many fellow politicians at America’s downfall.
But things had changed recently; in the last few months, US exports had risen, the dollar had been slowly strengthening, the power cuts that had bankrupted the state of California and affected every major US city had ceased almost overnight. Something was going on across the pond and Harry was glad that he’d reached out to Washington in his first months as Prime Minister, offering a hand of friendship that was tenuously accepted. Relations were still fragile, but Harry believed he was considered a friend in Washington, and right now that friend needed help. Tonight, at dinner with the Ambassador, he’d find out if help was forthcoming.
In the lobby of Number Ten, Harry dismissed Fuller and made his way upstairs to his private apartment on the top floor. Anna, his wife, was working on her laptop in the kitchen when he entered.
‘Missus B,’ he chirped, brushing her blonde hair back and pecking her cheek.
‘Hi,’ smiled Anna, tapping away at the keyboard. ‘How was the meeting?’
‘Tedious,’ he sighed. His wife knew about the CIG meetings, was aware of the type of topics discussed in the deep level bunker below ground. And it frightened her. Harry could hear the edge in her voice, saw the lines that creased her forehead, remembered the fear in those pale blue eyes when the paint had splattered against the car window, when she came face to face with the baying crowds beyond the shields and the barriers. She’d changed in the last year, and Harry had seen her strength and confidence falter in the face of mob violence, of class hatred, at becoming an establishment hate figure alongside her husband.
The thought of exposing his wife to such animosity made Harry’s stomach churn. His marriage was important to him, more than anything, but he also had a duty to the country, to all those people out there who were suffering similar strains and pressures. Anna knew that, accepted it, but wasn’t coping as well as she might. She was a good person, decent, caring. She didn’t deserve this. The bloody job was making them both old, Harry fumed.
He forced a smile as he watched Anna close her laptop and move it to one side. ‘Can we leave town this weekend?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want to be around for this bloody march.’
‘Of course. I can work from Chequers.’ Harry poured them both a coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, loosening his tie. A siren suddenly wailed on Whitehall and he saw anxiety cloud her eyes again, the worry lines around her mouth deepen. He took her hands in his. ‘Hey, it’s probably an ambulance.’
Anna squeezed his fingers, then brought them up to her mouth and kissed them. ‘I know, I’m being stupid. Just spooked again, that’s all. A weekend in the country will do us both good.’
‘You bet.’
‘What’s on for the rest of the day?’
‘I’ve got that school thing in Greenwich, remember? The wing opening?’ Anna frowned. ‘I thought you were going to cancel? Because of the dinner tonight?’
‘I’d love to. But, as David rightly reminded me, I made a personal commitment. Besides, the developers are significant party donors.’
‘They’d understand, Harry. What’s more important – preparing for a dinner that may reap considerable rewards for the whole country, or a school wing opening?’
Harry frowned. ‘You’re right, I know. It’s tricky, that’s all.’
‘Then cite security concerns, the march, whatever. Or send someone else. What about Kay Fleming?’
Harry thought about his barrel-figured Minister for Education, her negative reaction to an abrupt change in her schedule, her famously abrasive manner.
‘No, Kay’s all wrong for this. Like I said, it’s more of a personal commitment. I made a promise, when they broke ground, in front of the board, the parents and pupils. I went to school there, remember?’
Anna laid her hands on the table. ‘In that case, I’ll go.’
Harry shook his head. ‘No way.’
‘Yes,’ Anna insisted in a calm voice. ‘It’s only Greenwich, and it’ll be more personal if I go. Anyway, I’m beginning to feel like a prisoner here. It’ll be nice to do a bit of meet and greet, take my mind off things. Who knows, it might give the polls a little boost too.’
Harry thought quickly. True, it was a short trip, made even shorter in a ministerial car that didn’t stop for anything across town. He’d insist on a larger police escort too, strong but subtle, just to keep Anna reassured. And maybe she was right, maybe the media would spin it in a positive light. ‘You’re sure?’ asked Harry, squeezing her shoulder.
‘Certain.’
‘You’ve saved my life,’ he smiled, scraping his chair back and kissing her cheek. ‘I’ll speak to David, get things organised with the Governors. Can you be ready by three? The unveiling’s supposed to take place after the final bell, give the kids and parents a chance to see the ceremony.’
Anna nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘You’re an angel. Thanks.’
He turned, closing the apartment door behind him, and headed downstairs.
Morden, South London: 3.03 pm
Danesh Khan’s knees cracked painfully as he got to his feet and made his way stiffly out of the prayer hall and into the adjoining atrium. He took his trainers from the cubbyhole and slipped them on, continuing along the carpeted
hallway to the busy entrance foyer. There he joined a throng of other worshippers browsing the trestle tables stacked with Islamic books and pamphlets. Feigning interest, he engaged one of the mosque workers in a brief conversation about the latest goings-on in Arabia, all the time keeping a watchful eye on the hallway.
After a minute or so, the wait was over. There he was. Khan headed for the exit, keeping a small group of worshippers between himself and the object of his surveillance, the man known simply as Target One. He eyed the individual through the crowd as the target bid farewell to two other men, then made his way out into the street.
The mosque was situated just off the A24 Morden Road in southwest London, a rather uninspiring structure as mosques went, but Khan thought it was one of the more interesting buildings in this drab suburb on the borders of London and Surrey. Target One walked out of the main gate and turned right towards Morden town centre, no doubt making for the bus stop that would take him home to Mitcham, assumed Khan.
‘Target One on the move,’ he mumbled into his tiny microphone secreted under his shirt collar. His hidden earpiece hissed in reply.
‘Copy that, Kilo-Whiskey Seven. Fifty metres from the tube station.’
Khan let Target One drift slightly ahead. As a Muslim operative for MI5, he was one of only a small handful of intelligence officers whose sole task was to infiltrate British Islamic society and investigate potential links to terrorism. Historically, western intelligence agencies had difficulty infiltrating such closed communities, but Khan, a British Pakistani and former practising Muslim, had little difficulty blending in. His well-rehearsed cover story was always watertight, his natural discretion and unobtrusive manner lending itself perfectly to the painstaking task of intelligence gathering. But there was little real success.
During an eight-year career, his undercover work had led to many arrests, but those had been mostly for immigration or counterfeiting offences, a fair amount of drug seizures and benefit fraud. Peanuts, as far as Khan was concerned. What he wanted was a major terror bust to improve his case figures; but this wasn’t like the old days, when young radicals wore their loyalties on their sleeves and the targets were easy to identify. No, things had changed in the last decade. As the years passed, the firebrands had ceased their recruitment drives, the foreign Imams no longer spreading their messages of hate in the mosques and madrassas of Britain. The Jihad had gone dark.