‘Not so far,’ Harvey said. ‘I’ll pop by if anything major comes in.’
Harvey went back to sorting the incoming messages, but couldn’t help his thoughts turning to the pleasures – culinary and otherwise – that awaited him at home tonight.
Nabil Karim stood by the window of his apartment and looked out over Aleppo, Syria’s largest city. This neighbourhood had survived the recent fighting relatively unscathed, people on the streets below going about their business as if the civil war had never occurred.
But things were far from normal for Karim.
His visitor had arrived minutes earlier with news about Abu Hussain and his men.
‘When did this happen?’ asked Karim.
‘We don’t know exactly,’ Javad Zarifa said, ‘but it appears they were hit before they could complete their mission.’
Karim turned and faced his second-in-command, a small man whose hawk-like countenance and long black beard were in stark contrast to his own blunt and recently shaven face. ‘Then it is as we feared.’
‘It would appear so,’ Zarifa agreed.
Over the last year, Saif al-Islam had lost more than a hundred men to fighting, but the vast majority had been killed in the last few weeks, and it seemed too much of a coincidence that the Western troops, once so inept at finding them, should suddenly be able to intercept his men at every turn.
It was now abundantly clear that Saif al-Islam had a traitor; it had taken the lives of twenty-five good men to confirm it. That aside, finding one man in the three hundred under his command would be no simple task. Time constraints added extra urgency, and Karim was acutely aware of the ticking clock.
The main Islamic group in the region had a rigorous structure, consisting of Caliph Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi and, under him, the religious, advisory, military and security councils. A similar structure existed in each of the provinces, nine in Syria and seven in Iraq, each ruled by the Wali, or provincial governors. Karim had been surprised when ordered to set up Saif al-Islam, but once the purpose of the new unit and been explained, he had taken great pride in the appointment. He’d worked hard during the last twelve months to get things in place, and now it seemed his efforts would be for nothing unless he discovered who was betraying him.
‘Bring me a list of our newest recruits as a starting point,’ Karim said. ‘If we find they are not responsible for this treachery, we can expand the search. In the meantime, I have an idea that should flush out the infidel among us.’
‘I took the liberty,’ Zarifa said, handing Karim a sheet of paper with twelve names handwritten on it.
Karim nodded. ‘I should have expected no less. I also need you to send me a runner. Make sure they have the proper paperwork, and book them a flight to London for this evening.’
He gave Zarifa one final instruction, which was to procure four dozen automobile shock absorbers. ‘Get the biggest you can find.’
Zarifa nodded and took his leave.
Karim opened his laptop and typed a query into the search engine. Up came a list of car repair shops in Birmingham, England. He made a note of several small, privately owned companies. He then repeated the search in other major British cities until he had a dozen addresses. That would be enough for the initial stage of his investigation; he hoped it wouldn’t have to go beyond that.
If it did, his ultimate mission, the very reason for creating Saif al-Islam, would be in jeopardy, and he was well aware that if the operation failed, his masters would be unforgiving.
CHAPTER 3
Thursday, 6 July 2017
As he entered the workshop, Abdul al-Aziz did his best to hide the shock of seeing Nabil Karim standing next to a man pouring a reddish, viscous liquid into a blue metal tube. Unlike his own, the worker’s hands were steady as he added the last drops, and Abdul watched him put the container down and gently wipe the neck of the tube with a rag before inserting a thinner pole inside it and screwing on a stopper. When the man removed the cylinder from the vice, Abdul could see that it was a shock absorber, and he could only imagine that it belonged on a truck, given its size.
Only when the shock absorber lay alongside three others in a wooden crate did Karim look up to acknowledge the new arrival.
‘As salam aleykum,’ Abdul said, doing well to control the pitch of his voice.
‘Wa aleykum as salam,’ Karim replied.
When he’d been told to report to the building to carry out a small task, Abdul hadn’t expected the leader of Saif al-Islam to be there, and he couldn’t help wondering if this was going to be his last day on the planet. If they’d discovered that he was working for MI6, it certainly would be.
‘There is something I’d like you to do for me,’ Karim said, as he watched the worker apply a label to the box.
‘Of course,’ Abdul said.
‘I want you to take this package to Port Latakia and give it to a man named Najeeb. He will meet you at the coffee shop on Al Maghreb al Arabi at two this afternoon.’
‘It looks . . . delicate.’
‘It is fine,’ Karim smiled, ‘as long as the contents of the tubes do not come in contact with each other.’ He banged the red box on its side. ‘This is a binary explosive. The two compounds on their own are harmless, but once mixed, they produce an explosive more powerful than C4. Malek was being careful because if even the tiniest drops came into contact with each other, it could destroy this entire building.’
‘I shall be extra careful,’ Abdul said. ‘May I ask what it will be used for?’
‘Of course.’ Karim smiled. ‘I was going to make an announcement in a few days, but as you are to make the delivery, it is best that you know how important it is to us. Do you know why Saif al-Islam was created?’
‘No,’ Abdul said honestly. He knew the workings of the parent organisation inside out, and when told he was going to be placed into a specialist unit, he’d relished the opportunity. Any specialised information would be of keen interest to his masters back home, but so far he’d gained no new intelligence. The purging of villages had continued, the sacking of Christian enclaves increasing, if anything. He’d started to worry that there was nothing special about the new unit. Until now. At last, it appeared he would have something to pass back to MI6 other than troop movements.
‘Creating and expanding the caliphate has always been our priority, and at first we had great successes. However, the West has responded in kind, and it is beginning to take a toll. We have lost over twenty thousand men since our fight began, and we cannot afford to continue taking such losses. That is why we will take the fight to them.’
‘But how can we attack their planes? They have air superiority.’
‘We can do little about their air strikes,’ Karim said, ‘but we can punish them for every bomb they drop, every missile they fire. It has taken a year to manufacture enough of this explosive. Now it will be sent to England, where our people have been waiting patiently.’
When Karim didn’t elaborate, Abdul knew that he had effectively terminated the conversation.
‘I will see that it gets to Najeeb,’ he said.
Karim had Malek help him carry the box to his car and told Abdul what Najeeb looked like. With the description memorised, Abdul drove the old Nissan to the M5, the main artery leading to the port. Once on the motorway that would take him west, he drove at just under the speed limit for ten minutes until he was sure no-one was following him.
After all this time, he finally had valuable information to report. Up until now, he’d been forced only to give his bosses scraps, reporting on one in five operations being carried out by SAI. He could have told them about each planned attack, but if every mission were intercepted, SAI would have quickly become suspicious of Karim. As it was, Abdul felt safe, despite the company he kept.
It hadn’t always been that way.
Born of Syrian parents, he’d been brought to England at the age of seven when his father had secured a position as a doctor with a hospital in London. The family
had lived in a leafy suburb, and Abdul – Mohammad Abdulrashid, as he’d been named then – had been privately educated. His exam results had attracted the attention of the security services, and he’d been the perfect fit for MI6 when the crisis in Syria had kicked off. A kid full of self-confidence, he’d aced the intake process and, when offered the opportunity to return to the land of his birth, he’d jumped at the chance.
Getting into the country hadn’t been as easy as he’d anticipated. His handler had insisted first on finding a near lookalike who’d make a likely traveller to the war zone. Despite an extensive UK watch list, it had taken months to find a match. That man had been Abdul al-Aziz, also Syrian and fresh out of university, where he’d hung around with a group of radicals. Six had manipulated al-Aziz into arranging to go back to the land of his fathers, but the young man hadn’t even made it to the airport.
What they’d done with him, Mohammad didn’t know, nor did he care. He had been busy memorising everything Six had on al-Aziz, from the names of his family members to the man’s favourite food.
He vividly remembered that initial journey, from arriving in Turkey to making his way to the Syrian border, where he’d been met by someone called Farooq. It had been a tense time, as his guide had eyed him suspiciously and quizzed him non-stop on the trip to Aleppo. That he hadn’t been shot and dumped by the side of the road told him he’d passed the test with flying colours, and he’d been able to relax into his role.
That had been more than twelve months earlier; soon after joining up with the group, he’d been given his first major test.
His first kill.
The unit he’d been assigned to had been engaged in a violent skirmish with Syrian troops. They’d come out of it with a few losses and a couple of prisoners and, as one of the newest members, Abdul had been given the honour of blooding himself.
He’d known it would come at some point. The organisation he’d joined had been created for one reason, and there was no such thing as a non-combatant. It had been something his handler had gone over with him time and again. While still at the theoretical stage, it had been easy to accept. When he’d been presented with a kneeling figure, an actual human being who was someone’s son, possibly someone’s husband and father, his handler’s words suddenly rang hollow.
Abdul had told himself that the man was going to die anyway. If not by his hand, then by someone else’s. With no alternative, twenty-two-year-old Abdul had dispatched the Syrian soldier and earned his place within the unit.
It was an incident Abdul had revisited many times, and he’d sworn that the victim’s death wouldn’t be in vain. It spurred him to be extra vigilant, to cover his every track. So far it had kept him alive, and now it was time to exercise his counter-surveillance skills once more.
Abdul checked his mirror and, with a clear road behind him, he pulled over to the side of the road and climbed out of the car. He walked to the front and popped the hood, and after another glance around to make sure no-one could see him, he felt the underside of the chassis and found the phone that was securely clipped in its hiding place. After unclipping it from the power lead wired to the car’s fuse box, he turned it on, then opened the trunk and quickly took photos of the box he’d been entrusted with. He ensured the delivery address was clearly visible, then returned to the front of the car and sent the images to his handler back in the UK, along with a message describing the contents.
A car approached him, and he quickly returned the phone to its hiding place just as the vehicle pulled up next to him.
‘What’s the problem?’ the driver asked.
‘Just a loose lead,’ Abdul said, slamming the hood closed. ‘Time to trade in this pile of junk.’
The other driver waited until Abdul got back in the car and turned over the engine, then waved as he drove off. Abdul made a note of the car and its plate, then gave himself a couple of minutes before pulling back onto the highway. If he saw that same car on his journey, he’d know someone was watching him, but he made it to Latakia without seeing it or any other suspicious vehicles.
At the port, he found the coffee bar and saw the man he was supposed to meet sitting outside, nursing a drink. Abdul approached the large-framed man and introduced himself, and Najeeb got to his feet and climbed into Abdul’s car without saying a word.
‘Take a left at the end of the street,’ Najeeb ordered, and Abdul followed further directions until he found himself outside a small warehouse.
‘Open the trunk,’ Najeeb said as he got out, and Abdul watched the man lift the box out and carry it towards the building.
Najeeb stopped and snapped a one-word order.
‘Go.’
Abdul almost hoped the surly bastard tripped and blew himself to bits, but he knew a better outcome would be for his colleagues back home to intercept the package when it reached British shores.
CHAPTER 4
Sunday, 9 July 2017
Nabil Karim stubbed out his cigarette and blew on his tea before taking a sip. Opposite him, Javad Zarifa sat patiently, waiting for his commander to continue.
‘We will send in fifty men,’ Karim said. ‘After all this planning, we cannot afford any mistakes.’
‘It won’t be easy for so many to approach unnoticed.’
‘I appreciate that,’ Karim told him. ‘Send in a handful to take out the guards on the gate and the rest can follow once that obstacle is cleared.’
‘As you wish,’ Zarifa said, ‘though I still think it is overkill. We know there will be only ten guards on duty when we strike.’
‘Indeed, but ten against five will feel confident. When faced with fifty, panic will set in, and that will be our advantage.’
Zarifa nodded acceptance of Karim’s logic, then took a sip of his own tea. Something appeared to be troubling him; Karim told him to speak his mind.
‘I’m sorry, but I am worried that this is a lot of effort for little reward. I have researched VX nerve agent, and it is easily countered with atropine and pralidoxime. At best we might kill a few who are elderly and infirm, but once the infidels know what they’re up against, they will be able to prevent deaths in the numbers we seek.’
‘You are correct, my friend. A VX attack against the UK would have limited success, but I have something different in mind.’
Zarifa’s eyes narrowed, clearly hurt by not having been told the whole story.
‘I’m truly sorry,’ Karim said, ‘but I had instructions from the military council to share this with no-one, not even my most trusted friend.’
That seemed to appease Zarifa. ‘We must all obey our masters,’ he agreed. ‘When will you be able to share this secret?’
‘That’s why I asked you to come today,’ Karim said. ‘I informed the council that, logistics aside, everything else is in place, and once we have the chemical agent we will be ready to proceed. They agreed that I could now involve you in the plans.’
It hadn’t been easy keeping Zarifa out of the loop. He was the one person Karim trusted with his life, and their friendship went back twenty years. It had been necessary to tell him about the chemical weapons storage facility outside Homs so that Zarifa could help plan the assault, but he’d been forced to withhold the real target.
‘You say you’ve researched VX nerve agent,’ Karim said. ‘What do you know about X3?’
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ Zarifa told him.
‘Not many have. It was developed by the Syrian government four years ago, but few people outside al-Assad’s inner circle and the military chiefs know anything about it.’
‘What does it do?’ Zarifa asked.
Karim spent a few minutes sharing everything he’d been told about the new chemical agent, and he could see the delight on his friend’s face.
‘Are you sure there’s no antidote?’ Zarifa asked.
‘I’m certain. Once deployed, the casualties will continue to mount and the British will be powerless to help them.’
‘Given the method we’ll b
e using to transport it to the UK, we won’t have a large quantity to work with. We will have to be selective in finding the right target.’
‘Indeed we will,’ Karim agreed, ‘but the amount we have will be more than enough to get our message across. If the British think our campaign is merely a fight in the desert, they are sadly mistaken.’
Zarifa asked about the time frame.
‘We’ll wait until we discover who betrayed us. The shipment of shock absorbers will arrive in the UK early on the twenty-first. Once we discover who our mole is, we’ll go ahead with the raid.’
‘A prudent move,’ Zarifa said. ‘But what if we don’t manage to flush him out this time?’
Karim had already considered the possibility that he might not catch the traitor with his first cast of the net. ‘Then we go ahead anyway. I’d prefer it if the X3 remained a secret for as long as possible, but even if the British learn that we have it, they can’t stop it from getting into the UK.’
‘It is truly an audacious plan.’ Zarifa took another drink of his beverage.
‘We still have a lot to organise. What are the latest developments?’
‘The boat’s ready,’ Zarifa told him. ‘It can easily accommodate fifty people but I’ve instructed the owner to take half that number. The traffickers get greedy and overload their craft, which is why so many fail to complete the journey alive. We can’t afford to let that happen.’
‘Have some of our people there when the boat sails. If the captain tries to sneak a few more on board, show him the error of his ways.’
‘Certainly,’ Zarifa said.
‘What about the rest of the journey?’ Karim asked.
‘Once the women reach Italy they’ll be processed at the reception centre. We have someone ready to drive them to the French border. Another truck’s been arranged to take them into England. We’re just waiting for them to secure the last couple of items. They’ll contact us when they have everything they need.’
Karim sat back in his chair and lit another cigarette, blowing a blue–grey cloud towards the ceiling. Just a few weeks to go, and he would cement his place in history. The mass bombings that shook Britain a couple of years earlier should have been a wake-up call, but the country’s borders remained porous, leaving it susceptible to further attacks.
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