Trojan

by Alan McDermott

  According to Khan, the route would take them down Haymarket and along Pall Mall to Trafalgar Square, where the rest of the protesters would be waiting. After joining up, they would march down Whitehall before turning left and crossing Westminster Bridge. It was there, near the junction, that he should release the gas.

  Why that spot in particular, Iqbal neither knew nor cared. He was familiar with the area, and apart from a couple of shops and Westminster Tube station, there was nothing of any significance, but the imam had been specific.

  Stay near the front of the march, and once it nears the bridge make your way to your left, activate the device and walk back in the opposite direction. Don’t run, or you’ll draw attention to yourself, but do not dawdle, either. The aim is to expose as many people as possible, and it will take about two minutes to empty the canister.

  If he followed the instructions, not only would he punish the apostates, he would also demonstrate to the West how vengeful Allah could be. They would pay for their devotion to the corporate coffee chains and fast-food empires whose taxes helped fund the war on Islam.

  The crowd in Piccadilly Circus had swollen to more than a thousand while he’d been going over the plan in his head, and he walked among them, striking up conversations and listening attentively as they insulted Allah’s very being with talk of compassion for the infidels. Words like ‘integration’ and ‘multiculturalism’ were tossed around as if they had any real meaning, but Iqbal knew they were just terms coined by the government to appease the ignorant. To be fully integrated meant allowing marriages between Muslims and Christians, and Iqbal couldn’t imagine even the tiniest percentage of truly religious parents permitting their children to do such a heinous thing.

  No, these people had shunned Allah, and they would pay the price.

  It hadn’t taken long for the team to spot al-Mubari at the exit of Embankment station, and they’d seen him spend a few minutes in the sports shop before entering the coffee house. Once more, it had been Bailey who’d spotted him emerging in yet another disguise, and they’d tracked him to a burger joint in Piccadilly Circus before losing him again.

  ‘It looks busier than normal,’ Harvey noted. ‘Is something planned for today?’

  It took Solomon just a couple of minutes to confirm that a march had been organised to condemn the recent attacks that had killed more than a hundred Shia Muslims in Nigeria.

  ‘It’s the same people who co-ordinate the Arbaeen Procession every December.’

  Harvey wondered if it were a coincidence that al-Mubari had chosen this location in which to go into hiding again.

  ‘What’s the route?’ Ellis asked. With the net closing, she’d come out onto the floor to ensure their quarry didn’t slip free, though Harvey knew she wouldn’t interfere with his running of the show.

  ‘Trafalgar Square, down Whitehall, across the bridge and ending at Jubilee Gardens.’

  That would take them past Downing Street. Could Number 10 be the target? Was al-Mubari planning to use the march to get close enough for that? Unlikely, Harvey thought. He might get as far as the gates, but would need some impressive firepower to get past the armed-protection detail. The march would also skirt the Houses of Parliament, but the Commons was in summer recess, and a building devoid of MPs wouldn’t be a worthwhile proposition.

  ‘The Met are on the line,’ Farsi said. ‘They’ve got a dozen plain-clothed officers en route to Piccadilly Circus.’

  ‘Get them to check out that restaurant and find out if there’s a back exit. He’s got to be around there somewhere.’

  Twelve sets of eyes was a start, but they were still talking haystacks and needles. They were also running facial recognition against the growing assembly, but so far it had only thrown up three false alarms. The sole picture they had of al-Mubari was three years old, taken during a high school trip, lifted from the council’s website.

  ‘We need more people on the ground,’ Harvey said.

  ‘I’ll head down there,’ Farsi offered. ‘I’ve got my bike downstairs. I could be there in ten minutes.’

  ‘With your bad leg?’

  ‘The exercise does it good.’

  ‘Okay,’ Harvey conceded. ‘But no heroics. If you spot him, call it in and let the police handle it.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll call Samir, too. He could do with the money, and he might recognise al-Mubari.’

  ‘Yes, call – wait, did you tell him about his meeting today?’

  ‘What meeting?’

  Harvey could have kicked himself. With all that was going on, he’d forgotten to share the information he’d got from the prisoner, Aswan.

  ‘Samir has been set up. Khan must have found out he was working for us. Someone’s going to take him out at lunchtime. He’ll be on his way there now.’

  ‘Where’s the meet?’

  Harvey looked up the log containing a list of Aswan’s text messages. ‘The coffee shop opposite . . . Westminster station. That’s part of the route!’

  Farsi frowned. ‘Then he plans to release the X3 there,’ he said. ‘Khan wouldn’t have someone else take Samir out so close to the march. The place would be crawling with police, and it would jeopardise his main objective.’

  Harvey knew his friend was right. Khan must have planned to kill Samir with the nerve agent, and the meeting had been set up for ninety minutes from now.

  ‘We’ve got about an hour and a half to find al-Mubari. Hamad, call Samir and tell him to meet you opposite the Cenotaph. When the march reaches you, get in among them and see if you can spot him. Again, no heroics.’

  Farsi flipped him a mock salute and left the office.

  ‘Elaine, you’re now the police liaison. Let me know what they find at the restaurant.’

  Iqbal had searched out the tallest members of the congregation and was now marching close behind them. He was about fifteen yards from the front of the procession, further back than he would have liked, but shielded from street cameras.

  Progress seemed painfully slow, and the chants he was forced to echo felt like bile in his throat, but he had to keep up the pretence.

  He glanced at his watch and saw that the march was on schedule. He’d feared it would run late when they’d reached Trafalgar Square and everyone seemed to stop and mingle with the crowd that had congregated there, but within ten minutes they moved off again, their numbers swelling.

  They were now in Whitehall, and coming up on his right he could see the prime minister’s official residence, protected by impenetrable gates and armed police. He wondered if, one day, someone might manage to breach the security cordon and get inside Number 10. It would be a fantastic achievement if they did, but he wouldn’t be around to witness it. He even briefly considered running to the gates and activating the device he was carrying, but by the time it carried to the front door of the famous building, the PM would have been whisked away to safety in some secret bunker.

  Iqbal snapped out of the daydream as something caught his eye. Away to his right, a few yards past the entrance to Downing Street, a man was paying more than a passing interest in the march. What made him stand out was the leather jacket, which must have been extremely uncomfortable with the temperature nudging thirty degrees centigrade.

  Iqbal averted his eyes, turning his head to the left. The man had been scanning the crowd, there was no doubt about it, but was it just a standard security measure, or was he looking for someone in particular?

  Someone like him.

  Don’t get paranoid.

  In such a high-profile area there was bound to be a covert police presence. The only two other people who knew about his mission, Khan and Ghulam, were dead, so there was no way anyone could have any reason to be looking for him. Even if someone had discovered the plot, he’d taken more than enough precautions over the last few days to ensure that no-one could track his movements.

  The logic made him relax a little, until he spotted Samir. Khan had spoken of him many times, and had used the drug addict as
a prime example of all that was wrong with Britain. And here he was, scouring the procession as if his next fix depended on it.

  Iqbal instinctively knew he was the one they were looking for, especially now that Samir had joined the search. How they had found out was beyond him, and at this point it no longer mattered.

  But I’m so close . . .

  They would turn left at the end of the street, only about two hundred yards away, and fifty yards after that he would release the gas. At the rate they were going, it would take five minutes at the most, but he would need to remain undetected until then.

  Iqbal skipped forward a few steps until he was marching arm to arm with the taller men, and he prayed their bodies would shield him the view of those at street level. It made him vulnerable to the CCTV cameras, but the trade-off was worth it. The immediate danger came from those nearby, and he stole a glance behind him as he passed the point where Samir stood. The junkie’s focus had shifted to those further back in the parade, and once he disappeared from sight, Iqbal slowed his pace and walked behind the tall figures once more.

  Although that threat had passed, Iqbal didn’t intend to let himself relax again. His eyes flitted from side to side, and he saw another face, this time on his right, peering into the marchers. Iqbal turned his face away and glanced up ahead. Only fifty yards until they turned towards the bridge.

  A couple of minutes . . .

  ‘Got him!’

  Bailey’s announcement grabbed everyone’s attention, and Harvey hurried over to the junior operative’s desk. On the screen was the facial recognition software showing a 96 per cent match.

  ‘Where is he?’ Harvey asked.

  ‘About ten rows from the front. He’s wearing a white skullcap, grey top and green trousers.’

  ‘I can’t see him,’ Harvey said, looking at the live feed.

  ‘He’s walking behind this guy,’ Bailey told him, pointing to a man on the screen. ‘Wait, I’ll show you the recording.’

  Bailey double-clicked an icon and dragged the resulting window to his second monitor, then rewound the recording to two minutes earlier. When he pressed ‘Play’, Harvey watched the man Bailey had described step between two men.

  ‘That’s him.’

  Harvey leaned over and hit the ‘Pause’ button. ‘Let me in for a second.’

  Bailey gave up his seat and Harvey sat, zooming in and restarting the footage. Al-Mubari seemed agitated, continually glancing to his left; then, as suddenly as he’d appeared, he vanished behind the taller figure.

  ‘Why did you show your face?’ Harvey asked himself.

  Harvey played it back again and concentrated on the people lining the route. He easily recognised Farsi, and the person standing next to him looked like Samir. Just before al-Mubari drew level with the pair, he appeared on the screen.

  ‘Damn! He knows we’re looking for him!’

  The element of surprise was lost. Harvey activated the comms unit he was wearing in his left ear. ‘Hamad, we’ve spotted him, but he knows you’re there. I want you and Samir to hang back while I guide SO15 in.’

  ‘Understood.’

  Harvey switched channels. ‘Sergeant Bury, we have the suspect, but he’s aware of your presence. You’ll have to sneak up on him. He’s carrying a cloth bag over his shoulder, and I think the nerve agent is inside. He can’t be given the chance to activate it.’

  Harvey rattled off a description of al-Mubari and described his position in the procession.

  ‘Roger that. We’re moving in now.’

  ‘Just make sure you take him out before he reaches the end of the street.’

  A shout from behind made him turn, and Iqbal saw three men forcing their way through the crowd, their eyes drilling into him.

  Iqbal froze, but only for an instant. There had always been the possibility that the police might try to stop him before he saw the task through. Whether it turned out to be a random search at a Tube station or an instance like this, he had created a simple backup plan.

  Release the gas.

  The only problem was, they were closing too fast. He wouldn’t have time to get the device out of the bag, never mind go through the arming sequence.

  There was still a way.

  Iqbal turned and pushed people aside as he fought his way to the side of the road, and once in the clear he burst into a sprint. If he could put some distance between himself and his pursuers, he would have enough time to trigger the mechanism, but a uniformed policeman stepped out into the road ahead. Knowing he had to get past him or admit defeat, Iqbal dug into the waistband of his trousers and pulled out the pistol. He aimed it at the cop, who raised his hands and stepped aside, leaving Iqbal with a clear run. He opened the bag and took out the metal canister as he turned the corner, but his final hope of setting it off vanished at the sight of four armed officers in a line across the road. They were less than ten yards away, kneeling with their Heckler & Koch MP5s aimed directly at him.

  Iqbal pulled up, the canister in one hand and the gun in the other. His heart still wanted to find a way to set off the gas, but his mind told him he had no chance. He would have to drop the gun, in which case they would swarm him before he completed the task. The alternative would be to try to shoot all four of them, but he suspected that as soon as he raised the pistol he’d be cut down before he got a shot away.

  Iqbal’s eyes welled at the thought of failure. To die here, in the middle of the road, mere yards from his ultimate target.

  If only he’d been able to release the gas. Perhaps when they shot him they would puncture . . .

  A third option popped into his head, and it was so deliciously simple: shoot the canister himself!

  The police were shouting at him, but Iqbal blanked them out, the gnawing sensation of disappointment replaced by an inner calm, as if his soul had already commenced the journey to Jannah. He so wanted to sing Allah’s praises at that moment, but knew that doing so might signal his intentions.

  Instead, he simply smiled as he brought the pistol up to meet the bottom of the device.

  Farsi was fifty yards behind al-Mubari when the suspect broke away from the march and sprinted down the empty street. Farsi took off in pursuit, but his hip couldn’t handle the burning pace. His quarry eased ahead, taking something from his bag as he ran.

  It had to be the X3, and he was seconds away from using it.

  ‘All units, take him down, now!’

  Farsi screamed the command into his throat mic, but got no response. Confused, he checked the pack on his belt and saw that it was set to Harvey’s frequency. He was switching it to the one for SO15 when a single shot rang out.

  Farsi forgot about the radio and ran as fast as his dodgy hip would allow. When he reached the corner, he saw Iqbal lying on his back, a pool of blood forming around his head. On closer inspection, he could see the entry wound just above the boy’s right eye, but the thing that would stay with him longest was the angelic smile on al-Mubari’s face.

  ‘He refused to put them down, and when his gun hand came up, one of my men opened up.’

  Farsi turned to see Sergeant Bury standing next to him.

  ‘Where’s the canister?’

  ‘Over there.’ Bury pointed to his left. ‘Exactly where he dropped it.’

  ‘I’m going to need gloves, an evidence bag and a lift to Thames House.’

  ‘Sorry, but we need to preserve the scene. Besides, I’ve got Hazmat en route.’

  ‘How soon will they be here?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes,’ Bury told him.

  ‘You know what’s in that thing, don’t you? Because if there’s the tiniest puncture in that thing, you’re exposing all these people to the worst death you could possibly imagine, not to mention leaving it exposed to any of al-Mubari’s friends who might be backing him up.’

  Bury blinked a couple of times, then ordered one of his men to fetch the items Farsi had requested. He used his phone to take pictures of the scene while it remained intact, and the
n called the Hazmat team and told them to head to Thames House instead.

  Two minutes later, Farsi sat in the back of a squad car as it made the short trip back to the office, aided by lights and siren. He called ahead and suggested they contact Frank Dale at Porton Down to come and collect the X3, which he would hand over to the hazardous material guys once they reached the underground car park.

  His heart skipped a couple of beats when the bag containing the lethal chemical almost bounced off his lap as the car hit a pothole.

  ‘Do me a favour,’ he said to the driver. ‘Keep it under twenty till I get out.’

  CHAPTER 33

  Monday, 21 August 2017

  For the first time in weeks, dark clouds filled the sky over Thames House. The forecast was for thunderstorms after the recent mini-heatwave, but Ellis felt a more portentous reason for their sudden appearance.

  The message she’d received from the Home Secretary that morning gave no indication as to his mood, but despite the excellent work her team had done in foiling Nabil Karim’s plot, she wasn’t expecting a pat on the back.

  Ellis used her pass to gain access to the main floor, which seemed almost deserted after the hubbub of the previous week. A few people had arrived early. They were a mixture of the usual early crowd and a couple who had got behind before the weekend, but most of the desks were deserted.

  ‘Morning, Sarah,’ she said, stopping at Thompson’s station. ‘How are you feeling?’

  The only outward sign that Thompson had been caught in the bomb blast was the butterfly stitch above her right eye, but Ellis knew the real damage was often more psychological than physical. It had taken her a while to recover from the torture inflicted by Alexi Bessonov’s thugs six months earlier, but this was different, and Ellis saw none of the post-traumatic anxiety in her this time around.