by Conrad Jones
The voice on the tape was muffled. The caller had tried to disguise their voice but there could be no hiding the accent. It was Arabic. The man opened his eyes wide in disbelief. The pain of betrayal didn’t lessen the pain of the beating. “Usef. My name is Usef Mamood. I did not know about any explosives, I swear upon my Lord I did not,” Usef whined, spittle mixed with his blood and tears as they dripped from his chin. The reality of his situation had finally hit home.
Sian entered the room with shock in her eyes as she looked at the sobbing man. Tank walked away from the broken man toward Sian. “He has spilt his tea, slipped, and fallen over I am afraid. However, he has managed to tell me that his name is Usef Mamood, and he wants to tell you everything that he knows. Get it all on tape please, Sian. I want to see what Paddy Finnen next door is saying.” Tank opened the door as he spoke; he nodded at Sian and loosened his collar as he passed her.
The Irish man, Finnen was lying on his back on the floor. His chair had been upturned and Chen had his foot across Finnen’s throat when Tank walked into the room. Finnen was shouting abuse at the Chinese officer but it was mostly very garbled due to his predicament. Chen was responding with a kick every time he heard the word `Chink’ in the abuse. Tank reached down and picked up the Irishman, correcting the chair beneath him as he did so. “Get this mad Chink off my throat. He can’t treat me like this. I want a fucking lawyer right now.” Finnen grew a little more confident as he was brought vertical again. The ferocity of Chen’s interrogation had taken the IRA man by surprise. Finnen began to think that he was in big trouble this time. Tank stepped behind Finnen, who was now seated, and quickly forced his forearm beneath his chin, around his neck. He tightened the guillotine lock, applying pressure to the man’s windpipe, choking him. “We don’t need any solicitors Patrick, you are a terrorist suspect. You are mine for twenty eight days before I even need to tell anyone that you are in custody.” Tank squeezed tighter. “You have two choices. Tap out or pass out. You can tap your hands on the desk if you want to talk to us, or you can choke to death. I don’t give a fuck personally because your mate next door is singing like a bird.” Tank squeezed the lock harder. Finnen’s face was now a purple colour and his eyes were popping from his head. “Tap out or pass out Patrick, it’s your decision. However, while you are deciding what to do, have my friends here told you that you were set up? Big hard provo boy like you, set up by a bunch of camel herders. What would the boys in the `H-blocks’ make of that Patrick?” Tank applied more pressure. Finnen started to twitch as he tried desperately to tap his hand on the desk. His face was the colour of a ripe aubergine and the veins in his forehead were pulsing rapidly as his brain struggled for oxygen. “Do you think he wants to talk to us or do you just think he’s dying?” Tank asked sarcastically, ignoring the Irishman’s attempt to give up. “I think he probably wants you to let go of his neck. You could always do it again later if he changes his mind.” Faz added with a wry smile. Tank released Finnen and he crumpled onto the desk gasping for breath. Sian opened the door and looked at the man prone on the desk. “I know,” she said, looking at Tank, “He spilt his tea and then slipped.”
CHAPTER 19
Yasser/ Warrington
Yasser Ahmed sat behind a large leather topped desk in a black leather chair. It was very rare that he called a meeting, but the situation required one. He could not allow himself to be exposed by a traitor or a fool with a loose tongue, so no one knew of his whereabouts. He looked at the faces around the room wondering who, if any, could be a traitor to the cause. He had called only the most senior men to meet and discuss his plans. “What do we know about this man that has been captured? Is his name Usef? Why was he chosen for this task?” Yasser asked the oldest man in the room. It was a mistake to entrust a relative stranger with an important task. Yasser trusted no one at all, especially a newcomer. “He is a relative newcomer to us, but we were concerned about the integrity of the Irishman, so we chose him to make this journey in case something went wrong. We didn’t want to risk losing any of our Mujahideen. We know someone is leaking information to the police. The car bombs that we sent to London and Edinburgh last year were intercepted before they could be detonated. One of our Mujahidin was captured on the M6 motorway with his wife in the vehicle just outside of Warrington. There were six police cars and a helicopter involved in the arrest, it was not a random incident. Someone had tipped them off. We were concerned that we could have an informer so we picked Usef to drive the car with the Irish man in it. We told no one about the van and its cargo. The only person outside of this room that knew of the Mercedes was Tariq.” The bearded old man spoke very quietly trying to keep the situation calm. He respected Yasser Ahmed but he also feared him. “I cannot believe Tariq would betray our plans to the police. I made the journey to Mecca last year with his father and his uncle before they were killed by the American Infidel, they are an honourable family.” The old man was justifying his decision as forcefully as he could without riling the violent young Caliph.
The Irishmen that sold us the merchandise have assured me that only the driver of the Mercedes knew what was in the vehicle. They are adamant that the information did not come from their side of the business.”
Tariq was a second-generation Pakistani immigrant. His father and grandfather had travelled to live in Britain during the partition of India in 1947. After years of being a part of the British Empire, India became as unstable as the Iraq we know today. The unrest was mainly caused by the large Muslim population that felt that they were both neglected and underrepresented politically. The British government decided to leave India to rule her own people, however they also decided to partition the country religiously before they left it. The North East of India was separated into the independent Muslim state of Pakistan. All non-Muslims were forced to move to the new Indian state.
During the partition fifteen million people were forcibly displaced from their homes. The resulting riots and ethnic cleansing caused the deaths of over one million people. It was little wonder that Tariq had so little tolerance of the British government. The pain and death that their policies in India had caused left a lasting legacy of religious hatred. Tariq was angry at the West but he wanted no part in killing innocent people. Yasser thought about the Irishmen and their assurances. He did not trust them.
What happened to the weapons we bought from the Irishmen? They don’t appear to be on the list of goods that arrived in the van?” Yasser enquired. He had expected to receive two tons of weapons, including Russian made AK-47’s, Rocket Propelled Grenades and Armalite rifles. “They were never sent to us by the IRA men Yasser. We are having a dispute with them over the price. Twice we have agreed a price, and twice they have reneged on the deal. Each time they increase the price and demand more money.” One of the younger Imams interrupted. The old man that had been answering Yasser’s earlier questions stared at the younger man to try and silence him but without success. The younger members of the group had wanted to take action against the double-crossing Irishmen, but the old man knew that it would lead to further violence. Their Jihad was more important than petty squabbles over a business deal. The old man believed that half of the problem in modern Iraq was this culture of infighting between Muslim factions. He had seen the destruction that this had caused and he did not want sporadic violence erupting between the redundant Irish Republican Army and his Mujahideen.
I have a plan for our Irish friends and they will learn a very harsh lesson. We have all the explosives that we need for the time being. Source some weapons from our contact within the Manchester Somali gangs.” Yasser instructed. The city of Manchester had a gun culture. Drug gangs in the city were always able to supply arms if the price was right. Large groups of Muslim Somali’s inhabited the city and they could be a source from which to buy firearms.“We will deal with our Irish foes with the force of Ismail’s Axe.” Yasser finished speaking to the young Imam and turned his attention back to the elder. “What is the news about my brothe
r, Mustapha? When is he arriving?” Yasser asked sipping his Indian tea.
Your brother has been somewhat troublesome to say the least, but we are having him brought here today. Some of our most trusted men have been sent to collect him. They should have telephoned us by now, to say that they were on their way back here with Mustapha. He has chosen to live in a caravan on the cliffs at Porthdafarc beach, near Holyhead. He was very unsettled when he arrived here and we thought it best that he lived wherever he wanted to.” The old man’s telephone rang interrupting him as he tried to explain the awkward situation surrounding the Caliph’s brother. Yasser waved at the old man, frustrated at him and told him to answer it.
Hello do you have Mustapha? What do you mean you can’t find him? Look again! Have you been inside? No, do not ask anyone, we do not want to attract any more attention to that boy! Wait nearby; he can’t have gone far away. Don’t return without him.” The old man shook his head slowly and looked at Yasser. “I am afraid your brother has gone. He has disappeared from his caravan and taken some of his belongings with him. There is not a trace of him there. Our men will wait nearby to see if he turns up. It is a small town.” The old man was nervous because he had failed the young Caliph Yasser Ahmed and he could see the anger on his face. His piercing olive green eyes seemed to bore into his own. Yasser thought for a few moments. The room remained silent. No one dared to interrupt his deliberating. Bring Tariq in. We must speak to him. My brother can wait for the moment; he will surface when he needs some money.”
The younger Imam opened the door and returned with Tariq, who stood with his shoulders hunched, in the middle of the room wearing a black hooded tracksuit and white training shoes. He was tall and slim, almost skinny, and his hooked nose made Yasser think that he was Pakistani of origin. Like Yasser, his hair was kept long and he had tied it up into a neat ball on the back of his head. He looked nervous in the company of this gathering of his leaders. Yasser stood, walked around the desk toward Tariq and smiled. “Tariq, I have a special gift for you that your Imams and Mullahs, think that you deserve. You will be rewarded for your actions both here and in heaven. You have helped us to get as far as we have today. I need to know if you told anyone about Usef driving from Ireland.” Yasser did not wait for an answer. He swiftly pulled out a thin box-cutter blade from his sleeve and slashed Tariq across the throat. Tariq grabbed at his wound trying desperately to keep his lifeblood from leaving him. His eyes looked around the room pleading for help, but none came. Blood sprayed from his severed jugular, splattering the beige office walls in sticky red arcs. Tariq made a gurgling sound as blood poured into his lungs down his windpipe. His legs buckled at the knees and he fell forward. His body stayed kneeling; his forehead was pressed on the carpet as if in a final prayer. A dark pool of blood widened around him. “Get rid of this pig and make sure the others know of his fate. This will be a lesson to them all; I will not tolerate treason. You will tell no one of our plans. I will tell you who needs to know the facts, and when they need to know it. Put the word out at the cold room, and through your contacts that I need more people for the next glorious attacks. I need more Mujahideen. Now move this body.” Yasser kicked the dying man as he spoke. “How is our acquisition of ice-cream vans progressing?” Yasser stepped over the prone body and continued to ask questions as if nothing had happened.
CHAPTER 20
Sian and Tank / Holyhead
Sian sat opposite Tank in her office at the customs suite. The interviews with Finnen and Mamood were going well; both men were now answering whatever questions were asked of them. A little gentle persuasion from her superior officer had sped things up. Sian was concerned that what she had to discuss with her boss would affect her career with the Terrorist Task Force. “What’s so important that it can’t wait until we are finished with the interrogations, Sian? I hope you are not going to express your distaste at the way we dealt with them. You are part of this squad, Sian.” Tank was starting to rant incoherently. He wrongly believed that Sian had not approved of his interview techniques. Sian raised her hand to stop him in mid flow. “It’s got nothing to do with that, Sir. It’s very important. I have to discuss this with you urgently, but I am not quite sure where to start,” she said.
Tank looked at her. `She never calls me Sir,’ he thought. They had a good working relationship and Tank knew that the use of the title Sir, usually meant trouble was coming. “What’s the problem, Sian? Just spit it out. Contrary to popular belief I won’t bite you!” He tried to lighten the atmosphere; he knew something was very wrong.
No, but you might try and choke me to death, Boss! I’m only joking, please take a good look at this picture,” she placed a Polaroid photograph on the desk in front of him. Tank picked it up and studied it closely. It was a picture of Sian stood next to a male of Middle Eastern appearance. The sea was in the background; it looked like a holiday snap. It took Tank’s brain several seconds to register the relevance of this snap shot. He looked again at the man, then at Sian. “I can see there is a striking resemblance between this man and Yasser Ahmed but it’s not him, is it?” Tank had to ask the question just to reassure himself. The man in the picture looked very much like the terrorist Yasser Ahmed, but he was too shocked and confused to make the connection. “He’s my boyfriend, Tank. His name is Mustapha Ahmed. He’s been living here in Holyhead for three years now. When I went home last night he was waiting for me at my house. He was upset and in a real panic. He told me that his family had contacted him and that they wanted to come and see him today. They wanted to pick him up and take him to see his older brother. He has never spoken about having a brother before. He was scared, Tank, so we drove in my car to his caravan and we took some of his things. I still haven’t told him that we’re looking for Yasser Ahmed, and he hasn’t seen the picture that you sent through to me yesterday.” Sian paused and took a sip of mineral water from a bottle of Evian. “He’s never talked about his family, Tank; he told me they were all dead. That picture of Yasser Ahmed, and the way he was so scared last night, I think he is related, Tank. I think that Mustapha is his brother.” Sian exhaled; the stress of the last twenty-four hours was now taking its toll. “Where is he right now?” Tank asked. He was thinking at a million miles an hour. He was remembering the information about Ahmed’s sister and younger brother. Yasser had smuggled them out of Iraq when they were younger; out of harm’s way. Opposing members of the warring factions had threatened Yasser’s family’s safety. “He is at my house on Holyhead Mountain. What are you thinking? We could really use this link to get to Ahmed. I think Mustapha would help us,” Sian said.
I really don’t know what to think just yet, but I want him here under detention while we think it through. Get him picked up and get Faz and Chen in here. Let’s find out who your Mustapha is.” Tank stood up and reached for his cell phone.
Better still you and I’ll go and get him. I don’t want him to panic. You can tell me all about him on the way.”
They left the building and climbed into her car in silence. Tank was deep in thought as Sian drove out of town and headed down Porthdafarc road. The route would take them past where Mustapha had been living, before zig-zagging up the mountain toward South Stack Lighthouse. She pointed out Mustapha’s caravan to Tank as they passed.
Do you know who telephoned him and arranged to pick him up?” Tank asked as he looked across the sandy beach at Mustapha`s caravan, which was perched up on the cliffs overlooking the sea. Sian turned right at the end of the beach approach and the flat road changed into a steep gradient. “No I don’t know who called him, but I know that before he moved to Holyhead, he spent a few years in Warrington. I can only assume that’s where his family live. As I said earlier, he will not talk about his past to me. I do know that he was brought up by very religious people, and that he doesn’t share their convictions. I always get the impression from him that he wasn’t welcome at home, I’ve never heard him talk about his religion; he doesn’t even pray.”
The v
ehicle reached the crest of the hill. Sian had to use the lower gears to keep the vehicle climbing the steep road to her house. They stopped and she parked the Jeep on a gravel path. They climbed out of the vehicle and walked toward the front of the house. Tank looked across the grassy headlands that surrounded Sian’s home. In the distance he could see the white bricks of a lighthouse. The sea looked dark and angry from this distance, huge waves crashing on the rocks, the spray almost reaching as high as the lighthouse tower itself. “I think this is a nice place to live, Sian,” Tank said.
Thanks. I think so. There he is, in the window.” Sian pointed to the silhouette of Mustapha. She waved at him and smiled. He waved and smiled back at her. “He could be Yasser Ahmed. Looking at him from here, Sian, he is identical.” Tank was correct; he could almost be his twin.
Mustapha opened the door and kissed Sian on the cheek as she entered the house. He turned and looked at the big man in the dark suit. It looked like his muscular shoulders would rip through the stitching of his jacket if he wasn`t careful. Sian spoke first. “Mustapha, this is my boss John Tankersley. You can call him John but he prefers to be called Tank. We need to ask you some questions. We have some questions about your family. Let’s go inside and sit down.” She indicated that they should follow her into the living area. The room was large and reached all the way to the rear of the house. Patio doors opened out onto a wooden deck that overlooked the coastline and the lighthouse.