by Conrad Jones
Warrington is where I was sent to as a young boy. My brother has many sympathisers in that community, but I cannot believe that those people would make bombs.” Mustapha stood and walked toward Tank. “What will happen to me now? I am related to him Mr. Tankersley that is all. I have done nothing wrong. I do not believe in their Jihad. I’m no threat to anyone.” Mustapha was beginning to fear for his liberty.
Right now you’re in as much danger as everybody else. They have tried to take you to your brother; they have contacted you regularly by telephone. I’m afraid that you are very much in trouble; you’re a link to your brother. Financially we can find out where your money is coming from and who is giving it to you. We can get closer to Yasser as long as we have you, and Yasser will be thinking the same thing. He’s tried to reach out to you and you have rebuked his approaches. You’ve now become a liability to him. That means that you’re in great danger. We will put you into protective custody for now. It’s for your own good.” Tank put his big hand onto Mustapha’s shoulder trying to reassure him. “Chen, get the crime lab boys to Mustapha’s caravan, tell them to dust for prints. I want to know who was looking for him. I want the electronic team to rig that telephone line to divert. If they call him again, I want it bugged. Let’s have Finnen and Mamood transferred to Liverpool, and tell Timms to put our best men on that. I want to know everything that they’ve told us is correct.” Chen turned and pulled out his cell phone, he was already dialling when Tank turned to Faz. “Grace, have a full Armed Response Team prepared to hit the Warrington address that you have. We’ll hit the distribution centre, the mosque and Mamood’s home address simultaneously. You and Chen take a team each and I’ll take the other. Run all this by Major Timms immediately and tell him that we have Yasser’s brother in protective custody.” Faz moved toward the front door. She started dialling before she had gotten outside. “Sian, if Patrick Finnen thinks that those machine guns are still in Ireland then that’s where I want them to stay. Make sure that your people are checking everything that passes through that port. I want you to go over to Dublin to coordinate with the Irish Police. Find Billy Finnen and find those guns.” Tank stopped and took a mouthful of cold coffee. “And Sian, don’t worry about Mustapha. I will make sure he is safe,” Tank felt strange giving that assurance to Sian and a shiver ran down his spine.
CHAPTER 24
Leaving Holyhead
Tank sat in the backseat of Sian’s Jeep, next to Mustapha. Chen and Faz had left earlier to organise the raids that Tank had ordered. Sian steered the Jeep down the steep gradient toward Porthdafarc beach. They drove by Mustapha’s caravan; men from the crime labs and technical departments were already swarming all over it like ants. They headed straight back toward the heliport, avoiding the town centre, opting to take the coast road through Treaddur bay. The road snaked around the coast, rising and falling frequently as it hugged the headlands. Sian could have driven the treacherous road blindfolded she was so familiar with it. The road turned sharply to the right and dipped down steeply past a farm track. The farmer that owned the track used it as the main route for his cows to travel from their fields, to the milking sheds. The bend had become affectionately known as “Cowshit Corner” by the locals. Many a young motorbike rider had taken a tumble on this sharp corner, as a layer of excrement stopped their motorbike tyres from gripping the road. Sian slowed the vehicle, knowing the dangerous reputation of the corner well.
Suddenly from the farm track came the dazzling headlights of a dark BMW-X5. The lights blinded Sian for a moment. The BMW lurched forward at speed and slammed into Sian’s Jeep. The broadside sent the vehicle into a spin; the manure on the road made it like an ice rink. The car span around twice and then slammed into a stone wall, a chunk of sandstone the size of a football, smashed through the side window, it stuck Mustapha on the side of the head rendering him unconscious. Sian was slumped over the steering wheel; the impact from the air bags had stunned her momentarily. Tank instinctively pulled out the Glock 9mm and tried to get out of the vehicle, but his door was sandwiched against the wall, it wouldn’t open. He looked at the BMW and saw it reversing, the wheels skidding and spraying cow manure into the air, the two rear doors opened and three masked men climbed out carrying Uzi submachine guns.
Tank turned and fired four shots through the rear window at the masked men. The glass exploded, clearing his view and he watched as one of the men fell backwards, knocked off his feet by the high calibre bullet that blew the top of his head off. The two other gunmen pulled their dead colleague behind the back of the black SUV. A volley of bullets from an Uzi smashed into the stone wall; fragments of stone and hot metal exploded near Tank’s face. He ducked and aimed again firing three shots toward the windshield of the BMW. The driver was rocked backwards as the bullets smashed into his chest, destroying his lungs and turning his spleen into pulp, he fell forward, his head resting on the steering wheel. The two men behind the BMW broke cover and opened fire with the submachine guns. Tank was still trapped in the back seat of the vehicle by the stone wall. He jumped across the unconscious Mustapha, grabbed the door handle and rolled out of the vehicle onto the road as the machinegun bullets peppered the space he had just left, showering Mustapha with broken glass. Tank tried to stand and return fire but he slipped in the fresh manure and fell face first onto the road, the thick green liquid sticking to his clothes and his skin. He wiped his eyes clear of the green excrement with his sleeve and saw one of the masked men taking aim again; he knew he didn’t have time to fire before the man with the machine gun began shooting in his direction. Tank heard the familiar boom of a Glock 9mm behind him. The masked man, who was pointing an Uzi at Tank suddenly twitched violently as Sian’s bullet left a dark circular rent in his forehead; he toppled forward as if in slow motion. Cow manure splattered as his face hit the road. Sian aimed the weapon at the remaining assailant and fired as he dived behind the BMW. The last gunman ran around the X5 to the driver’s door, he opened it and dragged the dead driver out onto the road.
The engine roared as the gunman put the vehicle into reverse, the wheels finding no purchase on the slippery road. He stopped revving and put the vehicle into first gear, it lurched, wheels spinning toward Tank and Sian. Tank grabbed Sian and pulled her behind the car as the BMW screamed past them; they both raised their weapons and emptied their bullet clips into the back of the escaping X5. It rounded the bend at the crest of the hill and disappeared from sight.
I’m covered in shit and I am not a happy chappy. Sian, we can’t leave Mustapha here. I’m going after him, get in.” Tank took off his jacket and quickly used the inside to wipe his hands and face, simultaneously starting the Jeep. He pressed his foot to the floor and the Jeep fishtailed up the hill in pursuit of the escaping gunman. “You really don’t smell too good, Tank,” she said reloading her Glock. She then took Tank’s weapon and did the same. She turned to the backseat and pulled out her first aid kit from underneath it. She assessed Mustapha’s wound and placed a swab dressing on to the gash in the Iraqi man’s head. “It looks nasty, Tank. He will need stitches and he will definitely have a headache, but I think he will be okay.”
Tank followed the tail lights of the X5 as it headed back toward Porthdafarc beach; he was gaining on it as it swung right, taking a turn at a dangerous speed. “Where does this road lead to, Sian?” Tank asked as he accelerated after the BMW. Sian was talking into her mobile, alerting the customs suite that they had an armed confrontation in progress. “It’s Porthdafarc road, it heads straight to the town centre. If he doesn’t know his way around here, he’ll miss the turning for the exit road off the island. If he doesn’t take that, he’ll be trapped between us and the Irish Sea.” Sian continued to give details of their pursuit on a shared frequency. All on duty agents would be listening in and reacting to try and help. “He’s missed the exit road; he’s headed past the fire station toward the bridge. He’s going north past the Kings Head on Lands End road, heading for the Newry Beach.”
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p; The Newry beach was essentially a wide promenade road that over-looked a marina. Wide grassy areas sloped gently down from the road to the seashore. Yachts floated in rows tied to bright orange buoys, moored safely behind the protection of the breakwater. The breakwater was a huge stone sea wall built for ships to take shelter from the treacherous storms of the Irish Sea. It had a road that ran along the top of it that was easily wide enough for two vehicles to pass side by side, and it reached two and a half miles out to sea. The Newry Beach road was a dead end but it gave access to the breakwater road. The BMW accelerated down the promenade; the road was wide and straight. The Jeep lost ground as the faster vehicle utilised the wide road. Tank looked into the rear view mirror and saw the flashing blue lights of the local police joining the pursuit. The brake lights on the X5 illuminated as the driver neared the end of the promenade and smoke came from the tires as he braked hard, swerving the vehicle onto the breakwater road.
The road weaved through a small wooded copse. Stone walls were on either side. In the headlights a large derelict building stood out from the darkness. Once painted white and built in the style of a mock castle, it had been a beautiful hotel. The once white walls were now covered in green moss, the windows dark and empty, it was an eerie sight. “We are in pursuit following the X5 past the old Soldiers Point hotel. He is trapped now,” Sian said as she switched the safety off her weapon. The vehicles burst free from the wooded road and roared onto the open breakwater. The BMW sprayed gravel from beneath its wheels, the stones bounced off the windscreen of the Jeep behind it as it drove along the top of the giant sea wall. Tank lowered his window and leaned out, pointing his Glock 9mm at the vehicle in front. He fired three bullets and sparks shot up from the back of the X5. The rear tail lights on the driver’s side exploded into a cloud of coloured glass. He fired again. This time the rear window smashed, and three large holes the size of a melon appeared in the glass, but the vehicle sped on.
Across the marina, Tank saw the flashing emergency lights of the police vehicles as they drove down the Newry beach. A spotlight appeared on the BMW from above. A voice boomed from the loud speaker mounted beneath the helicopter that had joined in the chase. Sian couldn’t hear what the voice was saying, but she figured he was telling the driver to pull over and stop. `Just like that! We have been chasing and shooting at the bloke for twenty minutes and that dickhead in the helicopter thinks he will stop if he asks him nicely’, she thought. She leaned out of her window and fired three shots aiming at the rear tyres of the BMW. Sparks flew from the sea wall and a lump of plastic bumper material was blasted off the vehicle, it veered viciously to the left, slamming into the crash barriers, sparks flew as metal ground against solid rock. Then it veered right just as violently and the BMW careered toward the sheer edge of the breakwater wall. The X5 seemed to take off for a second as it left the road, its speed and velocity kept it horizontal for just a moment. Then it nosedived down and was almost vertical when it hit the dark water with a huge splash. The black sea turned white as the vehicle hit it and it floated, bobbing on the surface. The driver made no attempt to escape from his watery grave as the vehicle sank and the water turned dark, becoming still once more.
Tank and Sian stood on the edge of the breakwater some 30 foot above the sea looking for any sign of life as the screaming sirens and flashing lights approached. “I could do with a bath myself,” Tank said as he turned and walked toward the arriving police cars.
CHAPTER 25
Billy Finnen and Shamus
Shamus climbed up into the lorry’s cab and shut the door. Billy Finnen sat in the driver’s seat, smiling as he put on his seat belt and pulled the truck out of the Post Office car park. “I’ve sent our little message to the Arabs by first class delivery. It’s on the way to our foreign friends in sunny Warrington, I thought it was only right and proper, to pay the extra little bit of money, just to make sure that it arrives tomorrow morning,” Shamus said laughing, his soft southern Irish accent exaggerating the sarcasm in his voice. “You know what, Billy, it’s a dying art now. What we have done today will certainly keep a dying art alive.” Billy laughed. Shamus was right. He could not remember the last time they had made and sent a letter bomb.
During the troubles, especially in the 70’s, letter bombs were sent frequently from Irish paramilitaries to targets on the mainland with some success. Newspaper editors who printed unfavourable opinions of the Irish Republican Army were a favourite target for the bombers. Politicians, police stations, and even the government were sent these lethal parcels via Her Majesty’s Royal Mail. They were simple and devastatingly effective, especially to the unsuspecting recipient. Eventually anonymous tip-offs that a letter bomb had been sent, were commonplace. The fake warnings were enough to shut down whole sorting offices, empty post rooms and clear entire office blocks with just a call. By the time the bomb squad had looked for the alleged package, thousands of pounds worth of business could be lost.
This was not a fake though, and there would be no warning. Billy had used the address of a mosque in Warrington. Shamus had extracted the information from the Arab’s Irish contact Sanjeet, at the farmhouse. The poor man had also told them that there was some big shot Iraqi terrorist on the scene; and that he was sending more of his people over to Ireland. Sanjeet had told Shamus that members of Axe had chartered a private aeroplane to fly to County Cork in southern Ireland. They had been sent to get the guns that they had paid for and not received. Apart from that, his information had been pretty useless and rather vague. Shamus and Martin had brought an empty jam jar containing the remains of Sanjeet’s bloody teeth; and a carrier bag with most of his fingers and toes in it. Billy knew that whatever information the man possessed had been passed onto Shamus. He had probably screamed a lot as he parted with most of it. Shamus had packaged up Sanjeet’s teeth and digits and sent them to his family in Kilkenny. It seemed like the right thing to do since Sanjeet had repeatedly kept asking if he could be allowed home to see his family.
I hope everything arrives safely in the post tomorrow. I always think Warrington has been a bad omen for us, don’t you think?” Billy mused as he spoke, thinking about Warrington’s history and its unfortunate links to their struggle. The IRA history with Cheshire’s main town is a sad one for all concerned. Warrington’s main through road, the A49, runs from the West side of the town straight across the middle, to the East side; half way across the town on this main road is a huge gas storage depot, surrounded by residential housing estates. The towns planning committee must have been on pretty strong drugs the day they allowed it to be built so close to so many homes.
For reasons that can only be known by IRA bombers themselves, on Thursday 25th, 1993 the town of Warrington, and specifically the gas works were chosen as a target. Three IRA terrorists broke into the gas storage depot and planted several Semtex devices. During the attempted escape, the Irish terrorists were spotted by a patrolling police officer. The officer gave chase and was shot during the arrests. The devices that the terrorists had attached to the gas storage tanks, some four stories high, failed to detonate; all bar one, which caused a huge fireball. This stroke of bad luck for the IRA probably saved hundreds, if not thousands of lives. All three men were captured and eventually jailed for twenty and thirty-five years respectively.
Unfortunately some months later their colleagues returned to the town again for revenge. On Saturday 20th March 1993, the day before Mothers’ Day, the IRA placed two bombs into litterbins on the high street. Bridge Street was busy with hundreds of excited young children, clutching their pocket money tightly in sweaty little hands, hunting for a present for their mothers to open the next day. At around midday a coded message was received by a charity help line of the Samaritans. The message said that a device would explode outside Boots the Chemist, in the City of Liverpool 15 miles away. It was a devious trick.
The first bomb exploded outside of Boots the Chemist, in Warrington. Just a few minutes later, the second device exploded outsid
e a catalogue shop, which was 150 yards away on the same street. People had fled in panic after the first explosion, only to run into the path of the second blast. The bombs were placed inside two cast iron litterbins that contained aluminium liners. The bins effectively became large fragment grenades. They sent a deadly spray of shrapnel across the busy street and two little boys never made it home alive that day. A total of 56 people were maimed and injured. The deaths of the two young boys from Warrington started a backlash of public opinion against the IRA that was unprecedented. Support for their cause at home and abroad started to dwindle. It was to start the long process of negotiations that eventually led to the Good Friday Peace agreement.