by Conrad Jones
It’s not just the Iraqi people we need to be worried about. That’s the type of incident that so-called ‘preachers of hate’ use to motivate potential extremists. Just like this incident in Glasgow where we have a doctor who has decided to set fire to himself and his Jeep!” Tank said. He wished that the Americans could be a little bit more diplomatic sometimes; but then diplomacy wasn’t Tank’s best attribute either.
Tank`s cell phone buzzed again, He looked at the screen and saw that it was the Major calling. “Tank, put the phone onto conference mode. I need to speak to you all immediately.” Tank switched the cell over, which allowed multiple agents to be involved in the call simultaneously. Tank could see the names of fourteen other agents who were attached to the call, including Grace. “The North Wales Police Force has just found a body at South Stack Lighthouse. I am sorry to have to inform you all that it’s Sian. She has been shot twice. There is evidence of a fight at the scene and forensic teams are there now. Her gun and her Jeep are missing. As soon as we get the results back from forensics I will update you all.” Major Stanley Timms cut the conference call connection. There was no point in saying anything more. Sian was one of the team and now she was dead. Tank and Chen made the rest of the helicopter flight in silence.
CHAPTER 42
Mustapha
When Mustapha had fallen from the cliff, he’d managed to hold on tight to the Bosnian. The journey to the crashing waves below felt like it had taken forever to complete. The two men hit the waves and were separated immediately. Mustapha could barely breathe; he was winded badly by the fall into the freezing sea; the water around the Anglesey coastline rarely rises above 12 degrees; without the aid of a wet suit, hypothermia is never far away. He plunged beneath the surface of the waves; the impetus of his fall dragged him deeper and deeper. He felt like his lungs would explode any second and he kicked desperately to reach the surface.
As he finally broke the surface he sucked fresh air deep into his lungs. He was coughing and spluttering as he tried to get his bearings. He was 200-yards from land on either side of him. The steep black cliffs at the bottom of the mountain looked impossible to climb. The waves crashed against them, rising 20-feet up the sheer rock before falling back into the ocean. He would be broken like a piece of driftwood if he attempted to reach the mountain. He turned, gasping for his breath all the while and looked toward South Stack Island. The tall white building of the lighthouse itself, which looked so small from above, now towered above him, the rocks looked sharp and treacherous and the waves pounded against them, he would be ripped to pieces in minutes if he tried to exit there. His muscles started to cramp in the freezing water, his wounds already felt numb. He lay on his back and tried to float; he had no more energy to swim. Consciousness started to fade and darkness crept into his vision. The huge black cliffs seemed to reach up to the sky. He thought he could see a young girl dressed in a white dress up on the headland far away. She was waving to him and he thought he could see her smiling; `It looks like Yasmine’, he thought, as he passed out.
Rasim Janet crashed into the water at high speed. The young Ahmed was above him and seemed to be driving him deeper down. His lungs screamed at him to breath. The bullet hole in his shoulder stung as salt water entered his flesh. He kicked wildly, trying to reach the air above. Desperation gave him strength and he drove himself upward to the surface. The enormous swell of the Irish Sea lifted him up and down. He could see no sign of Mustapha. He looked toward the lighthouse and quickly decided that to try and leave the ocean there would be suicidal. He turned toward the mountain and started to swim. The swell was helping his progress by pushing him toward the cliffs. He was now directly below the suspension bridge that crossed 150-feet above him from the mountain to the island. He was losing his strength rapidly as he tried to swim to the cliffs. Rasim looked up at the steep rock face that loomed above him and he wondered how he was going to climb it even he did make it to the rocks. He pushed himself harder; he would not give in now. Rasim had weathered horrific times in his fight against Christianity; he could not be defeated now, he kicked harder toward the rocks. A glint of metal caught his eye. It was dull not shiny, but it was metal none the less, and as the waves receded he saw it again. It was a rusted metal ring that would be used to tie up a boat, fixed to the rock face. He swam toward it, the swell aiding him, and as he approached the cliffs he saw the smooth rounded shape of ancient steps cut into the rock face. The steps climbed the cliff, zigzagging toward the bridge. The steps had been cut when the lighthouse was built. They serviced small boats that were used to ferry the builders and architects with their materials to the island. God had saved Rasim from the nightmares of Bosnia, now here he was helping again.
C HAPTER 43
Liverpool Anglican Cathedral
Yasser Ahmed stepped out of the black Hackney taxi and pulled his baseball hat firmly onto his head. His long black hair was tied in a ponytail, which hung between his shoulder blades. Yasser fastened the zip on his leather jacket, put on his dark sunglasses, paid the driver with a five pound note, and then tucked his black wallet into his faded blue jeans. It had been a short journey from his apartment in Anfield to Liverpool city centre, and now he looked around at the busy city and contemplated his plans. The infidel had killed his sister. He found out from his informers that the taskforce that hounded him were based in the city, so this would be the target of his revenge. They had made it personal.
He adjusted a small camera that he was wearing beneath his jacket; he intended to film his reconnaissance trip. The building in front of him was the Adelphi Hotel, once one of the country’s finest hotels. The square shaped building was built from grey marble and it had large columns either side of the wide entrance. The doorway consisted of a large wooden revolving door with etched glass panels and brass handrails. It stood at the bottom of Mount Pleasant, just five hundred yards from the catholic cathedral, which was built on Brownlow Hill.
Opposite him was an enormous department store, which sported a twenty-foot high statue of a naked man above the main entrance. Liverpudlians called the statue Dickie Lewis. To his right was The Vines, a massive Victorian pub that looked more like a stately home than a public house. Yasser looked up the hill toward the catholic place of worship. The cathedral was an unusual circular building. The base was a circular shape beneath enormous metal girders that comprised the roof. The girders met two hundred feet above in a cone shape. Local people affectionately called it `Paddy’s Wigwam’ because of its shape. From a distance it looked like an enormous Red Indian Tepee made from glass and stone. Paddy is a reference to the city’s large Irish catholic community that worshiped there. Yasser walked up Mount Pleasant toward the holy building.
The construction of the cathedral was started in 1933 when the foundation stone was laid. The original plans would have made it the second biggest church in the world. It would have had the largest dome in the world on top. The outbreak of The Second World War interrupted the building work, and by 1958 the plans were scrapped. The newly designed `Paddy’s Wigwam’ was opened and consecrated in 1967 and was the spiritual centre for the catholic faith in the North of England.
Yasser reached the wide slate steps that led to the main entrance and started to climb them. As he climbed, Liverpool’s historic skyline unfolded. Just half a mile away was the sandstone monolith of the Anglican cathedral, the biggest cathedral in the United Kingdom. Its wide gothic arches and gigantic bell tower were an iconic landmark that could be seen from forty miles away. Between the two huge places of worship, he could see the Saint Johns Tower. The tower resembled a gigantic concrete pole, seventy feet wide and one hundred and fifty feet high, with a flying saucer stuck on the top. The flying saucer had once contained a revolving restaurant that boasted panoramic views of the city; it was now home to a local radio station. The two cathedrals, with the Saint Johns tower between them, and the gigantic bronze Liverbirds in the distance, made for a truly awesome skyline. Each of the famous landmarks was als
o a potential target.
Yasser looked toward the catholic cathedral now in front of him. The circular building incorporates a nine acre site at its base. The vast space inside the cathedral can seat two thousand people, who can participate closely in the services. Yasser stepped into the huge cathedral and looked up. The top of the building was an enormous cylindrical shape, made entirely from coloured glass. The effect of the light as it filtered through this huge prism was breathtaking. Yasser walked around the perimeter of the cathedral, secretly filming everything that he saw. The hushed voices and footsteps of eager tourists echoed around the enormous holy chasm. He stopped for a moment when he spotted a metal cleaning gantry high up in the glass conical ceiling. He followed the perimeter wall, searching for the access door that would lead to the maintenance walkways. From above, the cathedral’s base would look like a huge cogwheel. The main body of the church was surrounded by smaller chapels, which would be the cog teeth. At the back of one of these smaller chapels was a velvet curtain. The curtain was billowing gently as if it was being blown by a draft. Yasser lifted it away from the wall slightly. There was a door marked `maintenance’, which had been left slightly ajar. The perimeter of the building has great concrete buttresses that bear the weight of the glass and steel structure. Inside this particular buttress was a labyrinth of service tunnels and access stairwells. Yasser noted its position and moved on.
This holy building definitely had potential. He marked a mental tick next to it as a possible future target. He completed walking the full circumference of the building and then headed outside into the drizzling rain. He stood at the top of the wide slate steps and scanned the city’s skyline again. The skyline of a city and the buildings that compose it give its inhabitants a feeling of ownership. A feeling of belonging can grow, even in the short time a tourist spends in its presence. The loss of the Twin Towers was felt worldwide. Sales of pictures of the New York skyline that still contained the towers in them, still outsell those pictures that don’t contain them.
In February 2006 Yasser’s affiliates blew up the Al-Askari mosque in Samarra, Iraq, destroying one of the holiest sites in Shia Islam. The domes of the mosque however, remained standing, as if in defiance of the bombers. The skyline was still intact, despite the destruction of the revered place of worship. One hundred and sixty-five Sunni Muslims were slaughtered in revenge attacks over the days that followed, and guards were placed to stop the bombers returning to destroy the holy domes. The Sunni insurgents eventually returned and murdered the guards. They destroyed the magnificent domes with explosives, bringing them to the ground in pieces. Despite the fact that the mosque was ruined and unusable, the Sunnis needed to remove the domes from view. The skyline itself can be symbolic of a people and their religion. Mosques and cathedrals alike are visible beacons of hope to the people that live and work beneath them.
Yasser descended the steps of the catholic cathedral and saw the Everyman Theatre. He made his way down Rodney Street toward the biggest cathedral in the country. Rodney Street was once home to many famous private medical practices. The doorframes of the street were once adorned with shiny brass plaques, proudly displaying the doctors’ names and their speciality. As private medicine became more lucrative the doctors moved to new private hospitals and the area became the haunt of Liverpool’s street girls. This was the red light district. Yasser crossed Hardman Street and looked in awe at the gigantic gothic cathedral. Its dark sandstone colour emphasised the sheer scale of the building. The cathedral has three towers, one at the head of the transept above the main alter; and two centre towers located in the middle of the transept, forming the shape of a cross, if the building was viewed from above. Yasser looked at the two hundred and sixty foot high towers and ruled out sniper rifles. They were simply too high. The cathedral bells started to boom.
At two hundred and nineteen feet above floor level, the bells of Liverpool Cathedral are the highest and heaviest ringing peal in the world. They consist of thirteen bells grouped in a circle around the great fourteen and a half tonne Bourbon bell. The whole peal weighed thirty-one tonnes. Yasser listened to the bells ringing the hour and could feel the noise vibrating in his chest. He stepped into the cathedral; the enormous vaulted ceilings and stained glass windows gave the transept a feeling of immense space surrounding you. He walked through the cavernous naves surveying the building, looking for its weak spots. He arrived beneath the bell tower and gazed at its size. The plaque on the wall informed him that this was the highest and heaviest peal of bells in the world. What a blow to Christianity it would be to bring them crashing down. He smiled as a plan began to form in his evil brain. There was little thought given to the human cost of his attacks. All faiths had their martyrs; Muslim, Christian, Jew; it mattered little to Yasser. His faith was under attack and had been since its conception; there would be no respite in his Jihad until the one true faith had triumphed over the infidels of other religions. Yasser checked that his camera was still filming his reconnaissance and he headed toward the exit. It was still raining outside.
Yasser walked down the hill of Duke Street toward the city centre. He counted thirteen giant construction cranes dotted about the skyline as he walked toward the river. The city was enjoying a massive period of regeneration and rebuilding due to receiving City of Culture status. The tall ‘T’-shaped cranes worked nonstop like giant robots lifting girders up to build new structures. Museums, art galleries and bright new shopping precincts were springing up all over the city. He turned toward the dock road and looked right toward the Albert Docks. Just by the old dock building was the looming fortress shape of Merseyside Police Headquarters. The Terrorist Task Force was stationed on the top floor. Yasser smiled as he toyed with the idea that the country’s top agents could be stood at the window of their offices looking right at him. He walked toward the ferry terminal at the Pier Head, directly in front of the police buildings.
There had been a ferry service from Liverpool across the River Mersey since the year 1150. Yasser bought a return tourist ticket and walked up to the top viewing deck of the Royal Iris. The old ferry had seen action at Zeebrugge in World War One and was granted the prefix ‘Royal’ shortly after returning to her home on the Mersey. The seats on the ferry quickly filled with eager tourists who wanted to see the city and its buildings from the river. The view from across the wide river estuary allowed one to put the city in perspective.
Yasser wasn’t interested in the history of the city that the tour guide was explaining over the loudspeaker system. He was more interested in the river view of the oil refinery at Stanlow, and the airport that occupied the opposite bank. The tourist ferry gave him an ideal opportunity to scout these potential targets without arousing suspicion. Yasser took a small digital camera from his pocket and snapped the coastline on both riverbanks. He was disturbed only once when a small Japanese girl tapped him on the shoulder and asked him to take a photograph of her with her grinning parents. The three of them never stopped nodding their heads in appreciation of the favour. The cold wind from the Irish Sea made him shiver, but it did not dampen his enthusiasm. He wished he had more explosives; there were just so many potential opportunities to cause utter destruction.
CHAPTER 44
The Corpse That Cried
It was early morning on Porthdafarc beach when two council workmen, driving their sand lorry, spotted the body of a man drifting in the shallow waters close to the shore. The workmen called the police, who in turn called a local doctor. The local doctor attended the scene and reported that the man was not breathing and there was no sign of a pulse. The body was bruised and had facial lacerations, which indicated that he could be a jumper. Many people with suicidal tendencies chose the cliffs at South Stack as the place to end it all. He certified the body as dead, and the dead man was covered with loose tarpaulins to hide him from curious onlookers while a home office pathologist was called. A local policeman, who attended the scene, lifted the tarpaulin and recognised the body as that of M
ustapha Ahmed. He had dated a local female customs officer, Sian Hughes. The name Ahmed, once reported, triggered alarm bells in the security services system. Agents from the TTF were alerted and Graham Libby, the coroner, was flown from Liverpool by RAF helicopter to the morgue at Holyhead hospital, where the corpse was to be taken.
Taskforce officers were still combing the headlands above South Stack Lighthouse where Sian’s dead body still lay. Forensic teams were searching her house and the area around where her death occurred for clues. There was a blood trail all the way from the ocean to Sian’s Jeep. Now that Mustapha’s body had turned up, the crime scene investigation would spread to incorporate the beach at Porthdafarc.