Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘And your daughter, where is she?’

  ‘She’s at home, doing homework. She wanted to come down, but I told her to keep away. Supposedly some of her friends were here five minutes before the blast. From her description, it sounds as if they may be the two girls lying out there.’

  Salisbury Hospital was doing a sterling job tending to the wounds and dealing with the dying. It was three hours after Chief Inspector Donaldson arrived on the scene to take command that a final tally was estimated.

  ‘We reckon seventy-five dead,’ he said on the phone call to Counter Terrorism Command. ‘One hundred injured and, of those, at least ten will not last the night. The final tally looks like being eighty-five, maybe eighty-six.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ve got a team down there with you now,’ Richard Goddard, the head of the Counter Terrorism Command, said. ‘Keep the area clear until they’ve done a complete sweep of the area. We need to find whoever did this and we need to find them quick.’

  ‘The area’s secure,’ said Donaldson. ‘No one’s going in or out until you give the all clear.’

  ‘How are you going on identifications?’

  ‘The bomber or the victims?’

  ‘The victims primarily. We’ll find the bomber, as long as we have the footage from the security cameras.’

  ‘Your people already have it,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘And the identifications of the victims? Any success?’ Richard Goddard asked for the second time.

  ‘Most are fairly straightforward. It’s a relatively small city. Somebody knows somebody and their clothes make a reasonable identification possible.’

  ‘Anyone you know?’ Goddard asked.

  ‘Two of the teenage girls appear to be friends of my daughter. But apart from that, no one else.’

  Richard Goddard’s crack team of investigators were pouring over the site, taking samples and checking the videos that the Chief Inspector had given them.

  ‘What can you tell us?’ Goddard asked of his lead investigator.

  ‘We’re dealing with an expert bomb maker here,’ Barbara Sykes said. A rotund dowdy woman in her mid-forties, she disdained make-up and dressed in men’s clothes at work and at home. She had a boyish haircut – pudding basin, they would have called it in the past, but now that would be discriminatory. Any reference to her preference for young women and downing pints of beer would have resulted in a disciplinary hearing in the politically correct Counter Terrorism Command. Jesting in private about her may have occurred among some of the more indiscreet and younger members of the department, but professionally she was the best. She had spent time in Iraq and Afghanistan, bomb and mine disposal mainly, and she knew bombs – suicide, car, or otherwise – better than anyone else in the country.

  ‘Elaborate on your statement,’ Commander Goddard asked.

  ‘Whoever he is, he’s the best bomb maker I’ve ever come across,’ said Barbara Sykes.

  ‘A professional, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘This guy could have made a good living if he devoted himself to an honourable pursuit other than wanting to blow people up,’ she said.

  ‘Have you seen his work before?’ asked Goddard.

  ‘Almost certainly the Bournemouth car bomb was his, and at least a dozen others throughout the country.’

  ‘Any way we can put a name to?’

  ‘Not in this country,’ she replied.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Goddard asked.

  ‘I’ve seen similar skills in Iraq.’

  ‘Are you saying you may have seen his work before, outside of this country?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Barbara Sykes, ‘but that was a few years ago. He’ll only get better, more difficult to trace.’

  ‘Him or the bombs? Which one do you mean?’ Goddard asked.

  ‘Both. This guy is a professional and he’s hiding somewhere in this country.’

  ‘The bomber – what do we know?’ Commander Goddard changed the subject.

  ‘There’s a car we’re certain he came in. Registered to a Farid Wassef, a prominent doctor, Syrian-born, English wife, but it’s not him. He’s in his fifties.’

  ‘Could it be a son?’

  ‘It looks likely. We’ve got an all-points notice out on the vehicle and surveillance on Wassef’s house.’

  ‘So the father is in for a big disappointment,’ Goddard said.

  ‘It looks that way,’ Barbara Sykes said. ‘We’ll get our people to knock on the door as soon as we have a warrant.’

  ‘You don’t need a warrant. This is terrorism. You know that.’

  ‘Sure, I know, but let us wrap up our investigations first. Our getting a warrant can only help if we’ve picked the wrong house to barge into.’

  ‘Okay, play it your way, but we need an answer on the bomber today at the latest.’

  ‘It’s going to be a long night.’ Barbara Sykes was a workaholic, and a night without sleep was a small price to pay.

  ‘Long night, but if you can find the bomber and the bomb maker, then we’ve made great progress,’ Richard Goddard said.

  ‘It’s the bomb maker we want,’ said Barbara Sykes. ‘We don’t want to knock on the door at the Wassef household and find we’ve blown our cover. We need to check we’re not being watched.’ She realised that her boss had not thought through the actions of ramming the door and barging in. The bomber was a misguided youth, educated or otherwise. He had not been the brains behind the organisation that had instructed him in the attack on a shopping centre. Neither had he been a member of its leadership.

  ‘Give me a call when you’ve got an update,’ Goddard said as he put the phone down.

  Chapter 3

  Isaac Cook was the best policeman that the Counter Terrorism Command had secured since its establishment ten years previous. A beat police officer, he had through sheer professionalism and burning the midnight oil risen through the ranks to Detective Chief Inspector in record time. He was slated to rise to the highest echelons of the London Metropolitan Police, possibly a future commissioner, and the transfer to Counter Terrorism Command seemed opportune to his professional ambitions. He was also black, black as the ace of spades as a result of Jamaican parents, who had come over in the sixties and suffered in the impoverished ghettoes of Notting Hill.

  A good education, his parents had worked day and night to pay the fees and, coupled with an academic brilliance, he possessed a determination that could only be described as stellar. Armed with a soft, mellowing English accent with an undertone of Jamaican, he was an impressive individual. Over six feet tall, he could have been a runner, but he chose law and order over sport. It was he who was going to knock on the Wassefs’ front door, and he knew what their reaction was likely to be.

  Further investigations had revealed no hint of any disturbing behaviour on the part of the father. In fact, he appeared to be more English than the English. They had also picked up the driver of the car that had delivered Duraid Wassef to the shopping centre car park. The car, subsequently fished out of the River Thames close to Woolwich, thirty-five kilometres to the east of Central London.

  ‘Mr Wassef, my name is Isaac Cook, Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook. I’m with the London Metropolitan Police, Counter Terrorism Command.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Farid Wassef said. A law-abiding man, he was unused to the presence of a policeman knocking on his door.

  ‘It’s about your son, Duraid,’ DCI Cook said.

  ‘Yes, but he’s not here.’

  ‘It is not him that we wish to talk to. It is you and your wife. May we come in?’

  ‘Please do.’ Farid Wassef could only assume there had been an accident involving his son in the car he had given him.

  The room was English in taste, with photos of the family arranged on the top of a piano in the corner. Isaac instantly recognised a good-looking youth. It was the face of the heavily mutilated head that had been blown clear of the body when the bomb had exploded. The photo he had in his po
ssession and the photo on the piano showed clear similarities, but he had no intention of showing the most recent photo to the parents, especially the mother.

  ‘What can I do for you, Detective Chief Inspector?’ Farid Wassef asked.

  ‘Unfortunately, I must tell you that your son has met with a serious accident.’

  ‘Is he badly hurt? Where is he? What hospital?’ the distraught father asked.

  ‘I am afraid that his wounds were fatal.’ Isaac Cook loved the police service apart from one aspect, that of telling parents that their son or daughter had died as a result of a car accident or a drug overdose. This was more difficult. He had to also tell them that their son was responsible for the deaths of over eighty innocent bystanders.

  ‘No, no! It can’t be true,’ Duraid’s mother screamed.

  ‘How dare you come into my house and tell us such a lie,’ Farid Wassef shouted.

  ‘It is my responsibility to tell you in person. I have chosen your house as it will help to ease the burden of what I must now tell you.’ DCI Isaac Cook needed to broach how their son had come to die.

  Constable Alana Lewis, on secondment from the local police station, was skilled in counselling to parents receiving news that their child had died in an accident, intentionally or otherwise. However, this was proving difficult for her to handle and she had to look after Mrs Wassef. Trained in basic medical skills, she was able to administer a mild sedative, while the family doctor made his way to the house.

  ‘What kind of an accident? Was it in his car?’ Farid Wassef asked.

  ‘I must tell you the truth,’ DCI Cook said. ‘I used the word accident in an attempt to calm the situation.’

  ‘Then you have failed,’ Duraid’s father said. ‘Neither of us is calm. If this is a ruse, a trick, then I will sue the police for all the money it has.’

  ‘It is not any of those that you mention, although I can understand your anger. It is best if you let me tell you the truth.’

  ‘Then please hurry or I will have you kicked out of the house by the local police.’ Farid Wassef was close to exploding with anger.

  ‘I am sorry, but I am the police and, in this matter, I have full jurisdiction. Not even the Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police could place an order for me to leave. Now, please, I must tell you the truth.’ DCI Isaac Cook took control of the situation.

  ‘Tell me, and be quick.’ Farid Wassef eyes started to well up with tears.

  ‘You are aware of a bombing in Salisbury today?’

  ‘Yes, I am, but what has this to do with Duraid?’ his father responded.

  ‘You are familiar with an individual by the name of Wali, similar age to your son?’

  ‘Yes, they were going to look at a car for Wali Hasan to buy.’

  ‘Then it is clear that there is no confusion.’ It was proving difficult even for DCI Cook to state what the son of Farid Wassef had done.

  ‘What confusion?’ the father asked.

  ‘The bombing was the result of a suicide bomb worn by an eighteen-year-old man.’

  ‘Wali? Did he commit this terrible act?’ Wassef asked.

  ‘No, I am sorry. It was your son, Duraid.’

  ‘I cannot believe you. I will not accept this. You are lying.’

  At that instance, a scream came from the kitchen where Constable Lewis and Sheila Wassef had been temporarily sitting.

  Duraid’s mother rushed in and headed for Isaac Cook. She was ablaze with anger.

  ‘How dare you come in here and accuse my son of such a thing’ she screamed. ‘He is a good boy, always has been. He’s not interested in such issues. He is moderate and kind and the girls love him. What would he be doing in such a place? You are lying to make us angry. This is discrimination, plain and simple.’ It took all of Constable Lewis’ strength to keep Mrs Wassef from scratching the Detective Chief Inspector’s eyes out.

  ‘I’ll need to take you both in to protective custody, as well as your other son,’ DCI Cook said calmly.

  ‘Are we under arrest?’ Farid Wassef asked. A broken man, he had semi-collapsed and was sprawled across the sofa.

  ‘You are not under arrest, but those who put your son up to this, converted him, are violent men. They may well see you as a loose cannon, and whether you know anything, or have spoken to the police, they will ensure that a loose cannon is silenced.

  ‘What do I care? What do we care?’ Farid Wassef said, clutching his wife, who sobbed into his shoulder.

  ‘Your remaining son still has a life. You must live for him. Don’t you understand?’

  ‘Yes, you are right. He said he was going out to the cinemas with a friend.’

  ‘He’s safe with us.’

  ‘But how did you know where he was?’

  ‘We have had your house under surveillance for the last four hours. I only came in when I was sure of my facts.’

  ‘You have destroyed us, you know that?’ the father said. The mother was beyond speech, beyond anger, beyond grief as a result of the powerful sedative that the family doctor, recently arrived, had given her.

  ‘I know and I feel for you, but I must do my job,’ DCI Cook said. ‘I must prevent any more occurrences.’

  ‘I suppose you are right. But why us?’ Farid Wassef begrudgingly admitted that Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook had acted correctly.

  ***

  ‘Praise be to Allah. Duraid Wassef has martyred himself,’ Mullah Hatem, Wassef’s fire-brand preacher said, on the phone from a public telephone booth to another public telephone booth at the pre-arranged time.’

  ‘It went better than I could have imagined. It is due to Allah’s benevolence that so many infidels were congregated in one place,’ Durrani replied.

  ‘And to my convert, he played his part to perfection,’ said Mullah Hatem, pleased with himself.

  ‘Yes, he deserves our praise and all the virgins in paradise that he desires. It is always so much easier when with have an educated disciple willing to commit jihad.’

  ‘But it is not always easy,’ Mullah Hatem said. ‘The educated want to debate and question. The ignorant are easy – but, as you say, unreliable.’

  ‘I am sure that Allah, peace be upon him, will grant you the ability to bring more converts, more educated converts.’

  ‘The police have grabbed Wali Hasan,’ the Mullah said.

  ‘What does he know?’ Durrani asked.

  ‘He knows me.’

  ‘Then you know what needs to be done. Can it be arranged?’

  ‘If we know where he is, then it will not be difficult. We have people everywhere.’

  ‘Are you safe?’ Durrani asked.

  ‘Relatively safe,’ Mullah Hatem replied. ‘I am a religious leader, a moderate Muslim, and unless they have solid proof, the police will not act against me.’

  ‘Then we must remove the accomplice as soon as possible.’

  ‘The plan that the Master talks about, how are you progressing?’ Mullah Hatem asked.

  ‘I will be ready. How long do we have?’

  ‘We still have time. The final date has not been set. It rests with the Master. It is he and he alone who will give the time of deliverance. We still need to get all the people in place.’

  ‘Yes, I realise,’ Durrani said, ‘but the Master is anxious for a result. It is the supreme blow against this country of infidels, the moment they realise that we are no longer looking for acceptance or equality. It is superiority that we desire, revenge that we seek for the one true religion and the one true God.’

  ‘Do you have another target ready?’ Mullah Hatem asked.

  ‘Yes, I do. It is the one that we agreed on. The biggest so far, but for this I will need eight, maybe ten, volunteers and no doubt several hundred virgins.’

  ‘Durrani, and yet you still maintain your humour. It is good to see,’ the Mullah laughed.

  ‘I am always in good humour after a successful result. Do you have willing martyrs ready for paradise?’

  ‘The
y will be available. I only require forty-eight hours to arrange,’ the Mullah said.

  ‘Please give them some intelligence. This requires precision planning and timing and the uneducated donkeys will only ruin it. One out of time and the result is greatly reduced,’ Durrani said.

  ‘You can rely on me,’ Mullah Hatem replied, ‘but I cannot always guarantee the same level of intellect that you had for the last bombing.’

  ‘No donkeys, that’s all I ask.’ However, the bomb maker had a solution if the next batch of martyrs had no more brains than a dumb four-legged beast of burden.

  ***

  Her Majesty’s Prison Belmarsh could not be described as a model prison. It was, however, measurably better than the prisons that Wali Hasan would have found in his father’s home country of Pakistan. There was education, a gym, a library and even television, although its viewing content was regulated. Nothing violent or religious or contentious, but then this was a prison where those convicted of terrorism offences were held. Not that the facilities would be of any concern to Wali Hasan. He was in solitary and, whereas he was fed well and could offer prayer five times a day, he was certainly not going to be given free rein to wander around and to interact with the other prisoners. He had seen some as he arrived. One or two had blown him a kiss, some had even shown him a disgusting sign of the left index finger pushed through a hole formed by the other index finger and a thumb. He knew what it meant. He was glad to be in solitary.

  ‘Wali, you’re in serious trouble here.’ DCI Isaac Cook had been given the opportunity to question the prisoner.

  ‘I want a lawyer,’ replied Wali. His friend, Ahmed, had been caught shoplifting some months earlier and the lawyer they had brought in had got him off with no more than a rap over the knuckles.

  ‘You’re here under the Counter Terrorism Act of 2008.’

  ‘I want a lawyer,’ Wali Hasan was adamant.

  ‘How many times do I have to explain this to you? You have no rights. I can do whatever I want and no one will listen or complain, is that clear?’

  ‘I’ve done nothing. You can’t hold me here. I have my rights. I’m a citizen of this country.’