Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘It is all we can hope for. Allah will look after us,’ Faisal Aslam said.

  ***

  ‘You’re all being equipped with the best digital watches that money can buy,’ Durrani addressed his latest rabble of martyrs.

  They were, as Faisal Aslam had said, a motley bunch ‒ some barely seemed able to comprehend that martyrdom would mean death to them.

  ‘How do we get out before the bomb goes off?’ asked Amr Yaseen, a spotty-faced individual with squinting eyes and a bad case of body odour.

  ‘Where do you come from?’ Durrani asked.

  ‘Manchester, I’ve lived there all my life,’ Yaseen replied, picking his spots.

  ‘That’s not what I meant. Where’s your family from?’ Durrani persisted.

  ‘My dad’s from Leeds and my mother was born in Liverpool.’ Amr Yaseen was indicative of the group assembled. A failure to take advantage of a free government education had left him with no redeemable worthwhile qualities, and the only idea that his limited intellect could understand was that the Christian infidels in the country of his birth, England, were responsible for his inability to get a job, a woman, and a car.

  ‘Your heritage – Middle Eastern, Chinese, Red Indian? What are you?’ Durrani said irritably.

  ‘Don’t be crazy, mate. I’m Egyptian, proud of it.’

  ‘I only hope Egypt is as proud of you as you are of it.’

  ‘You can’t talk to me like that. You say that up in Manchester and me and my mates would come and give you a good thumping, maybe a knife.’

  ‘You’ll show me the respect I deserve,’ Durrani angrily replied. ‘And if you don’t, I’ll have those two men outside the door come in here, pin you to the ground and take your balls off.’

  ‘Old man,’ Yaseen persisted. ‘I’m not frightened of you or those heavies out there. I can take care of myself.’

  Angry at the insult and exasperated by the dummies he was expected to work with, Durrani called in the two heavies. Khalid and Mustafa were, indeed, heavy and made a reasonable if unusual living wrestling every Saturday night down in Wembley. One week, Khalid the Wild Arab would win, the next it would be Hairy Mustafa. However, as a tag team they were invincible. Khalid was committed to the Islamic State, Mustafa was not so sure, but Faisal Aslam paid well, no questions asked and they happily accepted the money and turned a blind eye to some of the strange goings-on.

  ‘Khalid, Mustafa,’ Durrani said, ‘this young man thinks he’s smart. He tells me he’s not worried about you two and that he can take care of himself.’

  ‘I didn’t say that, you’re lying,’ Yaseen nervously replied.

  ‘I’ve told him for his insolence you would come in here and take his balls off.’ Khalid and Mustafa had gone through this routine in the past. They realised it was a frightener to snap some of the more ignorant and bad-mannered into shape.

  ‘I’ll get my knife.’ Khalid looked serious, but could see the humour. ‘I sharpened it up especially for today. It’s got a nice curve. A good, clean cut and our man here won’t feel a thing.’ He turned to Mustafa. ‘Drop his trousers and hold him still on the parquet flooring. We don’t want to get the carpet over here bloodied.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Mustafa said. ‘There’s nothing like a good castration.’

  Durrani was not only focusing on the terrified Amr Yaseen, but also the others. At least seven of the twelve were from the same rough end of town. Durrani disliked the West, especially the lack of respect the youth of the country showed to their elders. He had grown up showing the greatest politeness to people of authority, his elders and to all of his uncles and aunts. It was unfortunate that those assembled in front of him had picked up the bad attitudes of their Western counterparts.

  Of course, he was not going to allow the castration to continue. He needed Amr Yaseen for a multiple bombing campaign in London, but he needed discipline and, after this exhibition of his power and the willingness of Khalid and Mustafa to create a eunuch, he knew he would be ensured total loyalty and total compliance. They would readily blow themselves up in fear of Durrani’s retribution for a failed job.

  ‘Please don’t do this!’ Yaseen pleaded. ‘I will follow your instructions. I will listen without comment.’

  ‘I can’t stop them now,’ said Durrani. ‘Once they’re in the mood, there’s no holding them back. I’m afraid it’s your balls. I assume you have some children already?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ screamed Yaseen. ‘I’m only seventeen.’

  ‘Was that more insolence? Were you answering back to me?’ Durrani snapped.

  ‘No, no, please don’t do this...’

  ‘Khalid, Mustafa, let’s see if he’s willing to listen, but keep the knife ready. Maybe one of the others may need some treatment.’

  ‘Just say the word and our knife will be back for some action,’ replied Khalid. ‘We’ve exposed the blade. We need to take blood.’

  Durrani, now with an attentive audience, continued with the presentation. ‘Now these vests, we call them suicide vests. Is anyone unsure as to why they’re called a suicide vest?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not sure.’ Amr Yaseen, at least, was respectful.

  ‘Suicide is when you kill yourself.’

  ‘But that’s a crime against Islam, against the prophet?’ Yaseen said.

  ‘You are not as dumb as you look,’ Durrani said. ‘It is not a sin if you commit jihad, then it is a blessing worthy of martyrdom.’

  ‘Will we die?’ one of the assembled group asked.

  ‘Yes, you are being martyred for your religion.’

  ‘And the virgins? Will they be ours?’ another martyr asked.

  ‘Yes, martyrdom will ensure the respect of your family, the joy of Allah and seventy-two virgins.’

  ‘Then Allah is indeed merciful and kind, praise be upon him,’ Yaseen said.

  ‘At nine o’clock this coming Saturday evening,’ Durrani continued, ‘you will be driven to various locations around London. These locations will be chosen because they will be busy and because the infidels will be indulging in the consumption of alcohol. At ten minutes after nine, you will all simultaneously press the trigger that will be in your right pocket.’

  ‘Simultaneously? What does that mean?’ asked a badly-dressed youth with sullen eyes. He wore a peaked cap turned backwards with an iPhone in his top pocket, the earpieces dangling on flimsy white cables at the front of his t-shirt.

  ‘Did you go to school?’ Durrani asked.

  ‘Yes, but it was boring so I left.’

  ‘And your parents, what did they do?’ Durrani knew the answer.

  ‘They went to work every day, but what’s the point? Better to hang out with me mates than waste the day working for a boss who treats you like shit.’

  No wonder the infidels are prejudiced against us, Durrani thought.

  ‘Okay, I’ve got no more to say,’ Durrani continued. ‘Remember, if any of you mess up, fail to commit your task, then Khalid and Mustafa will find you and cut your balls off, and I’ll make sure the knife is not the one you saw today. It will be old and rusty and blunt.’

  ‘Can we go home now?’ one of the other jihadists asked.

  ‘You’ll not be going home again. You were told to say goodbye to your families before you came here. Was that not made clear?’

  ‘I’m going out with me mates tonight. I can’t let them down,’ the badly-dressed youth said, now with the iPhone earpieces firmly in his ears.

  ‘And what were you going to do?’ Durrani asked.

  ‘Hang out, you know.’

  ‘No, I don’t know,’ said Durrani. ‘Khalid and Mustafa will take you to a house where you will be well looked after. I suggest you devote your time to prayer.’

  The group of martyrs stared at him in silence.

  ‘Anyone with doubts, just let me know now and I’ll ask Khalid and Mustafa to bring the date of their martyrdom forward,’ he added.

  ‘What do you mean?’ another of the martyrs
asked.

  ‘They need practice in their knife skills. The death of one of you would be a blessing. I’m sure that Allah will understand. Whoever expresses doubts will get to the virgins before the others.’

  The house was not far, and it was secure. Besides, as a precaution, if they failed to activate the trigger, Durrani had installed a hidden timer inside the lining of the vests. All twelve would complete their task, willing or otherwise.

  ***

  Seamus Gilligan was a broken man, in disgrace, in hiding and nowhere to go. Without money, unable to use his credit cards – which were maxed out, anyway – he could only wander the streets. There was only one place, one sympathetic face, and that was his mother in Donegal. Hungry and cold, he resolved to hitch a ride to the ferry departure point in Pembroke in South Wales. From there, he would somehow scrounge or steal some money for the trip across the Irish Sea.

  ‘De Lux Removals’ was proudly displayed on the side of the twenty-year-old truck that had seen better days.

  ‘What’s up, down on your luck?’ The driver, who stopped to pick up the hitchhiker, was a fellow Irishman. He was taking the contents of a nice little bungalow in Croydon to a two-storey house in Bristol.

  ‘The wife kicked me out,’ Seamus Gilligan said, ‘took all my credit cards and my spare cash. I can’t give you any money.’ He didn’t like lying, certainly not about his wife, who was a good woman and deserved better than the scurrilous gambler, smuggler and accomplice to a murder that her husband had now become.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ said the truck driver. ‘We’re fellow Irishmen, we help each other. Have you eaten today?’

  ‘Not as much as a bar of chocolate.’

  ‘Then it’s looking up for you. There’s a great little transport café down the road. I always stop there on the way through. Millie, the waitress, fancies me or at least I think she does. But she always plays hard to get. Name’s Fergus, by the way. Where are you heading to?’

  ‘Seamus, I’m off to see my mother in Donegal.’

  ‘Little grey-haired old lady, is she?’ the driver asked.

  ‘You know her?’ Seamus appreciated the humour as he warmed himself with the heater in the truck. It was the first time he had smiled in two days. After a good feed, bacon, eggs, steak and sausage and a strong cup of tea, they were on their way to Bristol.

  ‘I’m not sure about Millie. She didn’t look as though she fancied you,’ Seamus Gilligan joked.

  ‘Playing hard to get,’ replied Fergus. ‘She’s always that way when I go in, doesn’t want the other patrons to be jealous. Heart of gold, she’s always thinking of the customers.’

  ‘Yes, that must be it, playing hard to get,’ Seamus smiled.

  ‘Mind you,’ Fergus admitted, ‘I have my doubts myself. I’ve been going in there for two years and I’ve still to get past an extra cup of tea free of charge. At this rate, it’ll be ten years before a free egg, and how many years after that for a little cuddle? But, you’ve got to be optimistic, that’s what I always say.’

  Fergus made a special diversion and dropped Seamus off on the outskirts of Bristol, on the M32. From there, he could hitch a lift across into Wales and then the M4 would take him through Southern Wales, bypassing Newport and Swansea, and then the A477 down into Pembroke. He still had the problem of no money, but he’d deal with that when he reached the ferry port.

  A couple, elderly and quiet, picked him up within five minutes of Fergus dropping him off.

  ‘We can take you as far as Swansea if that’s any help?’ the man said.

  ‘That’s fine, thanks very much.’

  At Swansea, a family heading to Ireland for a fortnight’s holiday gave him the final ride to within a five-minute walk of the ferry. There was one leaving that night, but he still had no money.

  ***

  Vishnu Chakraborty had opened the small supermarket on the outskirts of Pembroke ten years previous and had built a steady clientele of locals, Indian and non-Indian, as a result of his personal service, cheery disposition and a sideline in takeaway curries, which he produced in the little shop he had leased to the left of the supermarket. He was a good man providing a good service in a good area. In all those years, he had never been robbed, never experienced any negativity.

  Seamus Gilligan, previously a good man, was to commit a bad act. It was clear that the Indian owner of the store was too relaxed with the till, which was constantly open. Wearing a balaclava, stolen from a clothing store down by the dock when the owner was looking the other way, Seamus entered the supermarket.

  ‘Give me the contents of your cash register,’ he said, pointing the rolled-up newspaper with a stick inside it, which vaguely resembled a concealed gun, at the proprietor.

  ‘Why? Nobody has asked before,’ said Vishnu Chakraborty, a small, bespectacled man with a precise manner of speech, and a strong Indian accent.

  ‘I’m desperate. I’ve got a gun under this newspaper. Can’t you see it?’

  ‘I see it, but surely you will not shoot me?’

  ‘I will if I have to. I’m down on my luck. This is my last hope. It’s either your money or I’ll shoot myself.’

  ‘If that’s the case, then take it. The insurance company will cover the loss and I couldn’t have your death on my conscience.’

  ‘Thank you. I am sorry for inconveniencing you,’ Seamus Gilligan replied.

  ‘I hope your luck improves.’ The supermarket owner had been robbed, but he still wished his robber well.

  ‘I’ll come back with the money one day, I promise,’ said Seamus.

  ‘I’ll be here,’ Vishnu Chakraborty answered.

  Seamus Gilligan had sufficient money for a seat on the ferry, a bus ride to Donegal, a good feed, and a determination to repay the money he had just stolen.

  Chapter 7

  Bill Gardner was not a charismatic person – too stand-offish with his staff, too sycophantic with his superiors. As the Director of the Office of National Statistics, he had put forward the names of Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin to the Counter Terrorism Command.

  ‘You’re the smart guys around here,’ he said as he looked out the window of his third-floor office. It was unusual that he was talking to them at all, although he purposely avoided looking them straight in the eye. His normal style was to walk straight past them in the corridor without the courtesy of a ‘Good morning’ or a ‘Good afternoon’.

  Bill Gardner was an arse-licker, clean your boots, tell you what you wanted to hear sort of person. If a politician wanted a quote to use in Parliament, suitably worded and full of academic jargon, long on facts and figures, whether it was relating to rainfall or an increase in traffic or levels of pollution, it was to him that they turned.

  How many times had Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin heard their analyses, their presentations, read verbatim from the front bench in the Houses of Parliament? Did they ever receive a thank you, a pat on the back for a job well done? Of course they did not. Did they care? Not really, but sometimes it irked a little when a politician scored a point, attained a ministerialship based on the words that they had put into his or her mouth.

  Anne Argento had been a lowly backbencher before becoming an acknowledged expert on the environment and food production. She was an attractive woman, with an olive complexion as the result of Italian parents who had come over forty-five years earlier. A safe seat in a middle-class suburb, she was invariably seen sitting two rows back from the Prime Minister at Question time. Television was a good way to show that the government was committed to equality and that women were encouraged to seek high office. It was a fallacy and, apart from a couple of women on the front bench, the ministers were still men.

  The Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, the Right Honourable Nicholas Hunt, knew what he was talking about. Two thousand acres of prime farmland in the Cotswolds, with a stately home and the guaranteed title of Lord, once his father, the ailing incumbent, succumbed to the cancer that racked hi
s body. He was personable and popular and his constant appearances on the television discussing food production and the environment were always well received.

  He was a polished performer, genuinely committed to the process of democracy, even touted as a future Prime Minister. Good-looking, with an accent indicative of the education that he had received at Eton, the school of choice for the male elite, and an easy manner that charmed the ladies. If it hadn’t been the video of a threesome with a couple of young ladies that the press had somehow obtained a copy of, and the headline the next day stating ‘The Right Honourable Gentleman gets a Right Honourable Threesome’, he would have maintained his position.

  The Prime Minister knew, from the first moment he had seen the video of the two women and the naked minister that Nicholas Hunt would have to go. It was the third day when the Right Honourable Minister tended his resignation.

  ‘In the interests of the country and the party, I hereby resign with immediate effect. I wish my successor well.’

  The subsequent picture of him standing with his wife at his side smiling, holding hands was an exercise in subterfuge. She’d already packed her bags and, in six months’ time, she intended to take him to the cleaners. There was a nice house in Kensington that would form part of the settlement as well as half of his cash assets, most of which were stashed overseas.

  It was into this void that Anne Argento surfaced. Constant criticism about the poor representation of women in cabinet and Anne’s obvious expertise in matters related to the environment, food and rural affairs ensured her the position. The Prime Minister’s hand had been forced.

  It was a masterful stroke on her part. She cared little for the environment, only knew that food was for eating, and that rural affairs had something to do with the countryside and she loathed the open air. Inner city life was where she wanted to be, not out tramping through fields, admiring a cow or a horse or a sheep. The two women in the former minister’s office were a plant which she had organised, and the photos came courtesy of a contact, adept at filming the unfaithful and the indiscreet.