Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set

by Phillip Strang

  He realised that the West, including England, may be flawed, worthy of overthrow, but they did have an educational system par excellence. Why hadn’t these jihadists taken advantage? However, he knew that the majority were inhibited by a lack of innate mental capacity. Even if they had tried, it would have been impossible for them to comprehend. The increase in a person’s intelligence quota was a generational limitation. The son of an illiterate peasant was unlikely to be able to make the quantum leap to a person of moderate, even high intelligence. It required two, maybe three generations before the transformation was complete.

  Faisal Aslam could understand the reticence of employees to take such people on, but he could not tell the recruits to martyrdom that what ailed them was not the result of the country, it was a result of themselves and their parents and their culture. Hopefully, he believed that the Islamic State would transform from being belligerent, cruel, and backward, into an organisation of enlightenment. It had been his religion that had created the first university, made major discoveries in astronomy, all the sciences. How many of the great mathematicians, the great philosophers, the great people of history had been Muslim? He was sure the age of enlightenment would return in an Islamic England. He was there to guide and counsel, even lead if that honour was accorded him.

  ‘Durrani, the plan is in place,’ said Faisal Aslam. ‘What is our preferred method, gas or explosive?’

  ‘Explosive is the preferred method.’

  ‘When will it be ready for dispersal?’ Faisal Aslam asked.

  ‘It is soon. The method of transportation, emplacement I will leave to you.’

  ‘That will present no problem.’

  ‘This will be an even more spectacular triumph than my previous successes and most will not know,’ Durrani said.

  ‘I will know and so will Allah, peace be upon him,’ Faisal Aslam, the Master, said. ‘The acknowledgement for your achievements will be in Jannah, in Paradise.’

  ‘I am prepared for more suicide bombers. We maintain the campaign?’

  ‘Of course we do. How many do you want?’

  ‘We should focus on at least twenty this time. We could always use explosives. It’s not necessary to use martyrs.’

  ‘Are martyrs more reliable?’

  ‘Yes, they will always be.’

  ‘They are expendable, and there are plenty ready and willing.’ Faisal Aslam cared little for the sanctity of human life.

  ‘They will be needed in the new order in this country,’ Durrani said.

  ‘You mean the Islamic State of England?’ Faisal Aslam corrected him.

  ‘Yes, the Islamic State of England.’

  ‘We will lay this country waste with their blood if it ensures our aim. They are not needed in the Islamic State that I envisage.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘Khalid.’ Faisal Aslam focused his attention on his henchman, the current London heavyweight wrestling champion after a bout the previous weekend. ‘I am concerned that our smuggling friend in Belmarsh has been asking questions of Yasser Lahham.’

  ‘Yes, Master, what sort of questions?’ Khalid replied.

  ‘Questions as to my identity. It disturbs me greatly.’

  ‘Yasser Lahham does not know your name.’

  ‘That is true, but Lahham is a smart man,’ Faisal Aslam said. ‘He can find out things on a computer that we don’t even know exist.’

  ‘Do you want me to ensure that Lahham meets with an accident?’

  ‘No, leave him alone,’ said the Master. ‘We have use of him, whereas Shafi is replaceable. Who do we know inside that can have a word with our friend Shafi, find out the reason for his sudden interest?’

  ‘There is Zohaib,’ Khalid suggested.

  ‘Yes, but he is too stupid to be subtle. Grabbing Shafi by the neck in the courtyard and threatening to bash him is not what we want. Who else do we have?’

  ‘There’s Altaf.’

  ‘Soapy, the little bum boy?’ Faisal Aslam said.

  ‘Yes, he can get close in, ask questions.’

  ‘He fumbled jihad. That is what I was told.’

  ‘I took him to the location,’ said Khalid. ‘He seemed capable of some thought. It may be that the switch was faulty. Durrani’s had occasional problems as well.’

  ‘If he’s our best bet, then I should have a talk with him.’

  ‘How do you intend to do that?’ Khalid asked.

  ‘I don’t want Lahham to know. Could Altaf have an accident, something that needs surgery, a couple of days in a hospital somewhere?’

  ‘He could have an accident, break a wrist.’ Khalid always saw violence as the solution.

  ‘Khalid, tell Zohaib to arrange it. Just tell him it’s for failing to honour a debt outside.’

  ‘You mean, failing to blow himself up?’

  ‘Remember to tell Zohaib, just a broken wrist. He’s not to put the guy in a coma. I need a couple of hours with Soapy to explain what is required of him.’

  ‘I’ll tell Zohaib to be very gentle,’ Khalid said, although he wasn’t sure if Zohaib knew the concept of gentle.

  ***

  Anne Argento was not popular in her party, but she was closing the numbers, and the general public liked her. Her tough stance was seen as what the country needed, and the opinion polls showed that she held a marginal lead over the incumbent, the Right Honourable Clifford Bell, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland and leader of the party.

  ‘If Clifford Bell threw in the towel today, opened up to all challengers, what would the result be?’ Anne Argento asked.

  ‘You’d probably lose, and you wouldn’t get another chance for two, possibly three months. You’d have to swear loyalty to the Prime Minister in the party room and in parliament.’ Guy Bailey had managed the campaign at the last general election for Clifford Bell. It was his strategy and his slogans that had ensured a comfortable majority. It was still comfortable, down a few points, but the Opposition was in disarray and bereft of ideas as to how to solve the crisis.

  Clifford Bell had seen Guy Bailey’s defection from his camp over to Anne Argento as an act of gross disloyalty. Guy Bailey had seen it as a reduction of fifty thousand pounds a year in retainers, but he was a numbers man and he knew where the numbers were heading.

  He had given his notice personally to Clifford Bell, three weeks earlier. ‘Prime Minister, I’m disappointed in your attitude. I successfully steered you and your party to a stunning victory and now you’re losing that comfortable lead through your own inadequacies.’

  ‘How much did we pay you? Close to three hundred thousand pounds for six weeks work, wasn’t it?’ Clifford Bell had angrily said.

  ‘It’s nearer to four hundred when you total up the performance bonuses, and I spent six months solid on the campaign.’

  ‘You’re just a mercenary. You were never dedicated to the party or to me,’ the Prime Minister accused Guy Bailey.

  ‘That is a gross fabrication. If you said that outside of this office, I’d sue you,’ Guy Bailey hit back at the accusation.

  ‘You needn’t worry. I’ll say nothing outside and certainly no written statement. This is my office and I’ll say what I like,’ the Prime Minister continued. ‘You’re a mercenary selling yourself to that foul-mouthed woman. Are you screwing her as well?’

  ‘Prime Minister, it appears my judgement is correct. You are no longer fit for office. You are neither in control of yourself nor the situation that confronts this country.’

  ‘I’m the Prime Minister. You have no right to say that.’

  ‘I have every right. I am a member of the general public, a voter,’ Guy Bailey said.

  ‘You’re paraphrasing her. She said that in this very room. It must be pillow talk you are spouting now.’

  ‘Prime Minister, I am neither sleeping with Anne Argento nor am I paraphrasing. She is a remarkable woman, the leader we need and I am placing my services with her at no cost until she attains the leadershi
p of this party, until she is sitting in your seat here at Number Ten.’

  ‘She’ll never have my seat! It’ll be over my dead body,’ said Clifford Bell, standing to his feet in defiance.

  ‘She will and she will save this country. You neither have the determination nor the ability, whereas she clearly does. This country needs her, not you.’

  ‘Get out of my office, and stay out,’ the Prime Minister ordered.

  ‘I will get out, but I will be back when Anne Argento is Prime Minister.’

  ***

  ‘How’s the wrist?’ Faisal Aslam asked, sitting in the back of the ambulance as it drove towards the hospital. It had been easy to change drivers two blocks from the prison, while the prison officer in charge had taken a walk round the block for thirty minutes after receiving two thousand pounds in crisp new notes.

  ‘It hurts,’ said Altaf. ‘Why did Zohaib do that to me? I was always available for him. He was one of my best customers.’

  ‘I needed to talk to you.’ A surgical mask ensured that Altaf ‘Soapy’ could not see the face currently looking at him.

  ‘Who are you?’ Soapy asked.

  ‘I’m a friend who needs a favour.’

  ‘I only work for money. Favours, you better look somewhere else.’

  ‘Altaf – or should I call you Soapy? – you’ve already received one broken wrist, do you want another?’

  ‘No, of course I don’t.’

  ‘Well, then, be quiet and listen. The broken wrist was the only way we could organise a little chat.’

  ‘Then chat, I need to get to the hospital. I need some painkillers.’

  ‘You know Shafi?’

  ‘Of course I do. Everyone knows Shafi. He’s a good guy.’

  ‘And one of your customers.’

  ‘Sometimes he comes and sees me,’ Soapy acknowledged.

  ‘And he’s chatty?’

  ‘Yes, he talks a bit.’

  ‘He’s got a phone?’ Faisal Aslam was curious to know how much Soapy knew about Shafi.

  ‘Everyone’s got a phone, even me.’

  ‘His is special. He receives calls, never makes them,’ Faisal Aslam said.

  ‘I asked him once who he spoke to, just curious.’

  ‘And what did he tell you?’

  ‘He said it was to do with his racket.’

  ‘And what racket is that?’

  ‘Smuggling, everyone knows that’s his game. The screws are involved as well.’

  ‘Have you ever asked him who’s on the other end of the phone?’

  ‘No, I’m not really interested.’

  ‘He doesn’t know either, but he’s asking questions, trying to find out.’

  ‘It seems fair enough to know who you’re doing business with.’

  ‘In smuggling,’ Faisal Aslam replied, ‘you don’t need to know who you’re dealing with.’

  ‘Then he’s just curious, same as I am,’ Soapy said.

  ‘I want you to find out why he is curious.’

  ‘And what’s in it for me?’ Soapy asked.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Some money maybe, but that’s not much use inside. Some new clothes, and then there are some expensive perfumes I like, and an iPad.’

  ‘You give your order to the driver. He’ll make sure you receive it before entering the gates when you go back to Belmarsh. You’ll say that it was a gift from the hospital staff.’

  ‘How will you contact me? No more broken wrists?’ Soapy asked.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re entitled to visitors. We’ll ensure that some of the hospital staff come to see you.’

  ‘But it will be some of your people?’

  ‘That’s correct. Do this for us and we’ll look after you,’ Faisal Aslam said, although he had little use in the Islamic State for a homosexual, effeminate Muslim.

  Chapter 14

  It was his first boat and Sub Lieutenant Ray Styles could not have been prouder. HMS Ambush, Astute Class, nuclear powered, and the largest attack submarine the Royal Navy had commissioned. The only thing that could have made it better was if Sara, his wife of three months, was with him. Her Majesty’s Naval Base Clyde, to the north of the Firth of Clyde, was a long way removed from Dartmouth.

  Life was good for Ray Styles – a beautiful wife he loved dearly, a new boat, the pride of the submarine fleet, and a decent apartment not more than fifteen minutes from the base. The climate was not great, but then Sara said they would just have to cuddle up closer of a nighttime. It seemed a good solution to him.

  Sara had gone with her parents to India. She had not wanted to go, but an Indian family would not disrespect their elders due to a personal preference to be with their husbands. She had argued, debated, but her parents were firm. Married or not married, there were some obligations that must be honoured and attending the funeral of an elderly aunt, even if she had never met her, did not seem a viable reason.

  ‘Go with your parents. It’ll make them happy. I’m going to be snowed under with work for the first couple of weeks, anyway. We’ll make up for lost time when you get back. It’ll give me time to get the furniture unpacked. It’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’ll stay here with you. I’ll tell my parents.’

  ‘You’ll only upset them. There’s no reason not to go,’ he said.

  ‘If you insist, but I’ll phone every day.’

  ‘Then we won’t really be apart, will we?’

  ‘We will be at night,’ she said. ‘You wrapped up in your lonely bed and me in mine on the other side of the world.’

  ‘Sara, my last word, please go,’ Ray said firmly with a smile.

  ‘Okay, I’m going, I’m going. But not before you give me some quality time in that big, lonely bed of yours.’

  It had been a long diversion to drive to Scotland via London Heathrow, but he was adamant. Her parents had said it was foolish, unnecessary. There was a perfectly good train and he was just making himself tired. He needed to be bright and alert for his first day at work. He was equally adamant in that he was going to ensure the maximum time with his new bride and, if that meant her parents sitting in the back seat smiling every time she leant over to kiss him, then so be it.

  The Air India flight left on time at nine in the evening. A few snatched hours’ sleep in the car park, and then it was driving overnight to the base and his future.

  It was two days before he received his first call. ‘We’re here, lots of relatives and it’s so hot. You’d love it.’

  ‘It’s not hot here, it’s perishing cold,’ Ray replied.

  ‘Tell your admiral to bring his big old ship out here,’ she teased.

  ‘Firstly, the admiral is a captain,’ he said. ‘Secondly, it’s a boat. I don’t think he’ll listen to me.’

  ‘Well, you tell him from me, that your wife is giving an order and he’s to obey.’

  ‘Next time I see him. I’m sure he’ll take note and set sail within the hour.’

  ‘That’s the way,’ said Sara. ‘I’ve got a great bed here, but it’s awfully lonely.’

  ‘So is mine, but you’ll be here in two weeks.’ He was busy with work on the boat and preparing the apartment for her arrival.

  ‘Your boat will take longer than that. You better wait for me there.’

  ‘I’ll be at the airport. You can connect from London to Glasgow.’

  ‘It’s all arranged. I’ve got the ticket. I’ll send you the itinerary by email.’

  ‘Bye, love you,’ Ray said.

  ‘Bye, love you too,’ Sara replied.

  For five days the constant communication continued. Sara was enjoying herself and he was weighed under with issues to deal with. There was a sea trial in two weeks and, unless Sara made it back in time, he’d be out at sea when she arrived. There wasn’t much he could do about it. He couldn’t tell the Royal Navy to defer for a few days as his wife was a little late.

  ***

  On the eighth day, his phone rang. It was her number, but it wasn’t h
er voice.

  ‘Ray Styles, please listen carefully. We are aware that you are at your apartment.’

  ‘Who is this? Where is Sara?’

  ‘Your wife is fine. I will let you talk to her in a few minutes,’ the male voice said. ‘Listen and do not interrupt. We are holding your wife hostage, as well as her parents.’

  He could not believe what he was hearing.

  ‘Do you understand what I am saying?’ the voice continued.

  ‘I understand,’ said Ray. ‘But what do you want? Money?’

  ‘Money? No, of course not. We are not common criminals.’

  ‘Then what are you?’

  ‘We are hostage takers. We want you to do something for us.’

  ‘I want my wife. I want to talk to her.’

  ‘In a few minutes, I give you my word.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Ray Styles realised that the situation was serious.

  ‘It is very simple. We want you to place some equipment on the Ambush.’

  ‘What type of equipment? Why would I do that?’

  ‘The equipment is unimportant. As to the why, isn’t that obvious? If you do not follow our orders, we will kill your wife violently and with great pain. We will also send you a video and release a copy to the major television stations in your country. Is this what you want?’

  ‘You know I do not.’ Ray Styles was in despair and shock. He was unable to react or rationalise. He could only do what he could to save the life of the woman he loved.

  ‘Good, then you may speak to your wife. And, for your benefit, we will ensure video on Skype.’

  ‘Ray, they’re going to kill us!’ The video showed a mud hut with few essentials, a dirt floor, a rudimentary bed and some old metal plates and a mug for drinking. It was clear that chains were holding her by her ankles to a large, metal post in the centre of the room.

  ‘I will not let them harm you. I will do what they want,’ Ray, in tears, said.