Chapter 19
Seb Costa was back on duty, relieved that he had avoided criminal charges, concerned as to what might be required of him. The phone call was not unexpected, his response different from the previous occasions. It was clear that his smuggling, petty as it was in the past, had taken a turn for the worst, possibly a turn into danger. Counter Terrorism Command would not have got him off, just for a little information. It was clear that Haji was a terrorist.
‘I’ve had a phone call,’ Prison Officer Seb Costa said.
‘Haji?’ Isaac Cook asked.
‘It’s Haji alright. He wants to meet up.’
‘Have you agreed?’
‘Yes, tomorrow, Café Paradiso, on High Road in Willesden.’
‘Have you met him there before?’ Isaac Cook asked.
‘No, it’s new to me. I’m not even sure which bus to take.’
‘Any idea why he’s picking a different location?’
‘No idea. It may just be normal practice to move the locations around,’ Seb Costa replied. ‘Are you planning to follow him once he leaves?’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘And if he asks me to smuggle anything in?’ Seb Costa asked.
‘You agree,’ said Isaac Cook. ‘We’ll deal with the security at the gate. They’ll check you, but they’ll find nothing.’
‘You’re still going to honour our deal?’ Seb Costa asked.
‘You play fair with us, we’ll play fair with you.’
‘I’ll play fair alright, but we’re dealing with some dangerous people here. I’m not looking forward to meeting up with him again.’
‘We’ll keep a watch out for you,’ said Isaac Cook.
‘You’ll be in the café?’
‘Whatever you do, don’t go looking around for familiar faces, it’s a dead giveaway, and Haji didn’t get to be an old man without picking up some experience. He’ll spot a scared, nervous man in an instant.’
‘Could he become dangerous?’ Seb Costa asked nervously.
‘It’s unlikely, but he’ll have others who can deal with any violence if it’s needed.’
Café Paradiso did not live up to its name. Ten years previously it may have been a reasonable place for a cup of coffee and cake, but now the coffee was unpleasant and the cakes looked stale. The sight of a dead cockroach swept into a back corner of the café, where a dozen old plastic tables and some metal chairs were randomly positioned, did not entice Seb Costa. If not for the meeting with Haji, he would have given it a wide berth.
‘Seb, I apologise for our meeting here,’ Haji said.
‘It’s not the best, is it?’
‘It is a dump, but it’s away from prying eyes.’
‘Are there prying eyes?’
‘It always pays to be careful.’
‘You want me to take something in? It was touch and go last time,’ Seb Costa asked.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Haji.
‘They tightened the regulations. I narrowly avoided a search.’
‘Why? Has there been a change in the procedure?’ Haji asked.
‘They figured out Shafi was heavily involved in the smuggling.’
‘They must have known that anyway?’
‘They probably did, but Shafi’s gone and the smuggling is still continuing.’
‘It means one of two things,’ Haji said. ‘Either someone honest is trying to stamp out the smuggling, or someone needs a few sweeteners.’
‘You don’t mean the Governor?’ Seb Costa asked.
‘Too many questions can be damaging to your health,’ Haji said.
‘Just tell me what you want. I’ve still got a restaurant to pay for.’
‘We want something out this time.’
‘A letter is not a problem, even a photo. I’m sure it can be arranged.’
‘It’s someone,’ Haji said.
‘You’re not serious!’ Seb Costa almost spilt his coffee over Haji.
‘I am totally serious,’ Haji said.
‘Why would I do that?’
‘It’s simple,’ Haji raised the pressure. ‘Either you do, or we’ll send a complete report of your smuggling activities to the authorities, with a clear statement of proof that you are knowingly aiding and abetting a terrorist organisation. How many years do you think you’ll get?’
‘This is blackmail. You know it is,’ Seb Costa replied angrily.
‘Blackmail, that’s such a nasty word,’ said Haji. ‘It is a business transaction. We have the means for you to buy your restaurant, and you have the means to give us what we want.’
‘It can’t be done. The security is intense. You’ll never get whoever it is past the gates.’
Haji conceded that Seb Costa was correct. ‘It’s up to you to arrange for him to take a trip outside.’
‘Even if I agreed…’
‘You’ll agree. You have no option.’
‘Even if I agreed, how could it be arranged?’ Seb Costa was cornered. He only hoped that DCI Cook could get him out of this.
‘It’s for you to make sure that this person is ill enough for an immediate transfer to hospital,’ Haji said.
‘There’ll still be strong security. How will you pull it off?’
‘That’s for us to worry about. Your part is simple, make the person ill enough and then let the other prison officers arrange the hospital transfer. For your part, we will ensure five thousand pounds.’
‘I have no option.’
‘You are a wise man, Seb.’
‘Who are you?’ Seb Costa asked determinedly.
‘I am Haji, a simple old man doing what I can. Like you, just trying to make a few extra pounds for a few luxuries that make life a little easier.’
‘I mean, who are you really?’ Seb Costa repeated the question.
‘Costa, do not expect an answer that would only place your life in jeopardy. You have been given the opportunity to realise your dream. Do not realise your death. It is best if you just see me as a simple old man.’
‘I will. But simple? I don’t think that fits the description.’
‘I will deliver a bottle to you in the next few days. You will give it to the prisoner at the agreed time. You will conclude your shift and leave the prison. That is all.’
Haji left the café smiling, resolute that Seb Costa would never serve a meal in the restaurant that he was determined to take over. Seb Costa knew too much and now he was too inquisitive. He was a liability and, to Haji, that marked him for elimination.
Seb Costa left the café and headed to the nearest railway station. He took the first train leaving as previously agreed. ‘Did you hear all that?’ he asked.
‘We were across the road, first floor above the hairdressing salon,’ Ed Pickles confirmed.
‘What am I to do?’
‘Carry out his wishes. What else is there for you to do?’ Ed Pickles replied.
‘But we’re talking about releasing a terrorist from Belmarsh. A bit of smuggling is one thing, but a person who could kill others? I’m not so keen on that.’
‘Costa, you’re being squeamish. We’re not going to let anyone be killed as a result of your actions.’
‘Did you put a tail on Haji?’ Seb Costa asked.
‘We’ll soon know who he is.’
‘Good, I can’t wait to be out of this business,’ Seb Costa said. ‘If I had known what a little bit of smuggling would have led to, I wouldn’t have started.’
‘But you did,’ said Ed Pickles. ‘And now you’ve got to conclude what Haji wants of you, and what we want of you.’
‘I’m screwed. I only hope you guys know what you’re doing.’
‘We do,’ Ed Pickles said as they parted on the train in the noisy carriage.
***
Anne Argento was in a furious mood, her fury as usual directed at her new best friend, the Right Honourable Clifford Bell, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.
‘He made it clear that my serving as his deputy would en
sure that, in all matters relating to the current crisis, I would be invited to any discussions, kept abreast of any meetings on the subject.’
‘You’ve been fully informed as agreed.’ Rohan Jones was stuck between a rock and a hard place. His loyalties divided between the Prime Minister, his friend, and the one person who may be able to salvage the situation. The Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff could see clearly that, in another few months, he would need a new position and a new person to advise.
‘Look, Rohan,’ continued Anne Argento, ‘I know you’re showing loyalty to an old friend, but this can’t go on. I know he met up with Goddard, the head of the Counter Terrorism Command. Why was I not told?’
‘Deputy Prime Minister, the meeting had been arranged some weeks previously. It was thought that the agreement was not retrospective.’
‘Rubbish and you know it,’ she responded. ‘Rohan, I’m not blaming you, but you’re on the wrong side. At some stage you’ll need to decide who you’re going to run with, the has-been or the new team.’
‘Is there to be a new team?’
‘You know there is. There’s a place on it if you’re interested.’
‘My loyalty is with Clifford Bell, the current Prime Minister.’ Rohan Jones felt that his statement was sufficiently politically neutral.
‘And if I’m the Prime Minister?’
‘I believe my previous statement was clear. I support the title, not the name.’
Anne Argento needed Rohan Jones onboard. He had just made it clear as to where his loyalties lay. ‘You should have been a diplomat.’
‘Thank you,’ Rohan Jones said, confident in the belief that he had a longer future in politics than his friend Clifford Bell.
‘What was said at the meeting with the Counter Terrorism Command?’ she tested her new ally.
‘It was confidential,’ Rohan Jones replied.
‘Are you saying that I can’t keep a secret?’
‘Not at all. It’s just that it would not be ethical for me to reveal what was said, that’s all.’
‘You missed your calling, Rohan. The diplomatic service would have had you as our Ambassador in Washington.’
‘Maybe that’s still possible?’ Rohan Jones saw the potential of the plum diplomatic position within his grasp.
‘I’d think there’s a very good chance. What do you think?’ Anne Argento acknowledged that, if he supported her, she would support him.
‘Deputy Prime Minister, the diplomatic service missed out on you as well.’
‘Not me, I’m a politician. I ferret around in the dirt of politics. That’s where I thrive, not the cocktail set at an Ambassadorial party. Where do I go from here? Do I talk to Goddard?’
‘I’d recommend against that course of action unless you want the Prime Minister informed.’ Rohan Jones opened up a little more.
‘You’re right. He’d be knocking on the door telling tales within the hour,’ Anne Argento agreed.
‘He’s not the person with the inside information, anyway.’
‘So who is?’ Anne asked.
‘I’d try a Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook.’
‘Where will I find him? How will I know him?’
‘I’ll give you a phone number, confidentially of course. Your electorate office may be a good place for a meeting.’
‘You’re right. My office in the Admiralty has too many eyes. What does he look like? How will I recognise him?’ she asked.
‘You can’t mistake him,’ replied Rohan Jones. ‘Tall, athletic, and black.’
‘He sounds my type of person.’
‘He may well be. He’s been touted as a future Commissioner of Police.’
‘Then he’s definitely my type.’ The Deputy Prime Minister was intrigued, not only by the knowledge that DCI Isaac Cook may possess, but also by DCI Isaac Cook, the tall, athletic, black man.
***
‘Did they check out all the religious sites in the country, especially the cathedrals?’ Frederick Vane asked of Ed Pickles as they met for a sandwich and a cup of coffee not far from the Office of National Statistics.
‘There were three with some significant restoration work,’ said Ed Pickles. ‘Winchester, Rochester and York Minster.’
‘Were they all checked thoroughly?’
‘I asked for a full report. Winchester was thorough, so was Rochester, but York Minster was unstable, or at least the roof was. They had to leave it to the cathedral police,’ Ed Pickles said.
‘Do they know what they were looking for?’ asked Frederick Vane. ‘Did they even follow through?’
‘The cathedral police, probably not.’
Frederick Vane expressed alarm. ‘It would be only too easy to state it was unstable and leave it at that. Who’s doing the work?’
‘An English company, they’re well-respected.’
‘Have you checked them out?’ Frederick Vane asked.
‘Well, no. The assumption is that, if they’re English, they’re fine.’ Ed Pickles realised that they had been remiss in their inspection of York Minster.
‘Ed, we can’t work on assumptions. We must always be totally diligent.’
‘Frederick, I’ll contact the Yorkshire police and get them to check again. I’ll send up someone from the office to assist.’
‘Do it today,’ said Frederick. ‘It may amount to nothing, but Andrew and I are convinced that another attack is pending. It’s got to be a target of significance. The submarine doesn’t rate a mention in the newspapers these days, and everyone is numbed to the shopping centres being blown up. The Islamic State needs a big explosion, and it’s coming soon. One week at most. We cannot afford to delay.’
***
Alexandra Hainsworth was not the most attractive person that the Counter Terrorism Command had taken on in the last six months. She was heavy-boned, fat some would say, with a raucous laughter deepened by a daily habit of too many cigarettes and, in her wild and abandoned youth, too many beers. She was single, late thirties, with an unusual style in dated clothes, and matronly. The need of a man, long dispensed with, as was the beer and the need of compliments that had helped to quell her inferiority complex as a tall, gangly girl through puberty.
The cigarettes still consumed her, and her frequent trips outside the office to spend a penny or get some fresh air annoyed many who neither had the need nor the lame excuse to skive off for a puff of some obnoxious dead leaf. She always came back breathing her stale smoke over the office. Isaac Cook, her superior officer, complained on several occasions. He had even put it in writing once, but apart from the occasional mint to mask the taste, it was her colleagues who suffered. As clear a case of cancer due to passive smoking as any he had seen, the health officer from Head Office had put in his report.
She should have been removed from the force but for some unassailable facts: she was female, it would have been discriminatory. She had committed no violation of government regulations. Breathing smoke over someone was not in the book, and she was good at her job.
‘Alex, I need you to go to York,’ Isaac Cook said.
‘What for, boss?’
‘I need you to check out the cathedral there.’
‘Why? Is it missing?’ Alexandra Hainsworth had a dry sense of humour, not always appropriate.
‘It’s still there,’ Isaac Cook replied curtly, ‘and now is not the time for flippancy.’
‘Sorry, boss. What’s the deal?’
‘Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin…’
‘The smart guys?’
‘Yes, as you say “the smart guys”. They reckon there’s a plan in place to hit a major target in the country.’
‘Yes, I know. We’ve been working on it,’ Alex said. ‘I was just about to come in and see you.’
‘York Minster, the local police didn’t conduct as thorough a search as they should have,’ said Isaac Cook.
‘And they didn’t check out the firm contracted to do the work,’ Alex added.
‘What d
o you mean?’
‘Barry Cardiff, the owner of the firm, was not christened with that name.’
‘How do you know this?’ Isaac asked.
‘Ed Pickles asked me run some checks.’
‘So what do you have?’
‘His father came from the Middle East.’
‘So his name was not Cardiff then?’ Isaac Cook asked.
‘No, it was Muntasir.’
‘Why is he using the name of Cardiff?’ Isaac Cook asked.
‘There would have been a lot of discrimination back then. He just changed it to a solid English name. That’s what I’d guess.’
‘Barry, is that his name?’
‘Bashir originally, but at school he was probably called Barry.’
‘How soon can you be in York?’ Isaac Cook responded with alarm. York Minster was looking possible, the dots were starting to line up.
‘Three hours maybe, depends on the traffic.’
‘Your skills at looking for explosives, as good as ever?’
‘Better, I’d say,’ Alex answered.
‘How are you with heights?’ asked Isaac. ‘It’s going to be precarious walking around in the rafters of a seven-hundred-year-old cathedral.’
‘Heights? They’ve never bothered me,’ replied Alex. ‘Although if there are bats in the belfry, I’m out of there.’
‘No need to go near the belfry. Where Barry Cardiff and his team have been working is your primary concern.’
‘Are we going to bring in Cardiff for questioning?’ Alex asked.
‘Not yet. If we give any warning they’re likely to blow it.’
‘You sound pretty confident here?’ Alex said.
‘It’s the best lead we’ve got,’ Isaac Cook answered. ‘It’s about time we had some success.’
***
York was not Alex Hainsworth’s kind of place. London was home, anywhere else felt a pale imitation. Still, it was a job, and she was dressed in overalls and ready for an inspection of the roof.
‘I’m from the National Heritage Council in London,’ she said.
‘We weren’t told about any inspections of our work,’ Munir Aboud, the site foreman, said. ‘It’s not safe up there.’
‘You’re Muslim?’ She was not always the most sensitive. Political correctness was an area in which she had failed a few times. She had arrested an overweight fifteen-year-old running out of a clothing store and accused her of either being pregnant or stealing. The girl was neither and Alex had been slapped with a warning from her commanding officer at the police station for inflammatory statements against a member of the public with a genetic ailment that caused water retention and whose father was also the mayor of the borough.
Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set Page 56