‘So what’s that to you?’ Aboud responded.
‘My apologies, I was just making an observation.’
‘You better be careful with your observations. There’s too many in this cathedral making the same observations and I don’t appreciate it. This is a job, that’s all, and I wouldn’t care if it was Jewish or Christian or someone bowing down to an idol made of stone. I’ve a family to look after, and this pays well.’
‘Okay, okay, I get your point,’ Alex said abruptly. ‘I meant no offence. Just show me the way up.’
‘I’ll need to see your licenses to allow you to climb the scaffolding and permission from the Archbishop giving you the all-clear,’ said Aboud.
‘Sergeant Bhardwaj, you’ve arranged the permissions?’ Alex turned to a pretty, English-born Indian policewoman of about twenty-five.
‘Yes, Alex, all’s in order. I’ll be coming up with you.’
‘You can’t take her up,’ said Aboud alarmed. ‘And why do you need someone from the police? If she falls off, it’ll be me that gets in trouble.’
‘It’s standard procedure to involve the local police in case of an accident,’ replied Alex. ‘Besides, Sergeant Bhardwaj goes potholing for pleasure, she’ll not fall. Why, for the life of me, someone would is beyond me.’ Alex attempted to defuse the tension so as not to be seen as authoritative and bossy. If the foreman suspected for a minute the ploy she was using, he might have become unpleasant, more unpleasant than he already was.
‘Okay, if you’re determined,’ Munir Aboud conceded. ‘I’ll go up with you, show you the way.’
‘Thanks, that will be fine,’ Alex said, although she would have preferred no belligerent witnesses as to the thoroughness of her examination, and what she knew about the roof of a cathedral would have filled the back of a postage stamp.
‘Where do you want to go first? Up near the transept?’ Aboud asked.
‘Transept first and then we’ll move up towards the main doors.’ Alex had found out that useful piece of information from the brochure at the side entry to the cathedral.
‘West or east wing? Which one do you want?’ Aboud asked.
‘The west wing will be fine,’ Alex said.
‘That’s good. We’re working up near the east wing.’
‘My mistake, we need to see the east wing.’
‘Make up your mind,’ the foreman replied.
‘The east wing, please,’ said Alex. ‘Where you’ve been working.’
‘What’s the best way up?’ Sergeant Bhardwaj asked. She had been born in York, went to school in York, spoke with a broad Yorkshire accent, but still she was always referred to as Indian, not that she complained. The police force had treated her well and her skills in the potholing community out on the Yorkshire moors were legendary.
‘There’s a staircase up to the central tower,’ Aboud said. ‘We’ll go partway out and then there are some narrow walkways. It’s dangerous, hope you’re not frightened of heights? But then, if the sergeant goes down holes in the ground, I suppose you aren’t.’
‘I don’t like heights very much, that’s why I don’t go climbing rocks,’ Sergeant Bhardwaj replied. ‘If I can’t see what’s beneath me then I’m fine.’
‘Then you better stay down below. I’m not here to carry a woman out.’ Aboud saw a woman’s place was in the house and covered up.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ the sergeant replied. ‘You worry about getting us up there safely and back again.’
Reluctantly, the site foreman commenced the climb. The air was stuffy and the climb uncomfortable until they were aligned with the roof beams, solid structures of oak that had stood through the eons.
‘You can tell the ones we put in. They’re a shade lighter.’
‘How many years before they blend in?’ Alex asked.
‘You’re the expert, you tell me?’ Aboud replied.
‘I’d say twenty-five years, at least.’ Alex Hainsworth had also found that interesting piece of information in the brochure. ‘Besides, no one will notice from down below.’
‘It’s a good job. There’s nothing for you to worry about up here.’ Aboud was proud of his work.
‘From what I’ve seen so far, I’m impressed,’ said Alex. ‘Must have been heavy lifting them up?’
‘Not so heavy as when they built this place,’ said Aboud. ‘Then it would have been manual labour. They were master craftsmen. We’re just amateurs compared to them.’
‘You admire them?’ Alex asked.
‘Why not? I can recognise skilled work when I see it.’
It was as the group moved slowly forward, balancing and supporting themselves between scaffolding and the original roof and the masonry to either side, that Alex saw something.
‘Those cuts in the trusses you’ve installed?’
‘What about them?’ Aboud asked.
‘Some seem – quite a few, in fact – appear to have been cut and then filled in.’ Alex was uncertain of what she was looking at.
‘We had to make a few adjustments,’ said Aboud. ‘These old buildings are not exact in their measurements. We often have to do that.’
‘In this modern day and age? With exact methods of measuring and then computerised manufacturing of the wooden trusses?’ She was at least confident of that statement.
‘Are you saying we did a bad job?’ Aboud was quick to defend his workmanship.
‘Not at all, I’m just asking the question. Doesn’t cutting into a beam weaken its structural integrity?’
‘Who are you?’ Aboud raised his voice.
‘I’m from the Heritage Council, I told you that.’
‘You’re police! They were here the other day sticking their noses in.’
‘No, you’re wrong. I’m from the Heritage Council.’ Alex attempted to defend her cover.
‘Anyone with a clue about restoration would have known that the structural integrity is not compromised, not on beams that size.’
‘So what’s in those cuts?’ Alex asked, indirectly revealing that Aboud’s suspicions were correct.
‘What do you think?’ he responded angrily.
‘I think they’re explosives and you intend to detonate them on a Sunday.’
‘Not any Sunday. This Sunday, when it’s full of infidels.’
‘Then Sergeant Bhardwaj and I must stop you.’
‘A couple of women? One a Christian, the other a Hindu? What can you two do?’
‘Bhardwaj is my married name. I am Muslim by birth and proud of it, but what you do is neither Muslim nor honourable. You are a disgrace to your religion.’
‘It is good that both of you will not see the glorious day of our triumph,’ Aboud replied.
‘What are you going to do?’ Alex asked.
‘I am going to kill you and hide your bodies up here.’
‘How do you intend to achieve that?’
‘My friends standing behind you will assist.’
‘Do you think we came here alone?’ Alex played for time.
‘Yes, I think you both are here alone,’ Aboud said.
‘I would suggest that you look below. I came up here wired. Our conversation has been relayed to a group of policemen stationed outside.’
‘I will blow the roof now.’
‘I may not know about roof trusses,’ Alex said, ‘but I sure know about explosives, and there are no remote detonators up here. You needed someone up here on Sunday to set it off.’
‘There is a martyr ready,’ Aboud replied.
‘You mean some misguided fool with no education that you have convinced will be receiving seventy-two virgins in paradise!’
‘You insult my religion and hope to leave,’ shouted Aboud angrily. ‘We will not allow ourselves to be taken voluntarily. We will die fighting for the cause. We will kill you first.’
The foreman made a lunge forward aiming to strike Alex, who moved briskly. Sergeant Bhardwaj came up from behind and slipped her foot under the man’s leg as he grabbe
d for a beam. He missed the beam and, with the words ‘Allahu Akbar’ emanating from his mouth, he plummeted to the ground, landing hard and square on the solid granite below. The other two men standing not more than ten metres away were not so resilient in their desire for Paradise and climbed down quickly from the roof. They were apprehended on the ground outside the cathedral and taken away for questioning.
‘Congratulations, Alex,’ her boss, Isaac Cook, said on the phone. ‘That’s our first success. Weren’t you frightened up there? The guy was intent on killing you.’
‘Why, should I have been? It’s all in a day’s work,’ she said as she rapidly puffed on her third cigarette, hoping to calm her nerves.
Chapter 20
Anne Argento always attempted to spend at least one day a week in her electoral office in Wimbledon. It was not often she made it – more like half a day every two or three weeks. But for this day, she intended to last the distance. The electorate with their complaints of noisy neighbours, inflexible planning restrictions, biased immigration decisions and the pension that was meant to be index-linked to the CPI were not on the agenda for the day.
There was a more important matter, and that was Isaac Cook. Rohan Jones hadn’t set up the meeting, but he had given her all the information needed. It was scheduled for ten in the morning and Anne had dressed for the occasion. Her hair freshly coiffured, her clothes the very best from the very best shops in Chelsea, and her make-up immaculate.
She may have been the Deputy Prime Minister, the honourable member for Wimbledon, but she was still a woman and Isaac Cook, a man. He was single as was she, and she was entitled to a personal life and her last lover had spilt the beans about how she was a tigress in bed. She was, but she didn’t want it splattered over the front page of some scurrilous magazine when she was after the Prime Minister’s job.
There was still a deeply conservative undertone in the country that still believed in the sanctity of marriage and fidelity. So did she, but the sanctity of marriage had somehow passed her in the drive towards success in a man’s world which, regardless of the legislation and the pundits in the press, was still biased. She had succeeded in the law firm that she had joined. She had succeeded in a safe seat in the House, although it had taken two attempts and she was just a shade short of the main job in the country.
There had been a couple of marriage proposals over the years, both serious and both worthy of consideration, but neither eventuated. Oliver Hamilton, the second son of a Lord in the north of England, had been a serious contender, but his eldest brother was as strong as an ox and the stately home had long been converted into flats due to a shortage of money. Oliver was a good man, tall, articulate and destined for a judgeship down the Old Bailey, but he was to fall short of the ambition that she wished for him and for her.
Peter Bentley was a much more promising starter. He was also articulate, as well as rich and handsome. Anne would have married him, forgotten all about ambition and politics and personal advancement, had it not been for the fact that she had returned home early one day with a bad headache. The sight of him riding hard her best friend, the honourable Lady Maidstone, doomed the relationship. He apologised profusely, said it was a momentary weakness and that the lady had arrived unexpectedly wearing only a fur coat.
She had been seriously upset for at least a week. There was never more than one romance at a time, although dumping one in the morning and screwing another at night did not cause her moral sensibilities a great deal of concern. There had been a few headlines over the years as to her caprices, her alleged romances, some of which were pure fabrications, but she had learnt to push the criticism to one side, sometimes to even use humour to defuse the situation.
Isaac Cook looked like a possible contender for a dalliance, although the first meeting was to be all business.
The electoral office was a small, neatly turned-out affair located on the main street traversing the area. It had been a butcher’s shop some years earlier, but now politics was its function. It was the one time she was highly visible and she would often walk out into the street, sit down for a coffee at one of the local cafes and chat amiably to all and sundry. It was the one time her guard was down, the one time when she felt content and comfortable.
‘Detective Constable Inspector Isaac Cook, I’m pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you,’ Anne Argento said as he walked into the office, ten o’clock on the dot.
‘Deputy Prime Minister, pleased to meet you. I’ve seen you on the television a few times.’
‘A few times?’
‘I was just aiming to be polite,’ he said with a laugh. ‘You’re never off the television, although I haven’t been watching it much lately.’
‘I’ve seen your record, it’s certainly impressive,’ said Anne.
‘Thanks, but sometimes they give me credit when it should go to others.’
‘Isaac, I may call you Isaac?’
‘Yes, Isaac it is.’
‘And you must call me Anne.’
‘I couldn’t do that. Jamaican parents, they always taught me to respect my superiors.’
‘Very well, Deputy PM it is, except after hours.’
‘That’s fine. After hours you’ll just be a regular person.’
‘I hope I’ll never be regular,’ she laughed. She liked the man sitting in front of her and it showed. She was acting like a love-struck teen and she could neither stop nor wanted to.
‘What can I do for you? ‘I’ve come here without telling anyone. I should have told my boss.’
‘I need to know where we stand in reference to the current situation,’ she asked.
‘The Prime Minister is fully aware of the current status.’
‘Yes, I know that, but I need to hear it direct.’
‘He doesn’t tell you everything, is that the situation?’ Isaac asked.
‘We disagree on a lot of matters.’
‘On the television, you and he are very friendly – or is that an illusion?’
‘You’re a smart man, Isaac. What do you think?’
‘I think you’re both politicians pretending to be united.’
‘You know I’m aggressive and ambitious?’
‘Everybody knows that. Most would agree that you’re also very capable and should be in Number Ten.’ It was clear that the tone of the conversation between the Deputy Prime Minister and the Detective Chief Inspector was one of mutual admiration.
‘They’re wise people. That’s where I belong. I need to know what’s going on.’
‘You’re asking me to tell you information that should be first revealed to the Prime Minister.’ Isaac realised that his professional responsibilities lay with the Prime Minister, not his deputy, no matter how much he was drawn to her personally.
‘Isaac, I’m not asking you to tell me anything now. Our conversations will be confidential, I hope.’
‘You will have my confidence.’
‘Spoken like a future Commissioner of Police.’
‘Don’t believe all that you read in reports.’
‘I make my judgements for myself,’ Anne Argento continued. ‘You’re heading to the top and you’re as ambitious as I am.’
‘You may be right, but I’m not a politician. I can’t pretend to like people when I don’t.’
‘You misjudge the Prime Minister and his deputy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I actually like him very much as a person,’ said Anne. ‘He’s done a good job for the country. But he’s wrong on this issue and, if he maintains his intransigence, then we’re in serious trouble.’
‘Do you believe that?’ Isaac Cook felt he had to make a decision as to whether to help Anne Argento into the top position in the country or not.
‘I do. I may be an aggressive and ambitious political animal, a bitch even, but I’m still English and proud of it. The England we have now is the England I love and want. I’ll fight for it if I have to.’
‘And so will I,
’ he replied.
‘Then what do I need to do to convince you to take me into your confidence?’ she asked.
‘I’ll give you some updates now, nothing controversial, nothing that could only have come from me.’
‘I’ll keep it in confidence. You have my word.’
‘Spoken like a true politician.’ Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook smiled.
‘No, spoken like a true friend.’ Deputy Prime Minister Anne Argento blushed.
***
There had been a reversal in the fortunes of the Islamic State in England. The thwarted attempt to down the cathedral in York had caused its leadership great concern. The Master, Faisal Aslam, wanted answers and he wanted them now.
‘What has gone wrong?’ he asked of his trusted right-hand man.
‘It is unclear. There is no reason to believe there is a traitor in our midst,’ Haji replied.
‘Then why? How did they know we were planning an attack on one of their cathedrals?’
‘It is a mystery for which we have no answer.’
‘Are they able to preempt our moves?’ the Master asked.
‘It may be possible,’ Haji replied.
‘Haji, tell me what you are thinking.’
‘When I was in intelligence in East Pakistan, before it became Bangladesh…’ Haji started his explanation. The Master abruptly ended it before he had finished.
‘Yes, I know of that,’ he said. ‘But how does this help us here?’
‘Master, I request your forbearance, please.’
‘Haji, I have not shown you the respect you deserve. I apologise profusely.’
‘There is no need for an apology. I am aware of the frustration that we all feel.’
‘How could it end like this? It seemed foolproof.’ The Master was perplexed that such a carefully orchestrated plan, requiring many months and many people, could have been discovered.
Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set Page 57