‘You have done nothing. In a different time and place, I may have considered you as a friend. But today, and for the Islamic State, I must kill you.’
‘Please don’t. I’ll not tell anyone.’
‘I know you will not.’
Peering through the small hatch separating the driver’s cab from the area at the back, Haji shot Seb Costa cleanly through the heart. Later, as they removed the Prof for transfer to a waiting vehicle, Haji shot him once more in the temple.
‘Am I free?’ the Prof feebly mumbled.
It was Haji who answered. ‘Yasser Lahham, you are free, my brother.’
Chapter 21
Sara Aslam had loved her husband Ray Styles, even though he had been a non-believer. His death upset her greatly. Her devotion to the Islamic State had caused her to act in a manner that was unbecoming of a devout Muslim female. She had been promiscuous and had worn clothes that only a whore would wear. It was her love for Islam and for her father, Faisal Aslam that held her steady in the months after the submarine had been lost, all hands at sea. It had been in the third month that she approached her father.
‘Father, I am ready for martyrdom.’ Her dead husband would not have recognised her dressed as she was in a head-to-toe abaya, black in colour, with her head well-covered. She struggled with the concept of the extreme modesty, the third-rate citizen that she had become, the need to follow the lead of a man without question.
‘My child, I had hoped that, in time, you would not talk of such matters,’ Faisal Aslam, the Master, her father, said. He loved his daughter dearly, more than a leader of a fundamentalist organisation should.
‘I can serve the cause, but I cannot live the life that it requires of me,’ she said.
‘You saw freedom, a life without responsibility and without deference to Allah,’ her father said.
‘I saw it and I enjoyed it.’
‘A life without Allah is a life not worth living,’ Faisal Aslam replied.
‘My devotion to Allah understands, but my body and my mind are in conflict. To continue my life in this manner would be a lie,’ she said.
‘I had hoped that you would return and take a husband of my choosing.’
‘I cannot give myself to another man,’ said Sara. ‘There was but one man and I killed him.’
‘Those who have been martyred are of small consequence. They were not of my blood,’ her father said.
‘Father, Ray Styles was of my blood. You must let me do this.’
‘I had a good man chosen for you,’ said Faisal Aslam, ‘a good servant to the cause, an intelligent man.’
‘I will not accept him.’
‘Then I am saddened.’
‘Father, you must accede to my wishes. You must allow me to do this.’
‘There is a task that only you can achieve,’ her father said reluctantly.
‘What is required of me?’ she asked.
‘You will need to go back as Mrs Ray Styles, the grieving widow.’
‘How is that possible? My absence for the last few months, how can that be explained?’
‘You will say that you were in India in solitude, grieving.’
‘How will I return to my previous life?’ Sara asked.
‘You will appear to fly back from India, and you will go and see your dead husband’s parents.’
‘It will be difficult. They were good people. It will be hard to deceive them after I was responsible for the death of their son.’
‘You must remain resolute in the cause and your love of Allah. He will show you the way.’
‘Father, I will remain resolute, devoted to the Islamic State and Allah.’
‘My child, then go in peace,’ her father said with great sadness.
***
Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin were the centre of attention after their analysis had been proven correct. Saving York Minster had proven their validity and the Counter Terrorism Command, the Metropolitan Police and the Prime Minister’s office wanted more.
‘What will they hit next?’ Andrew asked as they sat in their office without any clear direction.
‘What about your wife? Is she fine in New Zealand?’ Frederick asked.
‘She’s angry that I’m not going.’
‘Doesn’t she know what we’re up to?’
‘Yes, she’s been told by the New Zealand version of our Counter Terrorism Command.’
‘They don’t have much to worry about down there,’ Frederick assumed.
‘They’re everywhere,’ Andrew replied. ‘Why should New Zealand be excluded just because it’s on the other side of the world?’
‘You’re right. Does she have protection?’
‘There’s always a police car at the end of the street, but other than that it’s fairly low key.’
‘What about us, our security?’ Frederick was still uncomfortable with the knowledge that they may be targeted.
‘I’m worried,’ Andrew admitted. ‘We’re easy targets and, if they consider we’re a threat, they’ll have us eliminated in an instance.’
‘Are we a threat?’ Frederick asked a question for which he knew the answer.
‘I’d say we are,’ Andrew replied.
‘We need to talk to Isaac Cook and Ed Pickles,’ Frederick said.
‘I agree,’ Andrew acknowledged, ‘and the sooner the better. We’re still moving around relatively easily, yet the most we’ve got in the way of security is a couple of policemen keeping close surveillance.’
‘Anyway,’ Frederick returned to the subject, ‘what’s next?’
‘What do we have?’ Andrew mulled the situation. ‘There have been shopping centres, tourist resorts, churches and a submarine.’
‘Are you saying they’re all clear now?’ Frederick asked.
‘Not at all and their attempt at the Church failed.’
‘They’ll have another try?’ Frederick said.
‘It seems certain,’ Andrew reiterated.
‘So they’ll hit the Church again?’ Frederick asked.
‘Any church or churches would do now,’ replied Andrew.
‘How can we ascertain which ones?’
It was Andrew who summed up the situation. ‘We can’t. We can only forewarn. It only needs one suicide vest at a Sunday morning service. It’s just impossible to stop.’
‘Are you recommending that all churches close their doors immediately?’ Frederick asked.
‘It seems to be their only protection.’
‘And how many do you think will listen?’ Frederick raised the question. ‘None, and if they do, the Islamic State has won. They’ve suppressed our religion in favour of theirs.’
‘What about the military?’ Andrew asked.
‘They’ve taken out a nuclear-powered submarine,’ Frederick replied.
‘But how did they do it? Nobody has any answers,’ Andrew said.
‘We need to conduct our own analysis,’ Frederick said. ‘It seems unlikely that they’ll recover the submarine anytime soon.’
‘Then who was responsible? How was it done?’ Andrew asked.
‘We need to compile a list of the crew,’ said Frederick.
‘Could it be a member of the crew?’
‘It’s possible,’ said Frederick. ‘They managed to get a sympathiser involved in the structural repairs at York Minster. Don’t you think they could get to one of the crew, maybe coerce?’
‘You mean that one of the crew was willing, or unwillingly forced, into taking out the submarine?’
‘Why not?’ Frederick answered.
***
It was unprecedented in the history of the party. The deputy leader had a rating of seventy per cent as preferred leader of the country compared to the twenty-five percent of the incumbent, or at least that was what the opinion polls continued to state. Clifford Bell continued to ignore them, continued to state to the media that the only poll that mattered was at the electoral box and that he had the full support of his party.
&
nbsp; Anne Argento, meanwhile, continued to state her full support for the Right Honourable Clifford Bell, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. At least, that’s what she stated in parliament, on television, and to the newspapers. Nobody believed her, but the comments were always favourable in that she showed loyalty in the face of obvious incompetence by her leader. She was pleased with how the numbers were falling in her favour, Even the toffee-nosed Angie Butler was confidentially offering her support if she had a run for the top job, with none too subtle hints that a junior portfolio would be an appropriate reward.
Ernest Bakewell, the honourable leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition, continued to make disparaging remarks in parliament and outside. The choice between an incompetent prime minister and a devious deputy was his regular catch cry. Some of his comments outside of parliament referred to the deputy’s alleged promiscuity. One of the comments, made at a meeting of church leaders, verged on slanderous. However, Anne Argento decided not to exacerbate the situation by responding to his comments, or even giving him further airtime by his rebuking her denials and then offering up proof. She was a woman in a man’s world, a woman who, outside of politics, needed affection the same as everyone else. The Prime Minister had his bit on the side, as did Bakewell. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, she thought.
Besides, once in the top job, she would bring Bakewell to heel. She knew of his perversion for young-looking tarts. She had even set him up with a few and she had the photos.
‘Rohan, you know the Prime Minister’s finished?’ Anne asked in the calm of her office.
‘I offered him my full support, you know that,’ Rohan Jones said.
‘Just as I do in public.’
‘He’s also a friend,’ Rohan Jones continued.
‘Of course he’s your friend, but he’s not a friend who should be Prime Minister.’
‘I’m not ready to change sides yet.’
‘But you will be soon.’
‘He’s your friend as well, are you willing to take him down?’ Rohan Jones, the Prime Minister’s senior adviser, asked.
‘He’s always been my friend, will remain so, but this is politics.’
‘And politics can be dirty?’ Rohan responded.
‘Rohan, please be careful in your comments. Your eminent skills as an adviser will not allow you to enter into scurrilous comments about my character.’
‘My apologies, I was not offering any direct reference,’ he said.
‘I’ll accept your apologies,’ said Anne. ‘But remember, as a friend I am loyal, as an enemy I’m intense.’
‘I’ll remember.’
‘So are you with me?’ she asked again.
‘I’m still with the Prime Minister.’
‘And when there is someone else in that seat?’ she continued, directing Rohan Jones towards a statement of intent.
‘I’m still with the Prime Minister. I told you that once before.’
‘You know I’ll be in his seat soon enough. It may be to your advantage to start helping me now. Counter Terrorism Command, what do they know that I don’t?’
‘You met with DCI Cook?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘What did you think?’
‘About him or what he told me?’
‘Him, what did you think?’ Rohan smiled to himself. He knew Anne Argento well enough.
‘He kept addressing me as the Deputy Prime Minister, not Anne.’
‘You liked him then?’
‘You knew that I would.’
‘He’s your kind of police officer.’
‘Police officer or whatever, he’s my kind of man.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘Not a lot, I need to know more,’ she said. ‘Where’s he getting his information? How did they manage to curtail the bombing at York Minster?’
‘He didn’t tell you much then?’
‘Other than he’ll keep me informed.’
‘And has he?’
‘Not really. We talk on the phone sometimes, but apart from that one meeting, we’ve not met since. Rohan, where’s he getting his information?’
‘Confidentially?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course it’s in confidence.’
‘Apart from the normal policing methods, he has a couple of analysts.’
‘Analysts? What do they do?’
‘I’m not totally in the loop on this,’ replied Rohan, ‘but I believe that they take all the facts given and then endeavour to think as those committing the terrorist activities do.’
‘Is that possible?’
‘Apparently it is. They figured out there’d be an attack on a church, even said for Cook and his people to look at major structures with some restoration work going on.’
‘So the success there was not by police investigation, but by a couple of analysts,’ and certainly not by our Prime Minister as he foolishly claimed in Parliament.’
‘That’s how I understand it.’
‘I want to meet them,’ she said firmly.
‘I can’t give you their names.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know who they are.’
‘Then who does?’
‘DCI Cook would,’ Rohan Jones said.
‘Would he tell me?’
‘Probably not, but when’s that stopped you?’ Rohan said, knowing full well that, if anybody could find out from Isaac Cook, it would be her.
‘Okay, give me some hints about these analysts.’
‘All I know from the Prime Minister is that they were responsible for the report on global warming, which scared the government and has now been filed, never to be found again.’
‘I remember that. If implemented, would have put the United Kingdom into a severe recession.’
‘That’s the one. You find that file and you’ll find them.’
‘Thanks, Rohan. I can see that I’m going to need you when I’m sitting in my rightful chair at that house in a side street off Whitehall.’
‘I’ll be there when you arrive. I’ll even open the door for you,’ he said.
***
‘Master, we meet again.’ Yasser Lahham, recovered from an overdose of crystal meths at Belmarsh Prison, had been invited to the house of Faisal Aslam.
‘You have proven yourself to be a good servant of Allah and of the Islamic State,’ said the Master as he reclined in a leather chair, smoking.
‘I am honoured that you have felt the confidence to bring me to your home.’
‘Did you know who I was and where I lived before Haji brought you here today?’
‘In all honesty?’ Yasser Lahham asked.
‘Yes, of course. You are among friends here and honesty is always required.’
‘Master, I have known from soon after our first meeting.’
‘And you chose to tell no one?’ the Master asked.
‘No, why would I do that?’
‘Why, indeed. You realise there are some in the community who would pay well for that knowledge, yet you chose to serve your sentence in prison without informing.’
‘I value the cause,’ replied Yasser Lahham. ‘I will not sell out for money and a reduced sentence. I also had faith that my time in there would be short.’
‘Then our trust is well placed in you.’
‘What it is you require of me?’ Yasser Lahham asked.
‘You are proficient with computers?’
‘Yes, I designed the website for you.’
‘Hacking, it is a word I hear used often. What does it mean?’
‘It means the ability to look into other peoples’, other companies’, other governments’ computers and to take their knowledge, or place yours if necessary.’
‘That is what I understood it to mean. Can you do it?’ the Master asked.
‘If I have access to suitable computers, bogus IPs, and a solid, untraceable server to log in through.’
‘Can you hack into the police?’
‘Thei
r security will be the best, but I believe that I can.’
‘Then you will be given all that you want.’
‘What am I looking for?’
‘Anything relating to the Islamic State firstly, and then see if it is possible to infect their systems with false information.’
‘Any particular area I should concentrate on first?’ Yasser Lahham asked.
‘Try and access the Counter Terrorism Command, and then the London Metropolitan Police,’ the Master said.
‘New Scotland Yard, police headquarters? You want me to hack them?’
‘Can you do it?’
‘It will be difficult, but if Allah guides me, it should be possible.’ Yasser Lahham was not sure. As a programmer, a website builder, he knew he was par-excellence. As a hacker, he was not so confident.
‘Master, why the police?’
‘It is time for them to feel the might of the Islamic State.’
***
The return of Ray Styles’ widowed wife, Sara, was not as any of them had expected. His parents had started to adjust to their son’s death and, whereas not completely healed, they had started to function as a family unit again. They had even managed to go out to the local pub for a few drinks and a meal without feeling totally distraught.
It was true that they had spent most of the night talking about Ray, his childhood, his growing up, his first girlfriend, and the pride they felt when he had joined the Navy. They had often spoken about his lovely wife, Sara although apart from a brief phone call, they had heard little of her for over three months. It came as a complete surprise when an email arrived in Len Styles’ inbox stating that she would be arriving on a flight from India that Saturday.
As surprised as they were that she had not come back immediately after their son’s death, they insisted on picking her up from the airport and driving her down to their house.
‘I am sorry that I did not come back before.’ Sara, dressed in traditional Indian clothing, was both beautiful and sad when she exited immigration.
‘We can talk later. We are just glad to see you again,’ Mavis, Ray’s mother, said.
‘It must bring back sad memories for you, my being here?’ Sara said.
It was a quiet drive down to Devon, and neither Ray’s parents nor Sara felt totally comfortable with the situation. His mother was still susceptible to the occasional bout of crying, while his father, Len, was stoic in his resolve. Sara was glad to see them, but torn between her duty to her father and her religion and the people she had come to love, the people she was yet again to deceive. She was the murderer of their son, her husband, the man she loved.
Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set Page 59