Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘I’d be wasting my time,’ Clifford Bell replied.

  Even Anne Argento had to admit that her violent outburst was not the behaviour of a future Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, but it was Rohan Jones who had sent her an SMS informing her that Counter Terrorism Command were with the Prime Minister.

  Rohan Jones was protecting his position. Clifford Bell, his friend, was a politician and either he would fall on his sword and declare his position open in the party room, or Anne Argento was going to take it by force. It was plain to see and Rohan Jones did not spend his time around politicians – he had even been one in the past before being unceremoniously dumped by his electorate – to not indulge in politicking when it was to his advantage. If he lost a friend and made an ally, a future employer, even given an ambassadorial position in Washington, so be it.

  Anne Argento was disgusted with herself. For a moment, she was genuinely angry, not acting for the gallery. In the relative sanctuary of the PM’s office, the heated confrontation continued.

  ‘You have the Counter Terrorism Command next door,’ she said.

  ‘Do I?’ the PM replied.

  ‘Are you denying the fact?’

  ‘The relevant fact is how my loyal deputy knows who I have here. I’m not answerable to you.’

  ‘Clifford, for crying out loud, we have an agreement that you’d invite me to any meetings, any discussion related to the current crisis.’

  ‘It’s been relatively quiet for a few weeks. Don’t you think the crisis may be nearly over?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘What makes you think that? Are your get-togethers with the local influencers in the community having a result?’ Anne Argento asked sarcastically.

  ‘I believe they are. It’s clear that, if there is peace in the country, you can’t take my job. You want the bombings to continue.’

  ‘If you said that outside of this building I’d slap a writ on you so fast for slander…’

  ‘Anne, calm down. You’re the Deputy Prime Minister of this country. Continue like this and I’ll be forced to consider your position.’

  ‘Relegate me to the backbench? You just try it.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ the Prime Minister leapt up from his chair.

  ‘Why threaten?’ his deputy leapt up from hers as well. ‘Your position is barely viable. I’d win in an instant if your position as Prime Minister were thrown open in the party room.’

  ‘With the situation calming, do you think they’d elect a warmonger?’

  ‘The situation is only going to get worse,’ she said.

  ‘How do you know that? Did the black policeman you’re screwing tell you?’

  ‘I’m neither screwing him nor did he tell me that. And besides, he’s next door. Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘Then who, the men from statistics?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘You’re criticising me for sticking my nose in,’ said Anne. ‘But you seem to have plenty of information on me. You’ve been using MI5 for your open personal reasons.’

  ‘One thing you may learn one day,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘before you’re thrown out from parliament by the voters in your constituency, is that it pays to make friends, acquaintances, who one day may be able to return a favour.’

  ‘Is that what you’re doing?’ Anne Argento asked. ‘Pulling in favours, using tax-funded employees to spy on your deputy?’

  ‘I never said that,’ said the PM angrily. ‘Let’s get back to the initial matter. How did you know that I was meeting with Counter Terrorism Command? Tell me that, or are you screwing my senior adviser as well?’

  ‘How dare you make such an aspersion.’ Anne Argento was again genuinely angry. The solid oak door did little to dampen the sound emanating throughout the building, especially into the room where DCI Isaac Cook and Commander Richard Goddard sat.

  ‘I know all about Rohan Jones’ visits to you, the secret messaging,’ continued the Prime Minister. ‘I know he’s trying to hedge his bets. What’s the deal? If I’m dumped he moves over to you, is that it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ replied Anne.

  It was the first time that Clifford Bell had managed to win in an open battle with his deputy and it had felt good. It was not so good when he accused his senior adviser and former friend, Rohan Jones, of duplicity, treachery, and fraudulent behaviour. The day climaxed with his removal through the back door of 10 Downing Street.

  ***

  Senior Constable Farhan Ahmed was not dressed in the suit he had been wearing when he had been following Haji. It was now a pair of overalls, two sizes too large. Shafi had chosen the cheapest transporters he could find and none came cheaper than ‘Rodney’s Trucks for Hire’. Operating out of an old warehouse down by the docks, to the east of the centre of London, they ran a lean operation. The trucks were old, the drivers barely competent, and the handling of the transported goods deplorable.

  Seymour Smythe, an upmarket purveyor of old paintings, had used them on purpose some years previously when, down on his luck and with no chance of selling a sixteenth-century landscape from a discredited master for the one hundred thousand pounds he wanted, he had entrusted its transportation up north to Rodney’s Trucks for Hire. In this instance, the truck company had proved totally reliable as, going too fast round a sharp turn in the road, the painting had become dislodged and crashed to the other side of the van, piercing the canvas in several places on some exposed metal tubes. As a result, Smythe pocketed one hundred thousand pounds on an insurance claim for a painting that only cost him twenty thousand and the obliging driver received five thousand and Rodney Marshall, the owner of the trucking company, fifteen thousand. Smythe had netted sixty thousand pounds clear, which he subsequently wasted on a binge of gambling, drink and whores down in the South of France.

  Rodney’s Trucks had a nice little line in insurance frauds, although the law was closing in. It was not fortunate, at least for Rodney Marshall, that one of the insurance underwriters had decided to check out the trucking company’s operations two hundred kilometres to the west of London.

  ‘Farhan, the van driver’s delivered one of the packages to the wrong address,’ said Ed Pickles. ‘Check it out, see what’s inside. But, whatever you do, ensure when you leave it’s in an unopened condition.’

  ‘Okay, DI Pickles. I’m on my way.’

  The address on the package said 23 Nightingale Road, but the driver had delivered to 23 Night Avenue. It was obvious to a simpleton that there was an issue, but Boris Bartosz had not seen the error when he had delivered the package and, besides, he didn’t care much either. Rodney’s was only a job and, as long as he was paid under the table and it didn’t impact the substantial money the British government gave him each month for his wife and five children, it was fine.

  ‘Madam?’ said Farhan Ahmed. ‘The door was opened by a vivacious blonde woman with breasts barely contained in the low-cut top she was wearing. She dressed as a twenty-something, although she was closer to forty, the blonde hair courtesy of a shop selling wigs. ‘The name’s Ahmed.’

  ‘Yes, how can I help you? Do come in,’ the woman smiled knowingly.

  ‘I’m with the transport company that delivered a package to you,’ said Ahmed. ‘Unfortunately, the driver – or, should I say, the silly fool – confused the address.’

  ‘I received a parcel today, but I wasn’t sure what it was for.’ She had misinterpreted the reason for his knocking on her door.

  ‘So you accepted it?’ he asked. It was a suitable approach for an insurance company to conduct evaluative checks on Rodney Marshall’s company. There had been a few too many claims and, unless they could prove fraudulence, they’d be obliged to pay.

  ‘If someone wants to give me something for free then that’s fine. Besides, it may belong to one of my gentleman friends. I don’t ask questions as long as they pay me regular.’ She winked at him in a knowing fashion.

  ‘Have you opened it?’

  ‘Not
yet, but if you say it belongs to you, then maybe you should take it?’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’

  Five minutes later, Farhan Ahmed beat a hasty retreat as the vivacious blonde attempted to remove his overalls.

  ‘One hundred pounds and I’m all yours.’

  ‘No thanks, I’m married.’

  ‘All my gentlemen friends are married.’

  ‘So what was in it?’ Isaac and Ed asked on the conference call to Farhan. Both were highly amused and teasing him, an extremely conservative man, who did not see the humour in being almost seduced by the local tart.

  ‘Books, just books, that’s all there was,’ he said.

  ‘What did you do with the box?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I delivered it to the correct address.’

  ‘You weren’t seen?’ Ed asked.

  ‘No, I checked first.’

  ‘You know what this means?’ Isaac said.

  ‘Yes,’ Ed responded, ‘it was a test for Shafi and he’s passed.’

  ‘What about the churches? Is the attack this Sunday?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘It looks that way and we don’t have any idea where they’ll hit,’ Detective Constable Inspector Isaac Cook said.

  Chapter 23

  With a lull in the bombings around the country, and no further leads, Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin turned their focus to the lost submarine. It was unclear as to where it would take them, but they felt it may assist in their analysis of further possible actions by the Islamic State.

  Isaac Cook was not so sure when they initially contacted him. ‘Where’s the advantage?’

  ‘It’s unclear,’ Andrew said, ‘but we have a submarine that was taken out and we have no answers as to how they managed to do it.’

  ‘But what’s the relevance? We’re dealing with the churches now. Can’t you help us there?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘How? We can only advise,’ said Andrew. ‘The situation seems clear that it’s this Sunday or the next and there will be twenty, maybe more, hit. Apart from that, we can’t be more specific.’

  ‘Andrew, you must appreciate that we’re extremely busy here at the present moment.’

  ‘Isaac, we feel this is important.’

  ‘Okay,’ Isaac relented. ‘I’ll get someone from the Navy down to your office in the next day or so.’ The pressure of contacting all the churches in the country, knowing full well that most would ignore a clear directive to shut their doors, was weighing heavy on him and his department.

  Captain Alan Macintyre arrived promptly at eight in the morning, less than twenty-four hours after Isaac Cook had promised to secure someone.

  ‘I’m with naval engineering, served on submarines,’ he said.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Andrew said. ‘Have our requirements been discussed with you?’

  ‘I was told you wanted to talk to someone who understood submarines,’ Captain Macintyre replied.

  ‘That’s partly what we want,’ said Andrew. ‘But we want to understand how you can sabotage a submarine. What would it take, how many people involved?’

  ‘It’s not that difficult if you know what you’re doing,’ Captain Macintyre said with a strong Scottish accent. He had a mop of flaming red hair and a girth that would struggle in the narrow confines of a submarine.

  ‘It’s an inside job,’ Frederick ventured an opinion.

  ‘We’ve not proven that yet,’ Andrew reminded him.

  ‘Let’s assume it was,’ Frederick said. ‘The Islamic State did claim responsibility. It was weeks later when it was discovered at the bottom of the sea.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right there,’ Captain Macintyre said. ‘Let’s work on the assumption that it was them.’

  ‘What’s the best way to take it out?’ Frederick asked. ‘Gas or explosives?’

  ‘Either would work, but I’d discount gas.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Gas, unless it’s extremely toxic and fast-acting, could be vented, cleansed through the filtration systems on board.’

  ‘And what if it was fast acting?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘It would need to be placed in multiple locations throughout the boat,’ Captain Macintyre replied.

  ‘Could it be done?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘It depends on how big the pressurised containers are.’

  ‘We’ve no idea,’ Frederick said.

  ‘I’d reckon about the size of a small fire extinguisher,’ Captain Macintyre said, ‘and then you’d probably need a hundred or so.’

  ‘Why so many?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘A nuclear submarine’s big,’ explained Captain Macintyre. ‘If there’s gas in one area, the other areas could effectively isolate themselves, surface quickly and then vent the boat in minutes.’

  ‘How about explosives?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Multiple explosions across the length of the boat would work,’ Captain Macintyre said.

  ‘Couldn’t they have just immobilised the controls? Its ability to surface? Its ability to cleanse the air inside the boat?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘They’re all backed-up with duplicates,’ Captain Macintyre said. ‘It’s possible, but hard to achieve. I’d still go for explosives.’

  ‘Does it need a lot of explosives?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Not really, but they’d have to be spread throughout the boat.’

  ‘So a tradesman could take them in?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘It’s possible, but everyone is subject to the strictest security checks. It’s unlikely it’s someone working on the boat.’

  ‘Are you saying it could be a crew member?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘That seems to be what I’m saying, but a serving Royal Navy person?’ the Captain reluctantly said. ‘It’s hard to imagine.’

  ‘That’s what Frederick and I do,’ said Andrew. ‘That forms the basis of our analysis. We look at the unimaginable.’

  ‘But who would do that?’ Captain Macintyre asked.

  ‘That’s why you’re here,’ Frederick replied.

  ‘Tell me what you want.’

  ‘Firstly, we will need a full inventory of the crew and their families.’ Andrew was feeling increasingly confident that, with Captain Macintyre in the office, they may well be able to deduce some valuable information.

  ‘Why do you want to look at their families?’ Macintyre asked. ‘What would they have to do with it?’

  ‘As we said, we look at the unimaginable,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Okay, I’ll get you what you want. What else?’

  ‘Is there a record of personnel entering and leaving the submarine during the three-week period prior to its departure?’ Andrew continued.

  ‘Everyone would have had a pass. They would have been logged in and out. I should be able to get that for you.’

  ‘Medical reports, psycho-analysis evaluations conducted on crew members?’ Frederick added.

  ‘They would have all been subject to testing. Some people freak out once they’re inside,’ Captain Macintyre said.

  ‘That’s probably all for now,’ said Andrew. ‘We’ll need you to stay with us for the next few days while this is all collated and we can form some opinions.’

  ‘That’s okay by me,’ the Captain said. ‘They’ve put me up in a nice hotel. I’m fine for as long as you want me.’

  ***

  The Rev Boyd Danvers, newly ordained and enthusiastic for his first sermon in his first parish at St Thomas’, was not going to close the church on a Sunday. It was a fine old church, in a residential suburb of Brighton on the south coast of England.

  ‘Boyd, what are you going to do about the warnings?’ Jessica, his wife of two months, asked. ‘The police are stating that an imminent attack is expected this Sunday. We should not place people at risk.’

  ‘Jess, you’re worrying too much. We’re on God’s work. We can’t close just because it may be too dangerous, too wet, too risky. We’re not a shop, we’re a church.’

  ‘They nearly to
ok down York Minster, didn’t they?’ she reminded him.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘and with divine providence it was forestalled. The Lord will protect us.’

  Isaac Cook had been placed in a quandary. If they announced on the media that a church or churches were due to be attacked, it might place Shafi in an uncomfortable situation. If they said nothing, then a lot of people may die.’

  ‘Isaac,’ Commander Richard Goddard had offered his opinion when approached by Isaac, ‘you can’t let people die just because it may interfere with your plans.’

  ‘We’re getting close with these people. I don’t want to frighten them off. They could easily go quiet for a while. The department will lose its autonomy and then the Islamic State will resurrect and we’ll be left floundering.’

  ‘I realise that. Can’t we issue a statement to the media that is direct but does not give away inside information?’ Commander Goddard said.

  ‘We don’t really have any inside information, only suppositions,’ said Isaac. ‘But Vane and Martin’s suppositions are proving to be spot on.’

  ‘Make the statement, be vague on detail and at least some lives will be saved. Any idea how many churches there are in this country?’ Goddard asked.

  ‘It’s close to forty thousand.’

  ‘Hell, there’s no way the police could ever provide security to that number.’

  ‘They can take their pick and there’s no way Vane and Martin can analyse areas, let alone churches,’ Isaac said.

  Morning service at St Thomas’ was at eight in the morning and the Reverend Boyd Danvers had spent half the night practising his sermon. He was a little nervous but, with his wife by his side, he was sure he would get through without fumbling his lines, tripping over his tongue.

  Fifteen minutes before the service started and there was a record turnout for the new vicar’s maiden sermon, at least eighty-nine, including one parishioner, who sat by himself close to one of the pillars in the centre of the church. If anyone asked his name, he was Wally Williams, a builder by trade, a Christian by devotion. An individual in his late twenties, clean-shaven, with neatly combed hair, a dark pair of trousers and white, open-neck shirt, he represented the move by the modern youth of the district to embrace the Church, in defiance of the ever increasing decline in morals and decency in the general community. At least, that was the rehearsed speech if questioned.