Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set

by Phillip Strang

  It was twenty-five minutes after the commencement of the service that the Reverend climbed the steps to the pulpit to deliver his sermon. His knees were shaking, but he was sure that only his wife noticed. The pulpit, an old stone structure built four hundred years previous, was reminiscent of the age of the building. It was a magnificent structure, built to withstand the ravages of age and its possible desecration during the English civil war.

  Wally Williams, the silent worshipper, moved at the same time as the Reverend ascended the steps. He moved to the centre aisle and, with the words ‘Allahu Akbar’ echoing through the church, he pulled the trigger hidden in his pocket.

  The Reverend felt the blast of rushing air and was thrown back ten metres, breaking both his legs in the fall. His wife, seated to one side, was hurled against the stone of the pulpit and killed instantly. There were eighty-eight parishioners, one Islamic State martyr and one man of the cloth. Only the man of the cloth survived.

  ***

  Yasser Lahham had been spending his time since his release on the task given to him by the Master. It had taken some impressive software, some skilled programming, but he had succeeded. He was pleased with his work.

  ‘I have hacked into New Scotland Yard as you requested,’ Yasser Lahham proudly announced at his next meeting with the Master. He was satisfied with his achievement, but concerned that, since his release, he had become no more than an employee in the back room. He had assumed that he was to play a significant role in the senior leadership, but that appeared not to be the case.

  ‘Praise to Allah. What does this mean for us?’ the Master asked.

  ‘Given time, I could attempt to plant a virus in their database, destroy police records.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they be backed up?’ The Master, not computer literate, knew that was what they did weekly down in the accounts department of one of his businesses.

  ‘Yes, almost certainly.’

  ‘What would we gain by such a move?’ the Master asked.

  We would cause them inconvenience,’ Yasser Lahham replied.

  ‘That’s not good enough. Can you check on their security?’

  ‘It should be possible. May I ask for what purpose?’

  ‘Could we get one of our martyrs into there?’ the Master asked.

  ‘The security checks would be virtually foolproof.’

  ‘But you are not a fool,’ the Master said. ‘To a smart man such as you, it should be possible to disable them.’

  ‘They’ll still have plenty of people on duty to do physical patting down, x-ray scanning.’

  ‘Then we need a diversion.’

  ‘What sort of diversion?’ Yasser Lahham asked.

  ‘Yasser, you figure it out,’ said the Master. ‘But give our martyrs a ten-minute window to slip through.’

  ‘Is there any particular target?’

  ‘Aim for senior management. If that’s not possible, then maximum casualties,’ the Master said.

  ***

  ‘There you are, Prime Minister. There’s your period of calm. Twenty churches, although one was lucky when the bomber blew himself up outside. How many people dead? I’ll tell you. It’s close to fifteen hundred.’ Anne Argento was on the offensive again.

  ‘You’re right, Anne. There can be no peace.’ Clifford Bell, the Prime Minister, was forced to admit that his previous statements on the possibility of an enduring calm in the country had been verbiage, nothing more.

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to sit on your hands hoping it will go away, or will you make a stand?’

  ‘I’ll make a stand,’ he replied.

  ‘You’ll declare war?’ she asked, hoping that he would act, knowing that he wouldn’t.

  ‘It’s not war. It’s a mass civil disturbance. You still don’t get it, do you?’ he was adamant. ‘I know what you’re doing. You’re asking me to stand up in parliament, announce we’re at war and then be howled down by the Opposition.’

  ‘You’re the Prime Minister. So what if that slimy Leader of the Opposition Bakewell howls you down? You howl back at him. Tell him to sit down and shut up.’

  ‘He’s got the numbers to veto our austerity bill.’

  ‘What does that matter? Set up a war council. Invite some members of the Opposition on board, even the Honourable Leader of the Opposition, and ram your bill through.’

  ‘And you’ll be there supporting me?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘If you act now.’ It was a bold statement from the Deputy Prime Minister, but she knew that Prime Minister Clifford Bell was not the man for the fight. She’d push him till he resigned.

  ‘I don’t think I could ever act in a manner that you deem necessary,’ the Prime Minister said.

  ‘You’re probably right.’ She had judged him well. ‘You just don’t have the killer instinct.’

  ‘You’re right, Anne, but I’m not going to resign,’ he replied. ‘And any criticism outside of here and I’ll put you on the backbench.’

  ‘You threatened that before. You won’t and you know it. Once I’m on the backbench, I can openly criticise you where and when I like. The party will flock to me.’

  ‘You certainly have a high opinion of yourself,’ the Prime Minister said.

  ‘Of course I do. I’m what this country, my country, needs,’ she said. ‘I intend to take your job, in part because I want it, but mainly because it’s the only way to save this country from a malevolent group of individuals who would have us back in the dark ages.’

  ‘You’re wrong in your approach to the current situation. I’ll fight you all the way,’ the Prime Minister said.

  ‘Prime Minister, Clifford,’ Anne Argento reasoned, ‘the country’s going to hell, people are dying like flies, blown apart limb from limb and you still indulge in old-fashioned politics. You’ve got to go.’

  ‘How’s your new adviser?’

  ‘Rohan Jones? Your ex-senior adviser? He’s doing fine,’ she said as she left the room.

  ***

  ‘Captain Macintyre, one hundred packages, no more than one kilo, placed throughout the boat would suffice,’ Andrew Martin asked.

  ‘From what you’ve told me about the explosives normally used,’ Macintyre replied.

  ‘And they’d all need some sort of timer to ignite?’

  ‘I’d say so,’ replied Macintyre. ‘A radio signal would be unreliable. The metal structure of the vessel would tend to attenuate any signal.’

  ‘One individual could carry on a package at a time without suspicion?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Macintyre conceded. ‘The security checks would be minimal for anyone with sufficient clearance.’

  ‘Such as a serving member?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Or members?’ the Captain added.

  ‘I believe we must assume that there’s only one person,’ said Andrew. ‘It seems inconceivable that even the Islamic State could coerce one, let alone two.’

  ‘Then we need to know who made enough trips on board,’ Frederick said.

  ‘There’s not many, only four.’ Captain Macintyre had obtained a list of all the crew and their visits on and off the boat.

  ‘Let’s have their names and family details,’ Frederick asked.

  ‘Okay, here goes,’ said Macintyre. ‘Chief Petty Officer Simon Ballantyne, aged forty-two, divorced, no children. Able Seaman John Phillimore, aged thirty-three, married. Wife, Yvonne, one child, a daughter. Lieutenant Anthony Makepeace, twenty-eight, married. Wife, Angela, two children, one son, one daughter. Sub Lieutenant Ray Styles, twenty-four, married. Wife, Sara, no children.’

  ‘So it’s one of those four,’ Andrew said.

  ‘It’s not much to go on. What do we know about the families? Where are the wives from?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘Ray Styles has, or had, an Indian wife, the others are all English.’ Macintyre was still struggling with the concept that a serving member of the British Royal Navy could be involved and
he had given all the information required. At the end of the second day, Andrew and Frederick dispensed with his services.

  Early on the third morning, Andrew phoned Isaac Cook. ‘We need some investigative work. Do you have anyone who we could liaise with?’

  ‘Are you still working on the submarine theory? You’re aware of the churches?’

  ‘Yes, it was tragic. We did predict it, though,’ Andrew said.

  ‘I know you did, but the churches weren’t going to close just because we issued a warning.’

  ‘You tried your best,’ Andrew said.

  ‘What’s the relevance of the submarines? I was too busy when you phoned the other day.’

  ‘As we stated before, whoever orchestrated that disaster is a master tactician. The targets will be increasingly more difficult to reach, more secure. Finding out how the submarine was sabotaged and by whom may lead us to him.’

  ‘I’ll send Farhan Ahmed. He’s our best person for the job. He’ll be with you in the next few hours.’

  ***

  ‘Shafi, you’ve proven to us that you can be trusted,’ Haji said.

  ‘I delivered the packages successfully as you asked.’

  ‘It was a test. You sent nothing, just some old books.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘We needed to know if you were cheating us, double-crossing us with those who arranged your release from Belmarsh,’ Haji said.

  ‘Why are we meeting here? It’s a dump.’

  ‘It’s your home for the next few weeks,’ Haji said as they sat on a couple of wooden crates in the old warehouse. It was here that Shafi had found the packages of books which he had sent around the country.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Shafi. ‘I’ve got a nice little place, two bedrooms, real pleasant.’

  ‘You’ll be staying here,’ Haji informed Shafi. ‘We’ll look after your place. I’ll go there personally if you like, feed the cat, water the flowers. I can’t help you with screwing the tarts that you take around there, though.’

  ‘I don’t have a cat, or any flowers. What’s going on here?’

  ‘It’s simple, Shafi. You can’t serve two masters. It’s either us or you’re dead.’

  ‘What’s this about? I’ve played fair by you.’

  ‘Khalid and Mustafa are going to look after you for a while.’

  ‘I don’t need looking after. I’m fully grown. I can look after myself.’

  ‘Who visited you at the prison?’ Haji asked.

  ‘What do you mean? I didn’t have any visitors.’

  ‘Your appeal lawyers, who were they?’ Haji asked again.

  ‘They were just my lawyers.’

  ‘Here’s an easy one.’ Haji prepared to ask another question.

  ‘Okay,’ Shafi said.

  ‘Why did that bitch judge let you go?’

  ‘The policemen were drunk. They admitted it.’

  ‘And what if I told you that one of those policemen hasn’t drunk in ten years and the other one barely drank more than a pint of beer a night?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know that.’

  ‘Shafi,’ said Haji, ‘you are going to tell us all about the Counter Terrorism Command, the appeal lawyers who happen to work at the Office of National Statistics, and what deal you’ve stitched up with them.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘That’s fine. Lie as much as you want. It will only make Khalid and Mustafa’s softening up all the sweeter for them.’

  ‘You can’t hold me here,’ said Shafi angrily. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. I never cheated on you when I was in Belmarsh.’

  ‘That’s true, and that is why we see you as a worthy candidate to join our organisation,’ Haji said.

  ‘I’ve told you that I don’t hold with your views. I like England the way it is now.’

  ‘In a couple of days,’ said Haji, ‘you will tell us about Isaac Cook, Ed Pickles, Frederick Vane and Andrew Martin. In seven to ten days, you will be a fervent member of the Islamic State.’

  ‘You can’t change me! I am Shafi, good old loveable rogue Shafi.’ He involuntarily wet himself.

  ‘You should be pleased,’ said Haji. ‘It is a great honour that we are bestowing on you. Normally, we would just torture a double-crosser to death, but in your case you are going to live.’

  ‘You can’t do this!’ Shafi shouted.

  ‘Khalid, Mustafa, grab him. He’s yours. You know what to do.’

  ‘Haji, leave him to us,’ Khalid replied.

  Chapter 24

  Farhan Ahmed was not enjoying his day in Exeter. The rain was heavy, the temperature too cool for him. Tracking the wife of a dead sailor seemed a futile exercise. He knew that she was living with her dead husband’s family down close to Plymouth. He had not expected to find much.

  ‘What have you found?’ Frederick Vane asked. Judging by Farhan’s tone, something was amiss.

  ‘That’s the problem. I haven’t found anything,’ Farhan said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘It’s strange. The address that you gave me is unoccupied.’

  ‘What’s strange in that?’

  ‘I’ve checked with the local Hindu community. They don’t know the people who lived at the address.’

  ‘Is that an issue?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘Indian communities, especially Hindus, tend to keep together, help each other out, and then there’s always an extended family. It appears that the people in this one house kept to themselves.’

  ‘What else do you have?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘It appears that they only lived here for a year or so, not the fifteen or so that you intimated.’

  ‘The wife of Ray Styles, what did you find out about her?’

  ‘According to people in the area, she only appeared about nine months ago. She always told people she was back from boarding school or some other story, but they don’t remember her apart from that.’

  ‘What did the local people think of them?’

  ‘They weren’t sure. There are a few Hindus in the neighbourhood but, apart from infrequent conversations, there was little communication.’

  ‘Are you sure they’re Hindus?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ Farhan replied. ‘I’ll do some more investigation.’

  ‘What more can you do?’

  ‘I’ll break in later tonight. ‘I’ll have a look around the house.’

  ‘You can do that now,’ said Andrew. He had been listening in on another phone line.

  ‘I realise that,’ Farhan replied. ‘But what if it proves that Sara Styles was not who she pretended to be? They, I assume the Islamic State, may well have someone keeping a watch on the house.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s best if you use your discretion.’

  ‘I’ll call in the morning when I have my results,’ Farhan said.

  Farhan Ahmed was an expert in surveillance. He was sure that, if anyone were watching the house, he would spot them. It was close to one in the morning when he entered by the back door of the house. It was still raining and, with an overcast sky and no moon, it was a relatively simple exercise. The house was a typical terrace house built sixty years previously – three bedrooms upstairs, living room downstairs in the front and a kitchen at the rear.

  The curtains in the house were heavy and pulled closed. It allowed him the luxury of using a small, penlight torch to look around without too much fear of being seen. The furniture was basic, the bedding clean, although indicative of no one being in the house for some months. Yet again, it was what he did not find that disturbed him the most. It was six o’clock in the morning when Frederick Vane was woken from his sleep.

  ‘I’ve checked the house,’ Farhan said.

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Or what I did not find.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I found nothing indicative of a Hindu household.’

 
; ‘What do you mean?’ Frederick, sitting up and alert, asked.

  ‘There should be a family shrine, the smell of incense,’ Farhan said.

  ‘And what did you find?’ Frederick attempted to dial Andrew into the conversation.

  ‘I found nothing to confirm Sara Styles’ background.’

  ‘Ray Styles would have been there,’ Frederick said.

  ‘Maybe, but he may not have been looking for shrines or incense. Apparently, Sara Styles was westernised, so Ray Styles may have assumed the parents were as well.’

  ‘Did you find anything else of interest at the house?’ asked Andrew, who had joined the conversation.

  ‘I found a prayer mat,’ Farhan said.

  ‘What’s the significance?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘It’s Islamic,’ Farhan said.

  ‘Are you certain of that?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘I’m certain. I know what they look like. I’ve got one myself.’ Farhan, a devout Muslim, knew what he had seen.

  ‘It’s not conclusive though,’ Andrew said.

  ‘No, a lot of people buy them as souvenirs on holidays in the Middle East,’ said Farhan. ‘But a Hindu family? I just can’t see them buying one.’

  ‘So where do we go from here?’ Frederick asked.

  ‘We need to find out who her parents are,’ Farhan said. ‘There must be some records of them arriving in England.’

  ‘Okay, we’ll need to get Isaac Cook and Ed Pickles onto it,’ Frederick said.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see to it,’ Farhan said.

  ***

  ‘DCI Cook, Isaac,’ Anne Argento said on the early morning phone call to her favourite policeman.

  ‘Deputy Prime Minister, what can I do for you?’

  ‘You can start by calling me Anne when no one else is around or listening in.’

  ‘I’ll do that out of hours if you like,’ replied Isaac, ‘but you’ve called me no doubt on official business. I must act with the necessary formality.’