Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Prime Minister, if you want to remove your deputy, shore up your position, then let me do my job,’ Entwhistle said in the calm of the Prime Minister’s private office at Downing Street.

  ‘Are you sure you can do this without it backfiring in my direction?’ The Prime Minister was not averse to his new adviser’s suggestion. He just didn’t want the mud coming back to stick on him.

  ‘They’ll never know where the comments came from. And you’ve got to admit, she’s an easy person to throw mud at.’

  ‘If you’re referring to her and the numerous men…’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m referring to.’

  ‘But the electorate knows all about that.’

  ‘Sure they do, and they take no notice because she’s seen as competent and tough, able to beat the men at their own game in the bear pit of parliament.’

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘Look how she deals with that obnoxious Leader of the Opposition, Bakewell.’ He had to admit she could keep the Opposition leader under control, whereas he could not.

  ‘And you get pushed around by him.’ Entwhistle overstepped the mark.

  ‘Be careful of what you’re saying,’ said Clifford Bell sharply. ‘You’re no Rohan Jones. He was an old friend till he jumped ships.’

  ‘My apologies, Prime Minister, but that’s how it’s reported.’

  ‘I know, but what do you have on my loyal deputy?’ Clifford Bell asked.

  ‘Loyal in inverted commas, you mean?’ Entwhistle replied.

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

  ‘What if I told you she was involved with someone from Counter Terrorism Command?’ Entwhistle said.

  ‘Apart from the fact that Isaac Cook’s ten years younger, where’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s twelve years.’ Entwhistle was determined to make his point.

  ‘They’re both single, over the age of twenty-one,’ the Prime Minister said.

  ‘I agree, but we have the Deputy Prime Minister with privileged information, messing around with a younger man, black.’

  ‘Are you intimating that they’re sharing information as well as a bed?’ the Prime Minister asked.

  ‘There’s no bed involved, not as of yet.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘It’s my business to know,’ said Entwhistle. ‘If you want to destabilise her, weaken her position in the party, lower her approval ratings, you just need to bring into question her propriety, her subterfuge, her black lover.’

  ‘That sounds racist.’

  ‘Prime Minister, do you want to win at the next party meeting, when you throw your position open?’

  ‘I’ve not stated that I will throw it open.’ The Prime Minister had made the statement previously, but it had been only to keep the wolves at bay.

  ‘You will if you know you’ve got the numbers to win,’ Entwhistle said.

  ‘And you can guarantee it?’

  ‘It’s what I do.’

  ‘Then do what you must, but never make any of it attributable to me.’ Prime Minister Clifford Bell realised that Shannon Entwhistle may not be a Rohan Jones, but he was ideal for what was required.

  ***

  Haji, the former intelligence officer with the Pakistan Army, continued to portray the appearance of a benign elderly citizen of the Asian community. His visit to the Styles’ family home gave no cause for concern.

  ‘Of course your uncle is welcome.’ Mavis Styles was pleased to see a relative of Sara’s at last.

  ‘You are too kind,’ Haji, now Uncle Fraz, said as he sat in the front room of the Styles’ home.

  ‘You must stay here. We have room and it is good for Sara.’

  For three days, Haji stayed in the comfortable room given to him. It was in those three days that he spent some time with Sara Styles, nee Sara Shenoy, nee Sara Aslam.

  ‘Sara, this is the instrument of martyrdom,’ Haji confided in the relative security of a café, down by the beach close to the house.

  ‘Haji, I do this for the cause,’ she replied.

  ‘Yes, your father explained, but you must not blame yourself for what you did. It was for your father and for the Islamic State. Don’t you realise this?’

  ‘Yes, but it does not heal the hurt in my heart that I feel.’

  ‘You should have accepted Yasser Lahham as your father requested.’

  ‘He told you that?’ she asked.

  ‘Your father, the Master, tells me everything.’

  ‘Then he told you that I loved Ray?’

  ‘He did, but in time you would have learnt to love Yasser.’

  ‘Tell me what I must do.’ Sara did not want further discussion on the matter. ‘Is that what I must use?’ She indicated to the small makeup bag that Haji had placed on the table.

  ‘It contains some lipstick smeared with the poison, and some mascara applicators,’ said Haji. ‘The blue handled ones are safe, the pink are not.’

  ‘And what am I meant to do with them?’

  ‘Once you are close enough to the Prime Minister, you are to stab or scratch him with the pink applicators. They have been sharpened on the tips. It is important that you aim to scratch the skin. The back of his hand is ideal when he goes to shake yours.’

  ‘The lipstick? You said it was poisoned as well.’

  ‘Aim to put it in his mouth if you can.’

  ‘Is this what I must do for myself?’ she asked.

  ‘If you are determined, then you may just put the lipstick in your mouth and swallow as much as you can.’

  ‘Haji, I am determined. I will complete my task.’

  ‘Then Allah be with you, my child. He will forgive you for what you must do.’

  ‘He may forgive me, but I can never forgive myself,’ she said.

  ‘You should have accepted Yasser,’ Haji said. ‘He would have made you happy. We could always have found someone else to deal with the Prime Minister.’

  ‘There is no one else who can get this close.’

  ‘Yes, you are right.’ Haji accepted that Sara had spoken the truth.

  ***

  Anne Argento was an easy target for someone as devious as Shannon Entwhistle. It was he who had turned the result around for a by-election in the north of England by creating a rumour that the clear winner, according to the polls, was an advocate of fox hunting, when basically all he enjoyed was riding across the downs of a weekend. It was Entwhistle who had managed to portray the sitting member in the Lake District to the north in Cumbria as being soft on the issue of gay marriage. The electorate had a significant number of Wesleyans and their traditional values did not align with a member of parliament who was in favour of gay marriage. He had inadvertently shaken the hands of two newly-married gay men, never expressed an opinion on whether he approved or not. It had been close, but the member had been dumped at the next general election. In both cases, Entwhistle’s man had been elected.

  The headlines in the more scurrilous newspapers, the Sunday rags, regarding the Honourable Deputy Prime Minister were neither correct nor accepting. The inference that she had been cavorting with a younger man, a black man, and a serving policeman at that, were designed to target the more narrow-minded in the community. Her lifestyle had always been a contentious issue, although the majority of people had accepted her sometimes indiscreet and unusual behaviour.

  There was a large proportion of the populace that enjoyed her flaunting of society’s values, her eccentricities and, as long as she did her job, the approval remained. The inference that she was exchanging information with the handsome black policeman, young enough to be her son – he was not – caused a waning in her approval rating.

  ‘They can’t do this,’ Anne Argento was indignant. ‘You’re my senior adviser, advise.’

  ‘Deputy Prime Minister,’ said Rohan Jones, former supporter and friend of the Prime Minister and now an ardent supporter of the woman who was to become the next leader of the country. ‘You’ve just
got to ignore it. Give it a few days and it’ll be old news.’

  ‘A day in politics is a lifetime, a few days are an eternity,’ she replied. ‘I could be dead and buried by then.’

  ‘I believe that you’re exaggerating.’

  ‘Rohan, don’t give me that nonsense. Look at the polls. I’m down at least eight per cent. They’re even starting to debate whether Clifford Bell is the better choice for this country.’

  ‘I’ve seen it, but it’s only the newspapers, the television attempting to fill up space, generate revenue. It’s nothing more.’

  ‘It’s nothing more, is that what you are saying?’ Anne was beginning to lose her cool. ‘It’s my future, and look what they’re saying about Isaac Cook.’

  ‘That you’re his sugar mummy?’

  ‘Yes, precisely. He doesn’t deserve that.’

  ‘Maybe, but you’ve both been indiscreet,’ said Rohan Jones. ‘You’re in the public eye and so is he. What did you expect?’

  ‘I expected our privacy to be respected. We’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Deputy Prime Minister, it’s the real word. It’s not a court of law. Enough mud-slinging and some will stick.’

  ‘I know that, but I don’t want any sticking on me.’

  ‘Then distance yourself from the policeman.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Anne Argento responded.

  ‘You mean you can’t, am I right?’

  ‘Rohan, he’s a good man and I’m entitled to a private life.’

  ‘You know that’s not true,’ Rohan Jones continued. ‘Look what you did to Nicholas Hunt when you were after his job as the Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs.’

  ‘I earned that position,’ she said.

  ‘So did the two tarts you set him up with,’ Rohan said.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I’m good at my job. I make it my business to know who is screwing who.’

  ‘I was right to take you from Clifford Bell. Get me out of this mess,’ Anne Argento, the Deputy Prime Minister, said.

  ‘I’ll deal with it,’ Rohan Jones said.

  ***

  Shafi’s conditioning had weakened since Yasser Lahham had fixed him up with the whores. It was apparent to Isaac Cook that he looked measurably improved since the last time he had seen him.

  ‘Why are we meeting here?’ Shafi did not understand the excessive secrecy. A rented office on a business estate in Ealing was not as preferable as a café or a restaurant, where DCI Cook invariably bought him a decent feed.

  ‘You don’t watch the TV, read the newspapers?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, you’re famous,’ said Shafi. ‘Screwing the Deputy Prime Minister, can’t blame you though.’

  ‘Shafi, I’m not and be careful of what you say about Anne Argento,’ Isaac responded indignantly. The ribbing from his fellow police officers down at New Scotland Yard was starting to wear thin.

  ‘You fancy her.’ Shafi saw the humour in the dignified, normally uptight policeman’s situation.

  ‘Last time we met,’ Isaac said, ‘you were sullen, downcast.’

  ‘They worked on me.’ Shafi shuddered at the thought of his treatment.

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Khalid and Mustafa, the Master’s bodyguards,’ replied Shafi. ‘They tortured me, beat me to a pulp. Hung me up like a piece of meat and then they gave me some electrical shocks.’

  ‘Why did they do that?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘The Master said it was for my benefit, to make me a devoted member of the Islamic State.’

  ‘And did it work?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘It did for a while, but then the Prof fixed me up with a couple of whores.’

  ‘Are you working with us now?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I need to be careful, but I think I am.’

  ‘You think you are? Why think?’

  ‘They said they’d torture me to death if they found out that I was betraying them.’

  ‘Then you need to be extra careful,’ Isaac said.

  ‘DCI Cook, we both need to be extra careful,’ Shafi replied.

  The office where they sat was sparse, poorly furnished with no more than four chairs, a cheap wooden table and some plastic flowers in a vase in the small window at the rear. It was soon enhanced by the pizzas that DCI Cook had phoned for. He knew Shafi was not going to give him much while he continually grumbled about his empty stomach.

  ‘What do you know about the Master’s daughter?’ Isaac asked as Shafi finished the last slice of pizza.

  ‘The Master offered her to the Prof, but she rejected him.’

  ‘Can she do that?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘She did. The Prof said she’s beautiful.’

  ‘Is there anything else about her?’

  ‘Not really. She was at the house recently, but apart from that she keeps away.’

  ‘And the Prof, what’s he up to?’

  ‘He’s not happy,’ Shafi said. ‘He thinks he’s no more than the office boy.’

  ‘Is that how he’s treated?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘He thinks he is, but he’s a smart guy. Smart guys usually have a higher opinion of themselves than they should,’ Shafi said.

  ‘I need you to find out what the Prof is up to.’

  ‘You want to get me killed?’ Shafi reacted with fear.

  ‘I need to know who else is a key member in the organisation.’

  ‘You know about Haji?’ Shafi asked. ‘He’s clever, stays in the shadows, but he’s heavily involved.’

  ‘I know about Haji. Find out what the Prof knows about him.’

  ‘If I get killed here, then I’m going to blame you.’ Shafi was nervous.

  ‘And if you don’t get killed, I’ll ensure that you receive a full pardon from the Prime Minister and recompense for the time you spent in Belmarsh.’

  ‘Your girlfriend can fix all this up?’ Shafi asked.

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ replied Isaac, ‘but when she’s Prime Minister she can do exactly what she likes.’

  ‘I still reckon you’ve got good taste. A Prime Minister of England and a good sort as well. You’ve got it made.’ Shafi did not believe Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook’s denial in reference to the subject of Anne Argento for one minute.

  Chapter 28

  Ernest Bakewell, the Leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition in Parliament, revelled in the gossip, the innuendoes relating to Anne Argento.

  He weighed up his options on how to force her out of parliament, out of favour with the voting public. There was to be a general election in eighteen months’ time and he intended to win. Clifford Bell, he knew he could beat, but he wasn’t so sure about Anne Argento.

  ‘Would the Honourable Deputy Prime Minister make a comment about her relationship with Detective Chief Inspector Cook?’ Bakewell had decided to go on the offensive in the privileged environ of the Houses of Parliament.

  ‘The Honourable Leader of the Opposition takes the opportunity to indulge in giving credence to the gutter press of this country,’ she responded in an abject, disinterested manner.

  ‘It is easy to discard the press, or the gutter press as you call them,’ Bakewell fired back. ‘But there remains the question as to whether you are fit to hold the position in government that you cherish.’

  ‘Your comments are beneath contempt. It would be inappropriate to acknowledge your question with a response.’

  ‘Is it true,’ Ernest Bakewell continued, ‘that you have formed a friendship, a romantic friendship, with a man closely involved with counter-terrorism in this land?’ Bakewell had laid out a plan, an escalating plan, whereby his comments under the privilege of Parliament would allow him to go in deeper than he would risk in public.

  ‘The Honourable Leader of the Opposition should be reminded that he is bringing this House into disrepute.’ Anne Argento was on shaky ground with Bakewell. Any more of this and she’d leak the photos of him cavorting naked with a couple of young women. Roha
n Jones would know how to arrange it, although she didn’t want to blow Bakewell out of the water just yet. There was a war cabinet to be put in place, and she wanted him to be an integral member, slimy individual that he was.

  ‘Do you want me to intervene?’ Clifford Bell, the Prime Minister, whispered in Anne Argento’s ear.

  ‘Keep out of it,’ she sharply rebuked him. ‘I can deal with this fool.’

  ‘Is it true that you have met him socially on a number of occasions?’ Ernest Bakewell continued his attack.

  ‘Who I meet socially is my business, not yours.’

  ‘So, you are confirming that you have met Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook on numerous occasions in discreet locations?’

  ‘I am neither confirming nor denying,’ replied Anne Argento. ‘I am entitled to a private life and I am not answerable to you or to this House.’

  ‘You are entitled to a private life only if it does not impact on the business of parliament, and if it does not impinge on the integrity and honesty of the police force of this great country.’ Bakewell was going for the jugular.

  ‘Are you accusing me of acting in a manner contrary to the best interests of this Parliament and this country?’ the Deputy Prime Minister responded.

  ‘I am asking you, Deputy Prime Minister,’ Ernest Bakewell felt that he was rattling the confidence, the tenacity of Anne Argento, ‘if you are willing to admit that your liaison with Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook is inappropriate.’

  ‘My liaison, as you put it, is both professional and polite. Any further remarks on this matter and I will ask the Speaker of the House to refer it to the Parliamentary Commissioner for Standards.’

  ‘Not your best day, you’d have to admit,’ Rohan Jones said succinctly later that night as they indulged in a few drinks at a bar not far from Westminster.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Anne, ‘but I didn’t want to take him down, not yet at least.’

  ‘Did you let him get the upper hand?’ Rohan Jones asked.

  ‘I will need his support later on,’ she said

  ‘For what?’ he asked.

  ‘For when I declare war.’