by Mark Dawson
The footage was played back again and again, and the studio experts suggested that three separate blasts could be discerned, each following almost immediately after the other. Mohammed agreed. The doors had been blown into the chamber, and all of the remaining windows had been smashed. There had been a minor stampede as MPs of all persuasions tried to put as much distance as possible between them and the smoke that was pouring into the chamber from the lobby. The police had quickly restored order, and an evacuation had begun. Even now, willing volunteers, no doubt keen to demonstrate their bravery to their constituents, were lining up on Parliament Green to tell their side of the story to the phalanx of reporters.
Yes, he thought, it had not gone quite as well as he had hoped. But it had been a success in the main, most fundamental way. A blow had been struck right to the heart of the country. The caliph had reached out and scratched his fingers down the door that barred the way to the heart of their democracy. They had demonstrated that nowhere was safe. They had proven that they didn’t need airliners to cause terror. They could do it with ten men, a handful of weapons and a few pounds of explosives.
His phone rang. It was the boy. Mohammed gave him directions to the warehouse and ended the call.
He navigated to the folder with the martyrdom videos that each man had recorded in the days leading up to today. He would release them at the appropriate time, when the news cycle needed to be given another nudge. That wouldn’t be for a few days yet. He doubted that anything else would be talked about.
He saw a slightly built young man cross the junction, pause on the other side and then carry on.
Mohammed leaned forward and concentrated.
The man returned, paused again and then walked toward the warehouse.
Mohammed collected the 9mm Beretta M9 from the glovebox. The gun had been fitted with a suppressor. He put it into his jacket pocket.
The man was closer now. Dusk had fallen and visibility was lessened, but he could see it was Aamir.
He took a pair of latex overshoes and pulled them over his trainers, then pulled on a pair of gloves and a plastic hairnet. He got out of the van, closed the door quietly and crossed over the road.
Aamir was facing the door, half-heartedly pulling the cage.
Mohammed reached into his pocket for the key with his right hand and clasped Aamir around the shoulder with his left. ‘Aamir,’ he said, ‘do not worry. It is me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the boy said. He turned and Mohammed saw the tears streaming down his face.
He would have to be quick. He did not want to have a scene on the street; passers-by might remember.
He unlocked the cage, yanked it back, opened the door and pulled Aamir inside.
There was a large space inside. The metal sheets over the windows stopped all the light. The only illumination came through the gaps that edged the door, weak and ineffectual and quickly absorbed by the darkness. The room was damp, and Mohammed could hear the trickling of water from somewhere in the gloom. He had purchased a builder’s lamp from a branch of Wickes, and he crouched down to switch it on. The sudden glare created a vivid pool of light, picking out rows of racking that would once have been used for storage. The shelves cast a lattice of deep black shadows against the walls. Aamir looked around uncertainly.
‘What is this place?’
‘Somewhere we won’t be seen. You are safe here, Aamir.’
‘I’m sorry . . .’ He couldn’t finish the sentence.
‘What happened?’
The boy’s tears came in hungry sobs.
‘Tell me.’
‘I . . . I . . . couldn’t do it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was there, in the train, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t . . . there were people there, tourists, I would have killed all of them.’
‘It is fine, Aamir. You don’t need to worry. I understand.’
The boy looked at him, confusion evident on his face. Mohammed knew why. Aamir must have expected that he would be angry with him for failing to carry out his orders. He knew the effect that he could have on people. He knew that he had a powerful, forceful personality, and a man with his fearsome reputation was not a man that you would want to disappoint. He had relied upon both to fashion his mules as he wished, to inspire them to do his bidding.
But this one had not done as he had been told.
‘Did anyone see you come here?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Aamir said.
‘You don’t think?’
‘I was careful,’ he whined, ‘but I’m confused. This whole thing . . .’
Mohammed spoke with the most reassuring tone that he could manage. ‘I’m sure you were careful, brother. You need to be calm. Everything is going to be all right. Where is your rucksack?’
‘I left it there.’
‘At Westminster?’
‘Yes. Inside. I left it there and ran.’
He started to sob again.
Mohammed tried to placate him. ‘It doesn’t matter. The operation is a success.’
‘Bashir and Hakeem?’
He nodded. ‘They are with the prophet now.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. The details are a little confused, but they are reporting that there were two explosions.’
‘There were,’ Aamir said quickly, trying to please him. ‘Definitely. I heard them.’
‘Many infidels were killed. It doesn’t matter that you did not detonate your bomb. Everything will be fine, Aamir. You need to relax.’
Aamir looked at Mohammed, and a fresh look of confusion came over his face. He pointed. ‘Why are you wearing those?’
He meant the overshoes, the gloves and the hairnet. ‘I’m very careful,’ Mohammed explained. ‘I don’t leave evidence that I have been in a place.’
‘What about me?’
‘It’s fine. They won’t be able to follow you here very easily.’
‘So why are you wearing them?’
‘We will be leaving soon,’ he said, reassuring him. ‘You are safe, Aamir.’
He knew that the security forces would identify Aamir soon enough. They would scour the footage from the barrage of CCTV cameras in the station, and it would be a simple enough thing to find the boy with the heavy-looking rucksack that was just the same as the rucksacks carried by the two bombers. They would be able to follow his Underground journey all the way back to Euston, and then they would find him disembarking from the train. They would follow that back to Luton. Mohammed had anticipated that they would, of course. That was why he had proposed the meeting in the car park rather than in the station itself. He had checked very carefully, and he was sure that there were no cameras at the end of the station property. The police would find Bashir’s car and be able to trace their journey back to its origin in Manchester. There would be no sign of Mohammed.
And, of course, the police would be able to follow Aamir’s footsteps away from Westminster. They would be able to follow him onto the bus. They would know when he disembarked, too. But Mohammed was confident that there would be limited coverage once he left the bus, and none once he turned onto the warren of roads and alleys that eventually led to the warehouse. They would follow him as far as they could and then swamp the area with officers. They would find this place eventually, but it would be much too late by then. He had plenty of time, but he had to deal with the boy.
‘They’ll follow me here?’
‘Some of the way. Not once you left the main road.’
‘So why do you need that stuff?’
‘I like to be very careful. This is dangerous work, Aamir. I have been doing it for many years. Do you know why I have never been caught?’
‘Because you are careful.’
‘And because I don’t leave loose ends.’
He took the gun from his pocket and shot the boy in the gut. The Beretta coughed, the report muffled by the suppressor. Aamir fell to the floor, his hands clasped around his stomach, with the blood
already discolouring his shirt. He looked up at Mohammed in shock. He stepped up to him, pressed the end of the silencer against his crown and fired a second time. The force of the round knocked Aamir down onto his side.
Mohammed collected both casings and put them into his pocket.
He took his iPad and opened the BBC’s iPlayer app. The usual evening schedule had been cancelled for wall-to-wall coverage of the bombing. There was a helicopter overhead offering an excellent view of the damage that the second bomb had caused. The news anchor was reporting dozens of fatalities and hundreds maimed or wounded. Survivors, many glazed over with shock, were relaying their experiences to the cameras. Senior police officers struggled to answer premature questions about who might be responsible. Politicians, only recently allowed to leave the questionable safety of the Commons chamber, fulminated angrily and promised that the perpetrators would be brought to justice. But the overwhelming impression was one of hopelessness that a powerful blow had been struck in the heart of the capital.
And that was all very, very good.
It would metastasise into fury and the desire for bloody revenge, and that was good, too.
Mohammed took a bottle of water and drank from it. He put his iPad away and made his preparations to leave.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It took an hour before the doors to the carriage were finally opened. The train had moved down the platform a little, and the smashed screen doors did not match up evenly with the doorways. People went through in single file. The emergency lights on the platform were lit. It meant that they could see where they were going. It also meant that they could see the devastation that had been wrought around them.
They went forward as a long snake, each person holding on to the hand of the person ahead of them. A man was in front of Isabella. He was wearing a suit and a polished pair of brown brogues and looked completely out of place. They walked through the passageway and into the vestibule. She heard the man mutter a curse. Up ahead, there was a pile of people. None of them were moving. Some of them were in pieces. They had to climb over and through them.
The woman who was holding Isabella’s hand broke out of the line, jostling her, and as she caught her balance, she put her foot down on the leg of one of the bodies. It felt soft, with give to it, and was not what she would have expected at all. The woman stumbled and fell. Isabella kept walking.
A fireman was at the head of their little line. He led them to the escalator and ushered them up. ‘Keep going up,’ he said as Isabella passed by him. ‘The way out is just up ahead. Don’t stop.’
The shaft was blackened with soot, and chunks of the plaster had been gouged out by debris. They reached the top, and Isabella saw a woman who was hobbling. She had been in the line ahead of her, and now she was struggling to keep up. She was wearing a trouser suit, and because people were walking in single file, she was holding back the queue. Isabella released the hand of the man in front and went over to her.
‘Are you all right?’
‘No,’ she said, gesturing to her leg.
Isabella looked down. It was horribly bent. She didn’t know how she could walk on it at all.
‘Can I help?’
‘Thank you.’
The woman rested her weight on Isabella’s shoulder, and straining with the effort, she helped her walk towards the gate and the daylight beyond.
PART TWO
Chapter Twenty-Three
Isabella Rose idled the engine of her Kawasaki Ninja. The bike had belonged to her mother, and she had taught her how to ride it. It was big and powerful, and riding it was one of Isabella’s favourite pleasures.
She waited at the end of the road with the row of industrial units. The little industrial quarter was next to the Route de Safi, four kilometres south of Marrakech. It accommodated dozens of studios that produced made-for-export goods for tourists to take home with them.
She had noticed the workshops as she was riding out to the south. There was a sign staked into the baked ground, advertising cheap space. She had been looking for somewhere more secure than the garage that her mother had left her in the city. That place was in a bad part of town and she was concerned that it wasn’t secure. She had visited it one afternoon to find scrapes and gouges around the lock. Someone had tried to get inside. Squatters, maybe, or junkies looking for an easy score. It didn’t matter who. They must have been interrupted – she had been fortunate. She had no intention of losing the equipment that she stored there.
A car arrived, passing Isabella and slowing outside the vacant unit. The engine stopped and a man got out. She guessed that it was the samsar. Property in Morocco was let in various ways. Some leases were arranged with traditional realtors, whereas others were more ad hoc, employing the services of a samsar. They worked in every neighbourhood and knew where all the available property could be found. The landlord and tenant paid a small commission to the samsar for his services if the property was rented. Samsars tended not to have dedicated offices and advertised their business in tea cafés and convenience stores.
The man was in his late middle age, wearing a cheap suit that was dusty at the ankles, and cheap shoes. It was obvious that his profession did not offer him a particularly lucrative return.
She revved the engine and rolled down the road to him. He checked her out, a quick glance, and then looked right through her.
‘Monsieur?’
He looked at her with surprise. He replied, in French, ‘Hello?’
Isabella’s French was excellent. ‘You have an appointment.’
The surprise became mild annoyance. ‘Yes, but not with you. With Melody Atika.’
‘My mother.’
‘And where is she?’
‘I’m here on her behalf.’
‘And what is your name?’
‘Sabrina.’
‘I really need to speak to your mother, Sabrina.’
‘She would have come, but she has been detained. She sends her apologies, but she thought it was sensible that we keep the appointment.’
‘But you . . .’ He paused, trying to find the right words to convey his disappointment. He managed a smile. ‘But you are just a girl, mademoiselle.’
Isabella ignored the man’s patronising tone. ‘She trusts me to make a decision on her behalf.’
He sucked his teeth. ‘I think it would be better to wait, though, don’t you?’
‘No, I don’t. Neither does she. I’ve come all the way out here. So have you. If the premises are unsuitable, I can tell my mother and save you a second trip. But if they are suitable, perhaps you make your commission.’ The man still looked uncomfortable, although she could see that she was gradually persuading him. She pointed to the door. ‘Open it up. I’ll take a look.’
The samsar sighed but gave up. ‘Fine,’ he said, reaching into his pocket for a key that was fastened to a bright red fob. He unlocked the door, bent down to the handle and heaved the door up and over.
Isabella ducked down and passed beneath the half-open door and into the unit. There were no windows, and the only illumination was the daylight that seeped in through the door. The samsar pulled a drawstring, and a bulb flickered and caught. She looked around. It was a small space. She could walk from the front to the back with just five paces, and it was the same from left to right.
‘It’s tiny,’ she said.
‘The details are all on the website. The dimensions, the—’
‘The dimensions are listed as ten by ten. This is – what? Half that?’
‘The dimensions—’
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘How long can it be leased for?’
‘As long as your mother would like.’
‘How much is it?’
‘It is ten thousand dirhams a month.’
She shook her head. ‘That’s extortionate.’
‘I’m afraid that is the price.’
‘My mother will pay five.’
‘You can negotiate on her behalf?’
&n
bsp; ‘Five.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Seven.’
‘Five and a half. And she’ll pay the first year up front.’
‘She will agree to that?’
The man was a bumptious oaf, and Isabella had to fight to keep the irritation from her voice. ‘Yes, she will. In cash.’
He couldn’t disguise the greed that passed across his face.
‘Tell her if she can bring the money to the café tomorrow, I’ll personally make sure that it is all arranged.’
Isabella said that she would. She took one final look around the space to confirm that it was suitable for her purposes and, satisfied that it was, went back outside to her bike. The samsar pulled the drawstring, lowered the door and locked it.
She gunned the engine and rode back to the city.
Isabella followed the main road into the suburbs of the city, then followed a well-worn route to the Rue Kaa El Machraa. It was on the other side of town from the place that she had shared with her mother and was approached through a similar warren of alleyways and passages, each narrower and darker than the last, ancient and mysterious. She turned right and then left, and when it became too narrow to ride safely, she got off and pushed the bike. She skirted two local boys playing games on their phones in the light of a kerosene lamp, and finally reached the thick oak door. The small sign fixed on the wall next to it announced the Riad Farnatchi.
She unlocked it, pushed it all the way back and negotiated the bike inside. The first room was a generous vestibule, and she pushed the bike through it into the open courtyard beyond. Moroccan riads were built around open shafts that typically featured a freezing-cold plunge pool at the bottom. The warm air was drawn down into the shaft, cooled at the bottom and then recirculated so that the rooms arranged around the opening were cooled.