Sometime later, he didn’t know exactly when but it was not yet light, something wakened him. A rat? His subconscious sensed a subtle change in the atmospheric pressure in the cavernous space. He looked around for several moments before pulling the vile sleeping bag tighter around his body. Then he put his head against the cold stone wall and closed his eyes.
* * *
The Counter Terrorism Unit squad commander signalled to his team to disperse to different entry points to the old building. Clad in grey Kevlar body armour, they carried state-of-the-art weapons including automatic assault rifles, handguns, submachine guns and tasers. Some held battering rams or polycarbonate shields. Most wore visored helmets, headphones, facemasks and two-way radios. All of them were highly trained and even more highly motivated. After all, this was the bastard who’d taken out Princess Izzy.
At the entrance to the mill, two dog teams stood by, waiting to be summoned. Snipers were on a nearby roof. The CTU squad had been deployed from Leeds after consultation with various other security forces including MI5, the National Counter Terrorism Security Office and the Metropolitan Police.
They had received a call from a shopkeeper in Manningham Lane who had seen a man steal some vegetables from the stall outside his store. It was, he said, the second time the thief had stolen food. At first the police had tried to rebuff him – they weren’t interested in the theft of a cabbage. But the grocer had persisted and, when he said the magic word – ‘terrorist’ – the cops had listened to what he had to say. He told them he had a copy of that day’s Telegraph & Argus on his counter and had recognised the man through the window from the photograph on the front page.
Incredulous, the local cops had sent a car straight round to double-check the witness’s credibility before ringing their head office who, in turn, contacted the West Yorkshire CTU in Leeds. A team of Bradford detectives from Trafalgar House arrived soon after and quickly found other witnesses who had seen a suspicious-looking stranger enter the mill on Lumb Lane. The police had quickly sealed off the area just as darkness descended.
It took another nail-biting ninety minutes before everything had been signed off and the heavy brigade sent in: the armed response unit, the dogs and the snipers. Now they were ready. The commander signalled for the men to move into the building.
* * *
Hazari was just beginning to nod off again when he became aware of lights shining on him. He shook his head and looked up but couldn’t make out anything in the glare. It was like looking at the sun during a solar eclipse. He struggled to his feet, sleeping bag around his sandals, as he heard men shouting and dogs barking. Confused, scared, he raised the machete to shield his eyes. Another shout and he sensed rather than saw a series of red spots across his chest, like a measles rash.
The jihadi just had time to whisper: ‘I seek forgiveness from Allah for all my sins and turn to Him’ before the red spots were replaced with blood splatters.
40
AH, SHIT. It was my worst nightmare. The same make-up girl, the same studio and … the same sodding presenter. Francesca bloody Walker, the smiling assassin wife of one of my fiercest rivals. Just my luck. The BBC news producer told me the normal presenter was on his Christmas holidays. Probably skiing in Verbier.
‘And now we turn to Jonathan Bligh, the editor of the UK’s biggest selling tabloid newspaper UK Today, which is pursuing an alleged vendetta against the country’s Muslim community.’
Bugger, I thought, but forced a tight smile as the cameras swung towards me.
‘Good evening, Mr Bligh, welcome back to the program.’ Walker gave a smirk as if to say, ‘And I totally fucked you over that time’. ‘Today a prominent Imam described your newspaper as, and I quote, “a rabble-rousing, racist rag that incites hatred and contempt for moderate Muslims everywhere”. How do you respond to that?’
‘Good evening, Francesca, so nice to see you again,’ I lied. ‘Obviously I reject that characterisation of the newspaper. We set out to provide a fair, balanced and –’
‘Yes, yes. But the fact is that you have run a series of articles and editorials that plainly portray the Muslim community in a very poor light, have you not?’
I took a deep breath. I needed to take control of this interview before it ran off the rails like the last one.
‘No, that is not the case. Yes, our coverage of recent terrorist attacks – including two high-profile murders – has been extensive but also, I would argue, extremely measured. Many of our exclusive stories have tried to focus on the underlying issues that cause this small minority of fanatics to kill innocent people in the name of Islam.’
‘So you agree that it is only a small minority to blame. Why then has the paper sought to hold the broader community of peace-loving Muslims and especially their leaders responsible, at least in part, for these acts of terror?’
I looked straight at the camera. ‘I believe the Imams and Muslim community leaders could be doing more to solve the problem. Most of the young men who have become radicalised are sons, brothers and friends of those same peace-loving people. It is hard to believe that they were unaware of what was going on. Unaware of their new, hard-line beliefs. Unaware of the changes in their lifestyle and habits.’
‘So you are saying they should dob their loved ones in to the police?’ Walker put her fist against her chin thoughtfully as the camera zoomed in for a close-up of her faux earnest face.
‘Actually, I am saying precisely that. Silence is violence as they say. If Muslim teachers, Imams and families were more proactive in identifying and discouraging these young men, fewer innocent people would be bombed and beheaded. What’s wrong with asking that?’
‘Interesting. So, what do you suggest? That we round up these people – the vast majority of them you admit are good citizens – and put them in internment camps?’
‘Of course not. But no doubt there were many good German citizens in the thirties and forties who nevertheless stood by and allowed the Nazis to carry out their atrocities. As someone once said, “The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.”’
‘In other words, you say moderate Muslims in this country are like people who enabled the Holocaust?’
I was about to tell her to perform an anatomically impossible solo sexual act but just managed to restrain myself. Partly because I knew who would be watching: Annie, of course, and Martha, who had called me an hour before the program to try to stop me going on. So I took another deep breath.
‘That’s absolute cra– claptrap, Francesca, and you know it. I simply think that the people of this country need to be made aware of the facts about what exactly is going on with regard to Islamic terrorism and why it’s happening here on our doorstep.’
‘What facts?’
At last I was on firm ground. ‘For a start, Britain is home to more radical Islamists than any other European country. Around thirty thousand, in fact.’
Walker looked sceptical, her eyebrows two horizontal lines. ‘Oh really? And where did you pluck that, frankly unbelievable, figure from?’
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘it comes from various impeccable sources including our own MI5 intelligence service and the European Union’s anti-terror chief.’ I paused for effect. ‘And both are on the record as saying that at least three thousand of these Islamists are active, dangerous and of great concern to security forces. To quote one: “Many are human time bombs waiting to explode”.’
For a moment there was dead air as Walker paused while trying to process this information. I could see that she was becoming fidgety as the interview started to get away from her. I, on the other hand, was beginning to enjoy myself. But then she rallied.
‘So, what do you think this means, Mr Bligh?’
‘I think it means more atrocities are inevitable in the months and years ahead. Particularly as more British-born ISIS fighters return home. Unless, that is, we wake up and start to do something about it.’
‘Really?’ Walker
said. ‘Does that mean the government needs to introduce harsher laws to deal with terrorists?’
‘Not necessarily. As I understand it, we have sufficient laws in place but they are not being enforced. But I do think the government should significantly increase the size of MI5 and the number of police skilled in anti-terrorism techniques. That is what happens in wartime and I believe we are now at war with ISIS and Al-Qaeda.’
‘Strong words, Mr Bligh. Is it any wonder that many view your newspaper’s stance on this issue as racist and Islamophobic?’
I had expected this question. Was ready for it. It was a default position that many take whenever anyone talks about Muslim issues.
I sighed. ‘Well, Francesca, when we condemned the IRA for blowing people up here on the mainland, were we being “Paddyphobic”? Of course not. A small minority of Irish activists wanted to use violence to achieve their aims. We did not blame the whole Irish nation for this but we did expect them to denounce the bombers and help end the violence. And that, Francesca, is all we want from the broader Muslim community – exactly the same as we would demand from people of other faiths and backgrounds.’
She pursed her lips and looked sceptical. ‘That rather – I might say extreme – viewpoint has resulted in death threats to you and your newspaper from an Islamic group. Is that likely to change your approach?’
‘No. This is too important an issue to ignore. The politicians may try to sweep it under the carpet but I believe a newspaper has a duty to inform readers of anything that threatens our way of life. UK Today will continue to report fearlessly on terrorism and those who perpetrate it or enable it. Our readers deserve to know the truth.’
Walker’s hand went to her earphone and she looked momentarily distracted. ‘Um,’ she said, ‘I’m told we have some breaking news.’
And then a picture of Ghulman Hazari came up on the monitors with the caption: ‘Princess Izzy suspect reportedly shot by police.’
Walker looked back at the camera. ‘Reports are coming in that alleged terrorist Ghulam Hazari, wanted in connection with the recent deaths of gay activist Hugo Morgan and Princess Isabella, has been cornered and shot dead by police in Bradford. More of that coming up.’ She turned back to me: ‘One last question while we have you here, Mr Bligh. On a different topic.’
Uh, oh. What now?
‘Further EU and US sanctions against Russia are reportedly imminent. Your newspaper has always taken an aggressive stance in support of these measures. As UK Today has a Russian oligarch as an owner, is that likely to change?’
Ah, shit.
41
ANNIE AND I had a blazing row early the next morning. She was pissed off about the interview, saying it would stir things up again with the terrorists. Then, when I suggested over breakfast that she needed to be more alert when she was out and about, she went ballistic.
‘For Christ’s sake, Jonno, how selfish can you be? Why put us all at even more risk? Not just me but your son? I just don’t get why you’d go on television and provoke these people!’
‘You know what? I did it because it’s my bloody job. You knew when I took it that it wouldn’t all be a bed of bloody roses!’ I’d been proud of my TV performance and was stung that she had chosen to give me a hard time over it. Childish, I know, but the words were out of my mouth before I could swallow them back.
Annie is the bravest person I know. What she endured on Rehab Island would have defeated anybody. But clearly I’d underestimated how the recent threat from the martyr maniacs had thrown her off balance. It didn’t help, of course, that we now also had Percy to consider. I’d started to apologise but was too late. Annie looked at me with something that I had never seen before in her suddenly glistening eyes; I was trying to work out whether it was contempt or disappointment when she stood up and said tightly: ‘If you care to remember, I did not want you to take the job in the first place. And this is exactly why. I’m going out. Have a nice day!’
The front door had slammed and I remembered that she had an appointment to see Dr Madeleine McCabe, the Cotswold-based psychologist who’d helped her deal with PTSD after Rehab Island. She, apparently, was in London for a conference and had suggested they meet up.
Posh came into the kitchen with Percy. She’d obviously overheard our argument because she looked at me with disapproval. I couldn’t blame her. ‘I’m taking Percy to the park,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘But it’s freezing out there,’ I protested. ‘Warmer than in here,’ she sniffed and went out.
Neville was more congratulatory. ‘A right result last night, guv,’ he said on our way to the office. ‘That BBC bint didn’t know what ’it ’er. I watched it in the old rub-a-dub-dub wiv my mates last night. Nearly choked on me bleedin’ pint, I did.’
‘Thanks, mate. Bit better than last time, eh?’
‘Not ’alf! Now that one was a Weston!’
‘A Weston? Okay, you got me – what’s that?’
‘A Weston-Super-Mare, guv. A bleedin’ nightmare!’
You got that right.
‘I ‘ope you don’t mind me askin’, guv,’ Nev continued, ‘but ’ow’s your missus settlin’ in?’
‘Yeah, good, mate. Thanks for asking.’
‘She’s a diamond, guv. You’re a lucky geezer, if I may say so. I bet she loved you on the box last night, right?’
* * *
Still smarting from her bust-up with Jonno, Annie took the Circle Line from Kensington High Street to Tower Hill. She used to love the Tube when she’d worked in London. The sense of being a part of the throbbing heart of the nation’s capital had always thrilled her. Today at rush hour it was as busy as she remembered; people on their way to work, hung-over students staring glassy-eyed at their phones, and tourists heading for the Tower of London or a river cruise.
As she stood thawing out in the relative warmth of the mass of bodies crowded together in that sardine can, suddenly, shockingly, a feeling of vulnerability swept over her as she remembered her husband’s words of warning. An attack could come from anywhere. Where better from a terrorist’s point of view than a crowded subway? Any of these people could be a suicide bomber, one of the Harkat-ul Shaheed martyrs. Panic began to take hold and her anxious eyes flitted around, searching for grim-faced terrorists. Get a grip, she told herself, you’ve a far better chance of winning the lottery than being blown up. She took three deep breaths of stale air and began to calm down.
The five-minute walk from the underground via a litter-strewn underpass to the Tower Hotel acted as further balm to her troubled spirit. When she reached St Katharine Docks, she put her elbows on a weathered railing for a moment to admire the bevy of boats tied up at the marina, masts swaying in the silvery stillness of the winter morning, some still festooned with Christmas fairy lights.
She was grateful for the clean, chill breeze and also for her thick wool coat and cashmere scarf. A few ducks braved the cold, treading water at the side of the ornate gilded Royal barge, the Gloriana. She watched the early shoppers and office workers strolling through the arcades, and a few hardy souls having an al fresco coffee. The penthouse apartments above reminded her of her home in Rose Bay. Jonno would like it here, she mused. But the thought of him made her cross, so she moved on. As she neared the hotel, she could see the Shard puncturing the leaden sky on the other side of the Thames.
Dr Madeleine McCabe was waiting for her in the hotel foyer. Without a word, they hugged, holding on to each other tightly for nearly a minute. When they finally parted, their arms remained entwined as they examined each other’s faces. Annie’s eyes were moist, distorting Maddy’s features until she took one hand away and wiped them with the sleeve of her heavy coat.
The therapist was slightly taller than Annie, her black hair cut down to a fringed bob that framed quick, mischievous eyes. Annie knew Maddy must now be closing in on fifty but she looked ten years younger in black jeans and a quilted Barbour jacket, a Hermès scarf wrapped in folds around her neck and polished riding boots. H
er voice was the same soft, reassuring Irish lilt that Annie heard in her head almost every day, calming her and constantly affirming her own inner strength. The many therapy sessions they’d had as the counsellor helped Annie deal with the nightmarish effects of PTSD had led to a deep and enduring bond between them.
‘Jaysus, it’s good to see you again, Annie. How have you been?’ Her eyes searched Annie’s.
‘Well, the last couple of months have been a little fraught, what with the big move and everything, but I can honestly say that I’m in a good place right now. Much of that thanks to you.’
‘And are you sleeping okay?’
‘Most of the time. But sometimes I wake up in the night and think I’m still in the belly of that pirate ship. I can almost taste the smell of old fish and diesel.’
‘Well, let’s go and have a coffee and we can talk about that.’ The psychologist led Annie to the hotel’s brasserie on the ground floor. It was relatively quiet, the first flurry of early check-outs having already departed, and they claimed a cosy corner near a window with incredible views of Tower Bridge and its ice-coated suspension chains. Outside, Annie saw a young couple grinning and taking selfies with the turreted towers behind them rising high above the wispy fog on the river. They looked Italian and very much in love. Nearer the entrance, an older couple, clearly American, sat on club chairs, a matching pair of wheeled suitcases lined up beside them like Buckingham Palace sentries.
Maddy waved at another woman who was having breakfast alone. ‘Another psychologist,’ she explained. ‘Attending the same seminar as me.’
A waitress came almost immediately and took their orders. Two hot chocolates plus a croissant for Maddy. Then they sat back and the therapist smiled and said, ‘Mother of God, you do look good, Annie. Motherhood and marriage must agree with you. Talking of which, how’s the wee fella – Percy, isn’t it?’
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