Agent of the State (10 page)

Justin took his time but was inserting the fibre-optic cable inside three minutes of pulling back the rug. Within another forty seconds he was refining colour digital images on the miniature screen. He sat cross-legged, swivelling the cable to cover the room below. ‘OK, Al, we have a bomb factory, four up, two in their mid-twenties, English-speaking, Yorkshire accents. Number three is older, saying nothing yet. And the cameraman Shakir is setting up his equipment. You should be getting audio and video feed.’

‘Loud and clear.’

‘Workbench in the centre of the living room. Three devices minimum in plastic containers, fridge in the corner, possibly more stashed in there. Three rucksacks, half a dozen batteries, piles of white powder in a heavy plastic bag.’

‘How much?’

‘Masses. Al, these boys are clean-shaven.’ This was significant, because suicide bombers shaved their faces and body hair immediately before blowing themselves up. Deprived of a proper burial, this was to ensure cleanliness when they entered Heaven.

‘What’s the stuff at the end of the bench?’

‘Bottle of clear liquid – sulphuric acid, possibly.’ Justin strained his eyes. ‘Can’t make out the label. Six, correction, seven plastic beakers, looks like a couple of eye-droppers beside them. There’s a hacksaw and copper tubing for the detonators but can’t see any wires to go with the batteries, not from here. Shakir, with his tripod et cetera, covering the wall to the left of the door. Three chairs. Sheets of A3 covered with felt tip. Al, this guy’s even written the script for them. Bomb factory plus film set.’

In their makeshift observation post, Kerr, Melanie and Fargo crowded round the monitor. Kerr grabbed the mike. ‘Justin, I want you out of there, do you hear me? I mean now.’

‘John?’ said Melanie, quietly, tapping Kerr’s arm. ‘We’ve got company.’

Kerr turned to find the firearms team leader behind him and smiled with relief. ‘Hey, Jim,’ he said, grasping his hand, ‘am I glad to see you.’ Kerr and Jim Gallagher had worked many ops together over the years. Gallagher had arrived in complete silence, shrouded in black fatigues and ready for action, with CS canister, stun grenades, gas mask, quick cuffs, baton, and Glock 17 in the holster strapped to his thigh. Had he been in the jeans and sweatshirt he wore around the house, few would have guessed his job. A Highlander in his early thirties, Gallagher was tall, blond, superfit and mildly spoken, and his youthful face belied the dangers confronting him every working day.

Kerr knew he was also ice cool. In 2005, the week after 7/7, Gallagher had co-ordinated three of the five firearms teams deployed to arrest
jihadis
planning a second wave of attacks in London. Because further attacks were believed to be imminent, his operations had been executed with very little notice to plan or recce, but had been faultless. Captured on TV and replayed constantly, the pictures showed the Trojans at their professional best.

Melanie cleared a space for Gallagher to study the screen.

‘So, John, what crock of shit are you handing me this time?’

‘See for yourself,’ said Melanie, activating the mike. ‘Justin, we’re briefing Challenger One, so pan around again.’

The picture moved jerkily as Kerr pointed at the screen. ‘Three targets in flat 608, plus one to record their suicide video. You can see the explosive mix here, at least three completed devices to pack into rucksacks.’

Gallagher peered through the bus window, counting up the floors. ‘So, no chance to evacuate the building
?’

‘Not with safety,’ said Kerr, holding the headphones to Gallagher’s ear. ‘They’re really worked up, almost ready to hit the street. We don’t have much time.’

Gallagher listened intently. ‘I can’t risk explosions in the block.’ He spoke calmly into his throat mike. ‘Challenger Two, withdraw all units and await my instructions.’ Instinctively, he was checking his gear. ‘We’ll have to regroup, and you should too, John. The uniforms have the cordons set up and you’re about sixty metres too close. If this lot goes up you’ll get hammered.’

‘There’s no time,’ said Kerr.

‘I reckon we’ll have to take them out as soon as they move.’ As he spoke, Gallagher was already heading for the staircase, his body crackling with radio traffic. ‘Keep your heads down, guys,’ he said, as he pattered down the stairs. ‘It’s going to get very noisy out there.’

In flat 608, as Justin and the others watched and listened, the three Islamic terrorists moved about their bomb factory, preparing to make their video and head out for their target destinations. With the exception of Fazal Shakir, none had come to the notice of Room 1830. Sabri, their leader, was in his mid-thirties, a veteran of many training camps in Pakistan. His English was poor and he rarely spoke, but he was a legendary explosives and technical expert.

Daljit, husband and doting father of a young son, had lived in Bradford all his life and worked as an assistant manager in a supermarket. At twenty-four he was the same age as the third member of the group, Mahmoud, who had turned down a place at Leeds University to study chemistry and drifted through a series of dead-end jobs. The grandchildren of Pakistani immigrants and lifelong friends, they had become radicalised in their last year at the local comp and begun to worship at the same mosque until Sabri had ordered them to drop off the radar. Neither had ever travelled outside England, and none appeared to be acquainted with bin Laden’s video producer.

Their bodies spiritually purified, they carefully packed the copper detonators with TATN for insertion into the mix of chapatti flour and hydrogen peroxide, while Shakir waited patiently by his camera. Except for the nails, which showed black through the plastic, they might have been preparing a meal.

They had placed each of the three rucksacks next to an improvised explosive device, IED, in a plastic box, ready to be packed inside. The bags already contained a map of the London Underground, one for each martyr. Apart from the workbench, fridge and large TV, there was no other furniture in any of the rooms, and nothing to distract on the walls. The flat was truly fit for purpose. None of the terrorists bothered with gloves and they knew their fingerprints would be on every surface. That was an up-side to suicide bombing: it did away with the necessity to conceal evidence.

Shakir turned down the volume on the TV. He was urging them to take their seats in front of the camera, but they ignored him. Mahmoud, agitated, checked his watch for the hundredth time. ‘Our brother is more than an hour late. Something bad has happened.’

‘He will come to us in good time,’ snapped Sabri. ‘We wait, as ordered.’

The old Pakistani spoke for the first time: ‘And while he comes to you, brothers, you make your living wills.’

Mahmoud glared at him. ‘Be silent!’ He turned back to Sabri. ‘The cops may already have taken him down. We need the red dots now, brother. And the sequence. Then we must leave this place.’

On the bus, this caused Kerr and Melanie to exchange a glance. ‘Red dots’ was Al Qaeda code for London Underground stations. It suggested that, to maintain operational security and synchronise the attacks, another brother was to provide the station names and the exact timing for each explosion at the last possible moment. In Kerr’s mind lay the conviction that the final link was Ahmed Jibril.

Sabri’s harsh voice exploded with anger. ‘No. I told you. We wait as planned. We stay here until our brother gives us the targets.’ He looked at Shakir. ‘Old man, we are ready for you. You have the words for us to speak?’

‘Everything is set,’ said Shakir, leaning on his stick as he checked his camera. ‘This is your legacy to the world. If you are careful, I need no more than three or four minutes.’

Mahmoud stood between Sabri and the tripod. The younger man was fifteen centimetres taller than his leader and stretched his hand against his chest. ‘No. We have no time for words and pictures.’ He carefully removed a London Underground map from the nearest rucksack and slapped it on the workbench. ‘In the last hours of our lives we no longer need to fear you. So choose the targets for us now. Otherwise Daljit and I go alone.’

‘Mahmoud is right,’ said Daljit. ‘We need to move right now. If the cops already have our brother they will find us, too. It is time,
inshallah
.’

‘Are you getting this, guys?’ murmured Justin, into his mike, from the flat above. ‘They’re getting ready to roll.’ Then he saw Daljit run to the window, while Mahmoud, who had mixed the explosives, stayed at the workbench, checking the IED connections. As he worked, a speck of plaster dropped onto Mahmoud’s hand and his eyes whipped to the ceiling.

Justin remained prone, capturing every movement on his monitor. He watched Daljit peer through the window and call to the others. Sabri joined him and they began to gesticulate excitedly. ‘Something’s spooking them outside, Al,’ whispered Justin. ‘Who’s moving around out there? You need to let the Trojans know. Alan, are you seeing this?’ he said, into his throat mike.

He heard Fargo speak quietly and urgently. ‘Yeah, and we want you out of there right now. Christ, Justin, don’t move. He’s looking right at you.’ Justin and Fargo froze in their respective viewing points, mesmerised by the image on the screen as Mahmoud peered at the camera directly above him.

Justin lay completely still as the terrorist looked straight at him, keeping his voice to a whisper. ‘Wait, he’s not sure.’

Mahmoud gave a yell and Sabri joined him, leaving Daljit by the window. The two terrorists stared at the ceiling, suspicious but unsure, like brothers in some zany family snapshot. In the corner, Justin saw Shakir using the distraction to dismantle the tripod and pack away his camera.

‘Trust me, Al,’ murmured Justin. ‘They’ll never spot the hole, not enough to be certain.’ For a few seconds the two sides stared each other out in complete silence, as if testing who would blink first. Then Mahmoud spotted Shakir edging towards the door with his equipment and gave a shout. He seemed enraged that the old man should be trying to escape. Justin watched him leap across the room, strike Shakir hard in the face and drag him back, flinging him down by the workbench and snapping his walking stick. Suddenly Daljit yelled something from the window and Justin watched the other two bombers rush to join him.

Ice cool, Justin panned to follow them. ‘It’s OK, we’re clear. Where are the Trojans?’ he said.

‘Getting ready for the assault,’ said Fargo. ‘They’re entering the building, Justin. You have to get out.’

‘And these boys must have seen them. It’s really working them up.’

Fargo again, urgent: ‘Listen, just stop fucking about and get your arse down here.’

Then Kerr’s voice was in his ear. ‘I already told you, Justin. Lock the cable so we have the best picture and get out of there. Call me on your mobile when you’re clear.’

‘OK, but you have to hit them right now.’ Justin heard a sound and turned as the Somali mother reappeared, holding her little boy’s hand. Justin got to his feet and spoke gently to her. ‘I told you, it’s not safe here. You have to go.’

The mother pointed in the vague direction of the lift. ‘Not work.’

Justin held his hands up, palms outstretched. ‘All right, I’ll take care of you, but we have to be very quiet.’

He checked the image on the monitor and secured the cable to capture the maximum coverage. Packing the rest of the kit into the rucksack, he spoke into his throat mike. ‘Al, I’m signing off. Seven-oh-eight is clear.’

The little boy went up to Justin and took his hand. Justin heaved the rucksack on to his back, picked the child up and led them from the room. ‘Come, we’ll use the stairs.’

Ten

Thursday, 13 September, 11.36, Fielding Road, Walthamstow

In the bomb factory directly below, Daljit watched through the window as the other two continued with the final preparations to their bombs. Then, as he leant out, he spotted Gallagher’s firearms teams sneaking through the main door. ‘Sabri!’ he yelled. ‘They are attacking! They are coming to kill us.’

Their leader looked across from the table. ‘How many?’

‘Too many. You must hurry, both of you, we have no more time.’

Fargo’s picture was imperfect, but Daljit’s voice was loud and clear, so powerful that Fargo had to lift his headphones. He and Melanie crowded the screen as Kerr spoke to Gallagher: ‘Jim, do you still have the audio link? You have to hit them now.’

Gallagher’s voice was breathless. ‘Roger that, I’m with Team One, fourth floor,’ he panted, brushing past Justin and his charges, ‘forty seconds away.’

Sabri helped Mahmoud and Daljit arm their devices and place them in the rucksacks while the old Pakistani cowered in the corner where he should have been filming their final message to the world. The bombers gave Osama bin Laden’s film-maker a final look of contempt. This lame, sick man, who had once enjoyed access to the world’s most famous
jihadi
, meant nothing to them. He belonged to the past. ‘Everything is finished,’ said Daljit, quietly.

When they were ready they held the rucksacks to their chests and shouted in unison, ‘We will take them with us,
inshallah
.’

The trigger wire to Daljit’s device became detached. ‘Wait! Wait!’ His hands steady in the face of death, Mahmoud helped Daljit carefully reinsert the copper detonator.