Century of Jihad (3 page)

Political correctness, or thought control as he called it – the subject of many a rant – had in fact had no apparent influence on his thinking and he wasn’t scared to voice his opinions.

Ed was now in full flow. ‘This combination only serves to encourage extremists. The mindset, ‘I don’t support terrorism but I can understand the reason behind it’ forms the bedrock on which extremists flourish, whether in Northern Ireland or amongst the Islamic community. Government in Westminster claiming only a small part of a community supports violent action doesn’t wash when opinion polls taken within that community show a large group of people having an understanding of the motives behind such action. This was the case amongst many in the Catholic population of Northern Ireland and now it is happening once again, this time on the British mainland. While it is essential that people in our line of work understand what lies behind the terrorists’ warped vision, all too often when members of the public say they ‘understand’, it results in a place of sanctuary for psychopaths. The misguided policies, long favoured by the ruling elite, of a multicultural society where immigrants have been allowed to settle but not integrate, along with mass immigration, have led to significant and growing numbers of Brits supporting many of the policies of, if not voting for, fringe political parties – some of which harbour potentially dangerous individuals. There is a growing feeling among many, not just amongst the Muslim community, of disenfranchisement from the decision-making process. This is hardly surprising when eighty per cent of the laws in the country are introduced by the unelected European Commission in Brussels – an organisation favoured by the British political elite because it allows them to strut around on the world stage as part of something big; post-Empire Britain being too small in many of their shallow minds. Self service as opposed to service being uppermost to too many of, our so-called representatives.’

Stuart wondered what it was about Ed’s generation. His dad was the same, going on about everything and anything.

Ed continued, ‘The country’s diminished status has also adversely impacted on the confidence of the population at large. There’s a lack of British identity. The education system has failed the population. It has failed to impart historical and cultural awareness. The internationalist and non-judgemental opinions of the trendy left have dominated for far too long and done untold damage. Everything has been turned inside out and upside down. Without social norms there is no society. This is the intention of the followers of Antonio Gramsci.’

Stuart found himself blurting out, ‘Who the fuck is Antonio Gramsci?’

There was a moment’s silence. Stuart sat horror struck. What genie had he unleashed? Through his horror he was aware of Ed’s voice droning:

‘He’s the father of modern day Marxism. He was the man who set out the agenda being followed by the sixties radicals who now hold power in the west. No wonder half of Britain’s Muslims want to live under Sharia law. The long term solution for all this pent-up frustration amongst the population at large is for the politicians and the ruling elite within the country to listen to the people. The ruling elite don’t have the will to engage problems head on, preferring to tinker with the issues around the edges, continuing with the social policies which have created the problems in the first place. After all, these failed policies are those of all the main political parties which have more in common than divides them. Vested business and minority group interests hold sway. When the public choose not to vote at elections, because they feel it’s pointless bothering, those same politicians criticise public apathy. And what of minority parties who appear to be offering the public what they want? Well, these parties are labelled intolerant extremists or crackpot and, by default, the many decent voters who feel forced to vote for them are presumably the same and therefore not worth listening to. So it goes full circle. Mark my words, there will be more and more direct militant action from individuals and groups as increasing numbers of people feel they are ignored. The problem is our leaders are never truly held to account. It’s a joke the British government telling foreigners how to run their affairs; about democracy and free speech.’

As Ed pontificated they sped onwards towards Regent’s Park underground station on that bright and sunny, but cold, Monday morning in early December.

Ed parked his battered Ford Fiesta amongst all the other vehicles scattered on the road outside the station. The two officers walked over to the entrance, showing their police credentials to a police constable standing guard before heading down to the platforms below.

On the platform, Ed found the other members of his team already at the scene, sipping from steaming mugs of coffee. The atmosphere was intense as rescuers and investigators hurried about their work. The other team members had made their separate ways to the incident. His boss, Detective Inspector (DI) Russ Ward, a short man in his early thirties, was speaking animatedly to a young uniformed police constable.

Ward had been born in the northern city of Manchester. Of slim build, with dark brown hair and pale complexion, he didn’t fit everyone’s image of a police officer. A university graduate, he had gained a law degree before joining the Metropolitan Police in London. During his initial training at the Police College in Hendon, North London, his abilities had earned him the coveted Baton of Honour award for best student. However, his subordinates saw him as someone more interested in pursuing his career than pursuing criminals.

DI Ward turned to acknowledge Ed’s arrival.

‘Nice of you to join us. I hope we didn’t interrupt anything.’

This was typical of Ward’s sarcastic approach to subordinates.

‘OK people,’ Ward continued, addressing his assembled team. ‘I have just spoken with DAC Braithwaite. All the indicators are that what we have here is a suicide bombing of the type we have seen here in London before and in other parts of the world. The bomber boarded the train and detonated his device in the tunnel, either intentionally or by accident. Judging from the injuries to passengers, initial forensic examination of the scene and eyewitness accounts, it appears an IED, improvised explosive device, was either being carried by the bomber or worn under his outer garments. It would appear to have been an anti-personnel device, as the explosion itself was comparatively small but a large number of projectiles – ball bearings – have been projected from the device. Colleagues in other teams and from the Security Service are checking on the movements of known and suspect extremists from around the country. CCTV footage is being collected. Ed, I want you and your people to interview passengers here. Somebody may have seen something that may give us a lead. Other teams have been assigned to interview potential witnesses already removed to hospitals.’

With that DI Ward unceremoniously turned away from the group to talk to a passing member of the forensic team.

Ed and his team left the platform and climbed the stairs into the daylight and the intense activity outside the station entrance. They immediately commenced the interviewing of passengers from the train still present at the scene. The interviews had to be handled with great sensitivity due to the traumatic events these people had just been through. Most of these potential witnesses had seen nothing untoward in the moments leading up to the explosion, travelling in their own little cocoon as many commuters do. Not seeing, not hearing. However, one young, dishevelled woman, in an obvious state of shock, gave Ed an account of something that had made her uneasy just before the blast.

‘There was this young Asian guy. He was standing no more than three feet from where I was standing. It was a real crush. There were other people crammed in between him and me. He was staring right at me. But he seemed to be looking straight through me. His lips were moving constantly, rapidly. It gave me the creeps. I just wanted to get to my station and get away from him. I remember thinking, I hope he doesn’t get off at my stop. Then there was a bright flash. This sudden rush of air, like the train door had opened. I felt something hit me, it sent me hurtling backwards. The next thing I knew I was picking myself up from the floor of the train. It was dark. I could hear the sound of creaking metal; things falling. There were groans. Some people were speaking in hushed tones. I couldn’t stop coughing. I couldn’t catch my breath. I didn’t know what had happened. I thought there had been a crash in the tunnel.’

‘Can you give me a description of this young man? Height, build, what he was wearing? Was he carrying anything? Was he on the train before it got to Regent’s Park?’

‘He entered the station just ahead of me. He’d just got out of a taxi. I think he was about five feet six, quite short. He was chubby. He wasn’t carrying anything. He was wearing a blue anorak and black jeans. That’s all I can remember. Look, I have to call my mother. Let her know I’m OK.’

‘One last question. Do you think you would recognise the man again?’

The young woman looked at Ed for a moment. She seemed to tremble.

‘I can’t see his face clearly, only those eyes staring straight at me.’

Ed took the young woman’s name and address, and thanked her for her assistance. He told her he would be in touch to take a formal witness statement. The young woman turned and slowly, painfully, walked away from him. He watched as a paramedic placed his hand on her shoulder and guided her into one of the tents that had been erected to provide shelter and medical care. He stood for a moment, staring, feeling helpless, as the woman disappeared from view.

Ed shook himself out of this moment of self-indulgence and walked over to his team. They had completed their task at the station. ‘One hell of a start to the day!’ muttered Ed. ‘OK team. Let’s get back to the factory. We have a lot of TV to watch!’

Theo and Lisa made their way to their cars. Ed stood at the station entrance, Stuart at his side, watching the hustle and bustle in the street for a moment before they weaved their way through to his battered wreck.

On the way back to the station Ed reflected on how mundane police work could be at times. There was nothing worse than sifting through so much film footage. Well, perhaps surveillance. But at least doing that provided some amusing and interesting distractions. It was amazing what people got up to when they thought nobody was watching.

Back at their base, at Scotland Yard in Central London, Ed’s team of young detectives were assembling, having struggled through the traffic chaos back from the crime scene.

There was Detective Constable Theo Akinola, aged twenty-five, a tall, well-built young man who was the son of Nigerian immigrant parents. Educated on the mean streets of the East End of London, where he was born and raised, he always had a smile on his face. He was recognised on the team as a joker who liked a drink and fancied himself as a ladies’ man. At least that was how he saw himself!

Then there was DC Lisa Clark, aged twenty-six, from Bristol, with a slim 5’4 figure topped with long, dark brown hair. She was a deep thinker, always looking for the meaning behind things. She had joined the Metropolitan Police after completing a degree in Egyptology. A sergeant had once felt it necessary to tell her, while she was a probationer, that it was not her concern why people committed crime – it was her job to catch criminals.

Finally there was DC Stuart McDonald, aged twenty-five, a wiry, light-hearted Scot, whose easy going manner hid a quick mind. He’d had a varied working background after leaving high school at eighteen, before moving south to join the Met.

They took to their work stations to pore over the hours of assembled footage. The hustle and bustle going on around them faded into the background as they studied the footage in front of them with a desperate intensity. A strong determination to get on with the job and identify the perpetrator of this outrage and any accomplice or accomplices.

Ahmed Khan was sitting in his small, one bedroom apartment in Swindon, Wiltshire watching, with some degree of satisfaction, the images on his TV screen as they were beamed before him in a constant flow of news updates covering the explosion on the London Underground that morning. Once again his brothers had struck a mortal blow against the ‘Little Satan’ that was Britain. He wondered how this action might fit in with the operation he and his colleagues in his ‘Attack Cell’ were waiting to undertake.

Born in Bradford, he had been brought up as a devout Muslim, regularly attending the Mosque with his father and celebrating all the religious festivals. He had left school, and Bradford, at eighteen to study chemistry at London University’s Imperial College. In common with many students finding themselves suddenly free of parental control and influences, he had succumbed easily to the temptations of student life. He had participated fully in the campus social scene ignoring the conflict between this and the culture and religion of his upbringing.

On graduating he took a job in London, but away from the hectic social ‘buzz’ of university he had come to think more deeply about what he was doing and where his life was leading. He still socialised with university friends and work colleagues, but he began to feel a growing unease. Increasingly he found people to be shallow, with no fundamental beliefs other than making money and self-gratification. He also came to despise the excess consumption of alcohol and the free and easy approach to sex. Gradually, he began to extricate himself from the social scene as his longing for the establishment of a more respectful and religious way of life took a greater hold.

Finding himself increasingly lonely by this self-imposed alienation, he left his job in London and returned to the security of the more familiar surroundings of his culture and religion in Bradford. He took comfort from the behaviour of his two younger sisters and their Muslim friends, their respectful and wholesome lifestyle, and contrasted this with the behaviour he had witnessed on the streets outside his community.

In that close knit environment he once again attended his local Mosque, where he fell under the spell of a cleric who hosted discussion groups in a Mosque ante room away from the mainstream of the religious gatherings and teachings. During these meetings the conflicting religious, moral and social values apparent between his religion and that of the indigenous population were discussed at length and in great detail.