Century of Jihad (8 page)

The two men from the car casually walked into the club. The noise from the music was deafening, their ears still ringing from the noise of the gunfire. Multi-coloured strobe lights were flashing. The club was crowded with young revellers. It was hot, a complete contrast to the outside. The two men looked at each other. The man holding the backpack released the trigger in his left hand. There was a flash – a loud bang. A rush of air. Objects and people thrown in every direction. Clothing torn off bodies. Darkness. The smell of smoke. A moment of stunned silence, as people tried to assimilate all that had happened with such suddenness. Then screams.

A dim light from the emergency lighting cast a haunting glow on the scene. Groans from the injured, lying in pools of blood. Some of the injured had body parts missing, others had foreign objects protruding from their bodies. The dead lay like rag dolls, tossed in a corner by a bored child. Of the living, some pulled themselves out of their state of shock quicker than others. The attack on the Underground train days earlier bringing a realisation of the nature of what had been visited upon them sooner than might otherwise have been the case. Slowly, pulling themselves up from where they had been thrown moments earlier, they started to look for a way out of the bloody shambles that lay all around. Help was given to the injured. Solace to the dying. Friends, frantically, looked for one another in the chaos. There were flames coming from a corner of the room. More screams of panic. Shouts: ‘Where are the bloody fire extinguishers? Call 999!’

Some of the dazed and injured clubbers stumbled out of the club into the cold night air. Smoke was billowing from the entrance. Debris from the blast was strewn on the road outside. The sound of the sirens, from the first of the emergency services responding to the incident, could be heard faintly in the distance, gradually becoming louder.

The emergency vehicles, with their flashing blue lights and piercing sirens, entered North Row within minutes of the explosion. Their crews – fire, ambulance and police – assessed the situation confronting them and immediately contacted their various control centres, updating them on the nature and extent of the emergency, and requesting urgent back-up. The Fire Service put out the small fire, which was just taking hold inside the club, and commenced the rescue effort. Police sealed off the street. Paramedics tended the injured, prioritising the victims for care. Police officers started to take details of persons present and to secure the crime scene.

Ed had arrived home at 8pm and had a family dinner. His first since the explosion the previous Monday. He’d then watched TV and chatted with Sue, his wife, about Christmas arrangements. They’d gone to bed around midnight. Ed was tired, but his spirits were heightened by the results from the investigation so far. He was in a kind of half-sleep. He felt they were starting to get somewhere. Sure, there was still a long way to go, and there was still the threat posed by any accomplices the Underground train bomber had in his enterprise. But at least things had started to come together. There had been no further attacks. There were still questions to be answered. Al Qaeda went in for big co-ordinated attacks. This attack did not fit their usual modus operandi. The backpack delivered to the suspect on the Edgware Road must have contained the IED. The cab driver had confirmed that he had not stopped anywhere on the journey between Marble Arch and when he dropped the suspect off outside Regent’s Park Underground. Where then had the bomb been assembled for the attack on the Underground train?

The unwelcome sound of a phone ringing next to him. It took Ed a few seconds to realise it was his bedside phone. He stretched and grabbed the instrument to his ear, hoping it hadn’t woken Sue. ‘Malone.’

‘Sergeant Malone, it’s the Control Room at the Yard,’ the voice announced on the other end. ‘There has been another terrorist attack. This time on a nightclub in North Row, just south of Oxford Street.’

‘OK, I’m on my way.’ Ed leapt out of his bed and quickly pulled on the clothes he had just thrown off less than an hour earlier. It was handy that they were still on the floor next to his bed. As he left the house, he was glad he hadn’t been tempted to share that bottle of wine with Sue!

He arrived outside the nightclub twenty minutes later. DI Ward was already at the scene. He saw Ed, and walked over towards him. ‘Well, it’s happened again. It appears that our bomber, or bombers, entered the club, having put a few bullets in the four door staff. An anti-personnel device was then detonated amongst the people on the dance floor.’

Ed looked towards the grim scene at the club entrance where the emergency services were still dealing with the aftermath of the attack.

‘Inspector,’ Ed paused before continuing, ‘there’s something niggling me.’

‘What’s that?’ queried DI Ward.

‘Well, Al Qaeda is known for its co-ordinated spectaculars, and these are separate incidents on different kinds of targets, days apart.’

DI Ward didn’t reply. He had already noted this anomaly.

Ed continued, ‘I’m getting a really uneasy feeling about all of this. Should we start thinking the unthinkable? Could this be the start of a sustained campaign?’

DI Ward and Ed made their way through the emergency service workers, busily going about their lifesaving duties with a calm purpose. As the two men reached the door to the nightclub, two paramedics pushed past. Lying on a stretcher, her blonde hair dishevelled and matted in blood, lay young Tracy Cameron. The paramedics had tied a tourniquet to stem the flow of blood from the stub that had once been her right leg.

On entering the club, Ed and the DI paused briefly to take in the scene of devastation that lay all around. The fire and rescue operation was now nearing completion and the building had been declared safe for the forensics officers, who were now entering, to begin their painstaking and detailed examination of the scene.

DI Ward approached one of the forensics team. ‘I know you people hear this all the time, but as soon as you have anything let me know. This situation is escalating, and we desperately need as much input as possible to aid the investigation.’

The forensics officer looked at Ward thoughtfully and replied, ‘I understand. You don’t need to tell us.’ With that, the plump man went about his business.

The DI and Ed stayed at the scene for some time, talking to emergency service personnel, police officers and survivors.

The two detectives got back to their respective homes just as dawn was breaking. They had time to wash, change and have breakfast before the start of another hectic day. There was to be a briefing at the Yard at noon.

The briefing room was loud with chatter amongst the gathered throng of officers; some standing, some leaning against walls, others sitting or perched on the edge of desks. There were officers from all the teams constituting SO15, officers from other units and divisions of the Metropolitan Police and officers from the British Transport Police and Ministry of Defence Police. There was rumour and speculation in the air. Those who had attended the scene of the nightclub explosion communicated their experiences and views to others in the crowded room. Ed’s team stood together in one corner. DI Ward came across to join them. A hush descended as DAC Braithwaite entered.

A sombre DAC announced in a calm and measured tone, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, as you are all now aware, there has been another attack in Central London. On this occasion, the target was a crowded nightclub, just off Oxford Street. We have been collecting CCTV footage from the surrounding area, and some of you have started going through this already. A vehicle, a black BMW, was used as transport by the two male attackers, who used automatic pistols to shoot and kill the four club door staff, prior to entering the club. Inside the club the men detonated an anti-personnel device, an IED containing ball bearings. The subsequent explosion killed thirty-two people and injured fifty others, some seriously. The IED used in this attack is thought to be of the same type of crude, but very effective, home-made device used in Monday’s attack on the Underground network. As has been observed, these attacks have not taken the form of previous, Al Qaeda-inspired attacks, either in this country or elsewhere. We have not been subjected on this occasion to a series of co-ordinated attacks.

‘I can inform you that the attacker in the Underground bombing has now been identified as one Abida Marwat, alias Khanza Mazari. Marwat has not previously appeared on our radar. He has been in and out of mental care institutions for a number of years, and was traced through the Fixated Threat Assessment Centre. Our man had not come, or been previously brought, to their attention either. FTAC enquiries revealed that he was delusional, and got very agitated when hearing news reports from Iraq or Afghanistan. Doctors and nursing staff considered Marwat to be too dysfunctional to present a serious threat. We are still in the early stages of identifying the two attackers on the nightclub. However, I can tell you that the car they used was reported by its owner as stolen two days ago in the East End of London, and that the two men who stole the vehicle have been traced back to a row of terraced properties, approximately a quarter of a mile from the scene of the theft. From CCTV footage taken at the entrance to the nightclub, I can confirm that they are not the same two men involved in the club attack. A surveillance operation has just started on the property. We all have our part to play in bringing the people behind these attacks to justice as soon as possible. We don’t know at this stage if further attacks are planned. Let’s get on with the job. Thank you.’

The DAC left the room, which reverted to a buzz as the officers left to go about their duties.

Ahmed had been watching the developments on his TV screen over the past few days, along with the other members of his attack cell. They met in his small, bedsit apartment, situated in a row of terraced houses on Eastcott Hill, in the centre of Swindon, Wiltshire.

It was now more than a year since they had completed their training at the camp on Pakistan’s North West Frontier with Afghanistan. The six man cell had returned to Britain and, as instructed, had resumed life, blending in with the local community. They occupied separate living accommodation, so as not to attract unwanted attention from neighbours. All six had taken up employment as temporary staff, through various local employment agencies, in order to earn a legitimate income which would stand up to any scrutiny from the security services. It also allowed them the flexibility they needed in respect of their working hours.

On his return to the UK, Ahmed had told his family that he had been offered a good employment opportunity in Swindon, and would not therefore be coming home to Bradford. He informed them that the new job would keep him extremely busy while he settled into it, and would therefore only be able to visit them occasionally.The members of Ahmed’s team were only known to each other by their first names. Saqib, Hussein, Imran, Mahmood and Rahim. They were all young, British-born men in their twenties, to all intents and purposes coming together every few days for prayers and discussion, alternating their meetings between their different addresses. They found the long wait for their mission stressful and frustrating and Ahmed, as the cell leader, had his job cut out on many occasions, as team members went through their ups and downs. All this time Ahmed, being the good leader he was, had to conceal his own fears and concerns from the group.

The call came at 9am. Ahmed answered the phone. A stranger’s voice on the line replied, ‘Greetings, my friend. This is Salim. You have been expecting my call now for some considerable time. You have, no doubt, at times thought that I had forgotten about you? We need to meet today. I will meet you at 3.30pm outside the Italian café on the upper level in the Brunel Arcade in Swindon. Presumably you know the place?’

‘Yes, I do,’ replied a nervous Ahmed.

Salim asked, ‘What will you be wearing?’

Ahmed thought for a moment. ‘I will be wearing blue jeans and a red jacket. How will I recognise you?’

Salim replied, ‘Don’t concern yourself with that. I will find you. Stand by the entrance to the café when you get there. See you at 3.30 sharp.’

The phone went dead. Ahmed sat in silence for a moment, then noticed the other team members staring expectantly in his direction.

Ahmed announced, ‘OK, my brothers. That was the Regional Commander. I have been instructed to meet him this afternoon. I suggest you all return to your own places now. We will meet together again at Hussein’s, at 7.30 this evening.’

The others got up to go. There was an air of excitement among the group, tinged with a certain nervousness, and a little frustration at being kept waiting yet again.

After the others left, Ahmed glanced at his watch. It was 9.30am. Another six hours until he at last got to meet the mysterious Regional Commander, Salim. Who was he? What was he like? What does he look like?

Ahmed sat on his sofa fidgeting, as these thoughts raced through his mind. He had been taken completely by surprise by the phone call; it had come out of the blue. He was unsure if his restive state was excited expectation, or nervousness. Could the meeting this afternoon have something to do with the recent news reports of increased terrorist activity in the UK? Was it time for his attack cell to be activated in the war against the ‘Little Satan’? If so, what was the target? The senior instructor at the training camp on the Pakistan/Afghan border had said he was to lead an ‘audacious operation’. Self-doubt and apprehension started to rise up. He tried to calm his inner fears by recalling the words of the senior instructor at the training camp, ‘Brother Ahmed, you have adjusted well to your new calling. You have proved to be a diligent student in all aspects of your training.’ His instructors obviously had faith in both his personal ability and in his leadership qualities. After all, had they not chosen him to lead an attack cell? Had he not already proved his leadership skills in holding together his team, during moments of tension within the group during their long wait? He wondered how his team would respond to a call to arms. How would they fare under the pressure? How would they cope as individuals, and as a cohesive unit, in the heat of an armed action? He was aware that the answer to these questions would, to a great extent, be down to his own leadership abilities.