THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author. (38 page)
Authors: David Videcette
Tags: #No. 30, #Subway, #Jake, #Victim, #Scotland Yard, #London Underground, #Police, #England, #Flannagan, #7/7, #Muslim, #British, #thriller, #Bus, #Religion, #Terrorism, #Tube, #Tavistock Square, #Extremism, #Metropolitan Police, #Detective, #Fundamentalist, #Conspiracy Theory, #Britain, #Bombings, #Explosion, #London, #Bomb, #Crime, #Terrorist, #Extremist, #July 2005, #Islam, #Inspector, #Murder, #Islamic, #Bus Bomb, #Plot, #Underground, #7th July, #Number 30 (bus), #Capital, #Fundamentalism, #terror
BOOK: THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author.
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Or was she just trying to distract him from missing Claire?
Her cheeks were rosy from the gym and the hot shower. Her wet hair dripped onto his shirt. The fluffy white robe she had on was held shut precariously with just a cinched-in towelling belt.
He was fighting against himself now. His girlfriend was missing and now he couldn’t take his eyes off her half-naked cousin.
It was wrong. He knew it.
But that made it all the more sexy
. Was it revenge he wanted? Would fucking her cousin give him revenge for all the times she’d cancelled dates recently? All the times she’d put the phone down on him? For that suit in the wardrobe?
But that made it all the more sexy
. Was it revenge he wanted? Would fucking her cousin give him revenge for all the times she’d cancelled dates recently? All the times she’d put the phone down on him? For that suit in the wardrobe?
He shifted uncomfortably in the chair as he felt his erection growing.
‘STOP IT, JAKE!’ a voice in his head screamed at him.
‘What have you got? Anything tasty to tempt me with?’ Jake couldn’t believe what was coming out of his mouth. If she was baiting him, he was baiting her back. Bad Jake. This was going to end in tears. Eventually.
Kate chuckled and sashayed off into the small kitchen. This was happening. They hadn’t been discussing food, had they? Jake was confused.
‘Come and have a look and see if I’ve got anything you fancy!’ she called.
Jake lay in Kate’s bed, looking at the ceiling. The kitchen floor had become slippery, like their bodies. They’d moved to the sofa, then her bedroom.
He’d ejaculated; all of it inside her.
For a split second, as the oxytocin hormone had coursed through him, Jake had felt invincible. A moment later he had hated himself again. Now, as he lay in bed next to her naked sleeping body, he despised himself more than ever before.
Jake looked at the bedside cabinet. The neon digits on Kate’s alarm clock said 0300 hours.
What the hell had he done? He didn’t even have the excuse that he’d been drunk. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex sober. This had been different. Yet all Jake could think about was Claire.
106
Friday
7 October 2005
0950 hours
Fiddler’s Green, Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, near GCHQ
Jake awoke to find Kate had gone. He’d slept through. No nightmares.
The sex? Had that stopped them?
Jake was sticky. He went and showered. As he thought of Claire, his heart sank. He wondered how long Kate would be. Would she get the information he needed?
He flicked on the TV. He would just have to wait.
On Sky News more deaths were being announced in both Iraq and Afghanistan and a UN weapons inspector was comparing Blair and Bush to the Nazis. There was also a report on the first meeting of the London organising committee for the 2012 Olympic Games.
Jake turned over. There was a chat show on.
‘Do you really think David Cameron could be the next Tory Party leader?’ asked the female host, whom Jake vaguely recognised.
‘Michael Howard has bowed out of the leadership race today, recommending David Cameron as their next leader so yes, it’s a possibility. And at just 38-years-old he would be a very young Prime Minister, if he were to win the next election, although that is five years away,’ replied a rent-a-mouth columnist.
Jake turned the TV off. It was three months since the bombings. The media headlines seemed to have all but forgotten about what had taken place in July. They moved on so quickly, thought Jake. Yet who was he to judge? Here he was, struggling to cope with his girlfriend’s disappearance and then having sex with her cousin. Was he crazy? The guilt made him feel sick to his stomach. How had he ended up with Kate? Maybe he’d moved on quickly too?
The latest edition of the
Daily Telegraph
sat on the coffee table in front of him. Jake picked it up and tried to distract himself. There was a splash about raids on the IRA’s criminal empire in Manchester. The IRA had denounced its armed struggle against the English ten days previously. The Asset Recovery Agency was pursuing a £30 million property empire alleged to have been built by the group. Was the denouncement because the ARA was trying to take the leader’s money? Was the criminality the bigger brother to the armed struggle?
Daily Telegraph
sat on the coffee table in front of him. Jake picked it up and tried to distract himself. There was a splash about raids on the IRA’s criminal empire in Manchester. The IRA had denounced its armed struggle against the English ten days previously. The Asset Recovery Agency was pursuing a £30 million property empire alleged to have been built by the group. Was the denouncement because the ARA was trying to take the leader’s money? Was the criminality the bigger brother to the armed struggle?
Jake dozed off on the sofa; it had been a short night.
He was awoken suddenly by an excited Kate crashing through the front door. She leapt onto his armchair and sat astride him, kissing him frantically.
‘Whoa, tiger! Calm down!’ Jake managed to rescue his tongue back from her.
‘Hello! I’ve missed you!’ Kate was like an over-exuberant child who’d come bounding in after her first day at school.
He palmed her away. She looked like she was going to cry.
‘Before we do anything else, I need to know how you got on today with that phone number?’ he said in a measured tone.
Kate smiled. ‘I’ve got a few bits in my bag for you, but it’s gonna cost you!’
She backed away, and wriggled her hips as she pulled up her tight, black office skirt, then sat down on the chair opposite the sofa, her legs splayed open wide. She wasn’t wearing underwear.
107
Friday
7 October 2005
1800 hours
Fiddler’s Green, Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, near GCHQ
They were naked and twisted among the covers and pillows on the sofa.
‘At least your makeshift bed is some use,’ she quipped as she kissed and caressed his neck.
Jake froze. It was no good. He was torturing himself. He realised he could no longer carry on with this charade. ‘I can’t do this again, Kate. I’m sorry.’
Jake knew he had to broach the subject of Claire.
‘Look, Claire is my girlfriend. This is crazy. I love her. You’re her cousin. What the hell are we doing?’
‘You think Claire is some sort of saint? That she hasn’t been playing around? Plenty of her conquests have hurt me!’ said Kate petulantly.
‘Is what’s happened between us getting back at Claire, then?’ Jake started to feel awkward. He stood up and began grabbing his clothes together in a pile. Had it been him that had been used here?
‘I know what’s happened between us shouldn’t have happened. I’m worried about Claire as much as you are.’ Kate untangled herself from a sheet and placed her hands on his arms.
‘I’ve always liked you, Jake, and this was my one chance to be with you. I took it. I enjoyed it. Now it’s done. I hope Claire is found safe and well. That’s why I’ve put my job on the line to help.’
Kate smiled, but Jake could see the sadness behind her eyes.
‘Thank you, Kate,’ he said. He appreciated her help. He was just a bit overwhelmed at who this shy girl really was, and how she’d practically thrown herself at him. He felt guilt too at what had happened between them, when he should have been out looking for her cousin.
‘What did you find out at work, Kate? I really need to know.’
Kate pulled some handwritten paperwork from her bag. It was just numbers written down. Jake looked at it; it made no sense to him.
Kate let out a deep sigh and shook her head as she watched Jake frown at her handwriting.
‘I’m a cryptographer, Jake. It’s what I do. Only I can understand what I’ve written down. If they stopped me with that paper as I left the building, no one would be able to make head nor tail of it,’ Kate rattled away excitedly. ‘First of all, your man, the one who accidentally blew himself up – Abdul Mahmood…’
‘Accidentally blew himself up?’ Jake interrupted.
‘He and a friend had a little mishap whilst learning how to make peroxide-based explosives at a terrorist-training camp in December 2004 – blew themselves to pieces by accident.’
‘Peroxide-based explosives? The same type used in the 7/7 bombings and the 21/7 attempt?’
‘Yeah, looks like the Security Service knew what they were up to, well before they left the country for the training camp too… had them under surveillance as they left.’
‘What?’
‘It gets worse than that… Abdul Mahmood travelled to the terror training camp
with
Samir Shafiq, your failed 21/7 burka bomber. And it seems that someone else was at the same training camp at the same time.’
with
Samir Shafiq, your failed 21/7 burka bomber. And it seems that someone else was at the same training camp at the same time.’
‘Who?’
‘Wasim Khan, of 7/7.’
‘So both jobs are connected? You’re saying 21/7 and 7/7 are linked?’
‘Yes.’ Kate was smiling broadly. She had clearly done a lot of work and was happy to be showing it off.
‘So you’re saying that the Security Service had the 21/7 burka bomber, Samir Shafiq, under surveillance
before
he left for a training camp?’
before
he left for a training camp?’
‘Yes. They followed him to the airport in a car. There were at least three of them that went to the training camp. The Security Service even asked Special Branch to stop and question them at the airport… Samir Shafiq messed up his story. Said he was going to Pakistan for a wedding and then couldn’t name the bride or groom. Idiot – hardly a terrorist mastermind, right?’
‘And then two of them, this Abdul Mahmood and a friend of his, messed up during their explosives training and blew themselves up?’
‘Yeah. Doesn’t sound like their training regime was particularly safe. Or maybe they just couldn’t follow instructions? I don’t know.’
‘What about the phone number, the one that was used to hire the van?’
‘Vodafone pay as you go, not registered. SIM purchased in Ilford on 24 May 2005. Never used for outgoing calls. We don’t know who owns the SIM or the handset, but I looked at the reverse billings, the incoming calls to that phone. Most of them came from a single mobile that is well known to the Security Service.’
‘Who is it? Who was calling Abdul Mahmood’s mobile?’ asked Jake.
‘Mohammed Biaj,’ Kate replied.
‘Who the fuck is he?’
Kate looked bemused. ‘You’ve never heard of him?’ she asked
‘Should I have done? Who is he?’
‘He’s someone who’s on the periphery of lots of jobs, has been for some time. He never actually gets his hands too dirty though. He puts people in contact with each other. You want to go to a terror training camp? Biaj puts you in contact with someone who can help with that. He’s a facilitator.’
‘And it was Biaj that helped Samir Shafiq and Abdul Mahmood get to a terror training camp?’ asked Jake, although he could already guess the answer.
‘Yes.’
‘And the Security Service knows all of this? All this stuff that you’ve just told me?’
‘Of course they do.’
‘Wasim Khan, the leader of the 7/7 attack, did he know Biaj?’
‘He may well have known him, but I didn’t find any direct contact between them when I was looking through stuff today for you. I did notice some third-party connections though. Through the TJ mosque up in West Yorkshire.’
‘TJ mosque? What’s the TJ stand for?’ asked Jake?
‘Tablighi Jamaat.’
Jake had heard the name Tablighi Jamaat before but couldn’t remember where.
‘Why would Biaj be in contact with a mosque up in Yorkshire?’
‘He’s very active within TJ and Dewsbury is where their European headquarters is.’
‘Who are Tablighi Jamaat?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know loads about them. Some people call them the Jehovah’s Witnesses of the Islamic world. They’re classed in many countries as a sect. Their members travel a lot and go round spreading the word of Allah, or at least their version of it, to other mosques and Muslims.’
‘I don’t get it. How can Biaj be so well known and operate in plain sight of the Security Service?’
‘Really? You can’t see how that happens? Come on, Jake.’
‘He’s an informant.’ Jake sighed as he said it. It was obvious.
‘That’s my best guess, yes.’
Jake began to wonder how Claire had gotten hold of the information she’d passed to him about the 21/7 bombs being made at Sullivan House. How had the Security Service known there was something going on at that place? Had Biaj told them? Told Claire?
After recording the details that Kate had given him in his notebook, Jake kissed her and they said their goodbyes. She looked tearful as he reversed onto the road. It would be a lonely journey back to London, he thought.
108
Saturday
8 October 2005
1140 hours
Queen’s Market, West Ham, London
The Arabian coffee tasted bitter. Jake pulled faces as he sipped it. He added more sugar. It was strong, with a treacle-like consistency, just like it was served in a souk.
He checked the fingerprint and DNA dockets he’d had returned from the forensic examination centre. They’d had the Transit van in the dark and tested it with special lights. No bodily fluids had been found in the back. Fingerprints from various surfaces had been obtained and a cigarette butt from the ashtray submitted for DNA. All good news, but best of all was that they’d found no blood. He’d started to wonder if Claire had got into the bag voluntarily. How else could they have got her in there?
Jake was sat in a café on the corner of the market on Green Street. It was a few hundred yards from West Ham football stadium, a structure that dominated the skyline. At the end of the road, Bobby Moore was immortalised in bronze, held aloft by his teammates in a scene following England’s 1966 World Cup victory. The statue had only been there a few years.
Queen’s market was a seventies monstrosity; a covered area where local traders held a daily market selling meat, fish, leather goods and colourful head scarves. The council was threatening to close it down, but the locals were fighting against it.
The council said that no one paid their rent or rates there. They wanted redevelopment – luxury flats and a smaller market. The place was rife with poverty. There was already talk of West Ham relocating to the Olympic Stadium after the London 2012 games.
The 1966 Bobby Moore from the end of the road wouldn’t recognise this place. In his heyday it had been full of Jewish traders from the East End selling vegetables and clothes. Today all the locals emanated from the Indian subcontinent and parts of Africa.
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