Critical Threat

Seventeen

A huge area surrounding the house on Balaclava Street had been cordoned off. Traffic diversions were in place and the police were out in numbers to keep onlookers from pouring in and trampling any evidence there might be.

Henry stood just inside one of the stretched police tapes at the junction of Randal Street and Limbrick, speaking to a bleak faced chief constable and Detective Chief Superintendent Dave Anger.

‘This is completely horrendous,’ FB was saying. He was more affected than Henry had ever seen.

‘Incredible,’ Anger said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Their eyes were on Henry, but not in a critical way for once. They knew the full story leading up to why Angela Cranlow and Graeme Walling had knocked on the door in Balaclava Street and understood that no one could have suspected that the officers were stepping from a routine inquiry, albeit concerning a murder, into the world of international terrorism. FB seemed to have been hit particularly hard and was struggling to take in the enormity of the event … as was Henry.

He fished out a pack of Nurofen tablets he’d bought from a nearby chemist and thumbed a couple out of the blister pack, tipped his head back, filled his mouth with saliva and tossed them into the back of his throat, swallowing them with ease.

‘Two cops dead, terrorists on the loose intent on murdering the American Secretary of State who, despite the warning, is determined to visit the town and mingle … shit!’

‘Why can’t you pull the plug on the visit?’ Henry said plaintively.

‘Because politicians don’t have the sense they were born with,’ FB commented dryly, ‘and because we are expected to protect her.’

And because your own job would be in question if you took the unpopular step of cancelling it, Henry thought, but didn’t say anything.

‘Fortunately she’s been delayed in Liverpool, which has given us a bit of time to draft in virtually every remaining bobby from around the county who isn’t involved in the visit. There’ll be more cops than crowds.’

‘Let’s hope nothing happens anywhere else for a few hours,’ FB said grimly. ‘If the nuclear reactor blows in Heysham, it’ll just have to burn and destroy the known world.’

‘And nothing’s come from this Ali guy?’ Anger asked Henry, who shook his head and bit his tongue … but only for a moment.

‘How the hell is it going to be explained that the Americans are torturing people in Blackburn?’ he demanded.

FB gave him a stern look. ‘Shut it, Henry,’ he said. ‘What people don’t know won’t hurt them, got that? Blab one word, and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.’

Henry could hardly believe his ears, but yet he wasn’t surprised to discover that the people ‘up there’ were colluding in such unlawful acts. After all, it’s a war, he thought resentfully. ‘We’ve totally lost this if we can’t do things by lawful means,’ he bellyached.

‘Fine words, Henry. Admirable sentiments. You’re getting very highly principled in your old age and it’s very commendable …’

‘Don’t patronize me, Bob.’

‘I’m not. I’m just saying, let’s get real here and stop blubbering, which you seem to be doing an awful lot of recently.’ His eyes slid sideways for a quick glance at Anger. ‘The here and now is what’s important. There’s a killer on the loose and one way or another, we have to neutralize him, or the threat, either by catching the bastard or by putting him off by the massive police presence. I’m all for prevention, and at least everyone on duty in the town now has a recent picture of Akbar,’ FB concluded.

Henry wished his painkillers would just numb everything.

‘Why don’t you go home, pal?’ FB laid a gentle hand on Henry’s shoulder. ‘Maybe via a quiet A amp;E department? Everything round here’s being taken care of.’

‘I couldn’t,’ Henry admitted.

‘I know you couldn’t.’

He was thinking now, working things out. Everything had been screwed up by the morning’s events but yet somewhere, he knew, somewhere amongst this awful mess was the key to nailing Akbar and Rashid, maybe. He turned away from FB and Dave Anger and walked back to his car he’d had to park over a quarter of a mile away.

He had things to do. Such as track down Mansur Rashid.

He sat back in the leather upholstery in the most comfortable car he had ever owned. So what did it matter if there was no warranty with it? That the manufacturers had gone bust? It was a bloody good motor … if a little staid.

Reaching up, he tilted the rear-view mirror to an angle so he could look at himself.

‘Jeez,’ he grunted and shook his head, but not too severely because it made his face hurt, like there was something loose in it. He leaned back and thought ahead, not back. It was the immediate future that was important now.

Could he do anything?

Firstly, Condoleezza Rice.

For some reason she had been delayed in Merseyside, for her sins, but would only be stuck for another hour or so before she hit the road. Then she would be travelling in a very skilled, highly-trained convoy concocted of police motorcycle outriders, police cars and armed cops in high-powered vehicles. She herself would be in a vehicle that could probably withstand an RPG or a roadside bomb, so the chances of her being hit whilst in motion were slim.

If Akbar had not been put off by now — because he would no doubt know about the detention of his 2i/c, Ali — then the strike against Rice would probably take place at one of the venues she was visiting, either the school in the Pleckgate area, or at Ewood Park, the football ground.

Akbar, according to Karl Donaldson, had allegedly been heard to say that killing Rice would be his crowning glory and he would achieve this even if he lost his own life doing so.

Did that smack of a suicide bomb?

But from what little Henry knew of Akbar, this wasn’t his personal style of killing. He got others to do that — such as the impressionable youths he’d supposedly been working with in Accrington.

And he would see it as a personal victory if some poor, brainwashed kid managed to penetrate the security and blow up Rice and a hundred other innocent people. Akbar would take the glory in this life, whilst putting others en route to paradise to meet twenty-four virgins, or whatever the promise was in paradise.

Henry thought this could be a good option for Akbar. All the plaudits and none of the danger.

He started the car.

Akbar was an expert marksman, apparently. Maybe he intended to stake out the venues from a vantage point and take out Rice like the Jackal. One deadly shot through the head from a high-powered rifle, then filter away back to the east, again able to bask in living glory — and no doubt be presented with twenty-four real virgins.

But that option, Henry thought, was pretty unlikely. The venues would already be staked out with police rifle officers and any obvious vantage points for a sniper would be neutralized.

Another option was the stand-alone bomb, placed maybe weeks ago at one of the venues with either remote or timed detonation.

Henry thought this unlikely, too. The itinerary of the visit had been kept pretty tight — Henry hoped — and even at this late stage was being chopped and changed and rescheduled, the delay in Liverpool being an example of that. So an already hidden device would be too hit and miss. Plus Henry knew that the venues had been searched and secured by police search teams and he knew they were ultra-professional and no stone would have been unturned during that phase of the operation.

So did it all come back to a suicide bomb?

And if so, how could it be legislated for completely?

It couldn’t.

The bombs were getting sleeker, slimmer and less easy to spot. They weren’t as bulky as they used to be and didn’t have to be hidden under heavy coats any more, or even in rucksacks. Any sort of zip-up jacket would conceal a bomb big enough to blow the visitor to smithereens on her walkabouts.

Henry thumped the steering wheel.

Then there was Mansur Rashid. Something told Henry that the investigation into Eddie Daley’s and Sabera Rashid’s murders would not reach a satisfactory conclusion. If Rashid was ever caught, it was unlikely that Henry would ever get within spitting distance of him now. He’d probably end up in chains in Guantanamo Bay.

Which skipped his thoughts on to Karl Donaldson.

A bridge had been crossed in their relationship, then destroyed by fire. Henry could now only look back across a vast chasm and wish things were different. He hoped Donaldson’s consuming quest wouldn’t be the end of him.

He swallowed, feeling ill, wondering whether he would best be served by finding a darkened room and curling up into a foetal ball and sucking his thumb.

Henry’s radio rang out like a mobile phone. It was Bill Robbins calling him.

‘Any further instructions, boss?’

‘How’re you doing, firstly?’

‘I’ll survive, bit of a rough morning, though. Carly’s as sick as a dog. Doesn’t have the stomach for the gruesome. Not that I do, really.’

‘I think I’ve had my fill of it, too,’ Henry divulged. ‘Are you going to get some counselling?’

Bill laughed. ‘I don’t do navel gazing. Get back doing it, that’s my motto, and the best cure, if you ask me.’

The words struck Henry as good sense. ‘You know, I think you’re right there, pal … how’s about meeting at Blackburn nick in ten minutes? You can take me out on patrol.’

He didn’t add that something at the back of his mind was bugging him, something within his sphere of knowledge that had some crucial bearing on the events of the day. If only he could unearth it from all the other dross that was swirling around.

Sitting high in the front passenger seat of the ARV Ford Galaxy, Bill in the driving seat, gave Henry a good view over most other traffic.

‘What’s the plan, Henry?’

‘Let’s go and have a ride round to the venues.’

‘OK — and as I drive, you can tell me what’s going on.’

‘I’ll tell you as much as I know,’ Henry agreed.

Henry’s radio was now tuned into the frequency being used by the officers involved in the Rice visit. The dedicated comms operator broadcast to them that ‘the package’, as the American Secretary of State was referred to over the air, was about to set off from Merseyside. She was well behind schedule, but in less than an hour she would be setting foot on Lancashire soil. Henry hoped this would not be the last county she would ever visit.

Henry’s thoughts turned to Fazul Ali and whether he was holding up against the sophisticated interview techniques of Karl Donaldson. In some respects, Henry hoped he would spill the beans, not least for his own well-being; in others he hoped Ali would not break, in spite of the possible consequences. It would be a minor victory to show that torturing people did not necessarily work, war or no war.

Bill drove around Blackburn, firstly past the school on Pleckgate Road which Rice would be visiting, then across town to Ewood Park. Both places were crawling with cops: cops on foot and cops with dogs, cops on horses and cops with guns. It was always going to be a massively expensive operation and now, because every other cop in the world had been drafted in, would probably double in price.

The Galaxy pulled on to the car park behind the Darwen End stand of Ewood Park, inside which the police facilities had been constructed, including cells, refs rooms and a custody office. Henry sat ruminating as he looked at the big stand, erected in the 1990s on the back of the millions of pounds provided by a local businessman. Not like the days of corrugated roofs and rotting concrete stands, it was all steel girders and seating. The River Darwen flowed — or trickled — by the north-eastern side of the ground and beyond it was a steep, grassy hill from which, in the old days, fans who could not afford to get into the ground could watch some of the action of the matches, though they could only ever see one or the other goalmouth at one time.

‘Not a bad place for a sniper.’ Henry pouted thoughtfully as he looked at the hill. ‘Have you got a copy of the operational order?’

Bill reached into the back seat and found his dog-eared copy which detailed the visit. Henry skimmed through it. ‘Blah, blah, blah … she’s being driven from the school to the football ground … stopping on Nuttall Street at the front and entering through the VIP door, then she’s into the ground itself. Visiting the police post, the CCTV room, the players’ changing rooms, going to the shop — no doubt buy herself a Rovers’ shirt — meeting the staff, then leaving as she came in … so, scratch the sniper on the hill theory cos he can’t see Nuttall Street from there,’ Henry said glumly. He turned to Bill. ‘What would you do if you were a fanatical terrorist and you wanted to kill her today?’

‘Well, she’s pretty well protected, so it won’t be easy, but I’ve always said that if anyone doesn’t give a fuck about themselves and thinks they’re going somewhere better, it becomes a hell of a lot easier. She’ll be doing walkabout, touching heads, kissing babies … and if you’re a fanatic you can definitely get close enough to her to stick a gun in her face or blow everyone in the vicinity to kingdom come. You just can, cos not everyone can be searched and no one knows what a terrorist actually looks like.’

‘But they do know what this terrorist looks like, because his most recent photo’s been circulated — except he doesn’t do dirty work like this himself. He gets other dumb arses to do it. He’s like a paedophile in some respects, preying on young, vulnerable people.’ Henry paused for thought again. His brain had been so battered that he was finding it difficult to keep it concentrating. ‘There’s just something about Mansur Rashid that keeps eating away at me.’ His face rotated slowly to Bill. ‘Get me back to my car,’ he said quickly. ‘Something’s clicked.’ Henry gave Bill a quick explanation and by blue lighting it down the M65, heading north, then coming off at Whitebirk, they were back at Blackburn police station within minutes, where Henry had left his Rover.

He had been blocked in by other cars, but that did not matter. He rooted out his briefcase from the back seat and rejoined Bill, who had gravitated to the canteen to get two coffees. They sat at the only empty table — the canteen was swarming with bobbies because of the visit and they all needed food and drink at some time.

‘Thanks.’ Henry took a sip of the coffee, then put his briefcase on the table and delved into it. He extracted the A4 document wallet which contained the statement taken from Dr Khan the previous evening, together with all the notes he’d scribbled. He glanced through the statement, frowning because he could not see what he wanted. He knew it was there somewhere.

‘I’m sure I wrote it,’ he said absently.

Bill watched him intently.

‘Nah, not there.’ He put the statement down and browsed through the notes he had taken whilst interviewing the doctor. Not everything in the notes had gone into the statement. ‘Ah ha! This is it … um, um, um … here we are … this girl Sabera leaves her husband. Big thing for anyone to do, let alone a Muslim girl … seems they’re expected to hang in there whatever shit’s thrown at them, which I find total bollocks … Anyway, she obviously misses her family and therefore succumbs to the occasional chats with them … natural thing to do — I’m OK, don’t worry, sort of thing … Ow!’ Henry touched his cheek, which was throbbing again. ‘God, that’s sore … Then she makes the mistake of contacting her sister and arranges to meet her on a motorway service area — but the sister turns up with the husband!’ Henry said excitedly.

‘Shit — bitch!’ Bill said.

‘Exactly … anyway, Sabera gets away unscathed, but that’s basically the end of her relationship with sis … but what I’m getting at here is that if the sister was in cahoots with Rashid she must know an awful lot about him — and maybe if we can get hold of her now, she might be able to tell us something. Like where he is.’

‘I suppose it’s better then just bumming about hoping for the best,’ Bill admitted.

‘In the very near future, we are going to have to speak to Sabera’s family anyway just because she’s dead. What do you think?’ he asked Bill, screwing his face up.

‘Can’t hurt. Any addresses?’

‘No.’ The word came out with a sigh. ‘Just somewhere in Blackburn. This Khan guy couldn’t remember it and he’s actually destroyed her employment records which had it on, as well as anything else which related to her, he was so scared and intimidated.’

‘Needle in a haystack, then?’

‘Mm.’ Henry tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. ‘She’s called Najma Ismat.’

‘Voters list?’ Bill suggested.

‘Does it have a search facility?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want to go through every name? Two hundred odd thousand in Blackburn?’

‘Not specially. How about PNC?’

‘Worth a try, but only useful if she has a conviction, which I doubt.’

‘Intel check?’

‘Same applies … although Special Branch files might have something … they collect stuff just for the hell of it,’ Henry said, thinking back to the entry concerning Mansur Rashid. Henry then recalled how Eddie Daley had been able to trace Sabera without too much trouble and expressed his thoughts out loud. ‘Bill, we are two experienced cops and if we can’t locate this girl within the next half hour, then I’m calling it quits and going home. And I have a bloody good idea how we can do it.’

Minutes later they were back in the Galaxy. ‘Now then, Bill, I want you to drive me somewhere — somewhere that is very secret and, of course, you’ll have to be blindfolded, and if you blab to anyone, even your missus in your sleep, I’ll have to come and murder you, then kill myself.’

‘What the hell are you on about?’

Henry realized he’d rambled a bit. He put it down to the pain. And the drugs. ‘Just drive out of here, turn left up the arterial road, then right on to Whitebirk Industrial Estate, then I’ll direct you from there.’

Bill shrugged.

Henry fished out his mobile and made a call.

‘Sorry to interrupt your torture session, but I need to come and see you, Karl … a favour, yeah. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m asking … I need a name putting through your super-duper computer.’ Henry listened, then ended the call. He stared straight ahead through the windscreen, his heart thumping at the prospect of seeing Donaldson again so soon.

Henry directed Bill to the front gates of the unit now leased by the American security services, although he doubted whether that fact was actually revealed in the rental agreement. The gates were closed and did not open on their arrival.

‘What goes on here?’ Bill asked.

‘It’s been rented by the Yanks to house some of their vehicles whilst the Rice visit takes place,’ he answered blandly.

Bill looked at him disbelievingly.

‘OK, all right,’ Henry answered with a shrug. ‘Can’t tell you, OK?’

‘Fair enough. I know my place.’

The gates opened wide enough to allow a very tired, harassed Karl Donaldson to contort out of the gap. He approached Henry suspiciously, eyeing Bill. Henry dropped out of the Galaxy.

‘So now you need us?’ Donaldson said bitterly.

‘I don’t have a problem with you hacking into other people’s computers. It’s hacking into people’s heads that bothers me.’

Donaldson nodded at Bill. ‘You shouldn’t have brought him.’

‘He’s OK, won’t blab.’

‘He stays here, then.’

‘So be it.’

Donaldson inclined his head for Henry to follow. Henry mouthed and gestured for Bill to stay put and followed the American through the gate, who then ensured it was locked. He walked ahead of Henry through a normal door adjacent to the main shutter door into the unit where the array of vehicles was parked up.

As he walked, Donaldson said, ‘Don’t know why the hell I’m doing this,’ without turning.

‘Cos deep down you’re an old softie?’ Henry speculated, trying to lighten the atmosphere between them.

‘I misjudged you, Henry.’

‘No, Karl, I misjudged you,’ Henry said, realizing the atmosphere was not likely to rise much.

The rest of the short walk was made in silence, through the door leading to the ground-floor corridor, then into the communications centre. Donaldson approached the same man who had done the earlier check on Mansur Rashid.

‘Give him the name, tell him which database to interrogate.’ Donaldson pushed out past Henry, saying, ‘I trust you to make your own way out … and by the way, hacking into other agencies’ databases is not ethical.’ Then he was gone.

Henry gave the man the name and suggested some databases to interrogate. After a few moments, he leaned back. ‘There you go, pal.’

Henry squinted at the screen, memorized what he saw and rushed back out to Bill who waited patiently in the Galaxy. He gave him the address.

‘I’m not even going to bother to ask how you got this.’

‘What you don’t know, don’t get you killed,’ Henry said.

It was fortunate that the liveried Ford Galaxy with a uniformed police officer lounging by the side of it was parked behind Henry in the driveway, otherwise he would have had the front door slammed in his face. Even then, it was a close-run thing. He could tell from the look of horror on the Asian woman’s face when she answered the door and found herself confronted by a man who looked like he’d been dragged under a bus for a hundred metres.

He quickly presented his warrant card and the woman hesitated, still considered closing the door, then relented because of the police vehicle.

It was probably unusual to have anyone knocking at the door in this neck of the woods anyway. Henry guessed the most regular visitors would be the postman and the Sainsbury’s home delivery driver.

The house was in one of the better parts of Blackburn, on Meins Road, right on the edge of town. A big detached property in its own grounds, with sweeping views behind it towards Preston and beyond to the faint shimmer of the Lancashire coast. The huge British Aerospace complex in the middle distance slightly marred the vista. It was the house of a wealthy family.

The woman was late fifties, dressed in a very western style. She was also extremely attractive and Henry could immediately see the likeness between her and the photographs taken by Eddie Daley of Sabera Rashid. He caught his breath.

‘My name is Henry Christie. I’m a detective chief inspector with Lancashire Constabulary … please don’t be alarmed by my appearance — it’s been a tough day … I’m looking for Najma Ismat.’ He tried one of his boyish smiles, but all his broken cheekbone would allow was a scary grimace.

‘What is going on out here?’ an Asian-accented male voice with a definite Lancashire twang demanded to know from inside the house. An old man appeared behind the lady. When he saw Henry, he said, ‘You!’ accusingly. It was Mr Iqbal, the old man Henry had innocently involved in a dangerous car chase whilst on the lookout for a suspect who had dropped through his ceiling and fled from the police raid Henry had led.

‘Mr Iqbal!’

‘Out of the way, girl,’ Iqbal said and elbowed past the woman, holding out a hand for Henry to shake. ‘Salma, this is the policeman I was telling you about,’ he said proudly, his chest swelling as he stood next to Henry and put his arm around him. ‘Henry Christie, this is my daughter, Salma Ismat. She’s a doctor, you know,’ he said proudly.

Henry proffered his hand hesitantly. She responded coolly, but shook his fingertips.

‘I am pleased to meet you,’ she bowed slightly. ‘My father cannot be quiet about his exciting ride in a police car … it made him a happy man.’

‘I thought I’d terrified you.’

‘Only in a good way,’ the old man said. He banged his chest with his fist. ‘Got the ticker pumping … exciting as hell.’

‘I’m pleased.’

Iqbal looked curiously at Henry. ‘Have you had a car crash?’

‘No … look, I don’t want to be abrupt, but does Najma Ismat live here?’

‘Najma is my daughter,’ the lady said.

‘Is she in?’

‘No, why?’

‘I need to speak to her urgently … I’m afraid I can’t explain why. She’s not in any trouble, it’s just that she might know something. I’m trying to trace Mansur Rashid and I think she might know where he is.’

‘That bastard!’ Iqbal hacked up and spat. ‘What’s he done?’

‘Do you know where he is?’ Henry asked again. ‘I need to locate him.’

‘No, we don’t,’ the woman said. ‘And we don’t want to.’

Another man appeared behind her, Henry guessing this was her husband.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked, his eyes taking in the scene.

‘This policeman wants to talk to Najma,’ she explained.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know … when I saw the police car, I thought they’d come about Sabera for some reason.’

‘Why Najma?’ the father asked.

‘It’s not about Najma, it’s about that Mansur scum,’ Iqbal blurted.

‘You haven’t come about Sabera?’ the father said.

‘No … look, please,’ Henry said, aware this situation might well descend into farce if he wasn’t careful, especially when he noticed a fourth person standing behind the father, a young lad in his early teens, bobbing about on the balls of his feet, trying to see what was going on. Henry executed a chopping motion with the edges of his hands. ‘I’m trying to trace the whereabouts of Mansur Rashid, that’s all. I thought Najma might know where he was. If you know, it’ll save me talking to her.’

He felt a bit of a fraud not letting on about Sabera, but he didn’t want to complicate matters further at that moment. Time was critical, He glanced at his watch. Condoleezza Rice should just about be arriving at her first venue.

‘We don’t know where Najma is,’ the father said sadly. ‘But she works for Rashid and spends a lot of time with him, too. She’s become very influenced by him and his radical views. We’re very worried about her. And we’re worried about Sabera, his wife, our other daughter.’

‘I know where Najma might be,’ Iqbal interjected, raising a finger. He looked at Bill and the Ford Galaxy. ‘If I get a ride in that, I could take you.’