73
Cabinet Office Briefing Room ‘A’ is said to be the venue from which the press originated the acronym COBRA. Around its famous conference table are Defence Secretary Sir Wesley Piggott-Smith, Home Secretary Charles Hatfield, Deputy Prime Minister Norman Batherson and the ACPO chief, Milton Coleman.
Ambassador Gwyn is shown into the cool, darkened room by a Whitehall aide and takes a seat next to the deputy PM.
The Home Secretary acknowledges his appearance, ‘Good afternoon, Sir Owain. I had only just started.’ He stands in front of a giant screen playing mute video footage from the blast scene. ‘The latest figures we have are fifty-four dead and forty injured. The prime minister is in Scotland but in the next half hour will helicopter down to Ashford and hold a press conference at the scene. The bomb squad is checking the remains of the train for secondary devices and, of course, the track is being inspected as well. The railway operator has contingencies to bus people around the derailment, but they’ve been told there’s no chance of trains running through the tunnel for at least the next twelve hours.’
The police chief, a tall, thin man in his late fifties, throws a question across the table. ‘Have we got confirmation it’s al-Qaeda behind all this?’
‘They plan to post a video,’ answers Owain. ‘It will be uploaded to an Al Jazeera server in the next few minutes. It will warn travellers in the West to expect more bombs and deaths.’
No one asks how the ambassador knows this. He does, after all, have special responsibilities for counter-terrorism and everyone in the room has been present at other meetings where he’s been more reliably informed than they were.
‘What are we facing, Owain?’ asks the Deputy PM. ‘A specific campaign of terror aimed at the UK? Or is this a wider strategy linked to the US bomb?’
‘It’s wider. And not just America. I expect there to be further attacks, and on soil less used to bloodshed than ours.’
The Defence Secretary knows what he’s alluding to. ‘Italy?’
‘Exactly.’
Sir Wesley explains to the rest of the group. ‘We’ve been hearing the same thing. Possibilities of attacks on Rome as a response to the Pope’s condemnation of what he called ‘maliciously misguided Muslim fundamentalists.’
Owain adds a little more depth to the comment. ‘Al-Qaeda is thought to have a new, three-pronged strategy — firstly, business as usual; that means bombing the hell out of Britain and America. Secondly, as Sir Wesley just said, attacking soft Christian targets, such as Rome. This hasn’t been done before and has the Spaniards just as worried as the Italians. We also believe they intend to use a new generation of highly trained assassins to kill high-profile VIPs.’
The door swings open and a young civil servant steps in and whispers discreetly to the home secretary, then leaves.
Charles Hatfield fingers the remote control and points it at a screen. ‘Al Jazeera just ran this. It’s exactly as Sir Owain said.’
The man who appears on screen doesn’t fit the traditional stereotype of the Muslim terrorist. There’s no straggly beard. No loose white robes. No Koran in hand. For once the video doesn’t look like it’s been shot in a school hall, with a dark curtain behind. There are no masked soldiers in the background with rifles across their chests. Instead, a calm young man in his late twenties, with neat hair and beard looks straight into camera. He is dressed in a charcoal-grey suit and, despite the rugged sandy backdrop of an Afghan hillside, he looks as calm as a foreign correspondent.
‘Citizens of the west,’ says a steady voice in excellent English. ‘When you see this, it will be because I have killed and injured many people. Many innocents who did not deserve for such a thing to happen to them.’ His tone is flat and without a trace of rage. ‘I regret their deaths and injuries. But most of all, I regret that their governments made it necessary for them to die. As you watch, listen and read of the deaths, ask yourself this: what does al-Qaeda want? Why are they doing these things? Why are they killing so many people?’ He takes a pause and lets the seeds of the questions he scattered germinate in the fertile minds of those who might listen.
‘There has to be a good reason, doesn’t there? Such as the belief that your own country should be free of your enemies. That every person should have their own home, their patch of land, their personal base in life — because that’s what the words al-Qaeda mean — “the base”. Ask yourselves this, if foreigners tried to occupy your country, change your government and kill your friends, family and parents, what would you do?’ His soft dark eyes hold the camera before he continues, ‘I think I know. You would fight. You would fight to the death. As you count the bodies of today and the bodies of tomorrow, think beyond the rhetoric of your leaders, think about my words. When would you surrender?’ Now the gentle eyes narrow and the camera shot tightens. ‘Never. You would never surrender. Nor will we.’
The video stops on a freeze frame.
Owain Gwyn points at the screen. ‘This is a new breed of terrorist. And the start of a new campaign of terror. Fought by new leaders in new ways.’
‘I think you’re wrong,’ says the Defence Secretary. ‘New faces perhaps, but it’s the same old game. They bomb. They run. They hide. They have limited resources and limited support. We’ll find them soon enough and this time we’ll wipe every one of them from the face of the earth.’
Owain bites his tongue. Sir Wesley couldn’t be more wrong. A storm is coming. One unlike any seen before.
74
A soft summer shower falls as the handsome delivery driver juggles the cardboard box in his arms and struggles to lock the back doors of his van. The neighbourhood he’s in looks decent, but you can never be sure. Leave the vehicle unlocked and you’re as good as asking for some scumbag to climb in and steal stuff. Maybe even the van itself.
As far as he’s concerned, they’re welcome to it. It’s a piece of shit. The engine’s slower than a constipated snail and it stinks of sweat and cigarettes. Still, he’ll be shot of it soon.
He checks the name and address on the package, then climbs the short stack of steps to the apartment block. Dark marks appear on top of the box where raindrops hit and get blotted by the cardboard.
He knocks on a tatty door and waits.
There’s a noise on the other side. The sound of someone pressing against the door. He sees a little fisheye lens in the middle of the wood and guesses the occupant is on the other side peering through at him.
‘Who is it?’ The voice is female and hesitant.
‘Amazon. I’ve got a package to be signed for.’
The door opens a chink and a chain pulls tight. He pushes the box forward so she can see the smiley river logo.
It closes again and opens fully.
He extends the parcel in his hands. ‘Careful with this; it’s a little heavy.’
The woman takes it from him.
He lunges forward and pushes her so she staggers back and falls. The heavy parcel bangs painfully against her chest as she hits the floor and cracks her head.
The delivery man kicks the door shut and stands over her. He leans down and pushes the end of a silenced handgun into her mouth. ‘You really should have asked for some ID, cupcakes.’