Century of Jihad (11 page)

DAC Braithwaite announced, ‘We have established the identity of one of the occupants inside the property. He is Qasim Talwar. He has come to our attention in the past, during surveillance ops on other suspects. He was deemed to be a low level risk at the time, and no further action was thought necessary. I’ll give him a call and let him know his options.’

With that DAC Braithwaite grabbed a megaphone from a rack in the van. Then he, Inspector Ward and the CO19 Commander, exited the van and walked stealthily back down the street, stopping at a low wall opposite the target address. The three men settled down behind the wall, which they were aware offered them concealment but little protection from the firearms which were available to the terrorist suspects.

DAC Braithwaite held the megaphone to his mouth. ‘Attention! Attention! This is the police!’ A short pause. ‘Attention Qasim Talwar! This is the police! The building you are in is surrounded by armed police officers! Come out! Drop your weapons, and put your hands on your heads!’ There was silence.

DAC Braithwaite waited for a minute, and then repeated the message.

In the surveillance van, the movements and conversation of the two suspects was being monitored and DAC Braithwaite, Inspector Ward and the CO19 Commander were being kept up-to-date with developments in the house.

Qasim had been sitting next to the living room window, taking a discreet glance out into the empty street every minute or so from behind the curtained window. He had seen nothing untoward from these brief glances, and was therefore taken by surprise by the disembodied voice now booming into their dwelling place. He looked across the room at the equally startled Hameed. The two men crouched down on either side of the curtained window.

Qasim said to the nervous-looking Hameed, ‘It is time, my brother. The Devil’s messengers have come. We must fight them in God’s name.’

With that, Qasim sprang up from his crouching position at the window and, clutching his AK assault rifle, pounded up the stairs, taking position at the front bedroom window behind its drawn curtains.

The movements inside the house were being relayed to DAC Braithwaite, Inspector Ward and the CO19 Commander in a constant flow of updated information from the surveillance vehicle, and from the armed CO19 officers positioned all around the suspects’ address.

Suddenly the glass in the upstairs bedroom window shattered and crashed onto the paving stones below. A second later the glass from the living room window exploded outwards as the two terrorists inside the terraced property prepared for their final action against the forces of the ‘Little Satan’.

DAC Braithwaite – feeling distinctly uncomfortable squatting for this long behind a wall at his time of life – looked into the face of the CO19 Commander squatting beside him and said,

‘It’s over to you and your people now. There is going to be no talking our way out of this one.’

The CO19 Commander nodded in acknowledgement, leaned toward the police radio pinned to the front of his body armour, and said, ‘Sierra 1 to all units. You have clearance to fire at identifiable targets.’

The acknowledgements came back, in a stream of static, from the CO19 personnel positioned at the front and rear of the house.

‘Tango 1, at living room window, taking up firing position’ came a message from the surveillance vehicle, monitoring the activity inside the property.

The eyes of the CO19 officers were all fixed on the premises, waiting for a clear shot at the two terrorist occupants.

A short burst of chatter from automatic weapons fire rang out from the direction of the property. The pinging of ricocheting bullets hitting brick and other inanimate objects nearby. More bursts of un-aimed, automatic gunfire came from the property in the minutes following the initial burst.

The CO19 officers were unable to get sight of a clear target inside the building and did not return fire.

‘I don’t want our people sitting around, waiting to take a stray bullet from these people. Instruct your men to use CS gas to dislodge them,’ ordered DAC Braithwaite.

The CO19 Commander gave the order to fire CS gas into the property; one grenade into the downstairs living room and one into the front bedroom. Two officers, deployed with CS gas, took up firing positions and launched one CS gas grenade at each of the designated targets.

There were two loud bangs, which echoed down the silent street, followed by the crash of breaking glass as the grenades found their targets. CS gas began to billow from the broken windows.

‘The living room is filling up with smoke. We can’t see clearly what’s going on inside,’ came the call from the surveillance van.

The front door to the property flew open and out ran one of the terrorists, firing his assault rifle wildly as he entered the deserted street. He was quickly followed by his compatriot, who jumped into a kneeling, firing position to the side of the door, as he exited the building. Coughing and spluttering, both men fired blindly into the darkness, before being cut down in a hail of police gunfire. Then silence.

Armed police cautiously approached the prone bodies, now lying motionless on the ground.

‘Both targets neutralised,’ came the voice over the radio.

DAC Braithwaite, DI Ward and the CO19 Commander broke cover and approached the grim scene at the same moment as Ed Malone, who had come running down the empty street from the surveillance van.

‘Pity they couldn’t have been taken alive. Maybe we could have got something useful from them. I suppose that was never likely to be an option,’ he said, as much to himself as to the others gathered around.

Lisa and Ed walked back to the unmarked police car in silence. As Ed drove them back to Scotland Yard, the silence continued like a barrier between them. Neither knew what to say. Normally these team ‘aways’ were full of mindless banter or general chit-chat. But not tonight. Too much had happened over the last few days. Both had seen unbelievable carnage and tragedy befall ordinary people. Each was concerned that more was to follow, and frustrated that they were no closer to predicting the ‘where’ and the ‘when’.

‘Callous, murdering bastards!’ Lisa blurted out suddenly.

Ed slowed the car and looked across at her. ‘At last,’ he thought, relieved. ‘She’s giving vent to her emotions.’ He’d been a little concerned at how Lisa was coping with the events. She was relatively new to the team and he’d not worked with her under pressure before. He was very impressed at how she got stuck into the job in hand and her professional manner, but he’d not had the opportunity to see how she vented her emotions.

‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘I don’t think we’ve seen the end of it. These incidents may appear to be ad-hoc, but I think they’re the lead up to something big. Trouble is, there was no HUMINT or ‘’chatter” picked up relating to either the underground or club bombings, so we’re still in a position of dealing with aftermaths rather than prevention.’

‘I know,’ Lisa replied. ‘It was a disastrous outcome this evening. It would’ve been far better if those two could’ve been taken alive.’

Arriving at the Yard, Ed checked the car in and told Lisa to go home. He went up to the office where Russ Ward and DAC Braithwaite were waiting, drinking coffee.

‘Not the best of outcomes, eh Ed?’ said DAC Braithwaite, pouring a coffee and handing it to Ed.

‘I’ll be speaking to Fayaz at Five first thing tomorrow,’ DI Ward added tersely. ‘I can’t believe that Talwar was so low on the intelligence radar!’

Taking a sip of his coffee, Ed calmly responded. ‘Those two tonight had no intention of being taken alive, so we can’t blame ourselves for that. What’s worrying me and my team is what else is planned that we’ve no idea about. There are still a couple of weeks left before Christmas, and we’ve no idea what the next potential target is, what warnings to give out to the public, or the scale of operation we may be dealing with. This could be the end, or it could just be the beginning.’

The three continued for a while longer then headed off home in different directions.

At home, Salim was cooking dinner, music playing softly in the background. He was anxious and found cooking helped absorb the anxiety. Home was a swish apartment at Canary Wharf, as befitted his status – the son of a wealthy Asian businessman, who had made good in his adopted country. He lived alone, which allowed him to indulge his stylish, yet minimalist, décor tastes. It also meant that he didn’t have to explain his work, his bank balances, or his comings and goings to anyone. He liked to socialise, but picked his company carefully, and never let anyone get too close. He enjoyed good food, good wine, a variety of music and the theatre. His lifestyle was in many ways at odds with the teachings of fundamentalist Islamic clerics.

As he busied himself in the kitchen with tonight’s culinary delight, he looked out of the panoramic window onto the River Thames. He loved the night-time view back up the river, where he could see London’s lights twinkling, and imagine all the human activity scurrying around, hither and thither, like worker ants. Suddenly the phone rang and he was drawn out of his reverie. As he moved across to answer it, he felt the anxiety, which had been assuaged by the cooking, return. His heart began beating faster and his hand hesitated, momentarily, before he lifted his mobile and put it to his ear.

‘Yes?’ he answered. He’d learned never to use his name, no matter which phone he was answering.

‘Mission accomplished,’ was the terse response. Then the phone went dead.

Passing the Bang and Olufsen sound system as he returned to the kitchen, Salim increased the volume. Grabbing a plate and cutlery, he dished up and went to the dining table. He was ecstatic. Nothing had been compromised. The food was excellent; the music uplifting; the two fighters in Paradise.

That afternoon Ed had decided to stand Stuart and Theo down for the rest of the day. His team had been hard at it for several days, and he felt a few hours’ free time, as opposed to ‘sleep time’, would do them good. He knew Lisa’s boyfriend, Chris, was working tonight and felt it wouldn’t do her any good to sit at home alone, so she would partner him.

Stuart made his way home across London, rather disappointed. He knew what was ‘going down’ tonight and had hoped to be part of the action. His girlfriend, Lara, an air stewardess with Virgin Atlantic, worked on the long haul US flights and was currently away in San Francisco. The nature of both their jobs meant they didn’t really have the opportunity to socialise with anyone, other than work colleagues. Mostly they spent their free time together – going for long walks, finding a pub with good food, ordering a takeaway and watching a DVD, or discussing plans for their next move to a more countrified area.

They’d met in Scotland, where their families and close friends still lived, and moved to London when Stuart joined the Met. They tried to get back to Scotland every few months for a short break – the next one was supposed to be Christmas. Stuart already knew he wouldn’t be going but hadn’t, as yet, told Lara or any of his family.

Arriving home, he showered, changed and looked in the fridge. Nothing took his fancy, so he reached for his mobile and rang the number pinned to the board on the kitchen wall. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he slumped down in front of the TV, scrolling through the channels to see what was on. He planned to watch some football later on, but not just now. He noticed Dr Who would be on soon, and opted for that. In the meantime, he went through the post which had accumulated over the last few days. Mostly Christmas cards and bills, but also some property details from estate agents. Just then the doorbell rang, signalling the arrival of his curry. Great timing, he thought, as he rushed back from the door, dinner in brown paper bag, as the familiar Dr Who signature tune began. As the evening wore on, he relaxed, had a few more beers and watched the highlights of an exciting football match between Everton and Chelsea on Sky. Later that night as he got into bed, he realised that he’d just spent five or so waking hours without thinking about the events of recent days.

Theo was in a quandary. Did he go home or did he go home, home? Home was the house he shared with two police friends; home, home was at his mum’s. He knew the guys were planning a night out, and had already said that he couldn’t make it as he’d be working late. At the time he’d been disappointed and a little resentful that he’d be missing out. Now as the opportunity to go after all presented itself, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to. If he went home now, the guys would set about persuading him to join them, and wouldn’t let up until he gave in. It wasn’t that he was worried about having to go to work after a very late night. He was still at that age where he could function well on only three hours’ sleep. He didn’t drink much, and anything he did drink he sweated out through the energetic dance routines he was so proud of, and which attracted the girls. No, much to his surprise, Theo felt it would be totally inappropriate to be out enjoying himself given the events of the last few days. And so he went in the direction of home, home, arriving unexpectedly but conveniently just in time for one of his mother’s wonderful Saturday evening dinners. After dinner, his younger brother and sisters got ready to go out, but neither invited him to come along. He knew they wouldn’t – bringing along a police officer wouldn’t do much for their street cred!

He settled down for an evening with his parents. An evening spent chatting about family, neighbours and other generalities. Mum got excited when the lottery numbers were called – she got four numbers in a row – and then he and dad were quiet whilst she watched ‘
Casualty’
. They chatted some more, mum had some wine, he and dad shared a few beers, and all the while the conversation steered clear of his job. At some point that evening, both parents suggested that he stay the night and he was relieved. Now, as he got into bed in his old room, he reflected on how well his parents understood him. They knew that the events of the last few days were affecting him, but that he wouldn’t or couldn’t admit it. They also knew instinctively that the normality of family life was what he needed tonight, even if only for a few short hours.