Dark Forces (43 page)

One by one they placed their belongings in grey plastic trays and walked through the arch. As Tommy was putting his phone and wallet back into his pockets, two middle-aged men in long coats walked up to him. Tommy sneered at them before either spoke, recognising them for what they were. ‘Thomas O’Neill, I’m arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder, extortion, and money-laundering,’ said the younger of the two. He was ginger-haired with a sprinkle of freckles across his nose. ‘You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand what I have just said to you?’

‘I want to call my lawyer,’ growled Tommy.

‘You can do that from the station. Please turn around.’

Tommy did as he was told and the detective went to handcuff him. More detectives were coming into the room. Two went towards Marty, and two headed for Evans.

‘You don’t need the cuffs. I’m too long in the tooth to do a runner.’

‘It’s procedure, sir,’ he was told.

‘Don’t fuck around, Tommy,’ said the older detective. ‘It’s not as if you haven’t been arrested before, is it?’

‘It’s been a while,’ said Tommy. ‘And the last copper who put his hands on me lived to regret it, big-time.’

‘You wouldn’t be threatening a police officer, would you now, Tommy? I thought you knew better than that.’

Tommy glared at him but kept his mouth shut and allowed himself to be handcuffed.

Shepherd felt his arm being grabbed and turned to see a detective with grey hair and a dark moustache holding him. ‘Get your fucking hand off me,’ he snapped.

Another detective had read Marty his rights and was handcuffing him. Evans was also being cuffed. ‘This is fucking out of order!’ shouted Shepherd. He pushed the detective standing next to him in the chest, hard. ‘We’re just here for the fucking boxing!’

Shepherd was grabbed from behind and the detective he’d pushed was in his face. ‘Terry Taylor, you’re being charged with murder, and conspiracy to commit murder.’

‘Fuck off!’

Shepherd’s hands were cuffed behind him and he was frog-marched out of the room, down another corridor, and out to a car-parking area. Tommy was being put into one police van and Marty into another.

Evans was brought out by two burly detectives in leather jackets and he grinned at Shepherd. ‘Don’t worry, Terry, we’ll be out in a few hours. They’ve got nothing. Just keep schtum and let the lawyers do the talking. Tommy will handle everything.’

‘I want to see the fucking boxing, mate. This is a fucking liability.’

Evans laughed. ‘They’ll have it on at the cop shop. We can watch it there.’ Evans glared at the detective who was holding his left arm. ‘I’ll be claiming back the cost of these tickets from the Met, and that’s a fucking promise.’

A security guard pulled back a metal gate and the two vans drove out. Evans was put into the back of a patrol car and driven off through the gate. Then it was Shepherd’s turn. Two detectives walked him over to a Mercedes police van, opened the rear door and helped him in. Amar Singh was sitting in the back and Shepherd grinned as the door slammed behind him.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ said Shepherd.

‘Jeremy thought you might like to see a friendly face,’ said Singh. ‘And make sure they didn’t accidentally throw you in jail.’

‘It wouldn’t have been the first time.’

Singh showed him a handcuff key and Shepherd turned around so that he could release the cuffs. He massaged his wrists and sat down. The van was already moving. Shepherd gestured at the driver. ‘Where’s he going?’

‘Just away from here,’ said Singh. ‘Willoughby-Brown wants you to call him.’

‘Yeah. It’s turning out to be a busy day.’

‘Who do you think’ll win the fight?’

‘The Russian.’

‘Have you still got your ticket?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘It’d be a pity to waste it,’ said Singh. ‘It’s going to be an awesome fight. I’ve got fifty quid on the Russian.’

Stuart Smith followed the white Prius as it drove slowly through the car park. There were very few spaces to be had. Pretending to be a wannabe cabbie studying the Knowledge was a great cover on the open road but his moped with its Plexiglas map holder was out of place in the car park so he hung well back.

‘Bravo One has eyeball. Tango One seems to be looking for a parking space,’ said Smith into his mic. The Prius turned right. The car behind went straight on. The car directly in front of Smith indicated right, then braked suddenly. Smith was so busy watching the Prius that he didn’t see the stop lights go on and slammed into the back of the car.

Smith cursed. He backed up and was about to pass the car when the driver sprang out. He was a big man with tattooed arms and a diamond earring in his left ear. ‘What the fuck are yez playing at?’ growled the man, in a heavy Glaswegian accent.

‘Sorry, mate, my bad,’ said Smith.

He tried to move on but the man grabbed his handlebars. ‘Where the fuck do yez think yer going?’ he said. ‘You need to pay for the damage.’

Smith looked at the rear of the man’s car. It was pristine. ‘There’s no damage, mate,’ he said. He glanced at the Prius. It had moved on, still looking for somewhere to park. ‘Bravo One, I’m losing eyeball,’ he said.

‘What the fuck are yez talking about?’ said the man.

‘Bravo Two, can you get in there?’ asked Aspden, in Smith’s ear.

‘Bravo Two, heading into the car park.’

‘Mate, look, I’m sorry, I fucked up,’ said Smith.

The man pointed at the rear bumper. ‘A hundred quid,’ he said. ‘A hundred quid or I’m calling the cops.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘You hit my car. That’s an accident, right? So I’m due compensation.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I might even have whiplash coming on.’

‘Mate, my bike weighs a hundred kilos soaking wet. You weigh twice that.’

The man continued rubbing his neck. ‘Yeah, I’m getting a headache. I might need a scan.’

‘A fucking lobotomy is what you need,’ said Smith. He pulled out his wallet and fished out a hundred pounds. He thrust the notes into the man’s hand. ‘Happy now?’

‘Prick,’ said the man, pocketing the notes. He got back into the car as Smith drove away, looking frantically for the Prius.

Malik looked right and left. ‘I don’t see it,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘Where are they? Why aren’t they here?’ The Prius was crawling along at walking pace.

Assadi patted his leg. ‘Relax, brother, they will be here.’

‘I can’t see them.’ He banged his hands on the steering wheel. ‘Why aren’t they here? Maybe they’ve been arrested.’

‘No one has been arrested, brother,’ said Assadi.

‘I see them,’ said al-Kawthari. He pointed off to their left. A blue Transit van had been parked across two bays. ‘Flash your lights.’

The driver was Asian and when he saw the Prius’s lights flash he edged forward, then reversed back into one of the bays. The Prius reversed into the empty bay next to him.

‘Good luck, brother,’ said Assadi, climbing out of the car. He hurried to the rear doors of the Transit. Al-Kawthari got out of the Prius and tried to open the boot. He found it was locked and banged impatiently on the rear window. Malik waved an apology and pressed the boot button. Al-Kawthari grabbed the gun case and joined Assadi at the back of the Transit. Assadi climbed in and al-Kawthari passed him the gun case, then got in after him. The van drove off.

Malik sat where he was and watched them go. His instructions were to wait in the car park for thirty minutes, then to drive back to Ealing. His job was done.

‘Bravo Two, I have eyeball on the vehicle, but two of the tangoes have gone. Only the driver is in the vehicle.’ Willoughby-Brown frowned at the transceiver. Gone? Where could they have gone?

‘Bravo Two, are the other tangoes on foot?’ asked Aspden.

‘I don’t know, I can’t see them,’ said Bravo Two.

‘Charlie One, can you get on foot and into the mall?’

‘Charlie One, roger that.’

Willoughby-Brown’s frown deepened. It didn’t make much sense for two jihadists to be wandering around Westfield with a gun case. One, there was a good chance someone would recognise the case for what it was and report them. Two, a sniper rifle – assuming that was what was in the case – would hardly be the weapon of choice for an attack on a crowded shopping centre. The gun was slow to reload and generally sniper rifles had small magazines and weren’t geared up for rapid fire. If the jihadists were planning to mount an attack on Westfield, they’d more likely go for AK-47s or semi-automatics. He looked at the screen map and pressed the button to talk to his driver. ‘Tim, let’s go to Westfield Shopping Centre. See if you can get near to where the cars come out of the car park.’

‘No problem, sir.’

Willoughby-Brown pressed the transmit button on his transceiver. ‘Mike One, I’m not convinced they’re on foot. It makes more sense to me that they’ve switched vehicles.’

‘We’ve not seen anything like counter-surveillance before,’ said Aspden.

‘I get that, but that’s not to say they wouldn’t leave it until the final run,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘And I can’t see them arranging to meet a sniper in a shopping centre. It just feels wrong.’

‘I agree, I’ll get Charlie Two to hang back.’

‘Roger that,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘And I’d suggest you get someone at the exit, check the drivers and passengers. I think we’re in the middle of a switch.’

His phone vibrated and he looked at the screen. It was Shepherd. He took the call. ‘The tangoes are on the move, with the gun,’ he said. ‘Westfield Shopping Centre, but I don’t think that’s the target. I’ll get the SFOs to pick you up. How did it go with the O’Neills?’

‘All done and dusted,’ said Shepherd.

‘I just hope this operation goes as smoothly,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

The driver of Charlie Two was a middle-aged man in a tweed jacket, horn-rimmed spectacles and a flat cap. The middle-aged woman next to him could easily have been his wife. She had dyed blonde hair and was sitting with a blue plastic handbag in her lap. Anyone looking at them would assume they were a married couple out for a Saturday shop, but in fact they were two of MI5’s most experienced followers.

‘Charlie Two, we’re outside the exit now,’ said the woman.

‘Roger that, Charlie Two,’ said Aspden. ‘If they’ve swapped vehicles they’ll be out in the next few minutes.’

The driver parked opposite the exit but they were on double yellow lines and he knew they wouldn’t be able to stay there for long.

Half a dozen cars came out and joined the traffic. A police car was heading their way. ‘We’re going to have to either move or identify ourselves,’ said the woman in the passenger seat.

‘I see them,’ said the driver.

‘Give it a few seconds, then move on,’ said the woman. ‘We mustn’t show out whatever happens.’

As the driver stared at the barriers holding back the two lines of traffic leaving the centre, he saw two Asian men sitting in front of a blue Ford Transit. He didn’t recognise the driver but he knew the man in the passenger seat. It was one of the tangoes. ‘Charlie Two, I have eyeball,’ he said. ‘They’re leaving now.’ The woman described the vehicle and read out the registration number as the driver edged the car back into the traffic.

‘Anyone else have eyeball?’ asked Aspden.

‘Bravo One, I have eyeball.’

That was a close call,’ said Aspden. ‘All right, everybody. Bravo One has eyeball. Note that Tango One is now a blue Transit van with at least two IC Four males on board.’

Charlie Two accelerated away, putting plenty of distance between themselves and the van.

The driver of the blue Transit van was a British-born Asian. He had no idea whom he was driving or what was in the case they had loaded into the back. He had been told where to meet the men, and where to go, but that was all. His name was Rahman Naeem but only his parents used his given name. His friends and colleagues called him Ray. The van belonged to his father but it was usually Naeem who drove it, running to the cash and carry to restock the family’s corner shop in Leyton.

Naeem’s instructions had come through his imam, a seventy-year-old cleric who had fought against the Russians in Afghanistan but who had lived in England since the early eighties. He was a learned man and knew the Koran by heart, but he had never lost his warrior roots. He had groomed half a dozen men at the mosque, initially tutoring them in the Koran but then educating them in the politics of Islam. Only those he trusted totally were admitted into his inner sanctum of students where he explained the aims and objectives of Islamic State.

Naeem had been one of the imam’s star pupils and had begged to be allowed to go to Afghanistan for further training but the imam had advised him against it. Any young British Asian who travelled to that part of the world was immediately placed on the government’s watch list. The imam had explained that Naeem would be more valuable as a cleanskin: he could operate without ever being watched. Over the past year the imam had used Naeem half a dozen times, usually driving people or delivering parcels, sometimes passing messages in person. Naeem never asked whom he was driving or what he was delivering: he trusted the imam completely.

Naeem kept a close eye on his mirrors, checking the vehicles behind him constantly. The imam had introduced him to a man from Birmingham, who had taught him about counter-surveillance, how to see if you were being followed and how to lose a tail. Naeem varied his speed, took random turns without indicating and accelerated through amber lights.

He took a circuitous route to his destination, at one point making four left turns in a row, and stopped off at a filling station, ostensibly to put petrol in the tank but the real reason was that it gave him plenty of time to look around for followers.

Only when he was satisfied that he was not being tailed did he head for the destination.

The police van braked suddenly, throwing Shepherd off balance. ‘This is you,’ said Singh. ‘Break a leg.’

‘Thanks for the lift,’ said Shepherd, getting up.