Dark Forces (5 page)

The SUV had four doors and a man opened one of the rear doors for al-Hussain. ‘There’s food in the back, and water,’ said the man, ‘with a blanket and a pillow, if you wish to sleep. We’ll be driving for some time.’

Al-Hussain thanked him and climbed in. The door slammed behind him. As he watched through the window the three men outside embraced again, then the IS fighter headed back to the border. Two minutes later the SUV was bouncing along the rough ground. The driver and the second man had both donned night-vision goggles and kept the headlights off. There was a cloth package on the seat next to him, which al-Hussain unwrapped. Inside he found a small loaf of hard bread, some olives and soft goat’s cheese. Another, smaller, package contained a bundle of
khat
. Al-Hussain put aside the food and started to chew the leaves.

Omar Hassan lived in Salford, just five miles south of the park where he was to meet his contact. It would have taken just twelve minutes by taxi but he travelled by bus, tram and then on foot. The journey took him almost an hour but gave him plenty of opportunity to check that he wasn’t being followed.

The instructions detailing where he was to go and whom he was to meet had been placed in a mail folder in a Yahoo account. It was the way he had communicated with his Islamic State handlers for more than five years, ever since he had returned from a training camp on the Pakistan border. Hassan had flown to Islamabad in 2010 with four of his friends from Greater Manchester, ostensibly to attend a wedding, then to spend time getting to know the culture of the country their parents had come from. All five were British-born, the sons of parents who had emigrated to the UK during the fifties and sixties.

They had been teenagers when they had made the long trip to Pakistan, and Hassan’s parents had expressed their reservations. Hassan was the youngest of five, four boys and a girl, and was the only one who had ever expressed any interest in connecting with his Pakistani heritage. The local imam had come to see his parents to ask their permission for him to go. What they didn’t know was that the imam was a recruiter for al-Qaeda, selecting men suitable for jihadist training. He was a kindly man, well known in the area for his charitable works, and he had sat in the Hassan house for more than an hour drinking hot mint tea as he explained how beneficial the trip would be for Omar’s Islamic studies, that a Saudi Arabian charity would bear the costs and pay him a handsome stipend.

Eventually Hassan’s parents agreed, and he flew to Pakistan a month later. He attended the wedding and returned with lots of photographs of the ceremony and the celebrations afterwards. There were also photographs of him visiting sights of cultural interest, and attending various mosques. But there were no photographs of the place where he and his companions had spent most of the trip: an al-Qaeda training camp across the border in the rugged mountains of Afghanistan. There, Hassan had been trained to fire a range of weapons, from handguns to shoulder-mounted ground-to-air missiles, and instructed on how to deal with explosives, from making small IEDs to constructing landmines large enough to destroy a tank. His instructors had groomed him in tradecraft as well, explaining how to arrange a clandestine meeting, how to detect a tail, and how to remain undercover and invisible for years.

Hassan had been an eager pupil and had returned to Salford fired up and ready to fight for the cause, to kill the infidel and avenge Muslims who had been persecuted and murdered around the world. His instructions had been to return to his regular life until he was called upon to serve the cause. Each day he was to check a Yahoo account that had been specially set up for him. He was not to send emails from the account, or to receive any on it, but messages could be left in the drafts folder. It was a foolproof system that neither the Americans nor the British could spy on, no matter how hard they tried. Messages that were not sent could not be intercepted. But days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months and eventually became years. Each day he would check the drafts folder, and each day he would be disappointed.

When the Americans killed al-Qaeda leader Bin Laden, Hassan was sure he would be called to arms, but the call never came. What he didn’t know was that after Bin Laden’s death there had been a leadership struggle for control of the jihadist battle in the Middle East, with the relatively young jihadists of Islamic State eventually becoming dominant. The men who had trained Hassan had switched sides early on and expanded their training programme. Dozens of young jihadists were trained and sent back to their own countries, and still Hassan waited. Several times he would leave a message in the draft folder: I AM READY. PLEASE USE ME. Each time, the reply was always the same: BE PATIENT, BROTHER.

Eventually, some five years and six months after his return from Pakistan, Hassan received a message telling him to report for a meeting in Heaton Park the following day. After he’d read it, Hassan could barely concentrate on his work, servicing engines at the family’s garage. He couldn’t eat because his stomach was churning, and that night he tossed and turned, unable to sleep.

He walked past the entrance, then doubled back, checking carefully to see if he had wrong-footed any followers, but he was sure he wasn’t being tailed. He went into the park.

Heaton Park covered more than six hundred acres and was the biggest council park in Europe, with an eighteen-hole golf course, a boating lake, tennis courts, woodlands, ornamental gardens and a petting zoo. The instructions said that Hassan was to wait on a bench overlooking the lake. He did a complete circuit of the lake, then sat down on the bench. Two minutes later he was joined by an Asian man in his fifties, bearded and wearing a skull cap. In his right hand he carried a small copy of the Koran. He had the look of an imam. He undid the top two buttons of his coat and sat down on the far side of the bench. They were silent for a minute or so. Then: ‘Did you see the match last night?’ said the man, quietly, as he looked out across the lake.

‘Which one?’

‘City.’

‘Five–two,’ said Hassan.

Manchester City hadn’t played since the previous weekend and the game had been a draw. The brief conversation had been prearranged and confirmed that both men were who they claimed to be. The man looked at Hassan and smiled. ‘The time has come for you to serve, brother.’

‘I’m ready,’ said Hassan.

The man glanced around, then took a folded piece of paper from his pocket. On it were five pictures of a vehicle. The front, the back, the two sides and an overhead view. Hassan raised his eyebrows when he realised what it was. ‘Are you serious?’

‘The markings and colours must be identical,’ said the man. ‘We’ll need four.’

‘How soon?’

‘Three weeks. Maximum. You’ll be supplied with registration numbers the day before the vehicles are required.’

‘And – what? I steal them?’

‘Not necessarily,’ said the man. ‘They are often sold second hand after they have outlived their usefulness. But they must be roadworthy and they must look like the photographs. See what’s available around the country. Use false names when you buy. If you have to steal, make sure you steal from different counties.’

‘What about the insides?’

‘They should look the part but they don’t have to function. They must be driveable, obviously.’

‘They won’t be cheap, brother, not if we buy them.’

The man smiled and took out a thick envelope. ‘We’ll require receipts,’ he said.

Hassan slipped the envelope inside his jacket.

‘If you need more money, ask. But, as I said, we’ll require receipts. How many men will you be using?’

‘The engines and mechanical work I can take care of myself,’ he said. ‘I’ll only be buying runners so it should just be a matter of tuning them up. I’m assuming we don’t need insurance or MOTs.’

The man nodded. ‘They’ll be used only once, and they’re to stay off the road until they’re needed.’

‘Then I can probably get away with one guy to do the paintwork and the signs,’ he said.

‘The lights?’

‘I’m good with electrics.’

The man smiled his approval. ‘That is why you were chosen, brother. You have the skills.’

‘But if we have to steal them, I’ll need help.’

‘You have the people?’

‘I do.’

‘And they can be trusted?’

‘Absolutely. With my life.’

‘Use them if you must, but say nothing until the time is at hand,’ he said.

‘Where do I keep them? There isn’t room in my garage – or not enough to keep them hidden.’

‘You will be contacted by someone with premises. Through the mail folder.’ He stood up. ‘This is a great thing we’re doing, brother,’ he said.

‘I realise that,’ said Hassan.

‘Be careful.’

‘I will.’

The two men embraced, then walked off in different directions.

The black cab dropped Shepherd at the main entrance to the British Museum but he walked around the side towards an office area clearly marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. There was a black door with an intercom on the wall next to it. He pressed the button and looked up at the CCTV camera covering the area. The lock buzzed and Shepherd pushed the door open. He stepped into a carpeted corridor with more doors leading off both sides. He knocked on the third to the left.

‘Enter!’ It was the tone of a headmaster summoning a schoolboy and Shepherd had half a mind to turn and walk away. Instead he twisted the handle and pushed open the door. Jeremy Willoughby-Brown was sitting behind a large desk in a high-backed executive chair, his feet on a windowsill. ‘Daniel, welcome, grab yourself a pew.’ He waved at two straight-backed chairs facing him, and Shepherd took the one on the left. Willoughby-Brown was halfway through one of his favourite small cigars and he had opened a window behind him to allow the smoke to escape, though Shepherd knew that that didn’t make what he was doing any less illegal. ‘No refreshments, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘This is all I could get at short notice.’

‘I’m good,’ said Shepherd, though actually he could have done with a coffee.

‘There’s no reason we couldn’t have done this in Thames House,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

‘I’m undercover. I can’t risk being spotted walking into MI5’s HQ.’

‘You’re being over-cautious,’ said Willoughby-Brown, flicking ash into the pot of what seemed to be a plastic plant. ‘What are the odds that anyone connected to a South London crime family would be passing Thames House at the exact moment you decided to pay us a visit?’

‘It doesn’t matter what the odds are. I’m not prepared to take the risk. And it’s my call.’

Willoughby-Brown raised his hands in surrender. ‘Daniel, whatever it takes to keep you happy is fine by me. So, how are we fixed with the O’Neills?’

‘All good. So far as they know, I’m a stone-cold killer who’s happy to be on their payroll. Give it a few days and I’ll mention the money thing, see if I can get them to bring me into their laundering. At that point I’m going to need some cash.’

‘How much?’

‘It’ll have to be a lot or they won’t take me seriously.’

‘How much is a lot?’

‘Half a mill would get their attention.’

Willoughby-Brown grimaced. ‘That’s a big wedge, Daniel.’

‘You don’t need money-laundering for a few grand. If you want me to blow the whole organisation apart, we need to be able to follow the money.’

‘You can understand my reluctance to give London’s biggest gangster firm half a million pounds of Her Majesty’s money. What if they rip you off?’

‘They’re convinced I’m a professional assassin. I’m the last person they’re going to be thinking about ripping off. Any less than that and they’re not going to introduce me to their money men. But with half a mill I can demand a sit-down. Then we can put names to faces so that when we take them down we can get their assets, too.’

‘And it has to be cash?’

Shepherd sighed in exasperation. ‘I can hardly give them a cheque, can I? The whole point is that I want to get cash into the system.’

‘Yes, I know that,’ said Willoughby-Brown, archly. ‘But I’m sure you understand my reservations.’

‘You don’t make an omelette without breaking eggs,’ said Shepherd.

‘This isn’t about a dozen eggs, though, is it? This is the whole hen-house.’

‘If Five is serious in wanting to destroy the O’Neills as a criminal force, they have to put in the effort. So far we have enough on tape to put half a dozen of them behind bars but not Tommy and Marty, not yet. And even if we do move against them with what we have, we don’t know where most of the money is. There’s the house in Bromley but that’s in Tommy’s wife’s name. The cars are leased, the businesses in shell companies. They never use credit or debit cards.’

‘We can get Tommy and Marty on conspiracy to murder,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

‘Not without me standing in the witness box, and that’s not going to happen,’ said Shepherd. ‘You know how it works. I gather evidence but I’m never in court.’

‘We could put you behind a screen. Work up a disguise for you. It’s been done before.’

‘Not with me it hasn’t.’

‘Okay, I take your point. We need to bait the trap and a few crumbs of cheese won’t do it. I’ll get the money sorted. Pounds, I suppose?’

‘Some pounds, some euros. The Hammer works Europe-wide.’

‘Seriously? You call yourself the Hammer?’

‘It makes what I do more memorable.’

‘I suppose you know best,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘The money might take a day or two – we’ll need the numbers registered.’

‘No consecutive ones,’ said Shepherd.

Willoughby-Brown flashed him a tight smile. ‘I’m not exactly a virgin at this, Daniel. Please give me some credit. What about when you give them the money? Can you be wired up?’

‘Not if Tommy and Marty are anywhere nearby,’ Shepherd said. ‘They use the latest counter-eavesdropping technology. And Tommy’s hardly ever here, these days. He’s almost always in Dubai. There’s no way he’ll be going anywhere near the money.’

‘What about the wife? Can we get to her?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘They’re solid. They lead separate lives pretty much but she’s still Mrs O’Neill.’