The Horse at the Gates (37 page)

A figure loomed in the doorway and Joe appeared, wet hair plastered to his head, dressed in an old combat jacket and jeans, the Mossberg hanging from his shoulder. Danny noticed the barrel was pointed down, to avoid the rain that drummed noisily on the metal roof. Old habits die hard for soldiers.

‘Ah, Joe. Get the door please.’ Ray threw a light switch and fluorescent tubes, suspended from a metal grid overhead, buzzed loudly then blinked into life. Danny had a good look around. From the cinderblock walls hung an impressive array of engineering tools, while the workbench that ran the length of the far wall was covered in battered technical manuals, sprays and lubricants and piles of oily rags. Scattered around the other walls were Jerry cans, oil drums, agricultural equipment and various motor spares.

‘All part of the deception,’ chuckled Ray, waving his hands around the barn. He approached the workbench and slapped his hat down on the surface. He stood near the centre, gripping a section of the bench while he fingered something beneath the oil-stained wood. There was an audible click, then Ray pulled a part of the unit away from the wall. He ducked behind the gap, sliding out a cleverly-disguised drawer, and produced two items that he placed on the soiled wooden surface. The first was clearly a pistol, its undeniable shape wrapped in a faded green cloth. The second was a black plastic shockproof case which he laid gently on the workbench. He brushed his hands on the legs of his corduroy trousers.

‘This is it, Danny. This is what it’s all been about.’

Danny stared at the cloth, bewildered. ‘What’s the gun for, Ray?’

‘Self-defence, son. For you. And us.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Course you don’t. Let me explain.’

He strode towards the vehicle in the centre of the barn and dragged the tarpaulin off its smooth lines. It was a Vauxhall as Ray had declared, a modest four-door hatchback saloon, dark blue in colour, the type used by families with small children.

‘As I said, one of the last off the production line,’ Ray explained, slapping his hand on the roof. ‘And because Vauxhall were going out of business there were quite a few problems with this particular model. With the Tracker units, in fact. They were all recalled and the problem rectified. Well, most of them, anyway.’

Danny looked confused. ‘What problem?’

‘A design flaw in the Tracker unit hardcode. Made in China of course, so the rumour was some sort of industrial sabotage. Probably was, knowing the bloody Chinks.’ Ray winked at Joe and the ex-soldier laughed. It didn’t look right. ‘The thing is, the maintenance interface of this unit is completely programmable,’ Ray explained. ‘For our immediate purposes it’s been uploaded with a bogus journey history, toll road payments, even a fictitious owner.’ He fumbled in the pocket of his Barbour. ‘Here, you might as well take this now, get familiar with your new persona.’

Danny took the ID card from Ray’s outstretched hand, studying his photograph, the personal details. ‘I still don’t get it,’ he muttered.

‘Remember when I spoke about action, not words? Well, that time is now.’ Ray rummaged in the hidden drawer and produced an old iPad. His fingers danced across the touch screen and then he passed it to Danny. A slideshow of high-resolution images scrolled across the display.

‘What you’re looking at is the Muslim Council of Regional Representatives’ building in Birmingham, a huge concrete monstrosity built with taxpayers’ money. In their ongoing efforts to integrate with British society, the Council has decided to forgo the Christmas holidays and hold their annual General Meeting in the building on Christmas Day. Keep scrolling through the pictures, Danny.’

He did as he was told, the images changing from external shots to well-lit interiors, long carpeted hallways with potted plants and exotic artwork lining the walls. There were other shots of ceiling vents and pipe works, of maintenance covers and plant rooms. Ray’s gravelly voice echoed around the barn.

‘On Christmas Eve you’ll travel up to Birmingham in the Vauxhall. You’ll go to the Council building after nine o’clock that evening, when the recently employed security guard will be on shift. This bloke is brand new, a complete muppet by all accounts. In any case, you’ll be posing as an air con engineer attending a call-out. Don’t worry, I’ve got all the paperwork. Once you’re in, you’ll head to the plant room on the top floor, where you’ll find an access hatch near the main condenser. All the plans are right there on the iPad.’

Danny’s eyes flicked between Ray and the images on the screen. ‘And do what, a bit of vandalism? Flood the building or something? Sure, I can do that,’ he blurted, hoping, praying it was nothing more.

‘Vandalism?’ Ray glanced at Joe. ‘What’s he like, eh?’ He slapped Danny on the back, then the smile slipped from his face like melted wax. ‘You think I’d go to all this trouble just to break a couple of fucking windows? I could get kids to do that. No, this is bigger, Danny, much bigger. More your style. Here, look at this.’ He snapped open the black case on the workbench. Inside was a white plastic container nestled in purpose-cut grey foam. On its uppermost surface, fixed into position with blue electrical tape, was a small digital timer. Danny took a step back, his bearded face draining of colour.

‘Jesus.’

‘It’s not armed.’

‘Is that what I think it is?’

‘Not quite,’ Ray assured him. ‘It does possess some small explosive properties, but essentially it’s just a plastic container. It’s what’s inside it that matters.’

‘Inside?’

‘The ingredients, Danny. The cocktail.’

Danny’s face was a blank canvas. ‘What?’

‘Bloody hell, I thought you’d be used to all this,’ Ray bristled. ‘I’ll spell it out for you, son. It’s a bio-weapon.’

Danny said nothing, but just stared at the blank timing mechanism, the white powder inside the plastic container, as his mind struggled to process what he was hearing.

‘Technically it’s an organophosphate pesticide derivative,’ Ray continued, ‘but you don’t need to worry about the details. All you need to do is place the device behind the correct inspection hatch, remove a few filters, then set the timer for seventy-two hours. On the third day of the Council’s unholy meeting, this little baby will go off with a quiet pop and start working her magic. The air con system will do the rest. I’m told that the nerve agent will be fully dispersed around the main conference chamber within thirty minutes. With luck, if it doesn’t dilute too quickly, it’ll claim a few more lives around the rest of the building. We’re talking about a hundred casualties, maybe a hundred and fifty.’

Danny stood in silence for a long time, his eyes wide in disbelief. Several times his mouth moved to form words, but no sound made it past his bloodless lips.

‘Now, I don’t want you to worry,’ Ray urged, easing the iPad from Danny’s frozen fingers. ‘We’re going to spend the next couple of days going over the details, rehearsing the route, your interaction with the geezer on the gate, that sort of thing. I’ve rigged up a dummy inspection hatch too, so you can familiarise yourself with the positioning of the weapon. Just remember, you’ll have a kosher ID, all the right documentation and an untraceable car. Couldn’t be easier, right? And you’ll have the gun, of course, as a last resort.’

‘Nerve agent?’ Danny finally managed to say.

Ray smiled. ‘Now you’re getting it. Improvised, but very effective. Within twelve hours of getting a lungful of this, those heathen bastards will start to suffer, am I right Joe?’

The ex-soldier nodded enthusiastically. ‘That’s right, Ray,’ he confirmed in his West Country drawl. ‘Early symptoms are breathlessness, fatigue, bronchial problems. Later they’ll begin vomiting, then bleeding from every fucking orifice in their bodies. It’s a slow, nasty way to die.’

Danny had never seen Joe so animated. His eyes burnt brightly, his cheeks flushed with hatred. Danny glanced at Ray, who smiled along with Joe like some sick father and son double act.

‘Amen to that,’ Ray added, snapping the case shut. He patted its closed lid gently. ‘This is it, Danny, the first blow.’ He picked up the cloth-covered pistol and unwrapped it, handing the firearm to Danny who took it without thinking. ‘That’s an Accu-Tek semi-automatic. Go on, get a feel for it, son. Joe will take you in the woods tomorrow, get you properly acquainted.’

‘Point three-two calibre, twelve round mag,’ Joe explained. ‘Designed more for concealment than pure firepower, but it’ll do the job if you run into trouble.’

‘Ideally, you’ll come back with all twelve rounds,’ Ray said. ‘Keep it with you from now on, alright?’

As Danny stared at the pistol in his hand, Ray threw an arm around his shoulders and squeezed. ‘Look at him. Cool as a bloody cucumber this one, eh Joe?’ His eyes bored into Danny’s, his fingers digging painfully through the material of his jacket. When he spoke it was with a passion that Danny found distinctly unnerving.

‘There’ll be other jobs after this one, son. The country’s in turmoil right now, what with Hooper offing himself and that Paki bastard stepping into his shoes.’ Ray made a face at Joe. ‘Tariq Saeed – what sort of name is that for a British Prime Minister, eh?’

‘Fucking disgrace,’ Joe grumbled.

‘All the pieces are in place now – the money, the technical support, the weapons. This country is about to witness a campaign of terror the like of which has never been seen before.’

‘What do you mean?’ Danny stuttered.

‘I mean violence, Danny. Riots, street battles. The fight back I’ve planned will pitch community against community, igniting the tensions everyone pretends don’t exist: Muslim and Hindu, Tutsi and Hutu, Turk and Kurd, black and white. By the time I’ve finished they’ll all be at each other’s throats. Cities will burn and the streets will run with blood.’

Ray took a moment, clearly savouring the images of violence in his mind. Danny glanced at Joe, who watched Ray with a look of pure admiration. Ray spread his arms wide. ‘Then, like a phoenix from the ashes, Raymond Carver will step into the light, leading a new party, with a new ideology, one that will banish Britain’s multicultural experiment to the dustbin of history, promising a new period of peace and prosperity, of British power and influence, free from the shackles of political correctness, from the iron grip of Brussels. And people will flock to us, yes they will, because they’ll want to see an end to the violence, to the unbridled immigration and the rape of our laws and customs. The people of this land deserve something better, a new start, in a country that has had a gutful of multiculturalism.’

Ray gripped Danny by the arms, his grey eyes bright with excitement. ‘And you,’ he whispered, ‘you’ll be my secret weapon, the catalyst from which the violence will spring. You’ll be like a ghost – a different ID, different disguise, for every mission you undertake. A shooting here, a well-placed bomb there, each incident ramping up the tension, each side blaming the other.’

Ray grasped Danny’s hand in both of his and squeezed. ‘I can’t tell you how proud we all are of you, son. For Luton, for Downing Street. For what has gone before and for what will be. You’re doing God’s work, Danny Whelan. What we’re embarking on is a Crusade, and the Lord has looked down from on high and sent me a true Christian soldier.’

The rain pummelled the roof, the wind rattling the concertina doors, whistling through the cracks and gaps. Danny looked at the shockproof case, at the gun in his hand, at Joe’s cruel grin. Finally he looked at Ray. ‘But you don’t even go to church,’ he mumbled.

The big man chuckled for a moment, then let go of Danny’s hand. He looked confused. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

Danny began to shake his head. ‘Listen, you got it all wrong, Ray. I had nothing to do with Luton, or Downing Street.’

Ray laughed, waving a dismissive hand. ‘It’s alright, son, you can drop the bullshit. I told you from day one, you’re amongst friends here.’

‘You’re not listening to me, Ray.’

The older man took a step closer, his cold eyes searching Danny’s. ‘Yes I am. I hear what you’re saying, son. Trust takes a long time to nurture before it can really take root. You came here, to me, when your friends were arrested, when your support network crumbled in the wake of the bombs. You trusted me to keep you out of harm’s way, to feed you, put clothes on your back. I saw that as a test, Danny, a test of my own resolve, my own commitment to the cause. I’ve never once asked you about Luton or Downing Street, because I wasn’t privy to the details of those operations, played no part in their execution. Who was it, by the way? Who were the principals?’

‘The what?’

‘The key players. Who organised those jobs, funded them? Was it Kevin Brady from the Defence League? Sean Turner?’

‘Who?’

Ray looked away, stroking his face. ‘I had a feeling they’d be involved. Good boys, the both of them, committed, intelligent. Fucking shame about their arrests. Still, at least they’ve not been stitched with terrorist charges. Well, not yet anyway.’ He turned back to Danny. ‘They’d be proud of you, son, keeping your mouth shut like this, keeping up the pretence of ignorance, but you can relax now. It’s time to move on, continue the struggle that they started.’

Danny took another step back. ‘Ray,’ he said slowly, quietly, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was fitted up over Luton. I thought I was delivering a fridge, that’s all. I got paid too, a thousand quid. I never knew it was a bomb, Ray, not in a million years. If I’d known I’d have run a mile.’ Danny pointed over Ray’s shoulder, to the shockproof case. ‘What you’re asking, I can’t do it. I don’t care whether they’re Muslims or Jehovah’s bloody Witnesses, I’m not a murderer, Ray. I’m just a normal geezer.’

Ray stood completely immobile, his tanned face a mask of confusion. After a moment he began to shake his head. ‘No, that’s not right. I knew everything about you long before you even got here. I’ve had my people check you out, your background, your story. I’m not wrong, no way.’

‘You are!’ Danny insisted. ‘I thought that’s why you let me stay here, because I
was
innocent, because I
was
a member of the Movement. Because you hate the government like I do, for the lies, the bullshit, especially the stuff they’re saying about me.’ Danny took a step towards Ray, the emotion almost choking his words, his eyes filling with tears. ‘Don’t you understand? All I want is to stay here, Ray, just stay here and get my head down, keep out of the way. You and Tess, you’re the only friends I’ve got. I’ll do anything, you know that. Help around the estate, like I’ve been doing, shopping–’