Countdown to Terror

Chapter One

It is said that the triangle bordered by, Macclesfield, Altrincham and Bramhall in the English county of Cheshire boasts more millionaires per square mile than any other area of the country. The triangle was Samir’s territory.

Samir’s father was a rich Pakistani, and although short and rotund, he’d possessed enough charm – not to mention cash – to facilitate the pursuit and seduction of a pale-skinned second-generation Pakistani girl of outstanding beauty from Birmingham. Their son Samir was a slim, pale-skinned young man, of average height, but possessing above average looks. With an IQ above 115, he appeared aloof, but actually he just did not care.

Samir had originally been articled to Anders-Lybert Accountants with the intention of being a fast-track high-flyer, but his lack of drive and ambition had made him an unlikely candidate for promotion, and only the connection to his father kept him on the books. With only a nominal salary, he relied on his father’s money to sustain him, but for how long?

Halfheartedly still undertaking accountancy studies at Manchester Metropolitan University, Samir was an occasional mosque attendee, which his father silently accepted rather than suffer his non-attendance. Two other fellow young acolytes were also attending MMU, and together they were ideal candidates for grooming by radical Muslims, determined to incite Jihad.

It was Friday 30th March, 2012, and Samir was at the mosque in Cheetham Hill, Manchester. Although the family lived in Wilmslow, an affluent town on the south side of Manchester, his father still kept up the habit of attending from the early days when he had first arrived from Pakistan. Samir was observing prayers on this particular Friday – in fact, the very word for Friday in Arabic comes from the name for the special prayer that is done only on that day. He had not been for some time and was getting some flak from his family, which he would normally have just shrugged off, but a special invitee was preaching today: Ibrahim Abelgadar, an immigrant firebrand cleric, originally  from Baghdad, Iraq. Also in attendance were Abdullah, and Ali, two of Samir’s friends from MMU.

 The speaker ranted and raved for forty-five minutes, quoting chapter and verse from the Koran, while Samir went glassy-eyed trying to stay awake.

Chatting together afterwards in an ante room, Ali whispered, ‘What about the plan then? Are we going to do something or not?’

Samir remained silent as Abdullah responded, ‘Come on, guys, let’s be real. Who do we think we are? How do we actually go about something like that? And don’t say it’s all on the internet.’

Ali continued, ‘Well, we find someone who knows how. What about that Hussein bloke, right? He knows, right? Hasn’t he been trained and everything, even been on the Hajj (pilgrimage) to Mecca?’

Abdullah challenged again, ‘My uncle says to steer well clear of him. He’s big trouble, and anyway, what do you think, Samir?’

 ‘Well, I agree it’s all right talking about it between ourselves, but we don’t really know how to go about it, do we?’

There was silence for a while as the problem was mulled over.

‘I don’t suppose it would do any harm to talk to him,’ volunteered Abdullah.

 Samir was non-committal, but Ali was all for it. The seed was sown, and only the time and place remained to be fixed.

The trio caught up with Hussein as he was walking down Cheetham Hill Road towards the centre of Manchester, where most of the buildings were over a hundred years old. The one exception was the old Northern Hospital, which had closed in 1944 and had been pulled down for redevelopment. They passed Asian businesses, an immigration advice centre, and Asian shops with open stalls in front, selling all kinds of produce spilling over onto the pavement.