Countdown to Terror

Chapter 13

After leaving the mosque on that fateful day, the group did exactly as bidden by Hussein, preparing their disguises and making up cover stories about their impending absence to spin to their families. They were to lie low for a week to avoid suspicion, as they would if they had disappeared immediately following the incident.

On Bank Holiday Monday, 4th June, when there would be more travellers, the group received instructions from Hussein to go separately to Manchester Piccadilly station and purchase single tickets on a train bound for London Euston. They were to travel in separate carriages, and they would be tracked on the journey. On arrival they would meet outside Burger King, but were not converse. Hussein would be in contact. He had been unable to explain why there had been no media coverage as yet, but the fact that none had been visited by the police was positive. It was raining, dark and cold on arrival at Euston, a thoroughly miserable night. The summer of 2012 would go down as one of the worst on record.

When they were assembled outside Burger King, Hussein materialised out of nowhere. ‘Follow me,’ he ordered as he walked briskly down the escalator and into the Tube station. They travelled on the Northern line to London Bridge, turning right out of the tube station. It was still raining. Walking a short distance and turning left into St Thomas Street, they carried on, passing Guy’s Hospital on the right. On the left was the new Shard building, still a construction site. The road was closed to traffic and all the left side of the street appeared to be under construction work of some kind. It was a dark scary walk past old railway arches, which in years gone by used to house mysterious businesses: Greek import and export, metal tool parts and other small-time operations. They peered down badly lit streets, disappearing for a quarter mile or so under black railway arches. Where the A200 St Thomas Street became Crucifix Lane, Hussein led the trio right into Bermondsey Street, a narrow one-way street going from Long Lane at one end to St Thomas Street at the other. The only exchange during this time had been when Ali had asked if they were going to the safe house, and a muttered ‘yes’ had spluttered from the grim visage of Hussein.

Street names evoked the history of the area: Vinegar Yard, Tanner Street, and Leathermarket Street. They arrived at Long Lane and somewhere in that area they at last reached the safe house. There appeared to be half a dozen men inside, and if all were staying it meant sharing rooms and spending the night in sleeping bags. For Samir this would not be comfortable, and this merely added to his stress level. The lounge was bare except for an old table and a few straight-backed chairs, and was decorated in decades-old woodchip wallpaper. Introductions were made but quickly forgotten. Someone brought a tray with mugs of sweet tea and shortbread biscuits, which were gratefully received as no one had eaten much throughout the day.

Nothing more of consequence was said that night, although Ali made the point that he would have expected the house to be in an area with a larger Pakistani concentration. Hussein did not stay, but gave instructions that they were not to venture outside without permission. It was obvious that two of the men were minders, but at least the sleeping bags were clean.

The trio woke the next morning stiff and with headaches after a less than restful night. Spending the night in a sleeping bag on the floor was not all it was cracked up to be. They breakfasted on best-value supermarket cornflakes and were drinking coffee in the lounge when raised voices and several screams could be heard from the rear bedroom. A frightened-looking youth with a bloodied face emerged, accompanied by the loud voice of one of the minders.

‘Don’t mess up again!’ he growled at the unfortunate youth.

The youth’s task had been to distribute propaganda leaflets to various addresses, but some had been thrown away down in an alley. It would appear that even the mildest transgression was rewarded with violence.

In the few days after the slaughter, the trio had acted exactly as instructed and discussed the situation with no one. Khaled Reza, the factory cleaner whose heart-wrenching story had set the Sword of Allah vengeance in motion, had seen the group, including Hussein, storm out of the mosque, but had been sworn to secrecy on pain of death. The police had eyewitness accounts of the incident, but no names or where the vigilantes had come from. With the exception of Khaled, the local community did not know either. With their stories holding up, the trio had been able to come and go, albeit nervously for the time prior to their travel to Bermondsey. Upon arrival at the safe house, mobiles had been disposed of and for all intents and purposes they would remain prisoners under the watchful eye of Hussein and other minders until the main event.

What no one could understand was the media blackout. On the morning of Friday 6th June, Hussein threw several newspapers onto the table: their shock was palpable as the headline Sword of Allah stared out from the tabloids. They were now fugitives! Outlaws! None of the trio had been in communication with anyone about the incident, with one exception: Samir had texted someone before their mobiles had been confiscated on arrival at the safe house.

It had been well over a week since the group had been quartered in the safe house, and they were all going stir-crazy. The only trips out had all been in the company of minders and only for exercise or to the local supermarket.

It was Friday 15th June, and a treat was in store: Ibrahim Abelgadar was preaching at a mosque not far from Stockwell Tube station. As excitement went, it was marginally better than being stuck in the safe house, though the journey to Stockwell did not feature on any tourist plans. The road from Bermondsey Street to Borough Tube station, Long Lane, lived up to its name.

The ranting and raving of Ibrahim Abelgadar was familiar, with the West being to blame for the ills of the world, but it could be argued that this was exciting after being incarcerated in the safe house. After the speech they were ushered into a back room by Hussein, where Ibrahim was waiting. He greeted them like long-lost brothers, and assured them of their impending martyr status, building up the mood with his accomplished oratory. It was difficult not to feel heroic after such eloquence, although, Samir thought, Ibrahim seemed even more dangerous and mad than previously.

Celebrations were in order, and on the way back they feasted on sharwarma from a street takeaway.

Back at the safe house whilst sat around drinking coffee Samir tried to engage Hussein in conversation.

‘Say, Hussein, that was a great speech today, but when do we get to know more about the plan?’

The piercing black eyes conveyed more than the brusque retort, ‘You will know in good time. Soldiers of Allah must wait.’

Samir tried again. ‘Aw, come on, man, we’ve been stuck here for ever.’

An iron fist smacked him twice round the head. He fell off the chair to the floor with his ears ringing, then clambered warily back up onto his chair, feeling faint. Bad move, he thought as Hussein turned and stormed out of the room.

Ali voiced his concern. ‘You OK, mate? The guy’s a nutter!’

‘My own fault, I guess. We’ve known that all along. I’ll just keep schtum in future.’

The rest of the day was passed reading papers