Countdown to Terror

Chapter 21

 

Samir was still playing his undercover part, but for how much longer? He was sure they must suspect him by now. They must have checked out his mobile, although fortunately he had deliberately not kept his sent messages and he always deleted received messages, so what would they find that was incriminating? Work numbers, girlfriends, family members, and his uncle Sulamain’s number? Nothing was incriminating in its own right, although no received messages was obviously suspicious, wasn’t it? The routine had now become mind-numbingly boring: prayers were performed as expected, the food was just about OK but when left to the minders it was probably not halal. Two of the other ‘guests’ were plain barking mad, absolute caricatures of terrorists with long black beards, their only topic of conversation being the Koran and jihad. Two others, Ahmed and Jumail, from Birmingham, appeared on the surface to be normal and were actually quite intelligent. They were being tutored to get jobs with G4S, the leading international security company, contracted to provide security for the Olympic Games starting on 27th July. G4S had already had significant bad press for not recruiting enough security guards. LOCOG (London Organising Committee of the Olympic and Paralympic Games) would have to rely on the police and the Army to make up the deficit. God knew what mayhem could be in store, should be it left to Ahmed and Jumail.

Meanwhile Ali and Abdullah were truly indoctrinated, being further wound up by Ahmed, Jumail and the barking duo. During any debate, Samir found he was only able to agree, in order not to create suspicion as to his true motives.

It was time for the main meal of the day – nothing extravagant, some white fish and salad. Fish was primarily considered halal because of the sayings and actions of the Prophet. Samir had finished his meal when Tariq, one of the minders with a particularly nasty streak, rose from the table, squeezed his shoulder and murmured in his ear.

‘I get you some more, my friend.’

Samir shivered. This was not the first time this had happened, and the intention behind the generosity was obvious. He could not recall being over-friendly, but had noticed other guests in the house beginning to converse in easier tones with the minders. Stockholm syndrome, or capture–bonding, was not a figment of imagination; it was happening right there in front of him. He glanced at Ali and Abdullah. It had not gone unnoticed, and he would have to be on his guard.

He recalled the last night in the first house. Late evening, at about ten forty, there had been a loud banging on the door. Before it could be answered a single gunshot was heard and a primeval scream rang out, echoing down the narrow street that was in darkness after a long summer’s day. As the door was opened, a minder collapsed through the doorway with blood oozing from a wound in his back. His last words were, ‘Help me, help me. They found out.’

Whoever ‘they’ were and what had been found out was never revealed. All occupants were rounded up and the house was left empty within fifteen minutes.

A van had appeared and they were bundled into the back and had to sit on the floor. The smell suggested it had been used for vegetable deliveries, and in one corner were the remains of a light wooden box, the type used for tomatoes. It was difficult to know where they were being taken, because not much could be seen through the filthy rear windows of the van. They spent the night in the van in some kind of yard. It could not have had anything of value in it, for there were no gates. There was an old caravan and a site hut with running water and a toilet, so perhaps it had been a used car lot at one time. First thing in the morning a man known to Hussein turned up with bread. Later Hussein made a few calls and it transpired another safe house had been found.

In the middle of the morning they were on the Tube heading north of the river. They were to alight at Whitechapel Station for the purpose of buying groceries from Sainsbury’s.

The station was opposite the Royal London Hospital on Whitechapel Road. The trio, as UK-born Asians, had never before been to that area of the Capital, and were amazed at the first sights to behold them as they emerged from the underground. For a quarter of a mile to traffic lights on both left and right were Asian shops selling goods of every description, interspersed with restaurants and takeaways and other Asian commercial establishments. At the edge of the wide pavement, their backs to the road, there were also stalls in full competition. This formed a crowded pedestrian thoroughfare with the population mainly Bangladeshi. Many females were in full burka, a remarkable sight to behold. Turning left and towards the Mile End Road and Newham, their journey’s end, they walked past the Blind Beggar pub, and then left again to Sainsbury’s.

From the supermarket they trekked up Mile End Road towards Newham and eventually found the new safe house. It was apparent that the house was already full, with the lounge also functioning as sleeping quarters – not a good omen. Mooching around, they found that an old back kitchen and utility area was vacant. This was commandeered by what was becoming known as Hussein’s gang.

The addition of the newcomers made the house overcrowded. Tempers flared owing to the lack of space, and a fight broke out between one of the barking duos and an earlier arrival. This was quickly subdued by a whack on the head with a broom handle from one of the minders, rendering the barking one senseless. Murmurings of dissent with the minders continued until Hussein emerged from the kitchen, black eyes blazing and brandishing a frying pan. Peace was restored; no one messed with Hussein. Samir had noted that he had not been around all the time, but once again his total command had prevented a tense situation turning fatal. The unity was jihad alone, even though there were myriad other allegiances.

It wasn’t clear whether the others lived here or could return from whence they came. With plenty of time to think, Samir dwelt on their predicament. He wasn’t sure if Ali and Abdullah realised their plight, but he concluded that the Manchester group must now be on Britain’s most wanted list and would have to be used and discarded – or just plain discarded, one way or another. He shivered at the thought.

The next morning an opportunity occurred. The group were shopping with a minder, as the new house had already run out of food. Ravenous, they ate breakfast in the supermarket café. While waiting to be served, Samir excused himself to use the toilet. There was a phone in the corridor, and he called Sulamain. No answer; he left a message.

‘Need to speak urgently, was in Bermondsey, now Whitechapel, calling from Sainsbury’s.’ Samir scurried back.

The minder quizzed him, ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yeah, sure, just a bit... you know. I’ll be fine after some food.’

He’d thought of doing a runner, but he would surely be seen, and then where would he go anyway? He would hardly go to the police. Would he be better on his own or with Ali and Abdullah? They still appeared totally up for it. All were starving. Breakfast was eaten in near silence, hunger abated.