Going Rogue, page 2
part #2 of Tom Novak Series
*
The team had been formed a few months previously in response to an upsurge in corruption allegations that was seriously harming British interests at home and overseas. A top-secret government review had been undertaken and had shown that a number of government organisations including the military, judiciary and civil service had evidence of corruption running right through them. With no clear leads as to the source of the leaks or even whether they were linked it was decided that action had to be taken. A secret recruitment campaign had been undertaken and a joint task force, drawing trusted professionals from each of the affected organisations, was created.
Their objective was simple: to disrupt those with power who would use their positions corruptly. Their accountability was direct to the Home Secretary’s office and they had access to the highest levels of legal advice with a direct link into Treasury Counsel at any time.
Amongst their number they had surveillance specialists, covert entry professionals and cyber security experts. Every warranted police officer and military police NCO was also qualified in advanced driving, surveillance and firearms. It was decided that they would formally be known as The Covert Policing Advice Unit and that their “official” role would be “a multi-agency advice centre to advance covert policing excellence.” This was, in essence, a cover. Amongst their number, they would simply be known as “the team”.
The team was deniable. It didn’t exist and they would rarely need to go outside their number for any specialists. They would never appear in court and prosecution of offenders was not their priority. Their role was disrupting corruption and protecting the UK.
Tom and Buster strolled into the team’s open-plan office, nodding to colleagues and noting the air of anticipation and urgency in the room, which built as they followed in Jane’s wake.
Jane shepherded everyone to the room at the far end of the office. ‘Right, everyone in the meeting room.’ She was formerly from the Met’s Professional Standards unit, and had recruited Tom and the rest of the team only a few months earlier. She was widely respected amongst all the team and had a distinct, no nonsense approach.
The team filed into the conference room and sat round a large, long table.
Jane spoke first. ‘You all, of course, know about the terror attack at the East London mosque four days ago. We have been tasked with investigating a particular strand of the enquiry that our paymasters do not feel sits well with Counter Terrorism Command. They, quite rightly in my opinion, want to avail themselves of our multi-agency credentials and links to the military. I also think they want to make sure that they are making use of our frighteningly huge budget.
‘MI5 seem to have some intel that a number of other attacks are being planned using a similar methodology, and they suspect that rogue military individuals are involved. CTC are up to their collective necks in this terrible attack and the Home Secretary wants us to find out what we can and where we may be able to assist in preventing any future atrocities. There is a Gold Group meeting at Scotland Yard this afternoon with all interested parties where more will be learned about the event and any progress made.
‘Now, the politics on this job are head-spinning, people. MI5 think they should be in charge of all intel functions, which CTC are properly upset about. I also understand that the early forensics on the IED will be shared at today’s meeting, which we’ll need to get hold of if we want to get the full picture. For obvious reasons, we’ve not been invited to that meeting, but we need to get in to see what we can learn. I can’t go as I know the Commander and my presence may raise unwanted questions. Tom, you have a reputation for being particularly persuasive. Think you can blag your way in?’ She raised an eyebrow in his direction.
‘I’ll see what I can do. Just so I’m clear, guv, why us? Can’t CT deal?’ Tom replied.
‘I’m sure they can, but I have been given the whisper from those who task us that there may be a corruption angle from elements within the military. The commander wants to know everything and control everything, but I think the Home Secretary is chucking her oar in and wants some expertise to look at this military angle. As we have our friends from the military police with us, she sees us as having a big part to play. Right then: the meeting’s at five; best you get weaving then.’
Tom nodded and left the room, dialling a number on his phone as he did. The call was answered with a booming, ‘Royal, where have you been?’
‘Hello, Stan. I need you to pull in a favour or two for me,’ said Tom with a smile.
3
Tom arrived at Scotland Yard just before four o’clock and swiped through the security gate using his warrant card. He moved with utter confidence, projecting the impression that he had every right to be there, despite the lack of an invitation. It was a tactic he’d practised all his life in both the military and the police: total confidence could get you through many situations.
He took the lift up to the sixth-floor briefing room, where the meeting was about to begin. Small clusters of officers were scattered all around the space, speaking in hushed tones. It was clearly a high profile pow-wow: the shoulders of the uniform officers all bristled with rank insignia and those attired in suits all appeared to be senior detectives. A projector was set up at the far end of the room, the screen displaying the words “Operation Kavanagh” in large letters.
Tom helped himself to a coffee from one of the flasks laid out on a table at the side of the room and took a sip, grimacing at the warm, bitter liquid as he watched an officer approach him. The other man’s shirt-sleeved uniform bore a rank insignia of crossed tip staves in a bay leaf wreath: a commander, just four ranks below that of the commissioner. He wore a name badge—“Commander Wilcox”—and he had a pleasant enough smile, but his eyes displayed suspicion.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked politely.
‘I’m here for the meeting, sir,’ Tom replied, equally politely.
‘Your name?’
‘DS Novak.’ Tom tapped the warrant card which was on a lanyard around his neck.
The commander’s polite smile slipped just a little as his eyes flicked to the card. ‘I mean full name and what unit you are from. This is a restricted meeting.’
‘I’m from the Covert Policing Advice Unit, sir. I’ve been asked to offer my support.’ Tom held the senior officer’s stare with a half-smile on his face, a picture of utter calm.
‘Well, DS Novak, I don’t have you on the attendees list, and this meeting is highly confidential. I will have to ask you to leave; I don’t think we’ll be needing your advice. We have covert policing experts here.’ A hint of sarcasm crept into his voice, his polite and friendly façade beginning to slip.
‘Maybe I should stay, sir? I may be able to add something of value.’
‘I doubt it, son. Run along now; I have a meeting to chair about a very serious terrorist attack on our country.’
Some other attendees had begun to take notice of the confrontation in their midst and Tom felt several sets of eyes boring into him.
A muffled “ping” rang out from the commander’s breast pocket, where the outline of a mobile phone was visible.
‘Sounds like a message, sir. May I suggest you check it? You never know who it might be.’ Tom kept his voice level, showing neither hostility nor servility.
Commander Wilcox looked at Tom a little closer, real anger now spreading across his reddening face. ‘I’m not sure who the hell you think you are, but I want you to get out of this room right now…’ his words were interrupted by a further “ping” from his pocket.
‘I’d really advise you to look at that message, sir,’ Tom said politely.
The commander snorted derisively as he pulled an iPhone from his pocket and looked at the screen. As he read, his face darkened a little; and then he looked once more at Tom with renewed interest.
‘Well, DS Novak. I have no idea who you are, and I’m being told to ask nothing else of you, but Assistant Commissioner Jacobs clearly thinks you should be here. You’d better sit down. But remember this: this is my meeting and I won’t forget your face. Help yourself to a briefing document,’ he added, nodding at a pile of stapled A4 documents that lay on the table, “Operation Kavanagh” emblazoned on their covers.
Tom suppressed a smile, amazed once again at the influence of his old friend, Stan: the civilian CID office manager at Tom’s last police station. He was an ex-Royal Marine, like Tom, who, for reasons no one knew, wielded enormous power that his lowly position didn’t warrant. He’d excelled himself this time, however, by finding a contact with the clout to lean on a commander. Wilcox seemed a little dispirited at having his authority countermanded in such a way, but he was smart enough to know when to quit, moving off to the lectern at the front of the room with a small nod.
Tom picked up one of the briefing sheets and sat down, leafing through the document with only mild interest. It contained only the briefest of details including the date and time of the incident and a map pinpointing the exact location. There were brief details of the nature of the device that had been deployed and a full-face picture of the suspect, Lenny Smith, who glared out from the page with fire in his eyes. He was a thin, pasty-faced individual but determination and hate shone from every pore.
Tom scanned the rest of the document, stopping at a page containing a series of thumbnail pictures of the victims of the attack, their names and ages underneath each image. Tom paused, feeling profound sadness at such a waste of life in the furtherance of a warped ideology. His eyes looked blankly at the twenty-seven faces: men, women and children; all were different, but they all had one thing in common. They were all Muslims. All killed simply because of the religion they followed that evil men found objectionable. Tom loathed that kind of intolerance. It was not the United Kingdom that he loved and that had accepted him, an immigrant himself. He shook his head bitterly as he took in the loss of life before his eyes were drawn to one of the faces in particular. A bearded man with a shaved head, white kufi cap and bright, humorous eyes stood out from the page. With horror Tom realised that he knew that man.
Holy shit: it was Freddie.
*
Helmand Province, Afghanistan, 2008
‘Tom, you need to work more on your defence before you try attacking like you do,’ Fareed Mirza smiled his slow, engaging smile as he slid his Bishop into the almost fatal check on the small chessboard. Fareed, or “Freddie” as he was better known amongst the majority of X-Troop, 40 Commando Royal Marines was a master at chess. Tom had never got close to beating him, although he was surviving longer than normal in the current game.
Tom sighed deeply, reluctantly knocking over his King in an admission of defeat. ‘Nicely played, Freddie,’ he said. ‘I was never in that game. How do you do it?’
‘Years of practice, Tom. My father was a master and he taught me from a young age. I teach my son too and he can beat me often.’ Freddie’s eyes twinkled with a gentle, self-effacing humour that Tom had come to know well during the past four months of their deployment in the heart of the most dangerous part of Helmand Province. Freddie was the interpreter assigned to Tom’s troop and he and Freddie had become good friends as they had patrolled the dangerous terrain together. Their games of chess had become more frequent in the downtime when they were holed up in their Forward Operating Base in a fortified compound in the heart of enemy territory.
‘Anyway, Tom, you lost too easily with your overly aggressive opening. So, I claim my reward,’ Freddie smiled, once again.
‘Fine, I’ll put the kettle on then,’ Tom said, accepting his fate.
‘NATO, standard, Tom.’ Freddie said, his smile widening. During Freddie’s service with X-Troop he had picked up the taste for English tea, always with sugar, known as “NATO standard” by all British soldiers.
‘How is your family, Freddie?’ Tom asked as he filled two tin mugs with boiling water from the burco boiler.
‘Good, I think. I managed to speak with Afri a few days ago. The boys are doing okay and even managed some schooling last week.’ His face lit up as he spoke of his family.
‘Why do you put yourself through all of this, Freddie? We had a terrible day yesterday with the IED strikes. You were far too close on both occasions.’
‘Money for my family, Tom. Since the Taliban took power it is impossible to make enough elsewhere.’
‘You have my respect, Freddie, but what happens when we leave? I mean, hopefully we can sort the Talib out, but you will have to go back to Kabul one day, right?’
‘One day I hope to… If my country can move away from the madness that the Taliban have brought to us. I am careful and mask my identity so hopefully all will be well,’ Freddie smiled again, but Tom could see the concern on his friend’s face.
A companionable silence descended between the two men as they both sipped their strong, sweet tea.
A bellow from the observation point split the silence. ‘Incoming, stand to, stand to!’ The shout was immediately followed by a fizzing whoosh that flew over the walled compound.
‘RPG, RPG from the South-West!’ shouted the troop sergeant.
Tom and Freddie both picked up their discarded helmets, jamming them quickly on their heads before fixing on their body armour.
‘See you later, Freddie. I’m going to beat you next,’ Tom said picking up his SA80 assault rifle and running off to his stand-to position.
‘In your dreams, my friend,’ Freddie called at Tom’s departing back.
*
He couldn’t believe that Freddie was gone. The interpreter had come to the UK a few years ago, when it became clear that he and his family’s lives were in danger thanks to the Taliban becoming aware of his work for the British army. Tom had heard that he was having difficulties convincing the authorities of the veracity of his asylum claim and so, without the knowledge of his police bosses, he had appeared as a witness at his friend’s tribunal appeal. He had appeared in his role as an ex-Marine and had told the immigration judge that Freddie had acted as an interpreter in army dealings with Taliban prisoners. As he had been identified as such, his life would be in mortal danger were he to return to Afghanistan and he had thankfully been granted leave to remain in the UK.
‘Ladies and gents, please take a seat and let’s get going.’ The voice of Commander Wilcox jolted Tom back to the present.
‘Ladies and gents, many thanks for attending this meeting, which has been organised due to developing events from Operation Kavanagh. As many of us know, the suspect, Leonard Smith, was arrested four days ago outside the East London mosque, where he surrendered to police after detonating an IED into a crowd of worshippers gathering for Eid celebrations. Following detonation, he fired thirty-four shots into the crowd, hitting several individuals. He has been charged with a range of offences and is currently on remand at Belmarsh. Tony, perhaps you can fill in the blanks, here, please? Tony is the SIO for the investigation,’ Wilcox looked across the table to an exhausted-looking grey-haired middle-aged man in a wrinkled blue suit.
‘As the boss said, Smith surrendered to the officers who arrived on the scene immediately and has been cooperative, if taciturn, since then. The bomb was an improvised claymore that discharged into the crowd. We have Julie, who is an expert from the forensic explosive lab at Fort Halstead, who can give more detail in a moment. In total we have twenty-seven killed and sixty-eight injured: ranging from life-changing injuries and limb amputations through to minor cuts and bruises. My team is still in the process of securing all available evidence and a full reconstruction is going on as per normal procedures for the scenes.
‘CCTV clearly shows Smith leaving the bomb in a rucksack on the railings outside the mosque. Smith is previously unknown to police; he’s an ex-soldier with the Fusiliers and he served and was injured in Iraq. He was assessed as being mentally fit, despite a PTSD diagnosis. He is, however, suffering from incurable bowel and liver cancer and his survival is not expected to be more than a year. Searches of his premises in North London were not helpful. It would seem he carried out a full cleansing of himself and his home. We found no computers, no phones, nothing. Financial enquiries have been unhelpful. He has been on benefits for some time and seems unable to work.
‘In interview, he wouldn’t comment but wrote a prepared statement describing what he had done which reads: “I fully admit that I detonated the device and shot the enemy Muslims outside the East London mosque. I am a soldier of the Aryan Defence Front and we will not cease until the Muslim invaders have been expelled from our country. I will not answer any further questions.”
‘He declined legal advice and would not answer a single question. He has refused to engage with our interview teams for several days. So, in summary, we have a clean skin previously unknown to us. He’s ex-military, highly motivated and clearly well-trained and briefed. What we don’t know is: by whom. Our research has come up with diddly-squat about the Aryan Defence Front.’ The officer sighed, the stress in his face evident.
Wilcox looked across at a casually dressed female with tied back hair and glasses. ‘Julie, as Tony alluded to, is from Fort Halstead, where they have been examining fragments of the IED. Julie, over to you.’
Julie smiled shyly and spoke in a rich northern accent. ‘As Tony said, the device was fashioned as a make-do Claymore mine used by the military for defensive purposes. It was initiated by an RF fob transmitter, like most car keys. This would have transmitted to the receiver on the device which would have sent an electrical pulse to a circuit that converts it to enough electrical power to trigger the detonator and kick the explosive chain into action.’ She paused to let this information sink in. ‘We’ve seen this type of setup before in Afghanistan and Iraq, but this is a little different and has a signature I’ve not seen forensically before.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Wilcox.
‘Well, firstly, the payload was just shy of two pounds of PE. Semtex, to be precise.’ The scientist paused again. ‘The bombmaker had embedded the Semtex into a steel half-pipe with the nails on top, which would have projected the blast to cause maximum casualties.’
