Going Rogue, page 3
part #2 of Tom Novak Series
‘Semtex?’ asked a senior looking uniformed man. ‘What, like the IRA used to use?’
The room was stunned into silence.
‘The very same. We’ll know more soon, but my feeling is that it’s Czech Semtex which we’ve not seen since the Troubles.’
‘So, are we thinking this is PIRA?’ asked Tony, his tone incredulous. The Provisional IRA had been on ceasefire since the end of the Troubles, but certain elements were from time to time still active.
‘Almost certainly not. We know what PIRA bombs look like and this is not one of them. We managed to recover and identify fragments of the fuse and detonator and it isn’t what we expected.’ She took a sip of her coffee. ‘The detonator is identical to the type currently in service with the British military, as is the fuse. If you forced me to speculate, which I wouldn’t right now, I would say this IED was built by a British military demolitions expert. If I was going to make an improvised Claymore, it would look very similar to this one.’
*
The following morning, Jane Milligan and seven team members sat round the conference table waiting pensively. They all knew this was big: a military-trained bombmaker using stolen PIRA Semtex to create devastating anti-personnel IED’s for use in mainland Britain was a terrifying prospect.
There had been silence around the table a few hours earlier as Tom had recounted the details from the previous day’s meeting. It was abundantly clear just how serious this was. A far-right terrorist group using military-grade explosives coupled with the military expertise to wreak terrible carnage on the streets of London. Tom left out the information about his relationship with one of the victims, as he knew that would risk him being side-lined or given an ancillary role. No way was that happening, thought Tom. He wanted, more than ever, to be at the centre of getting the people responsible for the senseless slaughter.
Jane had quickly dished out a whole raft of research objectives to the team and everyone had disappeared to try and gain more information on the bomber, Leonard Smith.
‘I want to know everything about him: family, friends, military service, everything. No actions beyond intel gathering at this stage, I don’t want a blue-on-blue situation. The investigation belongs to CT, I just want to see what we can find out about any possible corruption angle and for that we need background,’ she had said in her clipped and efficient manner.
A few hours later they had reconvened, everyone sat waiting to share what they had learned so they could, hopefully, come up with a strategy to stop any further attacks and avoid the UK descending into chaos.
Jane began. ‘Right, people. Let’s get going. I really hope that I am going to be impressed with what your research has uncovered. We need a break, people, and we need it fast, so crack on.’
Clare, a smartly dressed corporal from the military police went first. ‘Right. I spoke to his old platoon commander and some people who knew him in the army. CTC had already been onto them, apparently, and they gave the official line, but I managed to get a little more via some of his old platoon members. Described as intense, dedicated and a really good soldier but something of a loner, particularly after his buddy died and he got injured. Was never the same again. Usual story. Drinking too much, full of rage and was always on the edge of getting in the shit for punching someone. In the end they had to let him go. Nothing else, really; and no one had any inclinations that he was particularly racist or politically minded beyond the usual squaddie bluster. No one has heard from him since. Never came to any reunions or anything like that.’
‘Is that all?’ Jane asked shaking her head at Clare’s nod.
‘Okay. Financial: Farita?’ she continued.
A middle-aged Asian woman spoke up. Farita was a financial wizard. She had come from the financial services industry where she had worked as a forensic accountant. Bored of that life, she had joined the National Crime Agency where she put her formidable skills to use as a financial investigator. ‘Not much to report, either, Jane. He was on benefits since leaving the army on disability living allowance. His rent on the bedsit was paid by DSS and his spending pattern is unremarkable. He spent most of it in the pub or at supermarkets, presumably on booze. He was using a top-up service for a mobile phone and I have identified the number that I’ve passed on for research as well. Basically, he was skint. No payments from or to unidentified sources. Sorry, Jane.’
Jane sighed, ‘Does anyone have anything of any use to us?’
Ben, who was the team’s intelligence analyst, said, ‘I’ve been looking into the phone number. It was unregistered, pre-pay on EE. I have all the call data for the last three months which I’m running through all the databases. He wasn’t using it that much to be honest and the cell sites keep him very close to his home address before it got switched off the day before the attack. There was one number which called him a few times in the weeks leading up to the incident which I’m looking into. I’m expecting the data back any time from the phone company, but they are swamped with a huge number of urgent applications and there is a backlog. He did call his sister in Wales two days before the attack.’
‘Thanks, Ben. Does anyone have any information about the sister?’ Jane said.
‘An old mate of mine is on the CTC major investigation team for the main job,’ said Buster. ‘He tells me that the sister has been seen, her name is Judith. She told him that she was, to all intents and purposes, estranged from her brother. She mentioned the final phone call, said it was out of the blue and that he seemed very odd, but he had said nothing unusual.’
‘Is that it? No other contact at all; it seems unlikely,’ Jane said.
‘That’s all they told me, and my mate ain’t the type to try and bullshit me,’ Buster said, shrugging.
‘Anything on the Semtex?’ Jane asked.
A tall, slim officer called Chris looked up. ‘There is a rumour that the Provisional IRA may have lost some.’
‘Can you be more specific, Chris?’ Jane asked with a sigh.
‘Not really, sorry,’ Chris replied.
‘Anyone have any contacts over there?’
‘Old mate of mine from Army days is PSNI,’ said Buster. ‘I can put a call in.’
‘Do it, as soon as you can. We need to get to the bottom of this, urgently. Last thing we need at the moment is a load of republican terrorists running around angry.’
Buster nodded, stood, and left the room.
Jane sighed with frustration. ‘Well, I can hardly take this to the Home Secretary, can I? Basically, we have the square root of sod-all. Any suggestions from anyone?’ Jane was a superb leader and an excellent police officer, but she had a penchant for getting frustrated if things did not proceed quickly.
‘Maybe we need a new approach, Jane,’ Tom said.
‘I’m all ears, Tom.’
‘The one person who we know has some answers is currently in HMP Belmarsh. Why don’t we ask him?’
‘Tom, I don’t have time for you being obtuse. What are you suggesting.?’
‘As I understand it, Lenny Smith is currently sat in House Block 4, which is the detox and vulnerable prisoners wing. He couldn’t be housed on the HSU, or High Security Unit for those who don’t know, as it’s packed with the worst type of jihadist prisoners and he’d get torn limb from limb. As there is no room at HSU, they have been forced to put him in general population. The prison service is so completely screwed for room that they have no choice but to keep him in there, but with extra protection. They are trying to prevent attempts by keeping him on the spur with the slightly less violent types and are supervising his association periods more closely. With staff cutbacks it seems it’s only a matter of time, however.’ Tom spoke quietly as normal with a thoughtful look on his face.
‘It’s not like we can go in and interview him, Tom. CTC have primacy on the investigation, and he is already charged,’ said Jane.
‘How about we deploy someone in undercover as a remand prisoner to try and get close to him. I have a potential cover story that might work.’
Jane stared at Tom. ‘Are you mad? It would be horribly dangerous. You’d have no backup.’
‘I could go in as Slovenian ex-army, remanded on a European arrest warrant pending an appeal. I could make it that I am wanted back in Slovenia for some crime against Muslims and play the nasty racist Islamophobe. If anything is going to get him talking, it would be that. He’s going to be feeling pretty lonely in there right now.’
‘You’re a mental case, Tom,’ said Chris, shaking his head.
‘Look, we’ve got an unknown amount of Semtex out there with a skilled bombmaker and possibly a load of motivated bombers all looking to start a race war,’ said Tom. ‘I don’t see we have much choice. We know absolutely nothing at the moment. We need to know who has the Semtex and who the bombmaker is, but we haven’t even got a starting point. I probably only need to be in for a few days. If he shows no interest in engaging, I can just get out using the cover story that I’ve got bail on the basis of a legal mess-up in Slovenia.’ He was glad that he hadn’t mentioned his association with one of the victims of the bombing or he wouldn’t have been let anywhere near this deployment.
Jane paused as if weighing up the options. This would be very risky on the physical side, and legally it was tricky as well. There would need to be a whole backstory created and backstopped.
Finally, she nodded. ‘Right. Let’s look into this. I want a full profile on every prisoner on the wing. I want special attention on anyone that Tom may have encountered in his service. We also need a contact at the highest levels of the prison service. I also think that we should get someone from the Prison Intelligence Unit from the Yard to brief Tom on exactly what to expect. We need Tom on Smith’s wing and, if possible, in his cell. I want Treasury counsel to advise directly on the legalities. Tom, start working on a legend, and Buster: you start looking at ways to make this look absolutely convincing. I’m thinking a genuine European Arrest Warrant that can go through the court; maybe we can link in with the Slovenians. I also want an extraction plan ready if we need to get you out of there, sharpish. Let’s get moving people; I want reports back in two hours as to the feasibility of this. Christ knows we need a bit of luck. Once we have a workable plan, I will consider taking it upstairs for approval.’
4
Tom watched the small group of white-robed mourners from a distance. He was sat on a bench at the far reaches of the beautifully kept and peaceful Gardens of Peace Muslim Cemetery in Hainault. He was close enough to observe but too far away to be able to hear. He didn’t want to be a part of the proceedings but wanted to be able to witness the burial and pay his respects. He had felt compelled to come and observe to pay his respects but did not feel able to take part in the ceremony. He was aware that non-Muslims were permitted at funerals and burials, but he just didn’t feel right going over to join them, intruding on their grief.
Around them were what seemed like thousands of mounds of compacted earth, each topped with a small oblong plaque, immaculately arranged in an orderly, almost military fashion, each grave identical to its neighbour. There were no flowers on any of the mounds of earth and the place was surrounded by trees, with young saplings dotted at regular intervals in the walkways between the rows of graves. The feeling was one of respectful order and solemnity.
The sun gently warmed Tom’s face as he watched, alone with his thoughts, as Freddie’s white shroud was carried to his pre-dug grave with great respect by the immaculately robed mourners. Tom watched as they stood around the grave and Freddie was carefully lowered in. All the mourners stood facing the grave, heads bowed and their backs facing east towards Mecca as they recited prayers, led by a distinguished-looking Imam with a long, lustrous beard. The ceremony was respectfully solemn with no wailing or crying and, even at that distance, Tom could detect a slight undercurrent of something else amongst the mourners.
It was anger, just palpable in the weak sunshine.
Tom himself felt a mix of sadness and anger as he watched the sombre, respectful ceremony. As he rarely got angry it made him curious. Where were these emotions coming from?
As the mourners began to disperse Tom remained on the bench watching the scene before him. He wasn’t great at feeling empathy: he found it hard and confusing to organise emotions in that way. He had a strong sense of justice, however, and he knew, more than anything, that the perpetrators of this crime would have to atone for their crimes, no matter what had to be done. The scales had to be balanced.
After about half-an-hour, Tom stood and made his way back to the car park. He had decided to keep his distance and not attempt to interact with any of the mourners, even now that the ceremony was over. As he walked back towards his car, he saw a small group of weeping mourners also making their way to a nearby vehicle: two hijab-wearing women accompanied by two small boys, both wearing white robes and kufi caps. Something was familiar about the party, even from a distance. One of the women squatted onto her haunches and drew the two boys into her arms in a tight embrace. They remained that way for a few moments while the older woman opened the driver’s door and got in. Tom could tell from the heaving shoulders and the faint sobs that they had clearly experienced the deepest of losses. The woman stood and opened the rear doors of a battered Ford and helped the still sobbing children into the car. As she busied herself with their seatbelts Tom had a sinking feeling that was realised when he caught a glimpse of her face as she turned to get into the front seat. Her tear-stained, pretty face was etched with unmitigated grief.
It was Freddie’s wife, Afri, with their children.
She took a moment to compose herself, wiping her eyes and squaring her shoulders as she took a wistful look at the cemetery where her husband was now buried.
A part of Tom knew he should speak to her, to comfort her and make things better, but he knew he could not. He couldn’t make anything better. Those boys would now be without their father and Afri would be without her husband.
There was only one thing now that Tom could do, and his thoughts went back to the words often spoken by his foster father, Cameron.
‘Whatever you do, always do right, boy.’
5
That evening, over the Irish Sea in Belfast, DS Liam O’Halloran was tired. He’d been on the go with some punishment beating that had gone down just off the Falls Road last night. Poor wee boy who’d been selling a bit of blow without authorisation had had the absolute shite kicked out of him. He was lucky to be alive. The boy wasn’t talking: they never did. But O’Halloran still had to dot the I’s and cross the T’s or the DCI would moan. The kid was only a wee shrimp of a thing, just about nine stone wringing wet, and Liam couldn’t believe that he’d had the balls to deal puff under the noses of the boyos without authorisation. He knew that the job would just end up being filed away with no evidence to identify the offenders, but he had to at least show he’d tried.
So the last thing he’d needed was another call to a report of more folk having the crap kicked out of them.
The phone had gone in the office just as he was thinking about buggering off home. It was Dave, his Detective Inspector. Liam sighed; there was no way that a call from the DI at this time didn’t mean one thing. Grief.
‘Liam, I’ve a bloke here from the Met in London. DCS O’Shea has decreed that he needs to go and see Gerard Casey’s nephew, the boyo that got beaten up earlier. I need you to run him to the Royal Vic so he can hear what he has to say.’
‘Jesus, Dave. I was about to go home,’ Liam said, wearily. ‘The lad wants nothing to do with us; why is he going to want to speak to some Cockney from London? He wouldn’t talk to Tony and Mick earlier, why would he talk now?’
‘Won’t take long, man. Unless you want to call the DCS and tell him why you don’t want to go? His name is DC Pete Rhymes, he’s sat in the front office.’ The line clicked and went dead, indicating that the discussion was over.
Liam found DC Rhymes in the front office, sat chatting amiably with the reception officer, a mug of tea clutched in a meaty hand. He leaped to his feet as Liam entered the room, a big smile across his face.
‘Hello mate. I’m Pete; everyone calls me Buster. Thanks for doing this, I just need to hear what this fella has to say.’ He exuded warmth and enthusiasm and Liam’s truculence evaporated as he returned his firm handshake.
‘No problems, mate. The hospital is close by. Let’s get going.’
Liam led the way to his car in the heavily fortified car park and they set off on the short journey to the Royal Victoria Hospital. They chatted easily on the short journey.
‘What do you know about this lad?’ Buster asked.
‘Billy Casey: he’s the nephew of Gerard Casey, the former quartermaster of the IRA’s Belfast Brigade during the height of the Troubles. Billy’s got a bit of a police record, but nothing serious. A bit of drunken tomfoolery and a little dabble with drugs. Despite the Good Friday Agreement, Gerard Casey is still a man with a fearsome reputation and enormous power. The Agreement has put the IRA into supposed stasis from the perspective of paramilitary action, but they’ve just moved into organised crime. Casey is strongly suspected of major drug importation, amongst other activities, and he fucking hates the peace accord. He sees it as a sell-out, and he was keen that the IRA retain the ability to quickly operate again. We always suspected he had cached weapons for future use, but we aren’t encouraged to operate against them, for fear of upsetting the balance.’
‘Political stuff, right?’ Buster said.
‘More than you know, Buster. Billy said nothing to the other officers who interviewed him, but maybe we’ll get lucky.’
‘Well my intention is to say nothing and just let you lead, if that’s okay?’ said Buster. ‘I think the last thing we need getting out is a cop with a London accent interviewing him. I’ll just sit and listen.’
