The angry sea, p.13
The Angry Sea, page 13
Their first task would be to match Emily Souster’s DNA with that of her heartbroken father to confirm what they already knew.
50.
NOT LONG AFTER the helicopter lifted off, a liaison officer at Navy Command HQ on Whale Island telephoned Justin Nicholls at MI6 to confirm the success of the mission, and to say that a full file would be sent across shortly.
As he replaced the receiver, Nicholls allowed himself a fleeting smile. The knowledge that he’d been able to have some small practical input into an investigation which now involved hundreds of police officers, spooks and military personnel in a dozen countries was satisfying.
The smile vanished a moment later, when his secure line buzzed for the hundredth time that day.
It was a senior officer called Kate Carver.
‘We have something for you, Justin,’ she said.
‘Fire away,’ said Nicholls, suppressing a yawn, and looking at his watch. It was well past midnight, UK time, and he’d been in the office since 6 a.m.
‘A video was released on various online platforms fifteen minutes or so ago. Originated in the Ivory Coast, and now being shared across multiple accounts. It shows the three women kneeling at gunpoint, and then the murder of one of them.’
The hair on the back of Nicholls’ neck stood up, and his body buzzed.
‘Emily Souster?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Kate Carver. ‘She gets shot in the back of the neck by a man wearing a balaclava. He waits a few seconds, then he shoots her again to finish her off.’
‘Any statement?’
‘The usual theatrical nonsense,’ said Carver. ‘A warning to Britain. They call themselves Warriors of Jihad.’
‘How original.’
‘Quite.’
‘Is it on the TV news yet?’ said Nicholls. ‘I’ll need to tell the PM.’
‘Not yet. But you’d assume it will be on the twenty-four-hour channels very soon.’
‘Anything on what they want? Any demands?’
‘Not in the video. They say they’ll be in touch soon. But they aren’t as clever as they think they are.’
‘Oh?’
‘We can tell that the shooter’s a Chechen from his accent. So far, so standard. But the man with the camera has given away his name.’
Justin Nicholls sat up, suddenly alert. ‘Oh?’
‘Yes. Just before he switches it off the guy says under his breath, “Perfect, Khasmohmad”. You can barely hear it, but when the techs enhanced the audio…’
Nicholls offered up a silent prayer of thanks: it sometimes felt like the only thing keeping the security services in the game was the incompetence of their opponents.
‘Do we know any Khasmohmads?’ he said
‘Several. Plus, we can narrow it down further. Going on the known size of the kneeling women, we’re putting him at around 130kg and 1.9m to 2m tall.’
‘What’s that in English?’
‘Around twenty stone and six foot five, six foot six. He’s a big bastard.’
‘So do we know any Khasmohmads of that size?’
‘We’re checking. The audio might help there. The linguists have it and they think they might be able to narrow it down. In fact, here’s one of them now. Can you hold on one second…?’
‘Sure,’ said Nicholls.
In the background, he could hear a man speaking to Kate Carver.
‘…very hard to tell, based on the little we have, but the consensus from the accent is it’s one of the Laamaroy dialects, probably Chebarloish. He’s certainly a Southerner, from one of the mountain tribes.’
Carver said, ‘That’s great, thanks.’ Then, to Nicholls, ‘Did you get all that?’
‘Yes. When will we have his full name?’
‘Depends if he’s in our system, or the Americans.’ I’ll know in half an hour, tops.’
Suddenly wide awake, all thoughts of home banished, Nicholls stood.
He went into the ante-room to his office to get another coffee, and sat drinking it, willing Carver to get back to him.
Half an hour came and went, and he resisted the temptation to chase her – she’d be doing all she could.
His phone finally went again forty-five minutes later.
‘Kate?’ he said. ‘What have you got?’
‘We may have hit a bit of a jackpot, Justin,’ said Kate Carver. ‘I’ll put his file on the feed in a few minutes. His name’s Khasmohmad Kadyrov. Born in internal exile in Kazakhstan, now aged around fifty to fifty-five. Originally part of the Vedensky set-up, down in the south-east. Small role in the First Chechen War, but he first came to the attention of the Russians when fighting in Grozny in 1996. Heavily involved in the Second Chechen War, he fought alongside Shamil Basayev and the 055 at Mazar-e Sharif, and then turned international jihadi around the time of Basayev’s death. In Afghanistan between 2008 and 2011, and in Iraq before that. Last heard of in Libya with ISIS, and then he disappeared. He was presumed KIA, though Amaq never said anything to that effect. Now we see why.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholls.
‘That’s not all,’ said Carver. ‘Did you see the update from Luke Walsh and Ruth Hall on the Pakistan desk earlier on this evening?’
‘Not yet,’ said Nicholls.
‘Non-specific warning of threats against UK interests,’ said Carver. ‘So far, so standard.’
Nicholls nodded. Such threats came in thick and fast, and were rarely drawn to his attention.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Apparently, the ISI recently came across a new jihadi source up in Balochistan,’ said Carver. ‘This source provided the ISI with computers with a whole bunch of names on them. Mostly Yemenis, Saudis, a few locals, an American. But here’s the thing: Kadyrov’s name was among them.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Nicholls.
‘It’s more than interesting,’ said Carver. ‘The same source links a million dollars from Saudi, channelled to a middleman in Egypt. The middleman then transfers a hundred thousand dollars on to another man in Sirte, northern Libya. And listen to this: the guy in Sirte has supposedly been involved in planning what the source described as a major attack on a UK target.’
‘Charlotte Morgan.’
‘You’d have to assume so.’
‘Who’s the guy in Sirte?’
‘We don’t know that, unfortunately.’
‘But we’re working with the ISI on it?’
‘I just spoke to Ruth on the Pakistan desk,’ said Kate Carver. She paused, choosing her words carefully. ‘Unfortunately, the ISI are unwilling or unable to go back to their source to get any more.’
‘Bugger,’ said Nicholls.
‘We’ll keep working on it.’
Nicholls was silent for a moment, as his mind raced to process this information. The whole of Libya was crawling with clans and warlords involved in everything from people trafficking and smuggling to facilitating terrorism, and Sirte was a particular hotbed.
It was a lawless, dangerous place, scene of some of the most brutal fighting in the Libyan civil war, and currently off limits even to what passed for the authorities in that country.
And that made it the perfect place to hide a couple of kidnapped Westerners.
‘Kate,’ he said, ‘this is our number one priority. They must be taking her to Sirte. That’s where their safe house is.’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘For now, that’s our focus. Let me know what comes in, any time, day or night. And good work.’
Nicholls put down the phone and sat back in his chair.
He pulled up a map of North Africa.
Form their beach landing spot in Al Hoceima to Sirte was some 1,600 miles, all the way through Algeria and Tunisia, but the roads were good, and there was no way of knowing what vehicles they were in.
They could be there well inside two days, and there would be limited opportunities to identify and interdict them.
He needed to start the ball rolling with friendlies in those countries.
But first…
He looked at his watch.
Close to 1.30 a.m., but she was barely sleeping anyway.
He picked up his phone and called the Prime Minister.
51.
SOME TWO HUNDRED miles north, in a darkened terraced house in the Bradford suburb of Little Horton, a mobile telephone rang on a bedside table.
After three rings, Zeff Mahsoud emerged from under a thin duvet, muttering to himself, and switched on his bedside light.
Picked up the phone.
Rubbed his eyes and squinted at the screen.
Pressed the green button.
Said, ‘Yes, who’s this?’
The voice on the other end of the line said, ‘Brother, it’s me. Have you heard the news? The attack in Spain? They got the Prime Minister’s daughter. It’s just been on the news.’
Mahsoud was suddenly wide awake, and propped up on his elbows. ‘Really?’ he said.
‘Yes, brother. They took her and some other women. What a blow they struck!’
‘Alhamdulillah!’ said Mahsoud, allowing a note of excitement to enter his voice. ‘But you should be careful what you say on the phone. Don’t call me about things like this.’
‘Sorry, brother. I was just… I thought you’d want to know.’
Mahsoud tried to sound more sympathetic. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s marvellous news. But we have to be very careful what we discuss. They can listen in.’
‘Sorry,’ said the man, again.
‘Okay. Thank you. Goodnight.’
Mahsoud clicked the phone off, and replaced it on the bedside table.
Then he lay back on his pillow, arms folded behind his head.
Thinking about his next move.
Heart beating a machine-gun rhythm.
The familiar acid burn rising from his throat to his stomach, a legacy of years spent watching his back, second-guessing everything, planning in secret.
Waiting to be exposed and captured.
His mind conjured up an image of Charlotte Morgan, in her robes at the High Court in London.
It’s Marbella for me, I’m afraid. I’m all about the sun, sea and sand.
He reached into the drawer of his bedside table, took out a packet of Rennies and a strip of omaprezole.
Next to him, his wife stirred and opened her beautiful brown eyes.
‘Are you alright?’ she said, in Pashto.
‘My stomach,’ he said. ‘Usual thing.’
‘Who was that on the phone?’
‘Just one of the usual idiots,’ he said.
‘What did he want at this time of night?’
‘He wanted to tell me that they managed to take Charlotte Morgan in that big attack in Marbella.’
‘Charlotte Morgan?’
‘The Prime Minister’s daughter. My barrister, from the appeal. With two others.’
Now it was his wife’s turn to prop herself up on her elbows, her eyes wider still. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’
Farzana Mahsoud sat up. ‘That’s incredible.’
‘It is.’
‘Does it mean what I think it means?’
Zeff Mahsoud said nothing, but lay there, staring at the ceiling.
Then he rolled over and got out of bed, in a single fluid motion – he was in good shape, for a man in his mid-forties – and picked up his trousers.
‘You should think nothing, my love,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in a little while.’
He got dressed, leaned over, kissed his wife’s forehead, switched off the bedside light, and padded out of the room.
He crept downstairs in the glow of the orange nightlight he had bought for their daughter, picked up his keys and left the house.
A few moments later, he was steering the little grey Citroën out of his drive and off to the north.
Twenty minutes after that, he parked up in the run-down Windhill estate, got out and jogged down several streets and alleyways until he reached a pub, the New Inn. Wrinkling his nose as he walked past, he entered a BT phone box – which bore a giant Malibu ad proclaiming Free Pina Colada for Everyone! – was there anything these people thought of other than alcohol? – and dialled a number he knew by heart.
Pound coins at the ready.
He looked around.
Empty streets.
A couple of rings, and then someone spoke.
‘It’s Ahmed Khan,’ said Zeff Mahsoud.
‘What did you eat for supper?’
‘Pigeon pie and lime sorbet.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘I liked the pigeon, but the lime was too sour.’
The voice on the other end of the phone grunted in satisfaction.
‘The operation in Spain,’ said Mahsoud.
‘Yes,’ said the voice. ‘They succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. She’s in Morocco already, and they’re on their way to Sirte.’
A police car drove slowly by the phone box, the passenger’s eyes fixed on Mahsoud; he watched it until it disappeared.
‘You still there?’ said the voice.
‘Yes,’ said Mahsoud. ‘Just thinking.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I was wondering where my passport is.’
There was a pause.
Then the voice said, ‘Be very careful, Ahmed. There are eyes and ears everywhere.’
‘I am always careful.’
‘If they find you they will make a terrible example of you.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ said Mahsoud.
‘Good luck, then.’
With that, the line clicked dead.
Zeff Mahsoud held the receiver in his hand for quite some time, staring at it, before he replaced it.
Then he dialled a number for a local taxi firm, and hung up when they answered.
He didn’t think anyone suspected him of anything, but it was better to be safe than sorry: now any nosey person who happened to press the ‘redial’ button for the last number called would get 247 Cars.
Half an hour later, he was back at home and letting himself in as quietly as he could.
But Farzana had got up and was sitting at the little kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea.
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ she said.
‘What was your question?’
‘Does this mean what I think it means?’
‘If what you think it means is that I have interesting times ahead of me, my sweet, then I suspect that it means what you think it means.’
Farzana Mahsoud sighed, heavily. ‘I just lost you for a year, Zeff,’ she said. ‘I don’t…’
‘Under the circumstances, there was not much I could do about that.’
‘I know. But does your family never come before this? What if we lose you for good? What about Aalia?’
‘This is the path we have chosen, my darling,’ said Zeff Mahsoud, tenderly. He reached over and brushed a few strands of hair away from his wife’s face. ‘Or the path that has been chosen for us.’
He clicked the kettle on, took down a mug and threw a tea bag into it.
Stood staring at his own reflection in the black kitchen window.
He had many calls to make, and a flight to book.
52.
AT 2.30 A.M. BST, two men on a battered old Honda CG125 pulled up outside the British Embassy in Abidjan, Ivory Coast.
The pillion passenger dismounted, his friend keeping the engine ticking over, and walked carefully towards the gendarmes guarding the main gate, in the shadow of the high blast walls.
They watched his approach with little more than idle curiosity – the Grand-Bassam shootings in 2016 had shown the threat to Westerners, and the embassy was certainly a juicy target, but this skinny little fellow was wearing a grubby white T-shirt, flip-flops, and a pair of ragged jeans, and was obviously unarmed.
When he was a few feet away, the man stopped and held out his hand. ‘I have a letter for the ambassador,’ he said, in the local dyula. ‘It concerns a matter of great interest to the British government.’
‘Oh yes?’ said one of the policemen, with a deep chuckle. ‘Delivered by you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go on, get out of here. Piss off.’
‘It’s important,’ said the man. ‘I think the guy who gave it to me is from Al Qaeda.’
In fact, the man who had passed on the note was a member of The Movement for Oneness and Jihad in West Africa, but it amounted to the same thing. He was doing a favour for a friend of a friend of a friend, and the two men on the motorcycle were the final link in the chain, delivering a message they couldn’t read, on behalf of people they didn’t know, for ten US dollars apiece.
‘Which guy?’ said the policeman, but as he spoke the man dropped the letter in the dust and hurried back to the Honda.
Ordinarily, a letter handed in to an embassy in the dead of night by some anonymous no-mark would go nowhere, but the mention of Al Qaeda was enough for the senior officer at the gate to radio his superior, and before long the letter was in the hands of a bleary-eyed junior staffer, and five minutes after that it was in the hands of the bleary-eyed ambassador.
An hour later, a senior Downing Street staffer woke the Prime Minister and showed her an image of the note.
It said:
You have seen what we can do. We will release Charlotte Morgan and Martha Percival unharmed in return for $25 million US.
We will require $5 million US equivalent to be delivered to us by hand in cash as a good faith gesture, in mixed currencies of used, non-sequential, middle-denomination notes, to include Yen, Sterling, Euro, Australian dollar, US dollar, Canadian dollar and Swiss francs.
The remaining $20 million US is to be wire-transferred to a bank account of our nomination.
If you comply, we will release the hostages and guarantee them safe passage to the British embassy in a city of our choosing.
If you do not comply, they will be slaughtered like goats.
Further communications will be made via social media.
Warriors of Jihad.
Penelope Morgan folded the note carefully and looked at the staffer.
