Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

‘He promised he would never hurt her for what she did.’

‘You are a fool, child,’ Iqbal sneered, still fighting back the urge to slap her again.

Henry held up a placatory hand. One slap had been quite enough, thank you. Her face was a livid red from the blow, almost glowing.

‘Are you in a relationship with him?’ Henry probed.

Najma’s head rose, her face distorted cruelly from the anguish. ‘Not one you mean,’ she said disgustedly. ‘I am a good Muslim girl. We don’t think about sex all the time, like you westerners …’

‘You were bloody well born in this country, you fool!’ Iqbal snarled. ‘Your mother was born here, too — and your father. You are a westerner.’

She regarded him coldly. ‘Mansur and I are joined together in our fight against people like you — and you,’ she turned to Henry. ‘I have been assisting him to prepare for this day, a great day for Islam … but he promised me Sabera was fine.’

‘How have you helped?’ Henry asked urgently.

‘By recruiting a martyr.’ She bit her lip and held up her chin. ‘Someone proud to die for Islam.’

‘One God whose name is Allah,’ Henry said scathingly — and Iqbal exploded and smashed her hard across the face.

And that martyr was a young man by the name of Abdul Hussein, who had been a regular attendee at the mosque frequented by Mansur, Najma went on to tell Henry. He had shown great promise and great faith, rejecting the poisoned ways of the west and declaring himself a foot soldier of Allah. There were many like him attending the mosques, but because there had been so much negative publicity about the role of mosques in brainwashing idealistic young people, the process of turning someone from a person with high ideals into a potential mass murderer had to be done with more subtlety, away from the place of worship, in the terraced houses of Blackburn or Accrington — which is where Rashid came in. He targeted promising individuals, moulded them, fired them up, ensured they were trained and ready to give their lives for the cause, ably assisted by Najma Ismat, and provided the premises which could be used for such long-term aims.

Abdul Hussein had been groomed for two years and suddenly, at the peak of his fanaticism, he had found himself in the right place at the right time, because as well as being a follower of Islam, he was also a fanatical follower of Blackburn Rovers.

During the week he worked in the souvenir shop at Ewood Park and on match days he donned a steward’s hi-viz jacket so he could direct people and get paid for watching the match.

When the visit of the American Secretary of State was announced, it became common knowledge within the Rovers’ camp that she would call on them together with Jack Straw, the local MP and Foreign Secretary, who was an avid Rovers fan.

And Mansur could not believe his good fortune.

He already had someone in place, someone who the police could ‘vet’ for ever and find nothing untoward.

With one explosion, the British Foreign Secretary and the American Secretary of State would be destroyed.

And Mohammed Ibrahim Akbar would assist with the final preparations for this triumphal event, giving it the wholehearted blessing of the Al-Qaeda leadership.

They were in the ARV, Henry and Bill upfront, Iqbal and Najma in the back, their identities protected by the smoked glass windows.

‘I don’t know the details,’ she screamed. ‘I only know it will happen at Ewood Park.’

Bill accelerated down Preston Old Road and did a skidding left through a red light into Spring Lane, blue-lighting it through an area called Mill Hill, towards the football ground.

Henry was twisted in his seat, chucking relentless quick-fire questions at her.

‘Come on, you must … how are they going to do it?’

‘I think Rice will meet the staff and Abdul will be wearing a bomb underneath his yellow jacket. When he shakes hands with her …’

‘How has he got the explosives into the ground?’ Henry’s voice went quiet at the end of the question, because he could answer it himself: Abdul Hussein worked at Ewood Park. He would have already secreted the explosives and detonator somewhere in the ground. Someone like him who had worked there for some time would know all the best hidey-holes and all he would need to do today would be to go into work as normal, go through all the police searches, kill time and at the last possible moment grab the explosives, line up, shake hands, smile, hope his courage didn’t desert him — then boom!

Two dead politicians, lots of dead dignitaries, cops and colleagues. And probably a big hole in the pitch.

‘How come you’re not directly involved in this today?’

‘I have orders just to have a normal day.’

Bill flicked on the two tones as he overtook on Hollin Bridge Street, then cut back before having a head-on with an oncoming car. He bore left into Hamilton Street, under the aqueduct, reaching the junction with Bolton Road, and Ewood Park came in sight.

He slowed and eased through the busy lights and a few moments later braked sharply on the car park behind the Darwen End stand — where he and Henry had paused earlier — near to the entrance to the police cells.

Henry organized his thoughts, remembering what he had read in the operational order. ‘Right — all staff entering the ground are required to sign in, produce ID, and they all enter through the staff door on Nuttall Street round the front. Let’s go and see if Hussein has landed today.’

He looked at Bill.

‘You want me to drive round the front? I’ve just driven past that entrance.’

‘Yes.’

He raised his eyebrows, did a quick spin-reverse, driving out of the car park and pulling up amongst the multitude of no-parking cones which had been placed all the way along Nuttall Street. They were immediately swooped upon by a young patrolling constable.

Bill wound his window down.

‘Sorry, you can’t park here, ARV or otherwise. Nothing’s allowed on here today.’

Henry jumped out and flashed his ID. ‘Yes we can,’ he said, almost adding ‘son’, but refraining from being too patronizing. The constable peered at the warrant card and shrugged.

‘Makes no difference, sir.’

‘Makes every difference.’ Henry strutted past him and went to the staff entrance, ID still in hand, where he was greeted by a uniformed private security guard in a booth by a turnstile. He was aware that behind him, the PC was having heated words with Bill in the ARV. ‘You checking in staff this morning?’ Henry said.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Is Abdul Hussein on your list?’

He ran a thick finger down a typed list. ‘Yep.’

Henry loved laconic people. ‘Has he shown up for work this morning?’

‘Yep.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Uh — ten minutes.’

‘You’ve been a great help.’

‘Ta, mate.’

He spun away from the booth and crossed back to Bill who was just staring blank-faced at the foot patrol PC, who was only doing his job by trying to get the vehicle to move on. Henry tapped him on the shoulder, smiled at him and said to Bill, ‘He’s in,’ then to the PC said, ‘Get the venue commander down here, please — now.’

Henry’s heart sank to depths never before experienced when he saw the hastily summoned venue commander walking along Nuttall Street. It was often the case that headquarters wallers with career aspirations grasped at opportunities out in the real world of policing to show that they could still do the job and enhance their CVs. Henry didn’t even know what a CV looked like, but he suspected that the venue commander for the day did. His name was Andy Laker and his day job was the chief constable’s staff officer.

Laker’s expression was one of sheer annoyance. ‘This better be good, Henry. I’m expecting the Foreign Secretary and the American Secretary of State to arrive any time now,’ he said imperiously, as though they were coming to see him.