Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

Henry sat there, glum, feeling it was all being taken away from him, despite the accolades.

‘We are not going to make any public reference to his involvement in the plot to kill the Secretary of State, however,’ Beckham said. Henry didn’t even bother to ask why, because he would not be told. It was just because it was the way they wanted to run it. The Home Office man continued, ‘And neither will any reference be made to Akbar. Incidentally, there is a treasure trove of “stuff”, shall we say, in the house in Balaclava Street which is very, very useful to the security services.’

‘I’m so happy,’ Henry said.

‘Wind your neck in, Henry,’ FB growled.

Henry gave a pissed-off shrug. ‘Does it mean that Akbar escapes justice? I mean, he must’ve had a hand in killing Angela and Graeme, surely?’

‘You’re probably right, Henry: he won’t be brought to justice in the way you’re thinking … but somewhere along the line, justice will be done, if you know what I mean?’

‘I’m not sure I want to know … anyway, at least Fazul Ali is in custody. If nothing else, he can be linked to their murders, can’t he?’

The two visitors exchanged a strange glance Henry was unable to interpret.

‘Actually, he’s off the radar now,’ Beckham said.

‘You mean he’s now an informant? So the torture worked?’

‘If you like,’ Beckham said, obviously unwilling to expand.

‘Anyway, the arrest of Hussein at Ewood Park will simply be put down to good policing and will be a stand-alone thing. He will be described as a lone chancer with some vague AQ connections, but that’s all.’ Beckham finished, ‘So that’s how it stands.’

‘But-’ Henry started to protest.

‘No buts, Henry. This is rather like one of those newspaper competitions where the editor’s word is final and no correspondence will be entered into,’ FB said.

‘Don’t tell me — we’re at war.’

FB smiled triumphantly. ‘By Jove, I think he’s got it.’

‘So are Rashid and Akbar out there together?’

‘It’s an assumption we can make,’ Beckham said, ‘but it’ll be interesting to see how long Rashid will be there, because, even though he is obviously a low-level financier of terrorism, he’s blown and may not be of much use to Akbar any more … we shall see.’

‘And no doubt if he does turn up, I won’t get a shout because it’s the spooks who’ll want him for what he knows and then they’ll do a deal, and two good people will not get justice. Nor will Eddie Daley or Sabera Rashid, I suspect.’ Henry reached for his JD and swigged it down. ‘I need another.’ He went into the kitchen and poured himself a large one.

When he returned, FB and Beckham had gone, their empty glasses the only evidence they had even been there.

Henry sat down and took a drink.

It was going to be a long night.

Six months later

He had the look of a hunted man, even though he was the hunter. He now sported a full, unkempt beard and his eyes stared out like a beast from the jungle, for ever watching and checking. He was truly exhausted and was beginning to doubt whether he could maintain the pace, despite his innate fitness and personal determination.

Maybe it was time to give up, hand the mantle over to someone new.

Except that he wouldn’t. It would be tantamount to admitting defeat and he would see this thing through to the bitter end, whatever the toll on himself. After all, he had pleaded — begged — for this chance and been given it and, mentally drained and exhausted as he was, it would reach its conclusion.

He rubbed his tired eyes and replaced his sunglasses, watching the hordes of people swarming by in the intense morning sunlight already baking the streets.

Hell, this place was busy. He didn’t think he had seen anywhere more so; even New York paled by comparison.

Karl Donaldson, dressed in loafers, chinos and a Real Madrid soccer shirt, sat outside the Cafe Zurich at the top of the first part of La Rambla, possibly the best-known thoroughfare in Barcelona. He pulled the peak of his baseball cap down over his hawk-like eyes and slouched down in the metal-framed chair, wondering if today would be the one.

La Rambla stretches one mile from the Placa Catalunya, where Donaldson was sitting, down to the Rambla de Santa Monica, and is a massive tourist attraction with its souvenir shops and stalls, human statues, fortune-tellers, card sharps, puppeteers, dancers and musicians. It draws thousands of visitors each day, who pulsate up and down in a swell of humanity.

Ordinarily, Donaldson would have loved this. He had been to Barcelona a couple of times with his wife, Karen, and fallen in love with its vibrancy, its food, its wine, history and people. But this was no romantic break … he scowled at the thought of his wife; not at her — he loved her deeply — but because he had neglected her so much over the last six months — had not even spent two consecutive nights with her in the last three — and she was becoming edgy and worried about him and their marriage. He had made and broken several promises to her recently and their whole relationship was straining at the seams.

He resolved that if nothing came of today, he would take a week off, sweep her off her feet and get back into her good books … until he set off again doing something he could not even tell her about — hunting down the dangerous, elusive, Mohammed Ibrahim Akbar.

After Donaldson and everyone else had missed him in Blackburn, a special multi-agency team had been quickly assembled, dedicated to tracking down Akbar. Donaldson had almost got down on his knees to get a place on it, then had become totally obsessed with Akbar, who seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to avoiding the clutches of Donaldson’s team.

Akbar’s will-o’-the-wisp trail had led Donaldson and the small team to the Middle East, Africa and across all of Europe and finally, it was hoped, here to Barcelona. It was known that he had been fund-raising on behalf of AQ and the intelligence suggested he was supposed to be meeting a man in Barcelona who took a cut from the African street traders who pitched illegally on the waterfront, selling wares such as fake designer sunglasses, watches and clothing, then passed a generous percentage of that on to Al-Qaeda.

The man, of North African origin, went by the name of Suleiman, was known to the Spanish intelligence service and had been under the surveillance of Donaldson’s team for six days, but Akbar had not shown. It looked increasingly likely that the intel was incorrect — what a surprise — and Donaldson would have to wait again for another snippet which would get him back on Akbar’s scent.

Donaldson felt like a greyhound chasing a rabbit that was always out of his reach and was inexhaustible.

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair as a trickle of sweat rolled down his back into the crack of his backside. He took a sip of his mineral water. The ice had melted and the water was lukewarm … rather like Akbar’s trail.

‘Suleiman’s on the move,’ a tinny voice said and Donaldson resisted the urge to touch the minute earpiece fitted into his left ear, just in case he was being watched. One mistake followers often make, even though it is drummed into them in training, is succumbing to that instinctive desire to press their almost invisible earpieces so they can hear better, especially in a crowd. It’s one of those silly mistakes that can completely wreck an operation and put individuals in unnecessary danger. The voice was from one of his fellow team members who had been sitting on Suleiman’s apartment on the Calle Comtel in the Old City. ‘Heading towards La Rambla,’ said Jo, the only female operative on the team. She was a CIA agent. ‘Looks like he’s going for his usual,’ she said. This meant that Suleiman was going to stroll down La Rambla as he did each morning, constantly checking to see if he was being followed, then take a seat in a pavement cafe near to the Maritime Museum where he drank copious amounts of coffee into which he dunked donuts. From there he would conduct his morning’s business. As yet he hadn’t clocked the team, which probably meant whilst he was going through anti-surveillance motions, he was getting lazy about it. The team was also very good, but not good enough, or big enough, not to get spotted eventually.