The police chief nodded in agreement, but he didn’t realise that the superintendent was trying to provoke a response from Agent Spence. If MI5 had an ongoing operation, the last thing they would want was a uniformed division and police detectives trampling all over it. If there was an MI5 operation going on, then Alec wanted to know about it.
The director sighed. He had anticipated detailed scrutiny from Alec; his reputation as a good detective was legendary. The director picked up a silver camera case and placed it on the table. He undid the metal clasps and opened it, to reveal a MAC-10 machinegun. “This is a reactivated MAC-10, one of a cache of twenty that we recovered from an address on the Bullring estate, Netherley, near to the outskirts of the city. The address was subject to a raid by your drugs squad, and as well as the weapons, a substantial quantity of crack cocaine was seized.”
“We’re aware of the raid, director. Why would you be interested in that?” Alec asked.
The weapon passed around the table until it reached Alec. Alec was aware that drugs and weapons had been recovered by the drugs squad, but MI5’s interest worried him. He held the weapon like it was a baby, gently testing the weight and the balance. He slid the magazine out of the pistol and then clicked it back into its place. It clicked as it locked. Alec looked down the barrel, inspecting the rifling grooves. He had spent five years in armed response units, and he knew weapons inside out and back to front.
“This has been reactivated by a butcher. It’s more likely to jam or blow your hand off than it is to fire,” Alec shook his head. There was more to reactivating an automatic weapon than meets the eye. “This is definitely a foreign import. What is your intelligence telling you about these weapons?” Alec looked at the director.
“We think that he’s purchasing replicas and deactivated weapons from the USA and Russia, and then shipping them to sweatshops in Pakistan for reactivation. We know he’s selling them in the Middle East, Africa, Spain, and here, but we can’t catch him at it, yet.”
The room fell quiet for a moment. Arms dealing is a risky business at the best of times, but if Malik Shah was selling reactivated weapons as new, then he would be crossing some very dangerous people.
“What are your thoughts?” Agent Spence threw the question open to the room. He was basking in the glory of the moment. A terrorist attack generally summoned the presence of the most experienced investigators in the service of the realm, but this time, it was he that held centre stage for the time being. He was going to milk it for all its worth.
“If Malik Shah is selling weapons like this, then he will be making plenty of enemies,” Alec said, handing the weapon to Will. “Sooner or later, this weapon will jam, and the buyers will be looking for their money back.”
Agent Spence felt smug as he looked around the room, inviting comments. What he didn’t realise were the wider ramifications of the issue. It was becoming clear that MI5 knew more about the Patels than was originally thought. Chief Carlton looked at Alec, and his face had darkened. He looked like thunder was about to erupt from his ears.
“I think we’re being fed a line.” Alec looked up from the weapon and stared at the MI5 man’s face. “How long have you been following these reactivated weapons?”
Agent Spence fiddled with his tie nervously. He ran his hand across his chin, thinking of the correct words to use as an acceptable reply. “That’s classified information and not for general release at
the moment.”
“What?” Chief Carlton was flabbergasted. “I thought this was a multijurisdictional investigation?”
Agent Spence sneered and shook his head. He looked at the uniformed police officer as if he were from a different planet. “We have no problem sharing relevant information with you, providing it is not of a confidential nature, or could endanger any ongoing investigations.”
“They have been following the weapons from day one, Chief Carlton,” Alec interrupted. “The sale of unreliable, positively dangerous, weapons to criminals across the globe is not something MI5 would want to discourage.” He tossed the MAC-10 across the table towards Agent Spence, and it clattered across the polished wood veneer before stopping with a loud clunk against a water jug. “Why would you want to stop the sale of unreliable weapons? I’d be surprised if they’re not actively encouraging them.”
“Have you got anything solid to link Malik Shah to the sale of these weapons?” Chief Carlton asked calmly. His voice belied the anger inside him.
Agent Spence rolled his eyes skyward and let out a loud sigh. The police officers were not about to be fobbed off with half the truth. The director stood up and walked a few paces towards the wall before turning to speak.
“We had an informer in the witness protection scheme about two years ago. He was arrested by customs officers driving an articulated lorry onto a ferry sailing from Rotterdam to Hull.”
“You had an informer?” Alec prompted.
“Yes, he disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“Is this like, give us a clue? We ask questions and you give us one word answers until we guess the truth?” Will chimed in.
Agent Spence coughed and looked into Alec’s steely blue eyes, ignoring the comment from Will.
“The lorry was loaded with crates of coffee grounds, and customs searched several of them. They impounded it when crack cocaine was discovered. An initial search of one of the crates uncovered ammunition, and the resulting searches found twenty kilos of crack, and eighteen MAC-10s.”
“The driver turned informer in return for what?” Alec pushed.
“Protection and a lighter sentence. He was terrified that his employers would kill him and his family,” Spence continued. “The driver was Asian, Pakistani origin, and he fingered Malik Shah as the brains behind the operation.”
“So what happened?” Will asked.
“We lost him.”
“How did you lose him?” Alec looked at Will. They swapped glances and then glared at the intelligence agent.
“We took his wife and two children into protective custody, and placed them into the witness programme. They were labelled Blogs 18 and 19. Two weeks into the programme the parents of Blogs 18 and the parents of Blogs 19 disappeared. Their homes were searched and we came up with nothing, two days later Blog 18 and his family disappeared. We haven’t been able to trace them since.”
“How could they disappear?” Alec asked frowning. He knew that Blogs were kept under strict supervision. They were virtually prisoners. “You said they were in custody.”
“Our operation was compromised.” Agent Spence folded his arms and sat back in his chair.
“Compromised?”
“Yes, compromised.”
“Would you like to elaborate on that, or do we have to speculate how you can lose a witness, his wife, his kids and his extended family?”
“The safe house was penetrated, and our agents were immobilised. The Blogs were kidnapped, assumed murdered.”
Alec and Will swapped glances again. Locating an informer in the witness protection programme, and then having the gall and knowhow to kidnap them, was not the work of amateurs. There were murmurs and hushed comments passed between the attendees around the table.
“How could their whereabouts be discovered?” Chief Carlton asked. He could feel his investigation slipping away from him with every new revelation. It was obvious that MI5 had been withholding vital information from them. He couldn’t decide whether it was now more likely that the Patels had been the target, or less. “Surely their whereabouts would be confidential information and not for, ‘general release’, as you so eloquently put it.”
The police officer’s sarcasm brought a smile to Alec’s lips, but it brought a look of disdain from the MI5 agent. There had been a serious breach of security within the agency, and it was a sore subject. Now it was out in the open, questions would be asked.
“We think that the driver or his wife may have contacted a family member by telephone, and they in turn gave their whereabouts to Shah’s gang.”
Alec looked at Will and he grimaced. The parents of Blog 18, and his in-laws, had disappeared from their homes. It was simple to conclude that they’d been kidnapped and tortured, before they finally parted with the whereabouts of their children and grandchildren. Malik Shah had a dreadful reputation amongst the Asian communities, and they would have been under no illusions as to what he would do to them if he found them. How much pain would a parent suffer before they could bear no more, and reveal the location of their children? It was impossible to imagine.
“We’re wasting our time here,” Superintendent Alec Ramsay stood up from the table and grinned at Agent Spence. He looked to the director.
“You knew we would be all over Malik Shah sooner rather than later, and you don’t want us spoiling your arms investigations, right?”
“Right.” The director knew better than to backtrack now. The cat was out of the bag.
“Why waste our time and insult our intelligence with this bullshit?”
“We have thousands of man hours invested in this.”
“Fine, send us whatever files you’re willing to share and leave it alone. We are looking for perpetrators of a bombing. Malik Shah’s machineguns don’t interest me for now, they’re your problem.” Alec turned to the Police Chief. “This information changes the dynamics of the bombing completely. It is now more likely that the perpetrators are targeting Shah’s foreign activities, which makes it an international incident, rather than a domestic one. We’ll need all the information that you have on Shah, and we’ll take it from here.”
The room remained in shocked silence as Alec and Will left the room. The Major Investigation Team’s investigation into the bombing took precedence over all other departments. Chief Carlton knew that there was little point in protesting, he glared at Agent Spence with contempt. The MI5 agent smoothed his hand over his grey hair and shrugged his shoulders. Following the bombing, it was only a matter of time before the truth came out. Now they would have to hand over all their information for the MIT to investigate, and that would mean that heads would roll somewhere within the agency. He just hoped that when the axe fell, it would be way above him.
Sarah Bernstein was six months pregnant, and feeling like a beached whale. None of her trendy clothes would go near her anymore, and the ones that did only emphasised the growing bump at her middle. Her father hadn’t looked her in the eye, never mind spoken to her, since the pre-trial hearing, and her mother just cried all the time. To make matters worse her hormones were all over the place, she was vomiting every day, and she felt like screaming. Sarah’s allegations of sexual assault weren’t taken seriously when her sexual history came to the fore, and the rape charges were eventually dropped. The police and the Crown Prosecution Services decided that the timing of Richard Bernstein remarkably remembering who attacked him was no coincidence, and the charges of grievous bodily harm and malicious wounding with intent against Malik Shah and his gang were thrown out of court. The defence lawyers argued that he was accusing them because of what had happened to his sister, and the Crown Prosecution Service decided that a jury would never give a guilty verdict.
The police investigations came to nothing, causing the Bernstein family more embarrassment and shame in the Jewish community. Mr Bernstein couldn’t cope. Behind the scenes, he was arranging for Sarah to be taken to Israel to give birth to her child. He planned to place her with extended family in the homeland until Sarah and the baby were old enough not to cause raised eyebrows and fuel wagging tongues. That was the reason for her mother’s tears. She would lose her daughter and her granddaughter in one sweep. Sarah had got wind of the plan and she was feeling as low as she had ever been. Israel was not her home, and it never would be. She was Jewish, not Israeli. The school decided that it was best if she and Richard didn’t attend, and social services tried to locate places at neighbouring schools for them until the whole thing had blown over, whenever that would be. Sarah didn’t think it would be anytime soon. A couple of her old friends kept in contact, but their phone calls were becoming less frequent as pressure from their parents to cut ties with her began to bite. The rest of her friends cut contact completely, some because she was pregnant, the others because she had made rape allegations against the coolest guys at school. The majority of her friends and acquaintances knew full well that she was sleeping with Malik, and that she had done sexual favours for the others. No one believed that she had been drugged and raped by the gang. She felt lost and alone.
Sarah was alone in her room on her Holly Hobbie quilt, writing down her feelings in her padded diary. The diary had the same character on the front of it as her bed covers. Beatrix Potter characters stared down from the pine-framed pictures that had suddenly reappeared on her wall. Her father had ripped down her Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet posters and replaced them with her childhood favourites, as if it might bring back her innocence. She felt like she was in a bad dream. Sarah felt isolated and afraid, afraid that things would never be the same again. Her unborn baby kicked, and reminded her that this was no dream. She placed her hand on her belly and a tear ran from her eye. She wondered what was to become of her and her baby when a pebble rattled her window. The noise made her jump, and she held her breath and waited. Five seconds went by before another clunk sounded. She held her breath again and looked at the door, waiting for her father to burst in, but he didn’t. She tiptoed to the window and peered around the curtain, her heart beating like a drum in her chest. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the darkness outside, and she cupped her hand against the glass so that she could see who was there. There was a black Ford Capri parked across the road from her house. The lights were switched off but she could see that the engine was running; fumes were pumping from the exhaust pipe. A movement closer to the house caught her eye.
“Malik!” she exclaimed under her breath. Her heart fluttered like a butterfly. She had missed him so much; despite all that had happened, she loved him. She worshiped him. She would do anything that he asked her to do, and therein lay the problem. He waved from behind a weeping willow tree and pointed to the trunk. She could make out a white oblong against the bark, and she realised that it was an envelope. He had written her a letter, and pinned it to the tree, how romantic after everything that had gone on. Sarah could barely contain herself. She wanted to run outside and hold him, but she knew that it was impossible. Her father had placed her on a strict curfew, and she dare not provoke his wrath any further. The front door was locked and barred by seven-thirty every night. Malik waved again and ran down the drive to the waiting Capri. He climbed into the passenger seat, and the Ford screeched away. It travelled a hundred yards before the headlights came on, and then it disappeared around a bend and the road was silent once more.
Sarah stared at the envelope, and she dreamed of the wonderful things that it would contain. Her imagination went wild as she climbed back onto her bed. She clutched her diary to her chest and smiled. Malik had written her a letter and risked being confronted by her brothers and father to bring it to her. She loved him so much that it hurt inside, and yet she felt a warm glow deep in the pit of her stomach when she thought of him. Sarah opened her diary and slid the pen from the spine. ‘I LOVE MALIK, AND WOULD RATHER DIE THAN BE SENT TO ISRAEL.’ she wrote in capital letters, as if they would be more significant that way. She spent that night tossing and turning in fitful sleep, desperate to get her hands on the letter, never once thinking that it would be the last time she ever wrote in her diary. In fact, it was the last thing that she would ever write.