The Trap: terrorism, heroism and everything in between Read online

  CONTENTS

  By the Same Author

  Flashback 1

  The Present 1

  The Present 2

  The Present 3

  Flashback 2

  The Present 4

  Flashback 3

  The Present 5

  Flashback 4

  The Present 6

  The Present 7

  The Present 8

  Flashback 5

  The Present 9

  The Present 10

  Flashback 6

  The Present 11

  The Present 12

  The Present 13

  The Present 14

  The Present 15

  The Present 16

  The Present 17

  The Present 18

  Flashback 7

  The Present 19

  The Present 20

  The Present 21

  Flashback 8

  The Present 22

  The Present 23

  Flashback 9

  The Present 24

  The Present 25

  The Present 26

  The Present 27

  The Present 28

  The Present 29

  The Present 30

  The Present 31

  The Present 32

  The Present 33

  Flashback 10

  The Present 34

  The Present 35

  The Present 36

  The Present 37

  The Present 38

  The Present 39

  The Present 40

  The Present 41

  The Present 42

  The Present 43

  The Present 44

  The Present 45

  The Present 46

  The Present 47

  The Present 48

  The Present 49

  The Present 50

  The Present 51

  The Present 52

  The Present 53

  The Present 54

  Flashback 11

  The Present 55

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Also by Alan Gibbons

  An Act of Love

  Blood Pressure

  Caught in the Crossfire

  The Dark Beneath

  The Defender

  The Edge

  End Game

  Hate

  Julie and Me and Michael Owen Makes Three

  Raining Fire

  The Legendeer Trilogy

  Shadow of the Minotaur

  Vampyr Legion

  Warriors of the Raven

  The Lost Souls

  Rise of the Blood Moon

  Setting of a Cruel Sun

  Hell’s Underground

  1. Scared to Death

  2. The Demon Assassin

  3. Renegade

  4. Witch Bree

  SUMMER, 2014

  There were three of them, squatting uneasily on the stone-littered, reddish-brown soil while the sun blazed down. There was no mercy in the heat of the Syrian afternoon. Sweat beaded the faces of the prisoners, who had their heads bowed, hands bound behind their backs. Dark emerald cypress trees stood to attention like servile guards flanking the figure of a young gunman. He was tall and lean, his oversized combat jacket hanging loosely on his slight frame.

  ‘Well, Majid,’ his commander chuckled, ‘what do we do with these three? Any thoughts?’

  Majid stared blankly at the man everybody knew as Omar. He was short and wiry with shaggy, black hair and a thick, untrimmed beard. There was a hidden meaning prowling behind his words.

  ‘You look confused, Majid. Have you forgotten what they are doing here? Look at them. They bore arms against us.’

  Omar kicked at their abandoned weapons and Majid instinctively raised his XM15 semi-automatic rifle to his chest, as if presenting it for inspection. What was he meant to do? Omar was still trying to prise the correct response out of his young comrade.

  ‘In taking sides against the mujahideen of the Islamic State, they have declared themselves apostates. They are false Muslims. Don’t you agree, Majid?’

  For just a moment, Majid’s gaze strayed to his left as he examined the faces of his fellow fighters. They were outwardly impassive, but he could read the raw fright in their eyes. He had fought alongside the captured men. He saw them as comrades in a common struggle.

  ‘Did they not turn their weapons on us, Majid?’

  Majid remembered the sudden firefight as a messy dispute about territory, an outbreak of hostilities with no clear cause, no obvious right or wrong. He had been hoping it would be easily resolved. What was the point of brothers’ blood being shed in anger? One of Omar’s most trusted fighters was leaning against a lone chinaberry tree, recording the scene with a hand-held camcorder. Now Majid got it. This was a test. He nodded briefly.

  ‘Did they not kill two of your comrades?’

  The answer was yes. Their bodies lay barely twenty metres away, crumpled on the parched earth, eyes staring up at the sky.

  ‘Then you know what to do.’

  Majid mustered a protest. ‘I came here to heal, not to kill my brothers.’

  ‘Only God can truly heal, Majid. If you want to save lives, you must do what is necessary.’

  A man at the back of the group murmured something inaudible. Omar turned. His finger stroked the trigger of his automatic weapon.

  ‘Something to say?’

  There was no reply. Only a fool would argue with Omar. He stared at the watching fighters, eyes alive with pent-up rage. Everybody knew Omar was pressing Majid’s buttons, trying to get a reaction, but they didn’t know why. The scene was still being recorded. Omar turned his attention back to Majid.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  By way of reply, Majid pressed the muzzle of his rifle against the back of the first captive’s head.

  ‘No problem.’

  He knew that to refuse Omar was to die. Majid struggled to keep his grip firm. His hand was shaking. His mind screamed, but he dared not put his thoughts into words. Majid’s finger was still lingering over the trigger when something attracted his attention, a silvery grey dart in the flawless, azure sky. The roar of an engine alerted the men to one of the regime’s MiG-29 jet fighters.

  The first of the aircraft’s rockets was on its way before anyone could move. Flame flickered in the trail of dark smoke. There was the chatter of small arms fire and cries of ‘Allahu Akbar’ then the world exploded in smoke and fire. Like a tidal wave, a blast of raw energy swept over the landscape. An ear-splitting thunderclap announced a direct hit on the fighters’ exposed position. The camera recording the scene continued to run.

  When the smoke cleared not one man was left standing.

  1

  WEDNESDAY, 29TH JUNE

  Amir is alone. He has got used to his own company. After all, what is the alternative? This is what his dad means by a new start, life without his friends. He has lived in a bubble of resentment for over a year now, as the family moved from flat to dingy flat. A crow distracts him, flapping clumsily over the yard then vanishing over the rooftops. He notices the boy in the black hoodie, sagging against the chain-link fencing. They are in the same set for English and Maths.

  What are you looking at? Amir wonders. Do you know something?

  Nikel has been watching Amir for some time. He wants to come over, but he is shy. His school uniform is dry-cleaned, his tie neatly knotted. Most of the kids have theirs pulled loose in protest at the school’s latest attempt to impose a dress code. Yes, Nikel’s a good boy, follows the rules, obeys his parents. Amir’s dad would approve.

  ‘Do you w
ant something?’

  Nikel looks startled.

  ‘Well, do you?’

  Nikel shrugs and comes over, takes a seat on the bench next to Amir and turns to look at him.

  ‘You’ve been here a couple of months.’

  Amir pulls a face. ‘Observant, aren’t you?’

  ‘But you don’t join in. You keep yourself to yourself.’

  It’s Amir’s turn to stare.

  ‘Right. I like my own company.’

  ‘No, I don’t think that’s it.’

  Amir’s brow crumples. ‘What’s with you? Since when do you decide what I do or don’t think?’

  Nikel stands with his hands in his pockets. ‘I’ve been watching you.’

  Nikel’s calm response wrong-foots Amir.

  ‘Are you some kind of amateur detective? I told you, I keep myself to myself.’

  By now, there’s the hint of a smile playing around Nikel’s mouth, as if he can read minds.

  ‘I’ve seen you watching the other kids. You’re the sociable type, but all this time you’ve been on the edge of things. Your sister’s making friends. No, something is holding you back. Am I warm?’

  The crow is back. Amir avoids Nikel’s gaze.

  ‘You don’t know a thing about me.’

  ‘Right,’ Nikel answers. ‘I don’t, but you’re not used to being a loner, I can tell that much.’

  ‘How do you come to that conclusion, Sherlock?’

  ‘Because I am a loner. I recognise the type, and you’re not it.’

  Amir leans back and considers Nikel.

  ‘You’re weird, you know that?’

  Nikel chuckles. ‘So people say.’ He flicks a glance across the yard to a group of girls. Two of them are wearing hijab. A third is white, with strawberry blonde hair whipping in the wind.

  ‘So you’re twins, right, you and Nasima?’

  He is nodding in the direction of the tallest girl.

  ‘That’s right, Nas is fifteen minutes older than me. She thinks she is ten years wiser.’ Amir folds his arms in a show of mock suspicion. ‘Fancy her, do you?’

  ‘What if I did?’

  ‘Oh, I’d have to kick the crap out of you. You’re not Muslim.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Just do.’ He makes a series of passes with his hands. ‘We have a secret sign, like the Freemasons.’

  Nikel watches Amir’s expression then laughs and punches his arm.

  ‘That’s a wind-up. You invented it.’

  Amir grins.

  ‘Had you going for a minute though, didn’t I? I’d still kick your head in if you made a move on my sister.’

  ‘Because I’m not Muslim?’

  ‘Nah, because you’re a freak of nature, geek boy.’ Amir considers Nikel. ‘So what’s your background? Indian?’

  ‘British.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, we’re all British. You know what I’m asking. What about your parents?’

  ‘British.’

  ‘Oh, come on, give me a break. What’s your …’ Inverted- comma fingers. ‘… heritage?’

  Nikel gives in.

  ‘My grandparents came from India. Goa.’

  ‘So you’re Hindu – elephant-headed gods and all that?’

  ‘Catholic.’

  ‘No way! In India?’

  There’s a gust of wind and Nikel zips up his jacket.

  ‘Yes, it’s a Portuguese thing. They settled, generations back, and brought their religion with them.’

  ‘I thought Goa was hippies and beach barbecues. People with bells round their necks, dancing barefoot on the sand.’

  ‘It’s got that reputation.’

  Amir can see that Nikel is plucking up the courage to ask another question.

  ‘Go on, spit it out. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘How come you moved at this time of year? I mean, it’s a bit close to exams to start a new school.’

  Amir has told the truth once before. It meant the family had to move on, in search of anonymity.

  ‘Were you born nosy?’ Amir asks, surprised that he doesn’t feel angrier about the way Nikel is interrogating him.

  ‘Probably. So what’s the answer?’

  Amir laughs.

  ‘You’re not getting one.’

  Because answers mean danger.

  Nikel considers his refusal.

  ‘Fair enough.’ Then, without so much as a pause, he moves on. ‘Heard about what happened to that newsagent round the corner?’

  Amir doesn’t respond. Nikel ploughs on regardless.

  ‘England Awakes kicked his head in the other night.’

  ‘How do you know it was them?’

  ‘They were shouting while they were beating him.’ Nikel is watching Amir’s expression. ‘So, England Awakes: you’ve heard of it?’

  Amir sees angry men, Union flags, the cross of St George. ‘I don’t live on Mars. Too right wing for the EDL. Too ugly for TV. This newsagent: how badly was he hurt?’

  ‘Broken ribs. Fractured wrist. I smell trouble. There’s a march at the weekend. Saturday. They’ve been spraying slogans on walls. Torch the mosque, that sort of thing.’ He expects an answer. There isn’t one. ‘Anyway, the streets are going to be in lock-down. The council says the mosque can expand. England Awakes has got a campaign against it: Dump the Dome.’

  Amir refuses to be drawn.

  ‘Catchy.’

  ‘Don’t you care? They put the guy in hospital.’

  ‘Seriously, what’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘You’re Muslim. They’re targeting your mosque. I thought you’d be raging.’

  The bell rings to announce the end of lunchtime. Amir gets to his feet. ‘Who cares, so long as they leave me alone?’

  At that moment three boys jostle their way through the crush. Nikel watches them then drops his eyes when they turn his way. Amir registers the group.

  ‘I’m guessing they’re not fans of multiculturalism.’

  Nikel rolls his eyes, lets the group pass and sets off towards the main building.

  ‘Got it in one. A piece of advice: steer well clear.’

  2

  Kate Armstrong decides to save half her Pret sandwich for later, puts the cardboard and cellophane wrapper in her bag and crosses Horseferry Road towards the Grade II listed building where she works. The monolith that houses MI5 stands on the north bank of the Thames, overlooking Lambeth Bridge. Kate is jittery. Competent as her superiors believe she is, Kate is prone to anxiety, even self-doubt. Maybe that’s what makes her so effective. She lives in a permanent state of tension. The devil, she knows, is in the detail, and Kate Armstrong is very good at detail.

  She is an experienced recruiter and handler of agents. She didn’t think anything about the job could surprise her, but that was before a new arrival appeared on the scene, codename Bungee, in south-eastern Turkey. He was a bewildered young man with multiple, untreated injuries and a haunted look in his eyes.

  She remembers the call from Six and instinctively glances across the Thames in the direction of the SIS building. The phone call from MI6 didn’t come from the odd, ziggurat-shaped monolith at Vauxhall Cross, but from its station in Turkey. The voice on the line belonged to Hugh Aspinall, a rising star in the security services. She had met him on a number of occasions and trusted his judgement. His opening gambit was enticing.

  ‘I might have something for you, Kate.’

  ‘Let me guess, you’ve bought me a box of baklava.’

  ‘Oh, this is tastier than baklava.’

  ‘OK,’ Kate told him, ‘you’ve dangled the bait quite long enough, thank you very much. I’m hooked. What have you got?’

  ‘It’s a bit of an oddity really. We took a phone call last week from the Austrian consulate in Gaziantep.’

  What is this, she thought, The Sound of Music? Austria wasn’t the kind of place that came up on the radar of the security forces very often. She suppressed the urge to crack a joke about yodelling.


  ‘Gaziantep? I’m not familiar with the name.’

  ‘It’s near the Syrian border. It’s starting to get a reputation as a jihadi crossing point.’

  The mention of Syria had Kate leaning forward, propping her elbows on her desk. The civil war in Syria and the spread of Islamic State insurgency through neighbouring Iraq had made the region a hotspot for international terrorism. Anticipating what Hugh was going to tell her, she had a stab at spelling it out.

  ‘Are you telling me one of our black-garbed friends wants out?’

  ‘I’m telling you that a twenty-year-old male from London by the name of Majid Sarwar recently stumbled into the Austrian consulate, much the worse for wear, and asked where he could find the nearest British Embassy.’

  ‘Worse for wear?’

  ‘As in: how the hell are you still breathing?’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘After discussions with the Embassy staff, we arranged for a car to pick him up. He was badly hurt. I’ll send through some pictures. The right side of his face is a mess, half-melted by ordnance. God knows how he got as far as he did in that condition. If there is one thing we know about him, he is as tough as proverbial old boots.’

  ‘Or he has a lust for life.’

  ‘Yes, that too.’

  ‘He’s still just another jihadi fighter having second thoughts.’

  ‘Not quite. Our boy was a medical student before he took the trip to the Turkish border. He is intelligent and well-connected.’

  Kate processed that last word. Well-connected?

  ‘And where is he now?’

  ‘We’re taking good care of him. He is receiving first-class medical attention. We’ve got him in a private ward and he is under twenty-four-hour guard. There is talk of plastic surgery.’

  ‘Reformed jihadi health insurance?’

  ‘He isn’t reformed yet, but we’re working on it.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, ‘I’m with you so far, but what’s so special about this particular absconder? Young men and women have gone to Syria before, thinking they are defending their oppressed brothers and sisters from Assad’s war machine.’

  She went on, ‘You’ve heard the Home Secretary’s recent statement. Your guy chose to come out to a war zone. No excuses, no ifs or buts, these people have a good idea what they’re getting into when they go. The government is taking a hard line. So you’ve got a jihadi who realises he’s made a mistake. He’s a big boy. Let him explain his circumstances to a court of law.’