Homegrown Hero: A funny and addictive thriller for fans of Informer

3

Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai

Sheikh Ali Ghulam had lived his whole life in the United Arab Emirates in the city of Abu Dhabi. He despised being away from home‚ refused to join any of his wives or eleven children when they vacationed in the most extreme exotic locations around the world. He had a constant nagging thought that it was only a matter of time‚ and not coincidence‚ before a lunatic gunman or a suicide bomber decided that today was the day to spoil his vacation. The Sheikh seldom set foot outside of his home. He lived with his wives and his children and his servants on a sprawling estate‚ with two guest lodges and a small shopping village within the compound.

It was only business that held the might to force him from his home. Sheikh Ghulam never had and never would conduct business from his home‚ not a meeting‚ a phone call or an email. Any communication would have to be hand-written on a note and delivered personally to him by only a select few. But business was now calling‚ and it was that very reason why he travelled the short journey to Dubai.

Ghulam‚ dressed‚ as ever‚ in a long white thobe‚ and white headdress‚ stood with his back to the luxurious hotel room and looked out of the huge curved window of the Royal Suite on the top floor of the Burj Al Arab Hotel. The sun dipped and the skyscrapers obscenely illuminated the skyline. Ghulam could not make out the scene below him‚ but he imagined with certain distaste the crowd and activity that was taking place. Shameless and barely dressed women displaying all that should be precious to them‚ and burnt‚ ruddy-faced drunken men looking for a wife for the night. Westerners with their Western ways and a blatant disregard for the laws of a Muslim country.

The door to the suite opened. Ghulam noticed in the reflection of the glass that Pathaan had entered.

‘I trust our guests are satisfied with their accommodation‚’ Ghulam said.

Pathaan was aware that he was being watched in the reflection‚ so replied silently with a slight nod and sat down on the armchair closest to the gold-plated phone. He slipped off his sandals and placed his bare feet on the coffee table. Out of the top pocket of his crisp‚ half-sleeved white shirt he took out a well-worn‚ small tin container and pried open the lid and removed a ready-wrapped paan. He folded it in half and then half again and placed it on his tongue before vigorously chewing it as the taste exploded inside his mouth‚ coating his teeth in red salivation.

Ghulam eyed him momentarily in part fascination‚ part frustration. Aba Abassi‚ known only as Pathaan‚ was head of security and the only person on his payroll who did not afford him the respect that was demanded of a Sheikh. However‚ although belligerent at times‚ Pathaan was a necessity; a confidante and protector‚ one who was highly trained in many forms of combat‚ which he carried out with pleasure and if the mood took him.

Ghulam had requested Pathaan to organise this meeting. It had taken Pathaan six flights and three cities in three different countries to arrange. Out of the three esteemed guests invited only two had turned up with the obedience that was expected of them. The third had needed to be convinced onto the Lear Jet.

‘Alright‚’ Ghulam said. ‘Let us commence.’

Pathaan picked up the gold-plated phone and dialled. It rang three times before he got a response. He ran his tongue slowly over his teeth‚ relishing the taste of the paan. ‘Three rings‚’ he said on answer‚ ‘is not acceptable.’ He waited for the apology before instructing‚ ‘Send them up.’

*

Mullah Mohammed Ihsan and Mullah Muhammad Talal entered the hotel room. Sheikh Ali Ghulam stood at the head of the table. Something in his face made the two Mullahs hesitate about greeting the Sheikh as etiquette would usually dictate.

‘Sit.’ Pathaan made the decision for them.

At the far end of the table was placed a large wide-screen monitor‚ with a USB pen drive attached.

‘This has come to my attention‚’ Ghulam said‚ quietly. He nodded towards Pathaan who‚ with the press of a button on the remote‚ executed a file.

The footage was clear but without sound and motion‚ as though shot by a security camera. The time stamp read 15.22 and the date 26/12/2017. It showed a young man sitting on the back step of an ambulance‚ a blanket wrapped tightly around him and tucked under his chin. Even from the distance that the footage was captured‚ it was plain to see from the way his shoulders rhythmically shuddered that he was crying‚ as he looked around‚ lost‚ at his surroundings.

‘Who is this Brother?’ Talal asked.

‘He is no Brother of ours‚’ Ghulam glared‚ his eyes ablaze with fire. ‘This man is a traitor.’ Pathaan placed a thin manila folder on the table. Ihsan opened it and stared at the 7×5 photo. Bright eyes and a nervous smile looked back at them as though he had just been caught. Which he had. ‘I received intelligence from one of our men on the ground in London. This is the man behind the betrayal of our leader. His name is Javid Qasim.’

Ihsan cleared his throat and although it was just one word‚ he spoke it with careful measure. ‘How?’

‘Qasim attended our training camp‚ by invite‚ in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa where he was able to ascertain important details of our operation.’

‘How much did he find out?’ Talal said‚ finding his voice again after being under Ghulam’s glare.

‘Enough!’ Ghulam slapped his palm on the table. A small bowl of hummus upturned. He then began softly drumming his fingers.

Enough as in Javid Qasim found out enough? Or Enough as in I don’t want to hear another word from you? Talal decided it was best to wait for Ghulam to continue in his own time.

‘This man‚ this Muslim‚ cowardly hid under the guise of a soldier of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris,’ Ghulam said‚ quietly. ‘Crossing the border into Afghanistan to meet with Abdullah Bin Jabbar and reporting every detail to the British Secret Service.’

The silence that followed screamed a thousand questions.

‘The one thing I despise more than a Kafir‚ is a Munafiq.’ Ghulam spat the last word as if it burnt a hole on his tongue. The others in attendance were aware of the treatment reserved for such a Muslim. ‘And it is for that reason that I hereby put forward a fatwa on Javid Qasim.’

4

Thames House

At 12 Millbank – Thames House‚ MI5’s headquarters – Teddy Lawrence‚ a young MI5 officer‚ knocked and entered the minimalist office of John Robinson‚ Assistant Director of Counter Terrorism Operations. It was the first time they had met since the foiled terrorist attack on Oxford Street on Boxing Day.

Lawrence had climbed the ranks rapidly‚ due largely to their close working relationship. Robinson had seen in him a kindred spirit‚ whilst Lawrence saw opportunity.

Robinson had lost weight everywhere but on his stomach. His sweat-stained white shirt hung loose over his shoulders. Uneven growth on a face that managed to be both pale and ruddy red. Alcohol probably‚ stress definitely‚ reasoned Lawrence. Whatever it was‚ Robinson looked like shit and no longer like a leader of men.

Lawrence‚ despite what they were facing‚ had kept up appearances. Seven fitted suits for seven days. Monday was a charcoal grey three piece. He’d been in the office for nearly three minutes without Robinson having uttered a word. Lawrence watched him standing at the floor to ceiling window‚ staring out onto the stunning views of the Thames as though the answer would float to him in a message in a bottle. They had both received the same brief that morning.

The Teacher was no closer to being located.

After the London attack‚ The Teacher was quick to go under‚ hidden away in the vast wild lands‚ somewhere in Pakistan or Afghanistan‚ unable to lead the might of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris. Still‚ the attacks occurred across Europe; smaller in scale but with a frightening frequency. Despite The Teacher’s absence‚ his work continued.

Robinson mumbled something‚ but Lawrence couldn’t quite hear as Robinson still had his back to him. Lawrence hesitated before asking‚ ‘Sir. Can you repeat that?’

‘Javid Qasim‚’ Robinson said‚ ‘is the key.’

Lawrence now understood why Robinson had his back to him. It would have been an embarrassment for him having to backtrack‚ and he probably didn’t want it seen in his face. It had been Robinson who’d terminated Qasim’s contract – a rash decision‚ considering what he’d achieved for them in such a short period of time. From Qasim’s intelligence alone‚ they’d narrowly avoided a multiple gun attack in the heart of London. Just as vital‚ Qasim had revealed The Teacher’s locations and hideouts‚ along with a detailed description of the man that the world’s authorities had‚ previously‚ had no knowledge of. After that it had been out of Qasim’s hands. It should have been enough. Yet they had still failed to locate and capture The Teacher.

Robinson concluded there were doubts about the legitimacy of the intelligence‚ and he’d been quick to voice his judgement. It didn’t sit comfortably with him that Qasim clearly had mixed emotions in what was asked of him. Robinson refused to let anyone who was sympathetic to the beliefs of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris continue working for the Secret Service. It had muddied the waters further when Qasim’s relationship with The Teacher came to light.

At the time‚ and despite advice‚ Robinson could only see one way‚ when he should have been seeing it the other way.

‘Javid Qasim?’ Lawrence questioned‚ though he had already formed the conversation in his head.

Robinson finally turned and locked eyes with Lawrence. ‘We can still use him.’

Lawrence nodded. ‘I’ll talk to him. Get him back on board.’

From the drinks cabinet‚ Robinson poured himself a large whiskey and a smaller one for Lawrence. He strode across and handed the drink over and sat down opposite him. Robinson leant back‚ an arm draped across the Italian leather two-seater that he’d insisted on having in his office‚ and crossed his legs. The arrogance that had been missing‚ as they repeatedly failed to capture The Teacher‚ was returning.

‘No‚’ Robinson said. ‘That’s not what I had in mind.’

5

Hounslow High Street

Dean Kramer leaned his bulk against the back of his rusty old Range Rover. Like him‚ it carried battle scars‚ and like him it was still strong. He slipped out a Greggs sausage roll from a paper bag and proceeded to cut it in half with the first bite. In front of him‚ Kramer looked out at the scene on Hounslow High Street. A group of forty or so Asian youths‚ shuffling feet‚ a bundle of nerves and anticipation‚ being held back by metal barriers and Police. Nothing had kicked off‚ it hardly ever does at these things‚ but they had to make their presence felt. Opposite them‚ outside what used to be Dixons‚ now a discount store‚ St George and Union Jack flags flew high above a fifty-strong gathering of white faces‚ mainly men‚ holding signs and placards that read Taking back our country or words to that effect. They were led by a red-headed woman who Kramer knew well. With her she had her weapons of choice: a microphone‚ and a voice she wasn’t afraid to use.

This was the third time this week that Kramer had watched Eve Carver and the rest of the faces. First in Leytonstone and then in Slough‚ before moving onto Hounslow. All areas heavily populated with Muslims.

He watched Carver bring the microphone to her mouth and clear her throat. It came out loud and crisp through the large box speaker. One of the Asians shouted something unoriginally offensive at her. A copper shook his head at him and he quietened down. Kramer took the second and final bite out of his sausage roll as she started.

‘I went to the supermarket today. I thought I’d do a little experiment. I counted thirty tills. Twenty-eight of them were manned by brown faces.’ She paused. She smiled. She continued. ‘Isn’t that strange? It’s strange to me. And it’s not just our supermarkets. Step into any hospital and chances are you’ll be treated by a brown doctor. Step into any school and chances are your child is being taught by a brown teacher. Have you asked yourself‚ what are they teaching our children?’

‘What are you teaching our children?’ an elderly Asian man‚ who had stopped to watch‚ countered. His small voice was lost in the commotion as his wife hurriedly ushered him away.

‘Take a look at our council‚ our government. The Mayor of Hounslow is a Muslim. The Mayor of London is a Muslim. Every day‚ five times a day‚ I hear the Islamic cries for Prayers. They are not adhering to our laws. We are adhering to theirs. Believe me‚ Sharia Law is spreading like the sickest of diseases. Here. In our country. In our England.’

Kramer yawned‚ loud and wide. He’d heard this or a variation of this three times already this week‚ and a hundred times before. This little show would be filmed and plastered over Social Media. Their profile would increase. Their numbers would increase. If they were lucky‚ a fight may break out and they would find themselves in one of the local papers. National even. But ultimately not a thing will change. Kramer wasn’t here for that.

He tuned out as Carver moved onto All Muslims are complicit in Terrorism‚ and scanned the crowd. The two young lads weren’t difficult to find. Black bomber jackets‚ skinny black jeans and red Doctor Marten Boots. They were the reason that Kramer was there.

He placed a call to Terry Rose.

‘Rose.’ Kramer sat in his car to block out the noise. ‘They’re both here.’

‘Course they are‚’ Rose replied. ‘You talked to them‚ yet?’

‘About to.’ Kramer glanced in his rear-view mirror. The two lads were mouthing off at the Pakis‚ intent and anger burning brightly in their faces‚ hands balled into tight fists‚ ready to fly. There was a third with them‚ younger‚ dressed the same‚ but looking painfully out of place. He stood close by and tried to imitate them but Kramer could see that he did not hold the same passion. ‘There’s another with them.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t know. He’s been hanging around them all week. Could be a friend.’

‘Alright. Suss him out‚ and call it‚’ Rose said.

Kramer ended the call. Brushed the crumbs from the sausage roll off his face and stepped out of the car just as the demonstration was dying down. He approached one of the lads that he knew by name and reputation only.

Kramer stood beside him. ‘Simon Carpenter.’

Simon‚ his thick arms crossed‚ his face set like flint‚ stared at what was left of the dwindling Asian group as they started to disperse‚ to his satisfaction.

‘Look at them go‚’ Simon said‚ eyes forward. ‘Off to plot. To plan. We’re not careful‚ they’ll bring this country down to its knees.’ Simon turned to look at Kramer. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

Kramer‚ a few inches over six foot‚ was taller and wider than Simon. But not by much. Simon was built like no other eighteen-year-old. The other lad joined them. Kramer knew him as Anthony Hanson. He was taller than his friend‚ but he didn’t carry the bulk. Taut‚ wiry‚ and handy with his fists. Had a history of substance abuse. Kramer had done his homework.

‘Anthony Hanson.’ Kramer smiled‚ producing crooked teeth.

Anthony gave him the once-over and then looked across at Simon. ‘Who the fuck is this guy?’

‘I’d like a word‚’ Kramer said.

*

In the absence of a coffee shop close by‚ Kramer took them to a dessert lounge a few doors down from where the demonstration had taken place. He ordered three coffees and waited for them to arrive before starting.

‘I’ve seen you both at the last few rallies‚’ Kramer said.

‘Yeah‚ so?’ Anthony said.

‘I’ve seen you‚ too‚’ Simon said. ‘From a distance. Never seen you join in‚ though.’

‘Don’t agree with it.’ Kramer shook his head. ‘It’s not right.’

‘We got a Paki-lover on our hands‚’ Anthony said‚ his attitude clearly bolstered by having his friend by his side ‘Prime example of all that’s wrong with our country. If we can’t stick up for our own then –’

Kramer shot him a look‚ one that had shut down many in the past. He made a show of interlinking his meaty fingers and Anthony’s eyes travelled down to the red St George’s Cross tattoo on his middle finger‚ just above his knuckle.

‘What do you want?’ Simon slipped off his beanie hat to reveal a freshly-shaved head.

‘You’re wasting your time‚’ Kramer said. ‘These rallies won’t get you anywhere. Their beliefs sit side by side with my beliefs‚ but the objective is a political one.’

‘It’s something‚’ Simon said.

‘It’s not enough. And I think you know it’s not enough.’

‘That supposed to mean?’ Anthony said.

‘Last year. The attack on Sutton Mosque.’ Kramer left it at that. He picked up his coffee and took a sip.

Anthony glanced at Simon. Simon quietly kept his eyes firmly on Kramer.

‘How’d you know about that?’ Anthony asked.

‘The attack on the Mosque was celebrated across the country‚’ Kramer replied. ‘I made it my business to find out who was responsible.’

Anthony looked around nervously. Kramer smiled behind his coffee as he took a sip‚ amused at how Simon held his gaze like an equal.

‘Who are you?’ Simon asked.

‘I am one of many. And we’re making a stand.’

‘So are we?’ Anthony shrugged.

‘Don’t be daft‚ son. You think a few fucking marches and rallies is making a stand. Talk is cheap‚ and ineffective.’ Kramer leaned in and lowered his voice. ‘After desecrating the Mosque‚ you hid when you should have built on its momentum. Instead you wear a hole in your Doc Martens‚ marching relentlessly‚ trying to spread the word.’ Kramer straightened up‚ took his time looking them both in the eyes. ‘I work with a small organisation whose members believe that...’ he paused. ‘Action speaks louder than words. A belief that you once shared.’

‘We still do‚’ Anthony said‚ then looked across at Simon who slowly nodded his agreement.

‘That sounds like words to me‚’ Kramer said. ‘If I see that you are serious‚ if you are capable in making a difference‚ a real difference‚ then...’

‘Then what?’ Anthony asked.

‘My partner‚ who runs operations‚ would like the two of you to join us.’

The door to the dessert lounge opened with a cheery chime. The third lad‚ who’d been hanging around with Simon and Anthony‚ walked in and tentatively approached the table‚ trying his hardest to avoid eye contact with Kramer.

‘Where were you guys?’ he said‚ softly. ‘I was looking for you everywhere.’

Simon leaned over the table and locked eyes with Kramer. ‘Tell your partner we’ll show you both just how serious we can be. And...’

‘And what?’

Simon glanced across at the boy who smiled unsurely at him. He turned back to Kramer.

‘Tell him there’s three of us.’

6

Imy

I never did find the remote control so‚ back at my flat‚ I had to go back in time and operate the television up close and personal. Channel set to Sky Sports‚ I settled in‚ a bowl of crisps‚ two glass tumblers next to a jug of water‚ a bowl of ice and an unopened bottle of Jameson on the coffee table in front of me.

Compact was the word I would have used to describe my flat to any potential clients; pokey would have been more apt. The rent was set quite low‚ but I paid even less‚ one of the few perks of being an estate agent. A touch of damp on the walls‚ questionable décor courtesy of the previous owner‚ and a carpet which electrocutes. It sat nicely above The Chicken Spot which some may find distasteful – especially as the smell of greasy food was a constant guest – but‚ geographically‚ I found it convenient.