Our Way - Chapter One
The little red Ford had to wait while the articulated lorry gathered speed and snaked past a slow-moving farm tractor. Once the lorry was back on its side of the road Saeed jammed his foot onto the floor and they clawed their way past this swaying obstruction which they had followed for miles of winding single carriageway.
The pine trees, twisted and alien, picked up speed alongside them and Aziz looked again at his watch.
“This ain’t Essex man. Might as well be ont’ bloody moon.”
The others said nothing and the flat landscape that rose and fell gently as far as they could see held for them no clues.
Ahead there was a town with small yellow-bricked buildings where a level-crossing barred their way. For an hour they had driven in their haste across a foreign country coloured with the washed out greens and yellows of late summer. Now they were held by bright red lights that flashed and Saeed banged the flat of his hand repeatedly on the rim of the steering wheel.
“Don’t do that man.”
Omar leant forwards and pushed at Saeed’s shoulder. He was sitting in the back with Zain, desperate to get out and stretch his legs. Still the lights flashed their warning; on the other side of the tracks other people sat in their cars with their impatience and no one moved.
“Aziz, let me out man, gotta have a piss.” Just before they left the A1 near Peterborough they had found a roadside cafe and some good tea.
Here, to one side, was a deserted builder’s yard and the others watched Omar half tuck himself around a corner. For a second he turned his round, close-shaven head towards the others. From somewhere there came the sound of a train that rushed past. Saeed wondered why there had been such a hold-up for one tiny train, like a little model that he had seen once in the shops in the centre of town. He wondered for a moment about this town that spread itself around them, low and flat and white, that troubled him with his urge to be on his way. There were no tall, red and brick buildings and no chimneys to guide him and he wanted to be gone before this strangeness claimed him. One thing to come down south for some cricket but it was getting even later and they needed to be on their way. Inwardly, he cursed Aziz for his map reading. They’d be lucky to arrive before lunch.
The lights were no longer flashing. The car behind tried to pull past but there was a stream of traffic in the opposite direction. Saeed leaned across Aziz to the open door and called to Omar who was facing them now and tugging at his zip. The driver behind leaned again on his horn and Saeed’s right arm raised itself out of the window and jabbed the middle finger upwards towards the sky. Aziz bundled Omar into the car and they were off again.
The road led them past a long fence on their right; it was taller than the other fences they had seen and looked as though it meant business. It was a strange fence and looked out of place there without animals to restrain, just low flat fields of nothing.
Saeed was driving faster now and took little notice, but the others gazed at the fence and then at the golfers who appeared soon, at their ease on the other side of the road. The fence stood tall and was now topped with three runs of razor wire which curled itself in between the stanchions. Nothing to do with farming, like the broken and twisted posts and wire they had noticed earlier, where quiet cattle seemed uninterested in the possibility of escape. Here the land beyond the fence was manicured, like the golf course over the way, but even flatter, as if someone had given the area a very short hair cut, a military number one.
The boys had left Bradford early that morning, slamming the car doors in the quiet street and finding their way in the summer dawn out to the motorway and the south. Omar had been the last to be picked up and his mother had come out with him to the car and handed Saeed a bag of food for the journey. It had been a sudden decision – the day before it was clear that Yorkshire were playing better than expected and the next day would be crucial. Their mates had called; they were already down at the game and Saeed and the others would come down in the morning. They should make Chelmsford in five hours.
The fence seemed to go on forever, trapping them against its side, leaving them no option but to press on along its flank until they came up behind a white van. Twice their size it bounced along, hiding from them the lie of the road. Saeed struck the wheel and cursed. He struck the wheel again then suddenly jammed the gear stick forward and the engine roared.
“Go for it man!” Omar, comfortable now, leaned forward over Aziz’s shoulder and watched the traffic lights come into view.
They were going to pass this bloody van; Omar watched the driver’s cab slide behind them and then another articulated lorry was in front, struggling across their path towards the left. To the right the fence had retreated and left a wider space between itself and the road. Saeed watched the space grow while he snatched the wheel round.
The kerb struck them at an angle lifting the car which bounced violently then turned over. It slid for a few yards on its right side, scarring the neat grass and splintering a large wooden sign that had welcomed visitors. The fence loomed like a large safety net ready to embrace the car which buried itself into the steel mesh. The fence stretched, trying to follow the car, but then snapped. The car slid free for a few more yards and stopped.
Aziz was the first to climb out; his dark eyes flashed as he looked around. The others were scrambling to undo seat belts and lift themselves up and to their left. Below him, and to his right, his brother Zain was struggling while Omar pushed himself forwards to follow Aziz. The door was heavy but once Aziz was clear he would be able to hold it while the others scrambled out.
Somewhere a voice was calling out. Aziz looked around but could see no one close by. The door was troubling him so he forced it round against the hinges until it leant the other way and he could reach down into the car. The wrecked door flapped like a damaged wing and the car swayed from side to side with the struggles of the boys inside. Aziz struggled to keep his balance on top of the car and Omar’s head raised itself out of the side where the door had been. From below Saeed called out to him.
“Take yer fuckin’ boot out of me ear will yer?”
The other voice was much nearer now and it called again.
“Stay right where you are and put your hands on your heads.”
With one hand Aziz was holding onto the uncertain door and with the other he was desperately trying to pull Omar clear. He glanced quickly at the soldier who had shouted at him. He had long ago learnt how to treat people who shouted and threatened him. His challenger wondered whether the boy could hear.
Another soldier was running towards the car now and was also pointing a gun. The figure on top of the car ignored him and knelt down to retrieve something from inside the car. What was it? Was he going to blow them all to hell? The first soldier was about to fire when his comrade called out.
“You heard what he said, boy. Get your arse down here and put your hands on your head.”
Despite his helmet and the substantial arsenal of equipment that hung from his waist the young man failed to impress Aziz. In fact the young soldier was more shaken by the sound of his own screaming than was this terrorist. This is what he had been trained to do; take no chances and protect yourself. As he shouted again the young soldier winced at the memory of his sergeant screaming at him while he struggled with basic training.
It occurred to Aziz that although the man was armed there was something ludicrous about his anger, like the policemen who had once chased them away from a bonfire a few years back. Some instinct told him that so long as he did not look directly at the man he would be all right. He waved his arm in a cheerful acknowledgement of the man’s presence, as if to say, “I’ll be with you in a minute,” and continued with the work of rescuing the others.
There was something other worldly about Aziz’s wave, something detached and yet serious while his attention was fixed elsewhere. Was this a young man about to become a martyr? Was it, wondered the first of the two Americans, was it some religious gesture, some final leave-taking of this world as he prepared for the embrace of seventy virgins - or was it hookers? He never could remember.
Aziz felt the weight of the door, looked down at Omar’s head. He shrugged his shoulders and this time looked at the two other boys with their guns and their uniforms. They were not much older than him, could have been some of the kids he used to play with down at the tip or out on the edge of the moors.
“It’s his fuckin’ head like, yer know.” Omar was very still. “Let go a this door and me mate’ll ‘ave a right bloody ‘ead ache.”
The two soldiers heard Aziz this time and looked at each other. They were still pointing their guns at the figure on the car, but less confidently. Aziz was hardly defiant – the car still wobbled violently so that he had to steady himself uncertainly by grasping the wayward door.
“What’s he say?” one of them asked. The other soldier shrugged his shoulders.
“No idea.” He looked over at Aziz who was now able to extricate Omar who was beginning to panic. “Ain’t no kind of English I’ve ever heard.”
“Some Arab lingo then – goddam terrorists.”
A siren started to wail and the conversation was suspended while two khaki vehicles came round a corner and roared towards them. The two young soldiers said no more but continued to point their guns towards the car, uncertain whether to open fire at this defiant threat, or to retreat out of harm’s way. If there was an explosion now, this close, they knew that they too would be obliterated.
Had they failed somehow? Somewhere nearby by there was another sergeant who would want to know what the shit they meant by standing there trying to have a conversation with a bunch of prisoners who should be tied up by now or dead.
A dozen soldiers got quickly out of the two troop carriers and tucked themselves away out of sight. One of them peeped out cautiously round the back of the humvee and called to the two comrades who had yet to get the car and its occupants under control.
“Say Henry, what the fuck are youse two playing at. You’re gonna get yourselves blown up for Christ’s sake. Get your arses back over here.”
The two young soldiers looked quickly around over their shoulders. Still wary, they began to move back, stopped and looked around as if there might be another threat in the direction they were now taking. Still unsure they edged themselves away from the car and the bent figure of Aziz, who continued to ignore them; he was talking animatedly and struggling with something that would not budge.
“What happens if he tries to blow us all up?” The two soldiers stopped half way between the terrorists’ car and the hidden sergeant whose voice continued to terrify them.
“You will get all of us dismantled unless you’re smart enough to get yourselves back here out of harm’s way. Now move...double....double....double.”
They played it safe, did as the sergeant had suggested, and found themselves taking cover with the others.
Two older soldiers stepped quickly over to the crashed car and called out to Aziz. He turned for a moment.
“It’s the other lads see. Can you give us a hand?” He reached out, as if he would pull one of them up on top of the car so that they could both get hold of Omar. The gesture was clearer than his accent. “What are yer waiting fer?”
He waved with his hand again and stretched it out.
For a second the young soldier saw himself pinned to the side of the car while one of the other terrorists set off the device they had inside. Then he grabbed Aziz by the wrist.
Aziz protested but found that the other soldier had captured his ankle. When he landed he was pushed to the ground then dragged rapidly across the grass and dumped in the midst of the other soldiers. Two of them sat on him so there was no chance of getting free. He shouted at them to let go but they ignored him. Once his wrists and ankles had been seized again and fastened a rough hand went through his pockets and squeezed him around his trousers and under his top. Then he felt himself being lifted off the ground and carried away.
Omar ducked back into the car before the door could take off his head.
Outside on the main road one of the sentries from the barrier approaches two drivers who have stopped to see the fate of the red Ford. The sentry smiles and bends down to speak.
“Another goddam security exercise - keeps us on our toes.”
One of the drivers shakes his head but allows the sentry to wave him away. The second driver follows and the road past the base is quiet again.
Two more vehicles roar up from somewhere among the far buildings and disgorge another twenty armed men who spread themselves out and take up prone firing positions. One of them stares fixedly through binoculars at the injured car. They resemble a group of big game hunters who have wounded their quarry and then tracked it to its lair where it has turned on them, knowing that it can go no further. They wait, wondering what it will do next, knowing that to approach closer now would be extremely perilous. What, after all, has the defiant beast to lose?
Another head appears out of the open window of the car, a human periscope. This time it’s Zain. He’s skinnier but about the same height as his brother.
“Where’s me bruther?”
“Just stay right where you are.”
“What d’yer treat him like that fer – might ‘a bin hurt.”
“You heard me son – just stay right where you are.”
“What about me mates? They’re bloody injured.”
Their rescuers are unmoved. More vehicles arrive and park further away.
“You called an ambulance yet? What about the police – look at your bloody fence. Better arrest us mate, we’re a right lot a vandals.”
“Don’t need no limey police here, not on a US base.” The soldier has walked swiftly over to the car. Now he drops a small black cylinder through the window and hurries back to the others. For a moment they wait.
The three boys are just conscious when the Americans pull them out of the car. The tear gas has caused them to struggle in panic and they have bruised their arms and legs badly and pulled muscles and strained joints. Once the gas started to clear the Americans rolled the car back over onto its wheels and now have the three of them trussed up like Aziz. A soldier walks over while they are still coughing and slips a hood over each head.
When the hoods come off they find themselves in a long plain room. Aziz is sitting alone at the far end.
“Hey, where you bin guys?” Aziz watches them for a moment; something about them isn’t quite right. He looks carefully at Zain who struggles to speak.
“Bloody gas.” They’re coughing still and he needs a moment to regain his breath.
“Bastards gassed us.”
Somewhere a mobile phone begins to ring. There are a dozen guards and there is moment’s confusion while they all look at one another and shake their heads. Saeed struggles but cannot not reach his pocket. One of the soldiers removes the phone.
“Shit.”
“Give it here soldier.” The officer in charge holds out his hand. He glances at the phone then pushes the answer button. They hear a woman’s voice, unclear.
“Can I be of assistance ma’am?”
The voice continues, wailful, as if it has not heard him.
“Jesus Christ! What is this?” This to no one in particular. He addresses himself again to the phone but cannot not make any progress. He switches it off and slides it into his pocket.
Only Aziz is in a state to speak. The others sit with their heads down, coughing still.
“You can’t hold us like this. Only the police can hold us in this country.”
“And which country is that?”
“Fuckin’ UK.”
The American laughs.
“Where in shit is that?”
“’ere. Great Britain, England, Western Europe.” Anger has further broadened Aziz’s Yorkshire voice so that it would trouble anyone from outside the county. The soldier is becoming more and more angry but remains in control for he has learnt how they try to provoke you, make you break some international law. Catch you out somehow.
“And do you belong here boy?”
“More than you do?”
“Don’t be too sure of that? Anyways, we’ll call your police when we’re good and ready. Then we’ll find out”
Later they asked Saeed about the call. He was recovering from the gas and was sitting on the floor, in front of a desk, the tallest of the quartet and heavier built.
“Me mother.” For a moment the northern voice troubled the officer.
“Oh, your old lady. Worrying about you is she?”
His grandmother had also left a message for him – she often got onto his little sister to call him so that she could speak to him. As usual she started in English then broke into Urdu when she got excited. The officer twiddled with a recording machine which Saeed could just see on top of the desk.
“What’s that all about? Can’t she speak plain English?” The man looked at his watch and Saeed said nothing.
“Perhaps you’ll be able to tell us tomorrow, when you’ve had a night’s rest. He turned to go. “See you then boys.”
The officer made his way out of the room followed by four of the guards.
Aziz looked at the other three. What was wrong with them – stay here all night? What about their families back home?
“Oi, mate.”
One of the soldiers, the shortest of the group, looked over to him but said nothing. Aziz struggled in frustration. “I said, ‘Oi.’ What about a call home then? If the police arrest us, they have to let us contact someone.” The soldier stared at him while his companions looked on.
“Like we told you, we ain’t the Limey police. You’ll hear about your rights in the morning.”
There was a pause.
“You lot scared of us or something?”
The short soldier, the eloquent one, turned to him again.
“What d’yer mean sonny?”
“How come there’s so many of you?” The question seemed to make no sense and the soldier continued to stare back.
“Got pulled up last year. Three of us. Sat down with a couple of coppers. A bit a crack like and home we go. One hour max. What’s up with you lads? Didn’t they teach you how to deal with juvenile delinquents?”
The sergeant came round from the desk and this pleased Aziz. He grinned at the man who snapped at him.
“Can it fellah.” He turned to his comrades. “You know the routine. Don’t talk to them.”
He was standing next to Aziz now and inserted the toe of his boot under Aziz’s backside. He jerked it a couple of times and Aziz struggled to keep his balance with his hands tied still behind his back.
The sergeant nodded to one of the others who went over to a cupboard in the corner of the room and returned dangling a length of fabric. He walked over to Aziz and looked across at the sergeant who nodded. Aziz struggled for a moment but the soldier had no trouble swathing his head in the hood which left him resembling a troubled Klansman.
It was a cold night. Later someone had brought them soup and a blanket each. Aziz found his hood removed but said nothing. One at a time they were escorted by two guards to a simple toilet and then the lights dimmed.
“That’s it. Lights out, or as close as we’re gonna get.”
Off the base Carl James was playing a Jerome Kern number on a elderly black upright piano. There was a club-like atmosphere in the King George – one place where personnel off the base mixed with the locals. Good for PR was what the head of his section had said. It was easy to get to the place – a few minutes’ drive from the main gate. There had been a slight delay this evening; a squad of men had been replacing a section of fence while some of the gardeners were trying to remove wheel marks from the grass verge. As he passed the sign for the base he had waved to the gateman.
Someone brought him a pint and he nodded his thanks. From the top of the piano the glass beckoned. Better be careful – he was getting used to the stuff – never find anything like it back home. He put down the glass and started a Basie standard. Sometimes he brought a rhythm section from the base, but life was less complicated when he was left alone to get on with the Brits. He smiled to himself - perhaps he’d see the girl again tonight.
Their guards looked as uncomfortable as they felt and shared the same sense of boredom. The lack of physical activity seemed to pain them as much as sitting on a hard floor with hands tied behind their backs. There were eight of them, two of them with automatic rifles tucked uncomfortably under their arms. These two moved disconcertedly around the room while the others sat at two desks and tried to remain alert.
Aziz tried to cheer his mates who were suffering still from the effects of the tear gas.
“Never been to the toilet with a guard before. Asked ‘im if he was going to shake me dick for me. Didn’t like that.”
The others managed to smile.
One of the seated guards stirred and seemed to take a bit more notice. Zain said something to his brother, in Urdu. The guard stood up.
“What did he say?”
Aziz repeated the words in Urdu.
“You heard me. What did he say?”
“He asked me when you bastards are gonna let us go.” The Yorkshire voice was too much for the American.
“Tell me in plain English, for God’s sake.”
Aziz repeated himself, his words as plain as any words that ever fell from the mouth of a Yorkshireman. What, he wondered, just what was this bloody American on about?
“Enough of this crap.” The sergeant at the other desk had got to his feet. Two of them took Aziz by the arms and half dragged, half led him to the far end of the room, nearer the small white doorway by which they had entered. Then it was Omar’s turn so that eventually the boys found themselves spread further apart. It was a long room. Some windows high in the wall had been taped over and cctv cameras peered at them from several points on a high ceiling. Dotted around the room were copies of an official notice of some kind. They squatted, cold and miserable, huddled under blankets while the guards got up from time to time and moved up and down and around them, suspiciously, as if they might suddenly get to their feet and storm out of the building or turn on their captors.
The door burst open and the officer hurried into the room. Aziz had a moment to register the darkness outside and then the door was shut. Immediately the room was flooded with bright lights, some of them flashing like strobes at a disco. From speakers up above them came screams and the sounds of explosions and vehicle engines roaring angrily. The boys found themselves being dragged over to the two desks where they were each dumped into a metal chair. The noise and light show stopped as suddenly as it had begun and their wrists and ankles were unfastened. A soldier stepped forward to stand by each of them and the shouted questions began, directed first at Aziz.
“Where did you say you were heading?”
“Chelmsford.”
“Where’s that?
“Somewhere down south.”
“Near London.” Omar joined in, wanted to help Aziz. If they all talked, all joined in at once, perhaps these Americans might believe them. That’s how they seemed to speak.
“Long way from home, from, where did you say?” The soldier glanced at his notes.
“Bradford, yer know, Yorkshire’s best.”
“What was the reason for your journey?”
“Meet up with our mates.” Aziz was fed up with this quick question and answer style –these thickoes obviously suffered very badly from information overload. This was going to take ages.
“Look our mates were at this big cricket match, called us up and said get down here as quick as yer can.” The interrogator frowned.
“How the hell could you travel all that way in time to see a game.”
“It’s a five-day match.” Their interrogator gasped – they really didn’t get it. “It were only just started. Essex’d just put their best spinner on.”
“What in hell’s a spinner?”
Aziz shook his head. This was too much.
“He’s a bowler. They put him on cos of the rain. Good off breaks, that’s what they needed. ‘Arrison I think it were – if anyone can turn’em ‘Arrison can. You ever seen a good spin bowler?” The officer shook his head.
“Right lads.” Aziz was on his feet. Over by the door the guards stirred but the prisoner made no move towards them and the sudden movement mesmerised them. “Come on. Let’s show the buggers.”
He directed the other three. “Omar, you keep wicket, Zain, you bowl the first over, you’re the best spinner, and Saeed can bat. I’ll field at cover point.”
There was no ball, no bat and no wicket, save the rough matting on which the boys had spread themselves. Saeed took three paces back, stepped forwards and flicked an imaginary ball down to Zain who played it carefully back to the bowler. The second ball beat Zain and reached Omar who retrieved it and tossed it to Aziz.
He held the ball out to the Americans who were all watching speechless.
“See, this is how he holds the ball, tries to make it move across the batsman’s line.”
The American was beginning to show his impatience and a second guard moved across to the door. Aziz pleaded.
“Just one more ball, that’s all.”
Saeed twisted his wrist and flicked the ball down the wicket. A soon as the ball struck the stumps Saeed, Aziz and Omar were leaping in the air with cries of “Owzat!”
Saeed turned to Aziz and screamed, “Ow was e?”
Aziz lifted a solitary finger and Zain set off for the dressing room. Aziz took up the commentary.
“At last, an unbelievably fine spell from spinner Saeed Husssain has brought us to the end of Zain Aslam’s fine innings and Yorkshire can declare at four hundred and eighty three for four. The packed crowd here at Headingley can go home now delighted and we can all look forward to another excellent day’s cricket tomorrow. Now over to you Geoffrey Boycott.”
Aziz smiled at the interrogators and bowed.
“OK, OK. I think we kinda got the point. You’re nuts about cricket and you were going to a game, to meet up with some buddies. Buddies from back home?”
The boys had trouble with Bud. They had seen bottles of the stuff down the offie. No, if they’d wanted ale from home they would probably gone for Saltaire or Tadcaster.
“Don’t drink the stuff.”
“Drink? Oh, Bud, Budweisser, buddies. Your friends, not a beer.” The misunderstanding made them laugh and for a moment they all wondered what the hell they were doing here.
“So, your friend calls you and you take off just like that, travel three hundred miles just for a game of cricket. What else do you do with these mates? Who else do you see while you’re with them? Where do you stay?”
Not far away, but unseen by the prisoners or their guards, two American officers were watching on a large screen.
“Did you see that coordination? Hardly spoke to each other but they all knew exactly what to do. Been put through some real training someplace.”
The man nodded to himself to confirm some opinion that was taking root and would blend with other opinions, would make sense to the minds that mattered these days.
“Yeah, you can see it, distant relatives, friends’ friends, sleep in the car overnight, pubs, television, parks, a life divorced from families and stability. That’s how I see it.” The two officers had been monitoring the interrogation. “You don’t get it at first, then you see it. Those boys are nuts about that game of theirs. It’s a perfect cover. Watch all these cricket games, lots of players in the national game. It’s brilliant – I reckon Al Quaeda’s infiltrated the Brit’s national game.”
“What do you mean Sam?”
“Just imagine major league back home, all the travelling around, meeting different fans, different groups meeting every week – the permutations are unbelievable. That’s how they do it here, all these Asian kids – own secret language – and families back in Pakistan – all those schools, what do they call them, madrassas?”
“Gotta keep a hold of these kids - they’re a key way in.”
“Yeah. Better get this report filed then see the major.”
It was late when Carl James turned into the gate. The girl had shown up and later he had taken her back to her home, not far away. The area around the gate was floodlit and the additional sentries were more careful than usual. He wondered whether there was yet another security exercise under way. Finally they had nodded him through and he could see that the repairmen had finished their work along the fence.
Minutes later he had parked the car and got out. He was quite tall, almost six foot and fitter looking than most of his colleagues. He had a narrow face and a smile which spread easily across his features, a natural grin. He thought again of the girl – she had seemed to have enjoyed herself.
Sunshine poured itself into the office. An American major walked across to the window and turned the venetian blind so that the brightness was controlled.
“Sit down Captain.” The major regained his own place at the other side of the desk. He could see across to the window now.
“Thanks for calling me quickly – gave me time to cancel some golf – damn these terrorists. When did you finish the interrogation?”
“Bout an hour ago sir. Sir, we gotta take these prisoners very seriously. No trouble getting the info. They’ve been in trouble with their own police – they keep talking about them. Then we asked them about a madrassa near their homes and they dried up. Just didn’t want to know.”
This was not surprising for the boys had never visited it. The officer slipped on his glasses and consulted his notes.
“Couldn’t find out about their country of origin. One minute they’re Pakistanis, then they’re British, then English. One said he was born in Saudi – thought his parents kept a Saudi passport for him.”
“Did they speak English the whole time? None of that foreign nonsense?”
“If we pushed them hard they switched to their own lingo. I’ve called up the translation section and they’re flying in some people later today. We made a tape of the conversation and played it to them – it’s Urdu all right – Pakistani speak.”
“What about possessions?”
“Nothing – no ID, nothing.”
“What a goddamned place. No ID.” The major shook his head. “Not even drivers’ licences I suppose?”
“Nothing.”
“No wonder they’ve got foreigners taking over the place.”
“Their mobiles were interesting sir – calls to Pakistan. We’re checking those out right now sir.” The major nodded and thought for a moment.
“Time to see the boss. Got to think carefully about these boys. Could move them for questioning but our hosts get so damn sensitive about prisoners’ rights. If we are going to send them off, gotta do it quickly. You know what he’ll say – act first then the arguments are easier and quicker afterwards.”
“Yes, I know madam, but lots of lads go off with their mates and don’t appear for a day or two.” There was a sort of visible weariness that eased its way down the desk sergeant’s face, across his broad chest and down his arms and through his hands onto the desk. There the man’s weariness spread itself, as if to say why are you bothering me. The woman looked up at this tall man in his dark uniform. She was wearing a dark sari. Her daughter was dressed western style and it was the daughter who spoke again to the officer.
“Look, they never turn their phones off – their cousins are always calling them at all sorts of stupid times.”
“Perhaps the cricket picked up late in the day. I know it’s only Essex but they might have stayed over.”
“They don’t know anyone down there. Leeds, Wakefield even, somewhere they could walk into family, but down south...” Her mother was reduced to shaking her head again.
The sergeant looked over their heads to a small group of people, still trapped in the waiting area beyond the plate glass.
“Look, I’ll get someone to contact Essex Police. Cricket’s a bit iffy down there I know, but they’re all right with villains and traffic accidents. Just sit yourselves down for a moment.” He gestured to a plastic bench then called to an assistant. When she returned he came over to the two women.
“Sorry luv, no word of your brother and his mates. Reckon they’ve met up with the local talent.” The older woman said something in Urdu.
“Girls mother. He reckons they’ve met some girls.” This seemed to add to the woman’s troubles. Reluctantly they turned and left, taking their worries with them out into the street.
Another mother and another daughter. The mother, smart, bag in front of her on the table, was ready for work.
Winnie Miller taught at a small primary school twenty minutes away, the other side of the base. She was dark-haired, medium height and slightly built, but she looked fit enough to be an older sister rather than the mother of a grown up daughter. She could have stunned if she had taken the trouble but she was too busy for all that. She kept herself for her pupils and her daughter and it was her smile and her determined friendship that impressed those who knew her. She moved confidently, as if she could move faster if necessary, and yet could still take in all that was of importance around her.
Her daughter came down the stairs. Louise stood in the doorway of the kitchen in a dressing gown, taller than her mother but with the same attentive smile. The smell of her mother’s breakfast had brought her down from a warm bed. Her mother spoke first.
“Good night then?”
“I think so. He can’t half play the piano.”
“Who’s that then?”
“Oh, someone we met down the George.”
Winnie gathered up the straps of her bag and paused half-way to the door at the other end of the room.
“What was he playing?”
“Jazz mostly – sort of stuff you like.”
“Oh. Does he play there regularly?”
“Mum. How should I know? Only met him twice. He’s off the base, with some of his mates.”
Colonel Charles Weypick had convened the meeting. He stood, a stocky figure, impressive with his uniform, adorned with an array of insignia and medal ribbons. Had he stood closer it would have been necessary to spend a few minutes studying this display. It was a display that could impress from fifty yards way. He faced a dozen or so of his comrades. To his side his commanding officer surveyed the group – security, intelligence, translations, operations. They had got it all covered. He nodded to the major.
“Go right ahead Henry.”
“It’s like this gentlemen. We’ve got four of them. One of them talked about meeting up with some others, but there’s no sign of them now round here and we don’t believe they’ll show up any time soon. However, somehow, for some reason, this rendez-vous of theirs failed. The reasons for this must form part of our immediate enquiries – the fact that they had nothing incriminating about their persons indicates that the meeting was for them to be resourced – personal weapons, explosives and further instructions. That means that some other people are involved, big people, part of some bigger group, a larger operation. We know how other cells have operated. Keeping their operatives in a high state of ignorance as long as possible is key to their mode of functioning. Obviously we are obliged to assume that these young men may have been within two or three steps of full deployment, and we know what that means.”
There was a unanimous and eager nodding of heads.
A colleague had a question.
“Colonel, we heard some of the tapes of the initial interrogation. Have we been able to determine any clues about where they learnt their English? Wouldn’t that indicate sources of influence, just whose people they are?”
“I’m afraid we just ain’t got that sorted yet. It’s another reason for holding them. As things stand we can only figure that their trainers themselves spoke very bad English – it all points to some goddam foreigner trying to teach them English, probably in some al Quaeda camp someplace.”
The intelligence officer, a hard-looking bespectacled young woman followed.
“You say they carried no weapons, no explosives. So why did they get themselves involved in a crash right on our doorstep, right across our doorstep? Clearly they would not have sent some crazy driver out on a live mission.”
“One theory is that they were trying out our defences. One of the things we demonstrated was our capacity for a rapid response - thirty-eight seconds to the main gate, just thirty-eight seconds gentlemen. The big question for them, we should remind ourselves, is how much time would they have had for trouble making once they had busted their way in.”
A hand rose towards the back.
“Could you tell us sir, whether British security was notified.”
“Good question Joe. We think these people got in under the Brits’ radar. Washington’s been getting kinda wary – all these damn connections with the Middle East, families and friends just turn up and disappear inside the country.”
“If you don’t mind Charles?” The CO spoke out now. “I called at the State Department last month when I was back home. Our people think our friends here just can’t cope – you probably heard them admit they have no idea how many illegals there are here just now.”
“So, we keep these four suspects here. There are other custody suites we could use, but if the Brits suddenly kick up a fuss about them, we might need to produce them pronto. The big thing is that there’s nothing in the British media about these young men – so they ain’t looking for them and we can push on. Soon as something sticks, they’re on their way outa here.”
“Charles.” It was the CO again. “Before we finish I think Major Phlock should have a word.” Oswald Phlock was head of public affairs at the base, a stocky, bespectacled man who, despite his blue uniform, did not look as though he could fly anywhere.
“It is possible that at some time we will be asked questions about these prisoners. Officially they do not exist and I know that any personnel dealing with them must have appropriate security clearance. May I remind you guys that any enquiries must be routed directly to me so that I can prioritise them via mandated channels.”
“Meantime.” It was Colonel Weypick again, “Meantime, officially, we don’t want to trouble our hosts with even more terrorists – anyways, we don’t want them being released from a British prison then turning up someplace else. We caught the bastards so we’ll deal with them. Right?” He looked over to his commanding officer who was still nodding.
“So we don’t know a damn thing. We’re just taking good care of our friends over here, watching their backs for them.”
There was some laughter and more nodding of heads then the meeting broke up.
As the CO walked away from the meeting a group of enlisted men put down a heavy tarpaulin and drew themselves up to attention. The sergeant in charge threw up a salute. They were hardly acknowledged and returned to their task of covering up the wreckage of a small red car that was to be stored away at the back of one of the more secure buildings.
©2009 Peter Inson
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