The Horse at the Gates
Copyright © 2011 DC Alden
This paperback (Second Edition) first published in 2011.
The right of DC Alden to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 0 956 90802 5
Tyler Press
Unit 3608
PO Box 6945
London W1A 6US
www.tylerpress.co.uk
This hollow fabric either must inclose,
Within its blind recess, our secret foes;
Or ‘t is an engine rais’d above the town,
T’ o’erlook the walls, and then to batter down.
Somewhat is sure design’d, by fraud or force:
Trust not their presents, nor admit the horse
Virgil’s Aeneid
Be not fainthearted then; and invite not the
infidels to peace when ye have the upper hand:
for God is with you, and will not defraud you
of the recompense of your works...
Qur’an
Contents
Prologue
Heathrow, Middlesex
North London
Guildford, Surrey
Luton
Downing Street
Aftermath
Millbank
North West London
King Edward the Seventh Hospital, London
Hertfordshire
Chequers
King Edward the Seventh Hospital, London
Hertfordshire
Cairo
London
Hertfordshire
Alton Grange
Buckingham Palace, London
South London
Netley, Hampshire
Whitehall, London
ICC Detention Centre, Scheveningen, Netherlands
The South Coast
Epilogue
Prologue
‘Tell me, what will happen after the bomb, after the chaos that will follow?’
The young student whispered the question as he leaned across the restaurant table, careful to shield his mouth with the palm of his hand as he’d been taught. His contact, Javed Raza, a burly field operative with Pakistan’s intelligence agency, waved the young man back into his seat and summoned a waiter with a snap of his fingers. He’d arrived at the popular Islamabad restaurant only moments ago and understandably the boy was eager to press him for information, but the meeting had to appear casual, just two friends enjoying lunch. Raza made sure he sat facing the street and draped his crumpled suit jacket over the back of the chair.
‘All in good time, Abbas,’ he said, scooping up a menu. Raza saw the boy frown as the waiter delivered a carafe of water to the table. Ah, the impatience of youth; he knew the feeling, the thrill of a forthcoming operation, the excitement as the details of the target unfolded. He should be feeling the same but today he wasn’t himself. Maybe it was the weather; it was damned hot, the sky a clear blue, the sun a relentless white orb baking the city. He poured a tall glass of water and raised it to his mouth, his lips barely moving. ‘Be patient. Eat. Then we talk.’
The waiter took their order and hurried away. Raza fanned his sweating face with a folded newspaper and watched the street. Their table was outside on the pavement, set deep in the shadows of the Haleem Cafe’s striped awning that offered some protection from the midday sun. Nearby, the lunchtime crowds squeezed through the bazaar’s narrow streets. Businessmen jostled for space alongside burqa-clad women, while street vendors lounged outside garish shops and ramshackle stalls, smoking cigarettes and touting their wares with monotonous mantras. The noise was incessant as voices battled with each other, with the taxis and motorbikes that revved and honked their way through the human tide. Laughing children ducked and dodged through it all, oblivious to the crowds, mocking the curses that followed them, ignorant of the hardships the future held for them – if they survived, Raza observed.
His dark eyes narrowed as a passing military foot patrol cut a path through the throng, weapons held across their chests, suspicious eyes peering beneath helmet rims. Islamabad had barely been touched by the violence spreading around the country yet there was nervousness in the soldiers’ movements, a sense of urgency that fuelled their swift passage through the narrow confines of the bazaar. Raza watched the crocodile of green helmets bobbing through the crowd until they were lost in the distance.
The food arrived in short order, delivered to the table in steaming bowls; spicy lamb biryanis with alu subzi potatoes, taftan bread and chapattis, with a side order of shami kebab for the boy. They ate in relative silence, watching the ebb and flow of the bazaar as the tables around them filled with lunch goers. Raza could only manage a few mouthfuls then pushed his plate away, the nausea that had plagued him all morning robbing him of his appetite. Finally the table was cleared and the carafe refreshed. Raza produced a small white tablet from a pill box and slipped it under his tongue, washing it down with a glass of water as the waiter delivered a pot of coffee to the table.
‘You are unwell?’ Abbas asked, pouring them both a cup.
‘It’s nothing. The heat.’
‘It’s barely thirty-five degrees.’
Raza ignored the observation. He pushed his coffee cup to one side and leaned forward, his thick, hairy arms folded on the table. ‘So,’ he began, his voice low, his eyes scanning the other diners, the passers-by, the street vendors, ‘you are prepared?’ Although both men spoke fluent Punjabi, they slipped easily into Arabic.
‘Yes,’ replied Abbas, burping loudly as he drained his cup, ‘I have made my peace.’
Raza noticed that the boy’s green eyes shone brightly, sensing the adrenaline that pumped around his body, like a fighter seconds before the opening bell, energised, powerful, a machine of violence waiting to be unleashed. He’d seen this before, in others, those that had been chosen for missions from which there would be no return. This operation was different though; this time there could be no fasting, no ritual ablutions, and this had troubled the boy. But security was paramount.
‘Your courage is an inspiration to others. Your family will honour your name.’
Raza watched the boy stroke his thick beard and lower his eyes. He stared at the table cloth a moment, then looked up and said: ‘They have no knowledge of this.’
‘Have no fear,’ Raza assured him, ‘they will be informed.’
‘They are poor. I am their only son.’
‘Arrangements have been made. They will be compensated handsomely.’
The boy’s eyes closed momentarily, the guilt lifted from his shoulders. It was only right. The parents were farmers, scratching out a living from the stubborn soil of the Siran Valley. Like most parents they nurtured a hope that their young son, blessed with an aptitude uncommon for his lineage, would support them during their advancing years. It was not to be, the boy drawn to the cause in his first semester at the University of Engineering & Technology in Khuzdar. There he’d been marked for interest, cultivated, schooled in the necessity for global Jihad. Normally such an intelligent asset would not be wasted on a single operation, but today was different. Like no other.
Raza spoke quietly, his eyes watchful. ‘It will not be as you imagine, my young friend. The armies of Allah will advance without weapons and the battles will be bloodless, fought in the polling booths and government chambers of the west. It is true, many will die today and most will be brothers and sisters of the faith...’ Raza paused, studying the boy before him. ‘You seem untroubled by this.’
‘The cause is worthwhile, is it not?’
‘More than you realise.’
‘Then it is not for me to pass judgement, only to execute the mission.’
Raza leaned back in his chair and regarded Abbas with a satisfied eye. The candidate was much more gifted than the usual batch of ignorant goat herders and mental cases who rarely hesitated to sacrifice their young lives for Allah. ‘Where is the vehicle?’
The boy pointed a slender finger towards the eastern end of the bazaar. ‘Some distance away, just as you instructed.’
‘Let’s walk.’
The bill was settled and the men left the restaurant, plunging into the river of bodies, allowing the swirling current of humanity to carry them along, indistinct yet disconnected from the herd. The boy walked slightly ahead, subtly shouldering a path through the crowd. He was acting like a bodyguard Raza realised, protecting his master from the worst of the throng. None challenged his sharp elbows, his garb and purposeful movement brooking no argument. Despite the waves of nausea, Raza smiled with satisfaction. The boy would not disappoint.
Ahead a small group of western missionaries, all women, clustered around a young blind girl and a smaller boy squatting between two ramshackle market stalls. The children were filthy, their clothing threadbare and soiled, their thin faces streaked with dirt. The boy was maybe six or seven, a begging cup held tightly in his grubby hands. The missionaries clucked around the urchins like mother hens, soothing and pawing them with their bare hands. Westerners were a rare sight in Pakistan these days and Raza felt the anger rise in his chest. Infidels, stubborn in their flawed beliefs, meddling in the affairs of others, their smooth words and fake smiles luring the afflicted and the dull-witted towards the Christian faith. One of them unknowingly blocked their path, a small pale woman with grey hair tucked beneath the rim of a white baseball cap. As if he’d read his mind, his young companion stiffened his arm and elbowed her roughly aside, much to Raza’s amusement.
They left the bazaar behind them, and Raza was thankful to be free of the stifling press of humanity. He held his jacket over his arm as the afternoon sun beat the earth, hammering the asphalt roads and dusty pavements. He took a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his clammy brow, wincing as a sharp pain shot up his arm and pierced his neck. The boy hadn’t noticed, striding ahead and clearly untroubled by the heat, dressed as he was in a white, full-length disha dasha, his bald head protected from the sun by a knitted kufi. They turned off the main road and into a shady side street where the battered Toyota pickup waited. Raza almost sighed with relief.
They climbed inside, rusted door hinges creaking loudly, Raza fumbling with the air conditioning as the boy coaxed the engine into life. The dark blue pickup threaded its way through quiet back streets and out onto Jinnah Avenue, where it merged with the heavy eastbound traffic. As the Toyota cruised along in the nearside lane, Raza watched the passing landscape, the roadside advertising hoardings, the flame trees that lined the busy avenue, the looming towers of the city’s financial district, glass and steel facades sparkling beneath the hot sun.
‘Look around you, Abbas, look how our country tries to mimic the west, how our leaders crave their acceptance, how they flood our markets with western goods, undermining the laws of sharia with their twisted values.’ He glanced to his right. The boy said nothing, his eyes glued to the road. ‘Europe is another matter,’ Raza continued in a low voice, massaging the ache in his left arm. ‘Their governments and institutions are slaves to political correctness. Their leaders are wary of our growing power, our willingness to defend our beliefs with violence, but are too shackled by their liberal ways to challenge us. Instead, they appease us with weak words and fear in their eyes.’
Ahead, through the dirt-streaked windshield, Raza saw the Aiwan-e-Sadr, Islamabad’s Presidential Palace, squatting majestically between the Parliament and the National Assembly buildings. For a moment, Raza ignored the numbness in his hands. For the average citizen, the regal cluster of modern architecture represented absolute power and authority in Pakistan, yet for those like Raza it offered nothing more than a charade of stability, the corrupt politicians inside seeking to paper over the cracks of Pakistan’s fractious existence, to smother its deep religious and political divisions. Raza despised those that occupied the buildings’ marble halls.
‘A house of cards,’ he hissed through his teeth, ‘ready to fall.’ He pointed through the windshield. ‘Turn here.’
The boy yanked the wheel to the left and soon the Toyota was cruising the shaded streets of the Markaz district, less than a mile from the Presidential Palace. At Raza’s instruction he turned again, pulling the vehicle up onto the driveway of a residential property. It was nondescript, a whitewashed bungalow with red roof tiles set back from the road, the door and windows secured behind steel grills, the type of dwelling fancied by a senior government worker or moderately successful businessman. Raza looked up and down the street, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. Nothing moved, not a single person, a vehicle, or even a stray dog. The risk of being seen was minimal, yet decades of clandestine operations and covert training dictated his movements whether he like it or not. He climbed out of the pickup, making a struggle of getting into his jacket, his chin held low, sweeping an arm across his sweating face. Then he was in the shade of the arched portico, a set of keys in his hand. He unlocked the heavy brass padlock that secured the steel security gate and swung it wide. The varnished wooden front door behind it was opened and Raza led the boy inside, flicking on the lights. Bare bulbs glowed overhead, revealing a large, open living area, whitewashed walls, the floors covered in simple stone tiles. The windows were boarded on the inside with thick sheets of plywood. There were no pictures or furniture to speak of. They passed a kitchen to the left, empty cupboard doors left open like mouths waiting to be fed. A short hallway led them to a rear bedroom and Raza unlocked the door with a thick brass key. Inside, the room was in darkness, the window sealed with another sheet of plywood. There was no bed, only a table, barely visible in the gloom, an indistinct lump on its surface. Raza ran his hand around the wall and found the light switch. An overhead strip light hummed and blinked into life, washing the room in its harsh industrial glare. A green military rucksack occupied the table top. A very large rucksack.
‘How many people does it take to create chaos?’ asked Raza rhetorically, checking the snap-locks on the rucksack for signs of tampering. ‘Long ago, nineteen martyrs armed with box cutters crippled the world’s largest superpower in a matter of hours. London and Madrid suffered similar chaos when a mere handful of our soldiers-’
Raza’s words caught in his throat. His head swam, then his stomach lurched violently. ‘Wait here,’ he commanded. He walked quickly along the corridor to the bathroom, where he performed two tasks. The first was to throw up, his knuckles white as his hands grasped the cool rim of the sink. After his exertions he let the water run, splashing his face and neck. He stood upright and looked in the mirror. Not good, he realised. His brown skin had taken on a grey hue, the rings beneath his eyes darker than usual. The collar and front of his shirt were soaked, the thick hair on his chest visible through the damp material. He didn’t have much time.
The wave of nausea temporarily sated, he moved on to task number two, which required him to stand on the toilet seat and reach up into the small roof space above. From the dark recess he retrieved a thin aluminium briefcase and headed back to the bedroom.
‘You are unwell,’ the boy said. This time it wasn’t a
question.
‘It does not matter.’ Raza placed the briefcase on the table and snapped open the locks. Inside, cushioned within thick foam compartments, were two brushed-steel tubes with distinctive red caps. ‘You recognise these?’ he asked. The boy snorted, almost indignantly, Raza noticed. Such confidence. He spun the briefcase around and the boy ran a finger along the grey foam, lifting out the bridge wire detonators from their compartments and inspecting them with a practised eye. He nestled them carefully back inside the foam then turned his attention to the rucksack.
‘It is not as I expected.’
‘These things rarely are.’
‘It looks smaller.’ The boy unzipped a fastener around the outside of the rucksack and removed a green nylon flap. Behind it was a panel, the writing on its green casing clearly Urdu. ‘One of ours,’ he remarked.
Raza nodded. ‘Based on the Russian RA-One One Five tactical model. This one was originally intended to take out the Indian naval base at Karwar. The design is crude. No timing mechanism, no remote detonation…’
‘A martyr’s weapon,’ the boy finished. He embraced the rucksack in his arms and dragged it towards him. He unfastened the top snap locks and rolled the nylon material down, partly revealing the smooth metallic tube inside. He peeled away several Velcro flaps until the inspection and access panels were visible, then stood back. Raza watched him run a hand along the metal casing of the warhead. ‘It is a thing of beauty,’ he said quietly, almost reverently.
Raza stepped forward and lifted the foam panel containing the detonators out of the briefcase, revealing a comprehensive and sophisticated set of screwdrivers and a pair of small electronic devices that he didn’t even pretend to understand. He pushed the case towards the boy.
‘You have all you need?’
The boy ran a finger over the screwdrivers then removed the devices, checking power levels and nodding approvingly. ‘Everything.’