A Killing Sin, page 6
I sigh. It is the sort of story teenage girls can relate to. It feels romantic and adventurous. If those girls look beyond the story, they will also see something that will appeal to feminists. I read on until Norton calls us all to attention.
Tuesday 25th May 09.59
MILLIE
The clock ticks alarmingly slowly towards ten. Seven of us sit at the long, dark, wooden table, highly polished and now littered with papers and integrated mobile devices as well as coffee cups. Norton, Thompson, Mitford, Dalgleish, Ali plus Neil and me. No one says a word. Each of us is focused on what is to come and the need to pay attention to every detail. We are about to hear who the asset is and what is to be demanded in a trade. I am excited. This is massive.
Neil is sitting at the table behind a series of large screens that have been rolled in in the last few minutes. He is staring intently at them and tapping furiously, both on the screen and at a keyboard. He has a phone tucked under his ear and is talking to several people at once. Some of the conversations are to his own tech team at Rockeem, many of whom are serious hackers. He and Amala had recruited the best creative and leading edge technical thinkers on the planet. Some orthodox and legal and some a little less so. He is coolly giving multiple instructions to his team, and to GCHQ, about live feeds and the need for them to hook into the secure link that was about to come into the prime minister’s office.
I hear him ask one of his guys to track down Amala because her Ezylocate is off and Neil wants her help. They are better as a team in a crisis. It is also clear that other messages are being relayed to the Ezylocate team embedded in the Home Office. In theory, they can track every man, woman and child in the country through their ID card or any device with a GPS component, which means pretty much everyone.
I am not naïve, and more than most, I know the threats we face every single day but I am pretty sceptical of this government’s motives and underlying desire to get rid of ‘immigrants’. Or maybe the more prosaic and truthful, ‘People not like us’.
I am so nervous, I physically jerk when the phone on the desk buzzes and a voice says, ‘The feed is live, sir.’
The screen on the wall crackles and a woman dressed in a niqab appears. Her face is invisible. Her eyes are veiled by black mesh. Behind her is a large screen, it’s got what looks like the geometric patterns you see in a mosque but they’re opaque or pixelated, to the side of it is the black standard. She speaks slowly and clearly.
‘Prime Minister Thompson. We have a high-level strategic asset in our control. The asset is of extreme value to you and your government.’
At that point, the scene shifts. Another woman in a burqa is in full shot. It is impossible to identify any features. She is on the floor and her hands are tied, her legs are straight out in front of her. She is slumped with her back to a wall. It is hard to see if she is even conscious. Then I hear a pitiful whimpering.
The seven of us collectively hold our breath. The woman is in some sort of cell or small dim room. There are no visible clues as to where she might be. The camera pans back and beside her, holding a knife with a serrated six-inch blade, is a figure wearing a black balaclava and black combat gear. For some reason, I am profoundly shocked when I realise it is a woman. Without uttering a sound, she grabs the hands of the cowering figure and slices through the cheap plastic tape binding them together.
The woman, still whimpering tries to scramble out of the way. Her feet scrabbling at the floor, trying to get a grip to push herself backwards. Frantic but with nowhere to go, she pins herself to the wall moaning incoherently. Something else is about to happen. We can’t see what.
Then we do.
The hostage-taker has a blow torch. The blue flame vivid in the dim room. She is holding it aloft in front of the terrified woman.
Jesus Christ. I can’t look. I bite hard on my lip. What the hell is she doing?
She grabs the woman’s hand and holds the torch to her right index finger. I can almost smell burning flesh. I swallow as nausea rises into my throat. The woman bucks and howls. The screams are intolerable and eventually give way to an excruciating, panicked gasping as she slumps to the floor.
Horrified, I watch as the convulsing woman is dragged upright. She lets out a low moan as the jihadist then grabs her right hand and slams it on a wooden table. She has the knife again. Within a second the shining, serrated blade is raised and with one swift movement it slices off her charred index finger. The screams are inhuman and go on and on.
Oh my God, this is really happening. I can’t believe I am seeing this. I have read a thousand papers and heard countless stories, but none of it has prepared me for the real thing. It doesn’t feel quite so exciting anymore. Just sick.
I turn to look at Neil, his face is deathly pale and his hand is over his mouth. He winces as the woman pulls back her hand and clutches it to her chest. Blood is soaking the front of the burqa and dropping on the floor. After what seems an eternity, but may have only been a few seconds, she gives a pitiful and pathetic sob. She drops and lies, foetus-like, on the floor.
I hear a piercing shriek in the room. I grab Neil’s hand and squeeze it in a vice-like grip. My heart is racing and I can feel adrenalin shoot through my system. I realise the noise is coming from me and I try to control it. Gulping it down, I force my eyes back to the screen.
The black clad woman with the knife is holding up a screenshot of this morning’s BBC online news and I recognise the photograph of the holiday traffic on the M25 earlier this morning. Proving that what we had just witnessed was live.
The screen returns to the woman in the niqab. As if reading from a script, and with no hint of emotion, she says, ‘Prime Minister Thompson and Home Secretary Norton, you have much innocent blood on your hands. You have brutally murdered many of our brothers and sisters. Innocents and children. Your deliberate intervention in Muslim countries, along with the Americans, the Germans and the French has caused war after war. You have brought that war to your own streets. The war will continue until we win. Until the black standard flies above Downing Street. Today we have two simple demands, well within your gift to deliver. First, we demand the immediate closure of the Prevent and Protect Centres that harass and beat our brothers and sisters. This must be announced by 6pm today. Second, we demand £100 million to be sent securely to us today. We will contact you through this link at 1pm to check everything is on track. At that time, we will provide bank details. Payment must be made by 3pm. Our intent is very clear. Fail to comply and she dies at 6.01.’
Looking straight into the camera, she spits out every word.
‘I am sure you are wondering who we have that might be worth £100 million to you. I presume you have Mr Rochester there trying to track us. Mr Rochester, let me tell you directly who is worth £100 million to you.’
She pauses, well aware of the impact of her words. Neil jerks in his seat, looking up from his screens and stares straight ahead. His grip on my hand tightens and I instinctively move closer to him.
‘We have your partner.’
I feel as if a thousand volts have shot through my body. My brain has frozen. My mouth is dry and my heart feels as if it will pound right out of my chest.
Her considered delivery makes every word seem even more chilling.
‘I presume we can rely on you to pay for her release? The details we send for payment will be to your office at Rockeem. I am sure you are well able to convince your colleagues of her importance, not just to you but to them. All the dirty little secrets the two of you share about what this Kaffir government will do next. Know this…’
She pauses and the silence is deafening. ‘We will be without mercy. We will make sure she tells us everything. In case of any doubt, proof of identity will arrive within the hour.’ At that point the screen goes black and all hell breaks loose.
Tuesday 25th May 10.06
I must have passed out. I can taste blood. I cannot get my thoughts to work properly. I can’t work out where I am and what has happened. I still can’t make the thoughts fit together to make a picture of the last few hours. Everything feels dislocated. Has it even been hours? More? Less? I can’t tell.
I can feel that woman, not Nusayabah, the other one with the stale breath, pull at me. She refastens my hands with more cheap plastic tape, pulling them hard in front of me. The pain of my burnt and severed finger is beyond belief. A smell of burning flesh is choking me. She grabs both feet and fastens tape around my ankles, pulling it tight. Cutting the flesh.
She looks down at me and kicks my feet, ‘Let’s see if your powerful friends can get to you now, bitch.’ She bangs the door and leaves me alone.
I am leaning against the wall tied up. My chest is heaving and I can feel the sweat slide down my back. I can no longer feel the cuts and bruises. My fingers, where she had casually grazed them with the blow torch before making her sick video, are blistered and raw. I was completely wired a few minutes ago and now it feels as if every bit of fight and energy has slipped out of my body. All I feel is utter exhaustion. I had watched her take the blow torch to my severed finger before dropping it into a box. Nausea and bile rise in my mouth. I try to see in the semi dark, straining and blinking. I feel like I am being sucked into a swamp.
I still can’t work out where I am. There is the sound of traffic outside and somewhere a radio is playing some sort of news channel. I have a feeling that I heard a call to prayer so there must be a mosque nearby. I am pretty sure I am still in London but I could be anywhere. I close my eyes and try to just slip away.
Grasping a memory. A good memory.
11 YEARS EARLIER
The Polo Bar, London
‘Fuck. I mean fuck, really fuck. Mals, what have we done? Fuck.’
We were all giggling. It’s too bizarre. We’re rich. Like really rich. Gobsmackingly rich.
‘Yeah, fuck.’
Millie said with deep irony and caustic wit, ‘Well, it would seem the main impact of a billion quid is to render the pair of you incoherent.’
That made us laugh all the more. Neil pulled Ella towards him and kissed her deeply. He sighed happily and said, ‘Millie, one point two billion if you please… ah fuck what’s two million between mates?’
Ella looked at him, deadpan. ‘Neil, point two of a billion is two hundred million not two million, even amongst friends that’s quite a lot. Hang on, or is it two thousand million?’
Completely pissed she looked confused and trailed off.
‘Two hundred thousand million million. Ah fuck it. A lot.’
Mark, ever the numbers man, rolled his eyes.
That set us all laughing again. Millie laughed so hard she snorted mojito through her heavily pierced nose.
TODAY
Tuesday 25th May 10.07
MILLIE
Seven minutes and a lifetime have passed. I feel acid rise in my throat and I am certain I am going to throw up. I look at Neil and his face is ashen. There is a lot of noise in the room but I can’t make out any words. It feels as if they are swimming around in a frenetic Tower of Babel. A hundred different languages that I can’t understand.
Neil and I lock eyes. A thousand images are in my head. I am devastated and so is he. I grab his hands again, we are both shaking violently. Neither of us able to comprehend what has just happened.
I hear myself saying over and over, ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t. It can’t be Amala in there. It just can’t.’
Over the rabble I hear Alex Dalgleish tell everyone to sit down so we can assess the situation. Norton and Thompson are both on the phone doing God knows what. James Mitford seems to be tapping away at a hand-held device. Only Rehan Ali is sitting calmly looking at the scene around him. Taking everything in, waiting for order to be restored.
Dalgleish bangs the table and the noise swirls to a stop. Neil picks up his smart block to bring up Ezylocate so he can try to pinpoint Amala. He is tapping furiously and swiping the screen.
‘What the fuck has she done? I can’t find her on the main site and I can’t find her on the company one. She can’t have an ID card with her. She must have something – a phone or a smart block… Christ, where is she? Why the fuck has she switched it off. She knows if she does that, no one else can ever break her codes.’
He looks frantic. His eyes darting around the room. Looking for answers. Finding none. Dalgleish looks to Thompson, Norton and Mitford.
‘Do we have a complete media lockdown?’
Norton nods. She has lost some of her polish and is emanating enough raw energy to fire up a small power station.
Thompson suddenly seems to realise he should take control and says, ‘Ok, we have a serious situation. Neil and Dr Stephenson, I am aware that Amala Hackeem is not just a colleague but a close personal friend, but I need everyone to stay calm, and I would like both of you to help us navigate this situation to a safe and satisfactory conclusion, if you feel able?’
My heart is hammering so hard I assume everyone can hear it. I am struggling to follow the most basic of sentences and I can feel my whole body shaking. Tears start to fall down my cheeks.
I look at Neil. I know both of us are picturing Amala. I keep seeing her. I keep seeing Amala’s hand hacked and burnt to a black crisp and I feel sick to the stomach. How could my ballsy mate be cowering in a corner with some maniac torturing her? It can’t be real. It just can’t be.
‘Dr Stephenson, would you like to take a few moments?’ asks Thompson.
‘No, thank you,’ I whisper. ‘I would like to help. I need to help.’
Tuesday 25th May 10.20
MILLIE
Neil stands up. Blinking away tears, he speaks with a terrible conviction borne out of love and terror. ‘Look, I have the money. I can pay it. I am not going to sit around here and let them hurt her anymore. No one outside this room need ever know. We can transfer the money in secret. Millie’s husband will know how. All you have to say is that you are going to close the PPCs, they can’t expect you to really see it through. You can just say it.’
He runs out of steam. He looks hopeless. He is chewing his lip with such an intensity he is oblivious to the fact he has drawn blood. He is desperate. He loves Amala.
So do I. I try to stand up but I can’t. My legs are like jelly. I hold on to the table. I close my eyes and try to think what to do. I feel a tiny glimmer of hope. Maybe we can get her back before things get any worse. Maybe we can work out a way to get these people to believe we will do what they want. Neil will be able to find her and he can pay the money.
Norton looks at us both. I can see a look of pity fleetingly cross her face but almost immediately it is replaced with an implacable hardness. I don’t trust her and I certainly don’t trust Thompson. My whole adult life has been about understanding why humans do what they do. There is no way Thompson will do anything that doesn’t suit his own dirty ambition. And no way Norton will do a deal.
I look at Thompson through new eyes. Wary eyes. Suspicious eyes. He tries, and fails, to sound compassionate. ‘Neil, Millie, I know you are devastated. I really do understand. But you know as well as I do, we cannot and we will not negotiate. You especially, Neil. You’ve been here before.’
Neil is suddenly roaring. ‘I know I‘ve been here before and I’ve helped you before. But every time before it was a stranger. Not Amala. That woman is like a sister to me. And to Millie. If you think I am going to tell Ella she’s dead, and she died on my watch, you must be insane. She has done more for your fucking government than anyone else on the planet. Are you going to let her die? Are you? You’re more concerned with your own skin than hers!’
Thompson says with little conviction, ‘Look, we’ll work something out. We have our best people on this. I promise it will be ok. Jean and I have to brief GCHQ. I suggest we meet back here in thirty minutes. In the meantime, our Ezylocate team is at your disposal. Let them know what help you need.’
I watch him walk away with Norton. Amala is right; he’s a dick.
Tuesday 25th May 10.22
I can’t focus. It’s so dark in here. I can hear them in the next room. Laughing. I need to stay awake. Think.
Think about the good times.
The party trick.
18 YEARS EARLIER
Edinburgh
‘My party trick,’ said Millie, pushing out her chest and wriggling like a worm. ‘Ta dah!’
She whipped her bra out from inside her sleeve. It was a dingy grey that may have been pink at one time but had seen better days. She waved it above her head like a lasso.
‘Come on.’
She leaned over the balcony of the ornate wooden staircase and with the perfect shot of the truly drunk, hooked the bra straight onto the antlers of the moose head adorning the wall.
She took a bow as thirty rowdy students gave her a round of applause. ‘Go NOFAs! Let’s see the rest.’
The barman told us off. Back in the corner of the Library Bar, Millie said, ‘Ella Russell, world famous journalist and published author. We propose a toast to world domination of all things writerly and raise our glass.’
Amala is on the table reading from the article published in The Teviot, the student newspaper. Ella’s article.
‘The new adaptation of the truly wonderful Pride and Prejudice is a joy.
‘Keira Knightly plays Elizabeth as she should be played, sparky, funny and her own woman. The opening line of the novel tells us it is about marriage and class but it is also so much more. It is two fingers to the patriarchy. Austen shows us that woman have strengths and wisdom often too readily dismissed by the gullible men around them, and that they may be more calculating in their ability to outwit than the credit given to them.
