Mirror Man: The Warriors, #2

By Robert Cubitt

Radioactive nuclear waste is smuggled into the UK to be used to manufacture a "dirty bomb". In the wrong hands it will mean a slow, agonising death for hundreds, possibly thousands of people.

 

A young man is kidnapped by MI5 and is blackmailed into working deep undercover for them. He must find the bomb before the terrorists can plant it. If he fails then the whole of London may pay the price. But where do his true loyalties lie? Might he be one of the terrorists?

 

In the meantime, inside MI5, all is not as it seems. Intrigue and betrayal stalk the corridors of Thames House and the vanity of one man puts the whole of London at risk.

 

Be afraid, London. Be very afraid.

 

This is the much anticipated sequel to The Warriors: The Girl I Left Behind Me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Cubitt
• Release date: Mar 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215210154

Robert Cubitt

Robert (Bob) Cubitt has always been keen on writing and has tried his hand at various projects over the years, but the need to earn a crust had always interfered with his desire to be more creative. After serving for 23 years in the RAF, working as a logistics planner for Royal Mail and as a Civil Servant with the Ministry of Defence, Robert took up writing full time writing in 2012 and now has a large catalogue of work published. Bob likes to write in several different genres, whatever takes his fancy at the time. His current series are sci-fi and World War II history and genres don't come much more diverse than that.  In his spare time Bob enjoys playing golf, is a member of a pub skittles team and is an ardent Northampton Saints fan.

Book preview

© 2015

Having purchased this book, it is for your personal use only. It may not be copied, reproduced, printed or used in any way, other than in its intended format.

Published by Selfishgenie Publishing of, Northamptonshire, England.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. All the names characters, incidents, dialogue, events portrayed and opinions expressed in it are either purely the product of the author’s imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. Nothing is intended or should be interpreted as representing or expressing the views and policies of any department or agency of any government or other body.

All trademarks used are the property of their respective owners. All trademarks are recognised.

The right of Robert Cubitt to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

By The Same Author

Fiction

The Inconvenience Store

The Deputy Prime Minister

The Girl I Left Behind Me

The Charity Thieves

The Magi series (sci-fi - also available as a box set of 9 books)

The Magi

Genghis Kant

New Earth

Cloning Around

Time Slip

The Return of Su Mali

Robinson Kohli

Parallel Lines

Restoration

Carter’s Commandos (World War II and beyond)

Operation Absolom

Operation Tightrope

Operation Dagger

Operation Carthage

Operation Leonardo

Operation Terminus

Operation Pegasus

Operation Banyan (Malayan Emergency, 1955)

Non-Fiction

A to Z of (Amateur) Golf

I’m So Glad You Asked Me That: A book of Answers.

I’m So Glad You Asked Me That Again

I’m So Glad You Asked Me The Third

I’m So Glad You Asked Me Goes Fourth

I Want That Job

Author’s Foreword

If author’s had to adhere strictly to the ‘truth’ most fiction would never be written. James Bond could never do all the things that Ian Fleming and his successors had him do, but that hasn’t prevented him being the most successful fictional hero ever.

When we go to the cinema we are asked to believe that a man can fly, that astronauts can blow up asteroids, that it’s possible to breed dinosaurs on an island off Costa Rica, that San Francisco is being destroyed by an earthquake and so on. When I am at the cinema and I point this out, I’m scolded by my wife and told to ‘just sit back and enjoy the ride’. There is even a name for this: the suspension of disbelief.

In writing this book, I have endeavoured to keep it as realistic and close to the truth as possible. However, I have had to stretch the truth a little in places to make the story work. So I ask you to forgive me for that and to suspend your disbelief.

At the end of the book is an author’s note, which explains those areas where I have taken poetic licence and stretched the ‘truth’ just a little bit. If you wish to you can jump ahead and read it, but I think you will enjoy the story more if you don’t do that.

So now, sit back and enjoy the ride.

Prelude - A Fallen Warrior

The battered van bounced over the rough ground, then through the open gates into the farm compound. The trailing dust started to settle back onto the road as a child hurried to close the gate to shut out any prying eyes.

Conscious of the ever-present risk of surveillance drones, the driver of the van didn’t stop until the vehicle was under the protective matting screens that served as a rough and ready car port.

The two men from the front hurried to the rear doors, then opened them so that the precious cargo could be unloaded. A third man climbed stiffly from the rear of the vehicle. The three exchanged a few words before they slid a crude stretcher out, one man supporting the end while one pushed and pulled it far enough along the vehicle bed to allow the third man to grasp the handles. Between them they hefted the load, testing it to make sure they would be able to bear its weight, before lifting it free and hurrying through the rear of the car port and into the dim interior of the farm house.

Inside a man waited, his medical instruments laid out on a sterile cloth lying on the bare earth floor. Hot water steamed in a basin next to them. The stretcher bearers laid their burden down in front of the man, as though he were a high priest and they were delivering the sacrificial offering. They rose, then backed away, as if expecting the man on the stretcher to suddenly rise from it. The third man joined them. They gazed down on the battered young man lying on the floor.

He’s in a bad way. One of the men offered his opinion.

I can see that. The doctor started picking at the bloody dressings that were wrapped around the injured man’s lower body and legs.

You would be in a bad way if you had been buried under a house. One of the stretcher bearers snapped at his colleague.

Gentleman, please. The doctor chastised them. This man is ill. By the look of him he’s hardly a man at all, more like a boy. Let’s not make him wish he was actually dead by quarrelling over him. As if in agreement the patient let out a low moan as the doctor tugged at a blood encrusted and particularly stubborn bit of bandage, stuck to the skin. He used a water-soaked swab to dampen the blood and soften it so that the dressing could be freed without hurting the patient any more than he had to.

Who provided the First Aid? The doctor inquired.

We don’t know his name. We were told he was from the Red Crescent.

He did well with limited resources. I won’t be able to do a great deal more. Not without taking him to a hospital. With the leg wounds exposed the doctor started to probe at the bandages that swathed the casualty’s head.

No hospitals. The men protested as one. One of them, probably the leader, continued the protest. "The government watches the hospitals. There is too much risk of betrayal. We didn’t bring him this far just to have him arrested and handed over to the British.

Why would the British want him? The doctor asked, his curiosity piqued.

Do you not know who this is?

I was told only that there was a badly injured fighter who needed my medical attention. So what makes this one so special, apart from his youth of course?

He is Youssef Haq Ibrahim. He is a British born fighter for the Jihad. For months he has been leading a band of our people against the kuffar soldiers in Afghanistan. The British. That’s how he was injured. There was a big battle. Many of our fighters were killed or captured. We thought Youssef had been as well, until some children found him lying in the rubble of a house.

He is a lucky man. He would have died of his injuries had he not been found, of that there can be no doubt. Well, I can stitch up his wounds and dose him with morphine for the pain, but I can’t set his bones without the benefit of X-Rays. The head injury appears to be superficial: More blood than anything, but to be sure I would need that to be X-Rayed as well. For a full recovery he would need to be in hospital. There is a danger he will be crippled for life without the treatment they could provide.

No hospitals. One of the leaders repeated. Do the best that you can for him.

The doctor sucked air through his teeth, wishing he had the authority to insist that they take the patient to a hospital, frustrated that he could only comply with their order. He was used to being obeyed, not obeying. Slung over their shoulders the three men had AK-47 assault rifles, the rusted magazines already attached. The threat was clear. If he argued they might decide that he was too much of a risk and that would put his life in danger as well. He wasn’t prepared to risk his life any further for a foolish boy who had been carried away by the romance of the Jihad.

OK, that I will do. I can straighten his legs and apply splints, but if his pelvis is broken then that is the end of the matter. His legs will heal but there’s no way of knowing if he will ever walk. And if the head wound is worse than it looks then he may never function as a human again. If that is the risk you want to take then I will do what I can with splints, stitches and bandages.

It is the will of Allah. One of the men said. The others mumbled their acknowledgement of their God’s powers. The doctor was as good a Muslim as any of the three fighters, but he knew that Allah always welcomed a helping hand when it came to healing people. However, he kept his own counsel.

What will become of him? the doctor asked, inserting a needle into one of the boy’s veins and injecting morphine.

"We are in contact with people in Islamabad who will take care of him. They will find a way of getting him back to Britain, if that’s what he wants. Or they’ll find somewhere safe for him here in Pakistan.

I hope he isn’t in a hurry. It will be a while before he is fit to travel.

He can stay here for a few days, we’ve been promised that.

A month, minimum, if you want him to live and to walk. And then he will need to be carried to his next destination. It will be months before we will know if he will walk or even talk again.

However long it takes, he will be looked after.

Good. Now, I have injected enough morphine into him to sedate an elephant for a week, so now I need your help to straighten his legs and get them into splints. I will get plaster of paris when I return to the city and return and set his bones properly later.

(Author’s note – for the backstory to this prelude, please see The Girl I Left behind Me)

1 - A Deadly Cargo

Mehmet steered his 38 Tonnes of lorry off of the M40 and towards the town. The name of the town was vaguely familiar to him, but he had no interest in it. He would be there for less than an hour and then continue to his ultimate destination.

Looking at the piece of paper with the sketch map on it he prepared to navigate the roundabout ahead of him. He had been told that the handover point was no more than a mile from the motorway and already he could see the roofs of the warehouses rising above the trees.

The gates stood open and a large sign on the side of the building proclaimed it to be To Let. The road around the warehouse took him to the rear, out of sight of anyone passing along the service road. They had chosen well, just as they had in France.

A plain coloured van, devoid of markings, showed him where he was expected to stop. Switching off the engine and applying the parking brake Mehmet climbed stiffly from the cab to meet his contact.

Have you got a light? The man asked, putting a cigarette between his lips. Mehmet fished in his pocket for his plastic lighter.

What brand do you smoke? Mehmet asked, going through the ritual as instructed. His English wasn’t good and he’d had to memorise the words parrot fashion.

I prefer Rothmans, but these are Dunhill. What do you smoke?

I only smoke Samsun, they’re a Turkish Brand.

Keys. With the bone fides of both parties established the man stuck out his hand. Mehmet handed them over. The man passed Mehmet an envelope, which the lorry driver stuffed into the bib pocket of his dungarees. He would check the contents when he was alone, so as not to cause offence. Now take a walk. The man commanded.

When given that instruction in France Mehmet had considered it a bit rude, but this time he was ready for it. He wandered off to the distant corner of the building and walked round it. A blank wall extended away from him, with a narrow gap between it and the perimeter fence. A thick hawthorn hedge grew on the outside of the fence providing concealment from the neighbouring buildings. Mehmet took the opportunity to empty his bladder, after which he leant against the wall and lit a cigarette before taking the envelope from his pocket and counting the thick wad of Euro notes. His instructions were clear, given to him in his native Turkish so there could be no ambiguity. Wait until you hear the sound of a vehicle horn, two long blasts and one short. Then you may return to your truck. Have no fear, your cargo will be intact and will match the manifest exactly.

At the back of Mehmet’s lorry three men were unloading the rearmost stack of cardboard shipping cartons. They weren’t heavy but lifting them down from the rear of the trailer was difficult. They were meant to be handled by fork lift truck, so didn’t have any hand holds. With the second row of boxes visible they had only one more to lift backwards and to the side before they had access to the one they were looking for..

To the naked eye it looked just like its neighbours, but the difference was apparent to the men who were trying to move it. It was considerably heavier and had to be half dragged and half lifted to the rear lip of the trailer’s floor.

The man on the ground backed the van up to the rear of the lorry and positioned it so that the box could be lowered directly from the trailer into the van. One man remained in the trailer while the other dropped into the van to provide more muscle at the lower level.

With some cursing and a lot of conflicting instructions the load was finally transferred, and the van visibly sank on its suspension. All three of the men then manoeuvred it into the centre of the load space so that the van would be evenly balanced.

It didn’t take long to replace the containers into the back of the lorry, along with the extra box that the men had brought with them, delivered from France by a different route.

The leader secured the back of the lorry and dropped the keys on the driver’s seat of the cab, before taking his place behind the wheel of the van and giving the pre-arranged signal. He put the van in gear and drove from the warehouse yard without looking back.

Mehmet returned to his vehicle and checked it over, opening the back of the trailer to make sure that the cargo had been left secure. Climbing back into his cab he placed the envelope into his rucksack alongside its twin, the first instalment that he had been given in France. He had no idea what had been put in his lorry and cared even less. He was a Turkish driver working for a Bulgarian haulage company driving a lorry with Czech number plates. Why should he care what these people got up to? He was just happy to take the money and return to his family.

He had another four hours of driving before he could deliver the lorry’s cargo, then he had to cross the Pennines to pick up his return load. Only then could he start the long journey home to enjoy the fruits of his labour. He waited in the yard, drinking coffee from a flask, until his statutory forty five minute rest break had elapsed, then continued his journey.

2 - Deep Cover

Youssef was lucky and found a parking space right outside the front door of the house. It was identical to the others in the street, a typical Edwardian ‘two up, two down’ terraced house. The only difference apparent to the casual observer was the fresh paint on the window frames and door.

He walked the short distance along the path to the front door and used his bright, freshly cut key to let himself in. A casual observer might have noted how stiffly he moved, his heavy limp, as though suffering the effects of injuries to his legs and body. They might also have seen a livid scar that was partially concealed by his hair.

The house smelt of fresh paint. It was decorated in neutral colours, both the walls and the carpets. Cheap paint and cheap floor coverings that could be bought at any of the discount warehouses. The furniture was equally cheap, but Youssef was unconcerned. He had seen all of that the previous week when the estate agent had shown him the house. He had signed the rental agreement and handed over the cash deposit barely an hour later.

Unslinging his laptop bag from his shoulder and placing it on the floor, Youssef lifted one end of the settee. He used his foot to push the bag under the settee and then lowered it to the ground. He made a quick check to make sure that it wouldn’t be visible to anyone entering the room. Satisfied with the arrangement he returned to the van to start unloading the rest of his possessions. He had hoped they would fit in his car, but try as he might he always found some object sticking into him that would prevent him from driving safely, so he had bitten the bullet and hired the van. It would mean a lengthy round trip to return the van and collect his car the next day, but that couldn’t be helped.

He had barely unlocked the back door of the van when Youssef found that he had company.

What you doin’ bro? Asked a voice, its strong East Midlands accent grating on Youssef’s Southern ear.

Youssef straightened up and turned to face his inquisitor. He quickly took in the baseball cap and hoody above saggy jeans and gleaming brand name trainers. The youth had a wispy beard which barely masked the acne spots on his chin. The only obvious difference between him and his partner were their different choices of colour scheme.

I’m just moving in. Youssef pointed towards the open front door of the house.

What you movin’ ‘ere for? Its shit round ‘ere.

I’ve got a new job, and it’s too far to travel to work each day from where I live.

Where you workin’ man? Maybe you could get us a job.

I don’t know about that. Let me get started and maybe I can ask around. I’m going to be working at the Royal Mail sorting office.

Deciding there was nothing to be gained from his line of questioning the youth changed the subject. You don’t wanna’ leave your van open, bro. There’s criminals round ‘ere. They’ll ‘ave it empty before you even know it, innit.

The threat was barely concealed Thanks for the advice. Tell you what, would you like to earn yourself some money?

Doin’ wat? Asked the other lad, who up until then had remained silent.

One of you keep an eye on the van while the other helps me unload. You can take it in turns.

How much?

A tenner each. Offered Youssef. He knew they would ask for more but it gave him the opportunity to let them think themselves the victors in the exchange. It wouldn’t hurt for them to think he was a bit of a pushover.

Thirty. The first one demanded.

Fifteen. Countered Youssef.

Twenty. The youth said with an air of finality.

Youssef agreed. He had been prepared to go to twenty five. The lads each held out a hand.

Cash up front!

Youssef took out his wallet and selected two ten pound notes. He laid one in each outstretched palm. Half now, half when you’re finished.

OK. The chief negotiator agreed. I’m Naim and he’s Ali. What do you want taking in first.

Youssef swung open the back doors of the van to reveal a carefully stacked array of cardboard boxes, suitcases and carrier bags. My name is Kamal, by the way. Just pick a box or a bag and take it inside. Stack it all in the front room. He didn’t want the two boys having the opportunity to go through any of the contents in the privacy of an upstairs room. They may be trustworthy, but after such a brief acquaintance he wasn’t going to take any chances.

With the help of the two youths the van was soon emptied and the contents heaped into the middle of the living room floor. After locking the van ‘Kamal’ handed over the balance of their wages and the two lads sauntered along the road towards the corner after giving only the briefest of farewells. Youssef wondered how long it would be before his neighbours heard about his arrival, not that it mattered if they did.

Returning to the house Youssef shut the front door and slid home the dead bolt before entering the living room. He went to check the window. It was a sash style with a simple locking mechanism preventing the lower section from being raised or the upper section being lowered. The lock had been slid open, scoring the fresh paintwork. Youssef allowed himself a small smile and slid the lock back into place. In one of his boxes were a few basic tools and an assortment of screws and nails. After he unpacked he would make sure the catch couldn’t be undone from the outside with the blade of a knife. It was common problem with such windows.

He walked through to the kitchen and tried the back door. He wasn’t surprised to find it was unlocked. Ali had made a bit of thing about wanting a drink of water. Youssef crossed the tiny yard to the rear gate. The bolt on the inside was also undone. He slid it into place. It was mounted too high up and could easily be reached from the outside, but that didn’t concern him. A padlock would solve that problem. The gate was a deterrent, not a barrier. The kitchen door was supposed to be the barrier, so Youssef turned the key in the lock and slid the dead bolts home at the top and bottom. He allowed himself another smile. You had to give them full marks for trying.

Unpacking didn’t take long. He would tidy up later and put his stuff away in drawers and cupboards, but for the moment it was enough to get the right stuff into the right rooms. He had important things to do before getting into the fine detail of setting up his new home.

On his previous visit Youssef had distracted the estate agent just long enough to conceal a small device in the tiny airing cupboard at the top of the stairs. It was the size of a computer memory stick but served an entirely different purpose. He retrieved the device before extricating his laptop from under the settee. It had turned out that concealing it had been a sensible precaution. He doubted it would have still have been there if it had been left in plain sight.

Youssef took a WiFi router from one of the cardboard boxes and plugged it into the telephone socket. The estate agent had assured him that the house was fully set up for broadband. Youssef was about to find out if he had been telling the truth.

The exterior of the router looked just like any other. Had an expert opened it up and taken a look inside he might have been surprised by what he found.

The laptop came to life at Youssef’s touch and he put in the necessary passwords to overcome the built in encryption. Had Ali and Naim succeeded in making off with it they would have found themselves with a useless piece of junk, as far as any buyer was concerned. But the right person might have been very interested in the laptop. There was no such thing as unbreakable encryption if you had the time, the determination and the resources available to crack it.

Taking the small device Youssef plugged into one of the laptop’s USB ports and downloaded the files that had been created over the previous week. It had recorded every WiFi, Bluetooth and mobile phone signal in the local area to provide a baseline for the background electronic activity in the neighbourhood. Some very clever people would now use that information to track down telephone numbers and IP addresses to build a picture of the technology in the neighbourhood and the people using it. If there were any sudden changes to the profile it might suggest that Youssef’s home was under surveillance. The information would also be used to try to hack into e-mail accounts, voicemail boxes and to monitor internet use. But that was for later.

From memory Youssef entered an IP address into the address bar of his web browser. It connected and he was prompted for a password. Carefully, and totally from memory, Youssef provided the information. He was taken to a fresh page where a second, different password had to be provided, and then to a third and final level of password security. He was finally allowed to access a very private e-mail account. If Youssef ever forgot any of the passwords he would have to go to a highly secure building in London to have it reset.

The e-mail that Youssef composed described his encounter with Naim and Ali. Their names would be added to a database and searches would be made to see if they could be cross referred to existing records. Youssef doubted that they would be found, other than on the Criminal Records database. They were local hoodies, not major players. On the up side they might provide him with a way of contacting the people he was really interested in.

* * *

Having organised the small house into a reasonable state of tidiness Youssef made himself a mug of tea and settled on the settee to watch some television. To be truthful to himself the programmes held no attraction for him, but it passed the time and his neighbours would no doubt expect to hear the sound of the TV set through the party wall.

He stared morosely at a documentary on the second world war and let his mind drift. He tried to control his anger but it kept welling up within him. Earlier, while