Read Online Century of Jihad by John Mannion - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Mannion
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any ID from this, so we are trying to back track his movements to see if we get a better view of him. Our suspect bomber disappears back into the entrance to his apartment. He reappears a few minutes later. It may just be my imagination but it looks like he may have put on weight in those intervening minutes. He walks casually to a litter bin and pushes the recently delivered backpack into it.’
Ward responded to the developments. ‘Excellent! You’ve all done outstandingly since the start of this thing. Keep up the good work. I’ll go pass this up the food chain.’
C HAPTER 10
The air was crisp and cold as the shoppers, from far and wide, thronged in the streets of London’s West End in their quest to complete their Christmas lists. The bombing of a few days earlier had done nothing to deter them. After 7pm the crowds of shoppers started to thin out, but were replaced by an influx of revellers heading for the nightlife on offer in Central London and its West End – in the theatres, cinemas and nightclubs.
Tracy Cameron, a twenty-three-year-old from Rainham in Essex, had arrived at Oxford Circus Underground Station at 8pm with a group of five close friends on her ‘hen night’. Tracy was due to marry Colin, her childhood sweetheart, the following weekend. The six young women visited several of the pubs to the south of Oxford Street, becoming more and more jolly and loud as they made their way towards a nightclub one of the friends had heard about in North Row. At the club entrance the club stewards had appeared friendly and had joked with the girls. On entering the nightclub, the girls’ ears were assailed by the sound of the music as they jostled their way towards the bar. The girls had a few sips from their glasses and then four of them joined the throng on the club’s small dance floor.
At the entrance to the nightclub, a group of four club stewards stood shivering in the cold, winter night air. They were huddled in their heavy overcoats and gloves in a vain attempt to ward off the bitter cold. It was just after midnight and the club was full at this hour. It was just at the start of the Christmas festivities.
During the summer nights, scantily-clad young women would come out of the club to get some fresh air, usually accompanied with a cigarette. They would talk to the door staff, entertaining them with their banter and, sometimes, outrageous behaviour. But on these winter nights the men just stood talking amongst themselves, whiling away the hours.
The black BMW turned the corner at Park Street into North Row. The door staff watched the car drive slowly down North Row and stop, just opposite the nightclub. They could see the silhouettes of two dark figures seated in the front of the car. After a pause, the man in the front passenger seat appeared to lean into the back seat of the vehicle, pulling something bulky from the rear toward him in the front of the car. The interior of the car remained dark as the driver’s door slowly opened. The driver got out of the vehicle and stood looking across at the entrance to the club. Then the passenger door opened, and the other man got out. He was holding a backpack in his right hand, which he promptly threw over his left shoulder. The door staff watched the car and its occupants with a bored fascination. There was no other activity in the vicinity to occupy their attention – North Row being, essentially, a narrow back lane tucked away behind Oxford Street. The street was otherwise deathly silent. The two men slowly moved from the car and steadily walked across the road toward the entrance to the club. The door staff watched in silence. The men from the car simultaneously placed their hands into the right hand pockets of the dark, quilted jackets they were wearing, each pulling out an object which appeared to the now mesmerised door staff like pistols. The four club stewards stood transfixed, as the men raised the handguns, pointing them towards the entrance to
Ward responded to the developments. ‘Excellent! You’ve all done outstandingly since the start of this thing. Keep up the good work. I’ll go pass this up the food chain.’
C HAPTER 10
The air was crisp and cold as the shoppers, from far and wide, thronged in the streets of London’s West End in their quest to complete their Christmas lists. The bombing of a few days earlier had done nothing to deter them. After 7pm the crowds of shoppers started to thin out, but were replaced by an influx of revellers heading for the nightlife on offer in Central London and its West End – in the theatres, cinemas and nightclubs.
Tracy Cameron, a twenty-three-year-old from Rainham in Essex, had arrived at Oxford Circus Underground Station at 8pm with a group of five close friends on her ‘hen night’. Tracy was due to marry Colin, her childhood sweetheart, the following weekend. The six young women visited several of the pubs to the south of Oxford Street, becoming more and more jolly and loud as they made their way towards a nightclub one of the friends had heard about in North Row. At the club entrance the club stewards had appeared friendly and had joked with the girls. On entering the nightclub, the girls’ ears were assailed by the sound of the music as they jostled their way towards the bar. The girls had a few sips from their glasses and then four of them joined the throng on the club’s small dance floor.
At the entrance to the nightclub, a group of four club stewards stood shivering in the cold, winter night air. They were huddled in their heavy overcoats and gloves in a vain attempt to ward off the bitter cold. It was just after midnight and the club was full at this hour. It was just at the start of the Christmas festivities.
During the summer nights, scantily-clad young women would come out of the club to get some fresh air, usually accompanied with a cigarette. They would talk to the door staff, entertaining them with their banter and, sometimes, outrageous behaviour. But on these winter nights the men just stood talking amongst themselves, whiling away the hours.
The black BMW turned the corner at Park Street into North Row. The door staff watched the car drive slowly down North Row and stop, just opposite the nightclub. They could see the silhouettes of two dark figures seated in the front of the car. After a pause, the man in the front passenger seat appeared to lean into the back seat of the vehicle, pulling something bulky from the rear toward him in the front of the car. The interior of the car remained dark as the driver’s door slowly opened. The driver got out of the vehicle and stood looking across at the entrance to the club. Then the passenger door opened, and the other man got out. He was holding a backpack in his right hand, which he promptly threw over his left shoulder. The door staff watched the car and its occupants with a bored fascination. There was no other activity in the vicinity to occupy their attention – North Row being, essentially, a narrow back lane tucked away behind Oxford Street. The street was otherwise deathly silent. The two men slowly moved from the car and steadily walked across the road toward the entrance to the club. The door staff watched in silence. The men from the car simultaneously placed their hands into the right hand pockets of the dark, quilted jackets they were wearing, each pulling out an object which appeared to the now mesmerised door staff like pistols. The four club stewards stood transfixed, as the men raised the handguns, pointing them towards the entrance to
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