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4th March 2014
Officially designated the A57, the only remarkable thing about Dale Street, besides its history, was the Magistrates Courts. In an earlier life, Nicks had spent many hours giving evidence there against some of Liverpool’s finest toe rags.
That the Magistrates Courts were where the ‘tourist trail’ ended was a fair comment because unless you lived in Liverpool you were unlikely to venture beyond to the two unprepossessing pubs that lay at its north-eastern end. The second, the Ship and Mitre, was renowned for its fine selection of British real ales and beers from around the world. It had the ambience of a good old fashioned British pub in the front part, whilst the rear had a slightly more continental feel. In either part, it was beer heaven for the devoted.
Crossing the junction with Hatton Garden and walking past the Excelsior, the more attractive of the two establishments, he entered the drab looking Ship and Mitre by the door on North Street. Taking the few steps down to the short corridor connecting both bars, he turned left and entered the dimly lit rear lounge, spotting his handler at the far end of the bar.
Simon was in his early forties with a rounded face, glasses and a mop of fair hair. Carrying slightly more weight than he felt comfortable with, he knew what he should do about it, but at the moment the beer was winning. Nicks liked Simon.
“Been here long?” he enquired.
“Nope,” Simon replied. “I’ll get these in. What you having?”
“Cheers. I’ll have a draught Fruli.”
“Pint or half?” Simon enquired.
“Pint, of course. Silly not to really,” Nicks replied casually.
“Yeah, SNTR,” Simon smiled.
They stood in silence as the barman poured their drinks. Nicks surveyed the room. Two stood at the bar and two tables occupied on the raised seating area; a young couple in the corner and three young males who looked like students.
The barman presented Nicks with his pint. Whilst Simon waited, Nicks sipped his strawberry flavoured Fruli and wondered if it would count towards his ‘five a day’.
Simon received his Kriek, gave the barman 30p from his change, turned and lifted his pint. “All hail to the ale”, he grinned.
“We sitting over there?” Nicks pointed to a circular table for two furthest away from the other occupants of the seating area. Walking up the steps, he sat down with his back towards the wall so he could see the rest of the room. It was a habit he’d had for a very long time.
They took satisfying gulps of beer and had a brief discussion about the current Premiership situation. It was brief because Nicks would never win a prize as a conversationalist, and in any event, he’d virtually lost interest in football since pay and performance had seemingly stopped being connected. As they talked, he meticulously straightened the spare beer mats on the table. Satisfied, he took another mouthful of beer and wiped his lips. “So what have you got for me?”
Simon leant forward. “Abdul Azeez El-Hashem.” He took out the removable hard drive from the pocket of his jacket draped over the back of his chair, sliding it across the table to Nicks. “It’s all on there. You could say he’s a ‘very naughty boy’. Not a nice man at all.”
“How good’s the Intel?” Nicks asked, picking it up and placing it inside his jacket lying on the seat next to him.
“Excellent.” Simon smiled. “It’s first hand Humint.”
Nicks sipped his beer. “So, go on, what does Hugh Mint tell us?”
“It tells us that Abdul Azeez El-Hashem was a frequent enthusiastic visitor to training camps and facilities in Afghanistan, Iraq and lately Syria. He’s given shit loads of, shall we say, ‘inspirational’ talks on why ‘infidels’ and those supporting them should be killed wherever they may be and how to go about it. It’s first-hand stuff.”
Nicks frowned. “So how come this El-Hashem got back into the country?”
Simon looked apologetic. “Look, it’s taken ages to gather this stuff. It’s not easy to get information out from these areas, you know. Some of it’s from very well placed resources and some from captive sources. Suffice to say, he wasn’t originally seen as a huge danger. However, the Security Service has an extremely reliable source providing, at great risk, up to the minute Intel showing beyond doubt El-Hashem is the power behind several cells currently tasked with planning and carrying out attacks within the UK.”
“Why don’t they arrest him?” Nicks interjected.
Simon frowned this time. “Come on, Nicks, you know the justice system here. Don’t get me wrong, mate, I’m glad we have it, but it’s going to be very difficult to make this stick; it’s all intel and this source is just too valuable to risk. How long did it take our local finest to put away some of the biggest villains in Merseyside? 20 years or so, if not more, and then they couldn’t do it without a ton of co-operation with Customs and Excise and an outside Force or two.”
“Ok, ok, I get your point,” Nicks acquiesced, adding: “So what about the cells?”
“Not our problem,” Simon replied. “Our concern is solely El-Hashem. They’ve decided we’re going to take him out. The only issue here is the Security Service has him under surveillance but ....” He paused and looked around before continuing. “Having surveilled the surveillers, we’ve noticed there may be one or two opportunities for a benign intervention. Once the official surveillance has been lost, we’re looking for a window of opportunity.”
Nicks looked kindly at Simon. “So in other words, plan A is a wing and a prayer?”
Simon grimaced. “Sort of.” He took another mouthful of beer.
Nicks sipped his Fruli thoughtfully, “Is there a plan B at all?”
Simon drained his glass slowly and stood up. “Nope. Fancy another? Same again?”
Nicks laughed.
“Yep? Go on! SNTR!” Simon replied with a grin, adding as he walked away: “Don’t worry, I’ll be with you all the way on this one.”
Nicks smiled back at him sarcastically. “Oh, that makes it so much better.”
They stayed another half-hour discussing the music scene and forthcoming festivals. Nicks, as usual, bemoaning the demise of bands his ‘patronage’ had apparently doomed. He and Simon had a mutual interest, although their tastes differed. Nicks preferred something melodic and lyrically interesting. Simon, it seemed, had no such qualms.
Finishing their drinks, they put their jackets on. Nicks checked his to make sure he still had the hard drive. “Oh, and I’m going to need more. The names are inside,” he said, handing Simon an envelope.
Simon folded it casually into his coat pocket. Walking away he called back. “I’ll text you soon, ok?”
Nicks left the way he’d entered, stopping at the gents' toilets. Age was catching up with him.
Walking back along Dale Street, now busy with office workers making their way home or to the nearest bar, he saw a couple of ‘bucks’, loafing outside a pub. They seemed happy, drinking their pints and smoking a fragrant ‘brand’ of cigarettes.
He stopped, checked his watch and feigned looking for someone so he could briefly listen to their conversation. They bore all the hallmarks of a couple of ‘pumpkin positives’, the sort whose brains were so small that if you shone a penlight into their mouths their heads would light up.
“Got off with it mate,” said the ugliest one, in his nasal accent, to his only slightly more handsome colleague. “Sixty quid dey dun me fuh.”
“Sixty, yer divvy!” exclaimed Handsome.
“Fuck off,” said Ugly, “I tort dey wuz gonna bang me fuh two undrud buh me woolyback breef torked ‘em aht uv it.”
“Go ‘edd, nice one, mate,” replied Handsome.
“Ting wuz,” continued Ugly, “I ‘ad tuh ang around all th’savvy ‘cos it wuz chocka. Did me fuckin’ ‘edd in.”
Nicks moved off, smiling to himself. The scouse ‘bucks’ ability to imply victory from defeat but somehow spoil it all always amused him.