The Truck

      Majid drove the white transit van over the Britannia Bridge, leaving the island of Anglesey behind. The view from the bridge was beautiful and he slowed down to look at the Menai Straights, which was below him. The stretch of water separated the island from the North Wales mainland. The treacherous rip tides that flowed between the two landmasses made the water look dark and fast flowing. He looked up to his right and saw the enormous peaks of the Mount Snowdon range. The view of the sea and the mountains soothed his nerves.

      In the back of the van he was carrying eight cardboard cartons containing denim jeans. Next to them was the disassembled metal structure of a market stall. The stall was made from one-inch square metal bars and they banged and rattled about against the metal of the van body. Plastic market stall covers were rolled up into huge white bundles covering everything beneath them from view. The rear body of the van had been lined with wooden panels, hooks and brackets attached to the wood held an assortment of clips and bungee cords. They would be used to keep the market stall dry once it was erected. If anyone had stopped him and searched the van on his journey from Ireland, he would have looked like an innocent market trader going about his business.

      The Semtex explosive that he carried had been packed into the spaces between the wooden panels and the van`s sides. The explosive was then covered in sawdust and coffee grounds, to disguise the scent from sniffer dogs. He had not been stopped. His journey across the Irish Sea was uneventful so far.

      His destination was a large industrial park in the town of Warrington. Warrington had become home to many of the large companies and brands that operated telephone support centres in the United Kingdom. The town was surrounded by motorways which are Britain`s main distribution arteries, that lead to every part of the UK. For distribution purposes it was an ideal location to base a business. It was geographically central, and because it was in the North West of England the rent and rates were considerably lower than the cities in the south. The town was home to a dozen large industrial parks, retail parks, call centres and science parks, and they were all situated conveniently next to the countries major road networks.

       The unit Majid was heading for had been rented the year before and comprised of an office reception area with a large warehouse at the rear. The van would be parked inside, invisible amongst the hundreds of white transit vans that buzzed around Warrington night and day. Once it was there its deadly cargo could be unloaded and stored without the fear of interruption or capture. Majid chose to circle Warrington using the M6 motorway avoiding the busy town centre. The last thing he needed was to be involved in an accident or to be stuck in a traffic jam. He pulled off the motorway and just a mile further on he approached the big steel roller shutter of the unit. The shutter clattered as it opened and he drove in nodding a greeting to the men inside. One of the men that stood in the doorway of the office was surrounded by the elders of the group. He recognized his face. His name was Yasser Ahmed.

      He felt honoured to be in the presence of a man so revered and his face flushed; he followed the hand signals of his friend Tariq. He guided him through pallets of cardboard cartons that were scattered about as he was directed toward the rear of the unit. The unit had been empty when he had left three days earlier but now there were two strange vehicles parked in the spot next to where he was instructed to park the transit van. Both the vehicles were old and scruffy looking. Two men were sanding down the paintwork and applying new cartoon decals to the two old ice-cream vans. Majid didn’t know what they were doing parked in the unit but he knew that it was none of his business to ask.