One Way Out

by A. A. Dhand

  Council planning documents listed the new mosque as having a maximum capacity of 1,500 people. That number had made Frost’s legs wobble.

  It couldn’t happen.

  While they were waiting for estimates of how many people were inside, Gold Command had spent the past hour discussing their strategy for the other hundred and four mosques, all of which were still under lockdown. According to the Patriots’ demands, now they had located the bomb, they needed to let this be known, then they could begin to free those trapped in the other mosques.

  Hashim would need to inform his followers and then, ideally, Frost would get high volumes of uniformed officers at each mosque in turn to ensure they evacuated in an orderly fashion and were subject to no hate-related attacks. The command room had now received solid information that the Far Right were making a beeline for Bradford.

  Moving that volume of men around a stalled city would take time. And the longer Frost waited to evacuate the other mosques, the greater the risk they would break out of their own accord, triggering the bomb. He would not have that on his watch.

  Frost did the only thing he could. He increased the manpower of the team he had tasked to liaise with the imams of the other mosques, ordering them to organize an orderly evacuation of their sites, but only once Imam Hashim had informed his worshippers the bomb had been located.

  Frost may have been the Assistant Chief Constable and ‘in charge’, but this had all the makings of an impossible situation. He couldn’t help but feel out of his depth. They were four hours into this mess and, so far, none of the Almukhtaroon leaders had been found. If they were smart, they’d have gone underground and wouldn’t surface until after sunrise tomorrow.

  His job was to protect their lives. Social media was already rife with death threats made against them from a whole host of angry groups – Muslims looking to defend their places of worship, Far Right activists jumping on the opportunity to incite hate, and smaller, local groups just wanting to cause bedlam. The four leaders of Almukhtaroon were currently the most hunted in the country. While Frost would have traded the bastards in a heartbeat for the people inside the Mehraj mosque, it was simply wishful thinking on his part. If he got them into protective custody, he wouldn’t be able to hand them over to the Patriots. All he could do would be to send the military into the mosque. If he didn’t capture them, he would not risk the population inside the Mehraj mosque and would still be sending the military in, before the deadline expired.

  Damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.

  Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice a junior member of staff knock lightly on his office door until he coughed politely.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘Sir, we’ve had word from Imam Hashim.’ He paused, as though unsure whether he should continue.

  Frost waved him on.

  ‘There are one thousand and nine people in the Mehraj mosque.’

  Frost felt sick.

  Senior military commanders were currently analysing their options with regards to the mosque and he had a conference call with COBRA scheduled in fifteen minutes. He would have to let them know what they were dealing with.

  First, though, Frost dialled Saima’s number. DS Conway had offered to do it, having met Saima several times, but Frost needed to hear Saima’s voice himself – feel her confidence, or lack of it. He hoped she was as resilient as Harry had suggested.

  Her number failed to connect the first time. Second time, he heard it ring. In his peripheral vision, Frost could see the military commanders huddled together, working on their strategy – a hostile entry into the mosque. Unless they could disarm the bomb from the inside, it was inevitable. Frost desperately wanted to avoid that, for one main reason.

  It was nothing more than a fifty–fifty chance.

  His call connected.

  ‘Is that Saima Virdee?’ he asked.

  ‘Hi, yes, it is,’ she said. Saima’s voice crackled noisily, her reception poor.

  ‘This is Assistant Chief Constable Steven Frost. I—’

  ‘I know who you are. Harry told me you would call.’

  ‘I’m pleased. Are you able to speak in private?’

  ‘Yes. I’m at the far end of the basement.’

  ‘Good, because, Saima, we need you to help us.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Saima was back inside the grand hall, watching as Imam Hashim took to the stage to tell the rest of the mosque that the bomb had been found in their place of worship. She had many things running through her mind. She needed to send Frost pictures and footage of the bomb. The quicker they got this, the quicker it might all end. First the worshippers needed to know it had been found. A dozen or so already knew. They couldn’t wait any longer in case it was leaked. Saima thought this was going to be the most important speech Imam Hashim ever gave. If he didn’t secure the trust of his worshippers – if they panicked and went for the exits – this would all fall apart. It was why Saima had told Frost he would have to wait before she attempted what he had asked of her. He sounded dismayed but understood.

  Saima noticed the mosque’s committee members were by the exits. She had also taken the time to glance out of the foyer windows and seen a considerable increase in police officers a short distance from the mosque.

  She was also worried about Aaron. Had he eaten his tea? Was he OK? Saima wanted to call Joyti but this wasn’t the time. She could not deal with Aaron sounding upset. The mother inside her felt dirty for thinking it but, for now, her focus was solely on Imam Hashim. Everything depended on how he broke the news.

  Two men were standing either side of Hashim, mobile phones raised. He had told the hall what he was about to say would be live-streamed on social media.

  Was that wise?

  Saima feared the hall would descend into chaos once the news broke.

  Hashim raised his voice, commanding everyone to be silent, and waited. He stared at the congregation and smiled. Speaking softly in English, he asked those who could translate into Urdu for non-bilingual worshippers to do so. He waited a few moments, then started.

  ‘Our life is a test. We have read this many times, heard it spoken even more so. Today, our time to be tested has arrived. As Muslims, we speak of a collective responsibility to account for one another. This city works tirelessly to support our brothers and sisters caught up in war zones across the globe. Today a terrorist organization calling themselves the Patriots want to test this resolve. They think our collective responsibility is a show – nothing more. They do not realize that, as Muslims, looking after one another is in the very DNA of our belief system. They mock us and want to show the world that we are nothing but liars!’

  His voice changed, not quite combative but certainly more powerful. He paused, stared into the crowd and continued.

  ‘Do you know what I see? A room full of a thousand united Muslims. A benchmark for solidarity and compassion – the very thing that makes us, as a community, unstoppable.’

  The passion in his voice was mesmerizing. Saima felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. There were nods from around the room and murmurs that he was right.

  ‘Have the other mosques emptied and abandoned our community? No! Have we panicked and turned on one another? No! Will we do so?’

  His question was answered with a muted ‘No’.

  ‘Is that all you have to offer me?’ He smiled and asked the question again, this time getting a more forceful answer.

  ‘No!’

  ‘We have built our lives around not only our faith but one another. So it is not with fear that I tell you all that the threat of a bomb located inside a mosque in Bradford has been verified.’

  He quickened his speech, not giving the crowd time to react.

  ‘And I ask you all to look at the life of our beloved Prophet, peace-be-upon-him, and to analyse the many times he was tested. Every time he overcame. Every time he endured and came out stronger. Often it was by his peaceful actions and the wisdom of his wo
rds. Now, on perhaps the biggest stage our community might ever be given, we have the chance to show the world how we deal with adversity. How we come together to ensure our faith withstands this test. And withstand it we will.’

  His words were working. The energy in the room was palpable. Saima observed hands being held, arms wrapped around one another as if they all knew what was coming.

  Hashim continued, his tone softer now.

  ‘Our mosque has been chosen to withstand this test. No greater test are we likely to face in our lifetime than this. It is time to ask ourselves how much we care for the safety of one another. These so-called Patriots want to see if a single person inside this room will put at risk the thousand-strong group that we are. If just one of us tries to leave, the bomb will detonate and the people who doubt the strength of our faith will be proven correct. The wider ramifications for the Islamic world will be crippling. Since we claim to feel the pain of our persecuted brothers and sisters around the world, is it nothing more than a show if we cannot, here and now, endure and stand together? We will be seen as traitors to the very message we work tirelessly to promote – service over self – and I ask you all here and now, are you all traitors?’

  The deafening answer echoed through Saima’s body.

  Hashim asked them all again – this time louder, and the response in the room was equally loud.

  The two men standing either side of Hashim turned their phones towards the crowd, getting the images of solidarity before focusing back on him.

  ‘And to the Patriots I say – you have asked your question. And now you have heard our answer.’

  He stepped closer to one of the phones, taking the microphone with him.

  ‘A final message for Bradford. There is a resolve among Bradfordians not to allow division, hate and racism to prosper, irrespective of faith. Our time to unite as a city has arrived and, as ever, we will not go down without a fight. Let us show the world, once and for all, that this is truly God’s own county.’

  The mobile phones either side of him were lowered, the sermon over.

  Hashim went back to his stand and stared into the crowd, looking for signs that his speech had pierced the heart of everyone in the grand hall.

  Saima could see that it had.

  Hashim asked them, with God as his witness, how many of them would go against his request for unity? How many would try to escape, knowing everyone else would almost certainly die?

  The answer was unanimous.

  Not a single hand was raised.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The news was out. Harry’s newsfeed was alive with speculation about the bomb inside the Mehraj mosque.

  He texted Saima.

  How’s things in there?

  She replied immediately.

  Calm for now. I’m in the basement about to send info to Frost. Everyone else upstairs. How’s Aaron?

  Fine. Call you later. Keep battery conserved. BE CAREFUL. Stop if you feel you cannot do it.

  20% left. I got this. Promise me u will chk on Aaron.

  Promise. Love you.

  Love u 2. XXX

  Harry only had 38 per cent of his battery life left, with twelve hours of this siege yet to play out. Not enough.

  Isaac was in the shower, door open, window locked. Harry wasn’t concerned with the kid trying to do a runner but he sat in the hallway just outside the bathroom to make sure he didn’t get any ideas. He had his police laptop open, accessing the Police National Database and seeing what information was listed on the other three leaders of Almukhtaroon. Abu-Nazir had an impressive record, mostly of ‘disturbing the peace’ by organizing demonstrations around the country. Amelia Rose had a decade-old record for drug use, but the real star of this shit-show was Fahad-Bin-Azeez. He had multiple entries for assault, grievous bodily harm and theft. Exactly the type of character Abu-Nazir targeted. None had listed addresses.

  Harry put the laptop aside and examined the drawing pads he had taken from Isaac’s house. Each sketch seemed to start with Isiah, a small, weak boy, getting bullied, then a kid from the local town would go missing – kidnapped by his nemesis, the Undertaker – requiring Isiah to eat lentils and explode into a hero to save the day. They were good, really good.

  This kid had so much going for him.

  What had gone wrong? What had made him join Almukhtaroon?

  Pulling a gun he had lifted from Queensbury Tunnel from his pocket, Harry sighed. He thought of Saima inside the mosque, Aaron alone at his mother’s house and the shit-storm out in the streets of Bradford. He couldn’t afford to get this wrong.

  At the kitchen table, Isaac greedily drank his milkshake. Harry hoped the sugar-rush would perk the kid up. Now refreshed and wearing jeans and a T-shirt, Isaac’s previous bitterness seemed to have softened.

  ‘I’m not helping you,’ said Isaac, slurping the dregs of his shake.

  Harry pointed to the drawing pads he had been reading. ‘These sketches are good.’

  He thought he saw a flash of pride but it disappeared as quickly as it surfaced.

  ‘Reminds me of Popeye. He was one of my favourites as a kid – probably before your time. You know it?’

  Isaac nodded.

  ‘An Asian superhero. Don’t get many of those. You should have tried to get these published.’

  ‘Nobody wants to read about an Asian superhero. All we’re good for is being terrorists.’

  Harry shrugged.

  ‘That what you think I am? A terrorist?’

  ‘I’ve watched Almukhtaroon videos online. Death to the West. A new caliphate.’

  Isaac held his gaze.

  ‘Not exactly patriotic, is it?’

  ‘The way the West lives is corrupt,’ said Isaac forcefully. His expression didn’t match his tone of voice. This was something he had been taught, not something he believed.

  Harry’s heart quickened. This could work.

  ‘You know what’s going on in Bradford right now?’

  Isaac nodded. ‘A little. Before I was taken from my house – before they injected me with that … stuff, they told me some people calling themselves the Patriots were terrorizing everyone. Bomb in a mosque? And they want us in return.’

  ‘That’s about right.’

  Harry wondered what Isaac knew about the men who had lifted him. ‘Any idea who took you from your house?’

  ‘You guys? Police? Least that’s what I thought until they hit me with that needle. So what’s the deal? Are you here to deliver me to the Patriots?’

  ‘No. I’m here on something different. You and the rest of your crew – Abu-Nazir, Fahad-Bin-Azeez and Amelia Rose – some friends you got there.’

  ‘I’m not sharing anything with you. Torture me all you want.’

  ‘Fine. Let’s talk about you, then,’ said Harry, flicking through the sketches. ‘You believe all that stuff? A new caliphate? Death to the West?’

  Isaac nodded weakly.

  ‘Strange, because none of these drawings show that.’

  ‘I believe it.’

  ‘That’s what I was hoping for.’

  Isaac tensed in his seat. ‘Why? So you can do me in?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Harry, standing up.

  He turned his back and closed his eyes, thinking of the earlier bomb blast, the fear on his son’s face, the YouTube video of the Patriots’ demands, and Saima sitting in the basement of the mosque sending pictures of the bomb to Frost.

  He turned towards Isaac again and pulled his revolver from his pocket.

  ‘I knew it,’ Isaac spat, slamming his fists on the table, rage flooding his face. ‘See a Muslim, take him off the streets and torture him – fucking typical of you pigs!’

  This time, Isaac’s rage felt real.

  ‘Death to the West,’ said Harry quietly, inching closer to Isaac. He stopped a foot short, got on his knees and turned the gun in his hand so he was holding the barrel.

  ‘Thing is, Isaac, I don’t think you’re an extremist any more
than I am.’

  One of Isaac’s drawing pads lay in his lap. Harry rested the gun on it, watching as Isaac’s mouth fell open.

  The kid was taking one medication to stop him wetting the bed and another to ease anxiety. The thumb on his right hand was a lot smaller than the one on his left. Harry guessed it was because Isaac still sucked it, just like Aaron did. Harry was betting Isaac wasn’t about to blow his brains out.

  He didn’t have it in him.

  ‘There are one hundred and five mosques under lockdown, and my wife is in one of them.’

  Isaac’s brow furrowed.

  Harry nodded. ‘That’s right. My wife is Muslim. Saima. I know all about feeling marginalized and persecuted. Do you know what I had to do to marry her? I left my family. I was disowned by my community – the Sikh who married a Paki and it ruined him. You’re not the only one in this world on the wrong side of hate. You can choose to leave this place with me and do something good, be a hero. Thousands of innocent Muslims are trapped in those mosques: women, children, the elderly. They are all at risk. You don’t need to be in Syria or Palestine to help the Islamic world right now. Today the fight is on your doorstep.’

  Harry took Isaac’s hand firmly and placed it on the gun, noting the tremble in it.

  ‘You want to bring down the West? Now’s the time. The gun is loaded. All you have to do is point and pull the trigger. You’ll kill a serving police officer. Got to be worth some brownie points with Abu-Nazir. Or you can look me in the eye, see how much I want to save this city, my wife and all the people inside those mosques. Let’s change the narrative and leave this house together. I told you: the only person in control here is you.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Saima was standing in front of the large shipping container that contained the bomb. Imam Hashim was by her side, holding a powerful torch, both of them alone in the basement. She needed him to help with this. Sweat was dripping down her forehead into her eyes in spite of it being considerably cooler down here.