Light of the Sun: They always make a mistake and when they do, we kill them...

by David Costa

  With the coffee and croissants ordered, they sat looking out at the view. Reece had selected Malta and this special place to retire to after the danger of his days in the Special Branch of the RUC police force in Northern Ireland. That was before Jim Broad had caught up with him and invited him to come work for him at SG9. Reece had weighed up his options to retire at the young age of thirty-seven or work a little longer doing the job he loved and the one he knew he was good at. When he had told Broad that he intended to live in Malta, he had no problem with him living there as it was only about three hours flying time to London and the same for many of the main cities in the Middle East and Europe where Reece would be operating.

  ‘Can you tell me what’s happening,’ she asked.

  Reece knew the question would come and he was prepared for it.

  ‘There’s not much to tell now, London are sending a guy I know who will tell me more. I must pick him up at the airport this afternoon and then we are going to meet with some people in Valletta. Now you know as much as I do. At least the work for now is here in Malta. You can be sure I’m not happy having to work in my own back yard.’

  ‘If I know your boss that won’t last long. You will be on the move wherever it takes you.’

  He could see she was already worried. Anything involving his work with the prospect of them being apart hurt her and he knew this. Her eyes avoided his gaze instead she looked at the waves crashing over the rocks at the entrance to the bay.

  ‘Well, I’ll keep the bed warm for when you get back.’

  ‘That would be nice, but you better make up the spare. I think we’ll have a guest to stay. As for keeping the bed warm, let’s walk back slowly and see if it needs warming up now.’

  ‘Calm down big boy, let me finish my breakfast first.’ She laughed.

  Chapter 6

  The Islamic Jihad training camp was a good two-hour drive west of the Iranian Capital. After leaving the motorway, his drive continued along a dirty, dusty, bumpy track into the mountains through two small villages. The Arab enjoyed the drive in the open backed Discovery Jeep he used for such journeys. The wind in his face and hair was better than any car’s air conditioning system, and he felt at one with the land around him which always reminded him of his Gaza homeland. As he went through the mountain villages, he could see the spotters in doorways, and some looking after the sheep in the fields. He knew all of them had been supplied with smartphones which they would be using to announce his journey as he got closer to the camp.

  The camp had originally been a base for the Iranian Republican Guards Desert Warfare teams and covered two square miles, it had then been handed over to the various Islamic Jihad groups to help them with a location where, they could train their best recruits. Like any camp in the desert, the Portacabin huts and tents were mixed with a few concrete one-story buildings, everything the same sandy colour; the whole camp was surrounded by a fifteen-foot wire fence topped with razor wire. The Arab had trained there himself many years before where he was identified as someone special. He had his medical background, and he was clear why he had joined the cause, and why the West was the real enemy of Islam. His instructors noted how he not only picked up the skills of an exceptional assassin but also how he was able to talk to others, bringing them around to his theology and his plans for the future. He had taken two sharp bends in the road and when he came around the second, he could see the camp, just off the road to his left. He turned down the driveway to the entrance approaching the security barrier, where two men in desert fatigues and armed with Kalashnikov AK47 automatic rifles provided the security that had to be passed by anyone wanting access to the camp. He told the guard his name and that the commandant was expecting him. A quick check by radio and the guard told him he was to go to the first concrete building on the right where someone would meet him, and the barrier was lifted. As he drove through the entrance gate, some memories of his own training days came flooding back. At first, he remembered how the training was completely unexpected. The first few days were filled with how to keep clean in the camp, and how to make a bed properly military style. The recruits then filled out forms and were thoroughly questioned on their backgrounds and their reason for being there. It was nearly a week before they were given weapons to strip down and clean, before a basic firing test to start with, just to see how accurate they were. Evenings were always filled with prayers and religious instruction using the Quran. It was always emphasised they were the soldiers of the Jihad, the Holy War. They washed their own pots, pans, and plates, even though there was a kitchen separate from the recruits, they did their own cooking, cleaning up after they had eaten.

  As he parked in front of the first building on the right standing outside, with a big smile on his face, was Kalil who had been the base commander when he had trained here and still in charge. He stood around five foot eight, with broad shoulders a large nose above a thick black moustache with his standard black beret placed over his short black hair almost covering his dark brown eyes. His smile of welcome told the Arab all he needed to know; he was glad to see him. He would always remember Kalil as a strict commander but who had now turned into a friend.

  As he got out of the Jeep Kalil embraced him and kissed him on the cheeks.

  ‘As-Salaam-Alaikum.’

  ‘Wa-Alaikum As-salaam,’ replied the Arab.

  Kalil stood back and looked the Arab up and down.

  ‘They have been feeding you too much my friend.’ He laughed ‘they told us you were coming. Let us go inside, I have some of your favourite coffee ready.’

  ‘That would be wonderful I’m only beginning to remember how hot it can be under your blue skies. Why is it so quiet?’

  At almost the same time he asked his question he could hear a loud prolonged burst of gunfire which to his trained ear was that of AK47 rifles on fully automatic.

  ‘As you can see Abdullah our firing ranges are still busy,’ replied Kalil.

  The Arab remembered back to his own weapon training on the same firing range at the other end of the camp. Many hours of weapon familiarity and use until he could lift any gun, fire it quickly and accurately; then break the weapon down into its working parts to clean and oil them for future use. As he was always told by the instructors a clean weapon is a good weapon.

  ‘So that’s where everyone is. By the sound of things, you are busy Kalil. I hope you’re not wasting too much ammunition?’

  ‘Don’t worry my friend, just enough to get the job done as we always told you. Since your day we have split the camp into different training categories, weapons, explosives, religious teaching, and now how to work with nuclear weapons.’

  ‘Nuclear?’

  ‘Yes, the Ayatollahs are pushing ahead with the whole nuclear plan, so they want our fighters to know how to use it. We have a few young jihadis learning daily from two of our scientists who come down from the city. Now come in and tell me how I can help you.’

  Entering the large ground floor of the building he noticed nothing much had changed since his own training days here. The walls which had been painted white a long time ago were now a dusty grey colour. Many posters of the Ayatollah adorned the walls, and they showed their age. There were two wooden chairs behind a desk on which stood a laptop and a printer. The two large windows were closed, each were fitted with air conditioning units that were circulating cool air around the office. He knew there were three rooms at the rear, a toilet, a briefing room which could seat around twenty people and a large cell block, which on occasion had been used to detain traitors to the Jihad.

  Near one of the windows was a large couch and two large leather chairs. On the coffee table in front of the couch was a large coffee pot with two small cups some milk and a bowl of sugar.

  ‘Come Abdullah take a seat; the coffee is ready. When our lookouts reported you were on your way, I warmed the water.’

  The Arab sat in one of the leather chairs facing towards the window. Kalil poured the strong black coffee and went
to a small fridge beside the desk to bring back a bottle of cold water. The Arab took the offered coffee cup and poured a little water into the coffee taking away some of the bitterness from the Arabian beans.

  ‘Just as I remember it, so strong you could stand up in it.’ He laughed.

  Kalil added a little water to his own cup then a little milk.

  ‘I have become fond of the sweetness the milk gives it. Now to business how can we help you? Tehran did not tell us anything, only that you would be coming, and we are to provide you with whatever you need, no questions asked. All I can think is that it must be very important if it is to involve the Arab the man we call ‘mu’alim’ which means both craftsman and teacher, so which one are you today my friend the craftsman or the teacher or maybe both?’

  Abdullah sipped his coffee which was still a little bitter and a little hot so he would let it rest for a while.

  ‘Your coffee is good as always my friend. I have been given a little job to do which requires someone to help me, someone of a particular kind. I am hoping you will have just such a person here, someone currently training for the Jihad with rough edges who needs a little smoothing by myself to be the help I need. It can be a man or woman, but they must be able to take orders and do what I say. They must also be intelligent and street smart, be able to smell trouble without seeing it, and capable of dealing with it.’

  ‘You are right to come to me and I think we just might have one or two people who fit your requirements. I like to think all our people are special, but as you know some are more special than others. I have our top five people on file here and you can use the laptop to read up on them. I’m needed down at the firing range for an hour, so I’ll leave you alone to read, and when I get back, we can discuss what you want to do.’

  ‘Wonderful my friend, but can you leave me a fresh pot of your wonderful coffee to help me concentrate?’

  When Kalil left, the Arab started reading the files on the laptop screen. He took his time, each file gave a little of what he was looking for, but in the end and after two pots of coffee, there were two separate piles of paper he had printed from the computer. He had been especially interested in where the people on file had come from; their age, their appearance, their special skills if they had any. He was looking for something the instructors hadn’t picked up on, that something that made them special, and looking at a computer screen would only tell the basic story. He worked on the files one by one making notes as he went along. Two hours later he had two possible students; for that would be what they would now become, no matter what they had learned at the camp. If he selected either or both, he was the Teacher, and they would be his students, his apprentices, now he would need to see them and speak with them for himself.

  When Kalil returned the Arab showed him the two files he had printed off.

  ‘I need to speak to these two individually, are they still in the camp?’

  ‘Ah, I see you pick the best fruit my friend. Yes, they are still here I will send for them now. Do you mind which one you see first?’

  ‘No, just don’t tell them who I am. When I speak with them, I’ll do so alone. The less you know the better.’

  Kalil nodded, then taking the radio from his belt he spoke a few words giving the instructions that the two students were to come to the office at once. Fifteen minutes later they could hear voices outside followed by a knock on the door.

  Kalil stepped outside, then returned with a man dressed in desert clothing and desert boots. The Arab guessed he was in his mid-twenties and noticed how he walked across the room to where he sat watching him. The student was what would be described as of Middle Eastern appearance, with olive skin, dark brown eyes, and the beginnings of a beard, he was muscular at around five feet ten in height. So far exactly how he was described in the file on the desk in front of Abdullah.

  ‘Please sit down,’ said Abdullah as he pointed to the chair in front of the desk. Looking first through the file in front of him, the Arab then looked the man in the eyes.

  ‘I’ve been reading your file and I know you speak English so please do. Do you know who I am?’

  ‘No.’

  Abdullah did not elaborate any further.

  ‘It says in your file you originally come from London. Why are you here? I know the standard answers, but I want a truthful one. Why are you really here?’

  The man across the table looked back into Abdullah’s eyes and a slight smile appeared at the corner of his lips.

  ‘Well…?’ asked the Arab.

  ‘I come from a strict Muslim family in Brixton and all my life white, mostly English and Irish men have asked me the same question. ‘Why are you here?’ This was even though I was born there, brought up as a child there, but just because I worshipped a different god and looked a different colour, they hated me, and I didn’t even know them. I went to my local Mosque and, when I was older with some friends, I started to attend the Finsbury Mosque, mainly because it had a reputation for the kind of worship to Allah that I thought I needed.’

  ‘And did it?’

  ‘For a time, but then I saw that the preaching of the holy book was pretty much the same as I had heard before. Then one day a Mullah came to speak. He came from Iran, he was in England illegally, and he talked of Jihad and the need for young men and women to be prepared to fight for the faith. The thing that struck me was that those present were not the usual men, but it appeared to me a select few, who had been observed and invited to this talk. He said something that made me think, he said it did not matter how we fought the Jihad in foreign wars and countries, or on the streets where we lived, but either now or one day soon we would have to fight for our God, our families, our people. I realised then that in my whole life I’d been going through the motions of being a good Muslim but without really committing myself to what that meant.’

  ‘What do you believe now?’

  ‘I decided that I had to be true to myself and Allah, and step forward instead of leaving it to someone else or to future generations. Now is the time of Jihad, of Holy War, and as the Mullah said that day, now is the time for action to get involved, no matter how small or big, you can get involved. Stop leaving it to others, and if you honestly believe now is the time, then step forward. So, I stepped forward with a few others that day and asked how. I’d never been involved with the police or as far as I’m aware I’ve never been under their surveillance, so I left my home and made my way to Iran, with an introduction from the Mullah to some people in Tehran and here I am.’

  He had been leaning forward across the desk in the chair to help get his point to this man asking the questions. Now he sat back, to await the next question from this strange man who seemed to have an air of authority about him that he had never seen before.

  ‘I see from your file you’ve excelled in firearm training and are quite the marksman.’

  ‘Yes, I seem to enjoy that the best, especially the rifle. Maybe, I think, it’s because it can do more damage and I can imagine the damage I can inflict on those people who not only cursed me for the colour of my skin but cursed the God I serve.’

  The Arab could see a flash of anger in the student’s eyes as he spoke these last words.

  ‘It’s easy to imagine killing another, but a far different thing to do so. Do you really believe you could do it? Men, women, children, Christian, non-believers wherever you find them.’

  The student knew from the question and the way it was asked that this man had killed in the name of Jihad and that he knew how to kill.

  ‘I do not hate non-believers. I’m sorry for them; they do not know Allah the Holy One as I do. That is not their fault. But they have been killing my people in the name of their God and will continue to do so unless they are stopped. They have the opportunity to convert but if they ignore that opportunity then according to the Holy Word they must die, and if I am to be the instrument of Allah, then I believe I could do it.’

  ‘So, you want to die for Allah?’

>   ‘I’d rather fight for him, but if it’s the wish of my God that I should die, if that is his purpose, then so be it I will die.’

  The Arab had seen and heard enough.

  ‘When you came in, I asked if you knew who I was. Now, do you have any questions for me?’

  ‘No, I’ve answered your questions and although I’ve not seen you here in the camp before I believe you are here for a reason, a purpose, and if I’m to learn who you are or what that purpose is, you will tell me if I need to know.’

  This was the answer the Arab was hoping for, and the file on the desk had indicated he had made the right choice when asking that the student should be brought to the office.

  ‘Your name in your file is Mohammad Latif is that correct, your true name?’

  ‘Yes, that is the one given to me by my father when I was born and the one on the passport I travelled with through Turkey and to Tehran. I did not want to risk being stopped with a false passport.’

  ‘Where do your family think you are now?’

  ‘When I went to the London School of Economics I lost touch with my family, living in student accommodation. When I finished my degree, it was then I decided to come here. As far as I know no one knows I’m here.’

  ‘You might think that my friend, but the British Secret Service MI6, will notice your passport shows you’ve left the country flying to Turkey and you’ve not returned. Your passport will be highlighted for such a return where you would be detained for questioning. They may even be making enquiries about you as we speak, but they’ll soon let it drop as you do not have a background that has been brought to their attention before, which is good. From this day on I will be your teacher and you will know me as such, that will be my name to you. Tomorrow you will leave here, and you will be brought to accommodation in Tehran where we will talk further. You will not speak of this meeting to anyone. Under my teaching and command, you will take part in a special mission for Allah. You will be given a new identity and passport and the skills you’ve been training for will be put to good use soon. Do you understand all this?’