by Chris Ryan
‘S’pose it’s one of your mates done this?’ said one of the two burly men. The accusation in his voice was ugly.
The old Middle Eastern man shook his head nervously. His eyes darted around, looking for an exit. But the way out was barred by these two menacing white guys, who were clearly looking for trouble. One of them bent over and lifted the edge of the Middle Eastern man’s table. His cup of tea toppled and spilled all over his lap. The man looked confused, then angry – it was an emotion that didn’t suit his face. But then he calmed himself. ‘Please, my friends,’ he said mildly. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss. This is a terrible thing, but it is not done in my name. Please, I don’t want any trouble.’
‘Bit late for that, sunshine . . .’
Danny turned back to Spud and Chamberlain. On his mate’s face he saw an ill-concealed look of disgust. On Chamberlain’s, quite the opposite. Not approval, exactly, nor even enjoyment. Just a kind of bleak satisfaction.
Spud stood up. He walked across the cafe and tapped the two burly blokes on the shoulder. They were both half a head height taller than Spud, and didn’t look like they appreciated the interruption.
‘Sit down, fellas,’ said Spud. ‘You’re blocking the telly.’
The men sneered at him. ‘We’ll sit down when we’ve dealt with the Paki.’
‘You’ll sit down now,’ Spud said, his voice dangerously quiet now, ‘or you’ll fuck off out of it.’
The two men looked at each other with malicious grins.
Neither of them expected Spud’s pre-emptive strike.
He whacked his solid fist against the head of the man on his right. It cracked sharply against the second man’s head and they both staggered, dazed, across the cafe floor. The Middle Eastern man jumped up to his feet. His old bones couldn’t move very fast, but he shuffled up to the door and left the cafe as quickly as he could.
‘He hasn’t paid!’ shouted the waitress. ‘He hasn’t bleedin’ paid!’
Spud pulled a ten-pound note from his pocket and chucked it on the Middle Eastern man’s table. He cast a dangerous glance at the still-staggering men. They looked a lot less certain of themselves now, as if they wanted to hit back but were afraid to muscle up to the tough, broad-shouldered Spud. Typical bullies, crumbling when things didn’t go their way. Spud took a step towards them. ‘Word of advice, fellas,’ he said. ‘Keep yourselves to yourselves. Any more of that shit and if I don’t put you down, my mate over there will.’ He pointed in Danny’s direction, who gave the thugs a dark look as Spud returned to Chamberlain.
‘Breakfast’s on you,’ Spud told the MI6 man. ‘Let’s go, mucker.’
Danny stood up. He nodded at Chamberlain.
‘You’ll find the details of the second target waiting for you,’ Chamberlain said.
As Danny and Spud walked towards the door he found himself zoning in to the commentary from the TV again. At least fifty people are feared dead in what some are calling the worst terrorist strike since 9/11. The prime minister has called it ‘a sickening, cowardly act’ and vowed to bring those responsible to justice.
Out on the street, nothing had changed. The traffic was still backed up. A cyclist was shouting at a driver who’d just opened his door without looking. Exhaust fumes filled the air, and there was no sign of the Middle Eastern man Spud had just saved from a pummelling. Suddenly, Danny heard a familiar sound: the crescendo of helicopter rotors. A khaki RAF Merlin flew low overhead. Not your average, everyday sight in London. They crossed the road and strode back in the direction of their safe house. Danny only looked back once. Chamberlain was at the door of the cafe. He had lit a cigarette and was watching them go.
‘What the fuck was all that about?’ Spud asked. ‘Shark’s eyes – what does he think it is, 1975?’
Danny had no answer. But plenty of questions. Why was Chamberlain so keen to help them? Why had he sought them out, away from his Hammerstone colleagues? What the hell was going on?
‘Is it just me,’ Danny said, ‘or did he not look like he gave a flying fuck about this latest bomb?’
Spud shrugged. ‘He’s a spook and a rupert, mucker. What d’you expect?’
Two minutes later they reached the safe house. There was something on the doorstep.
It was a black flight case, two foot wide, a foot high and a foot deep. They eyed it suspiciously for a moment from a distance of a couple of metres. Then Spud said, ‘Fuck it.’ He stepped forward, picked up the flight case, opened the door and stepped inside.
In the kitchen they opened it up, carefully but with interest. The flight case contained a black tube, about a foot in length, with a built-in battery pack and a trigger.
‘Shark’s eye,’ Danny said, and Spud nodded his agreement.
Looked like Chamberlain had left them a present.
Jamal Faroole did not like this place.
He knew it was secure – that Abu Ra’id was too clever to allow the authorities anywhere near this penthouse flat in the heart of the Docklands, right under their very noses. And he knew he hadn’t been followed. His usual strategy to avoid a trail was to travel to the end of the central line and walk half a mile up a country lane so that anybody following him would be forced to show themselves. But in the wake of the Trocadero bomb that morning the underground was completely shut down. He gave some thought to using his motorbike, but soon discounted that idea. It was parked at his flat in Perivale for a start, and he hadn’t returned there since the day of the Paddington bomb, choosing instead to bunk down at a B&B in Ruislip. More importantly, where a motorbike went, a car could go, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to spot skilled vehicle surveillance. Instead, he had used his pushbike to traverse London, and had squeezed through walkways that no car could possibly cross.
He had avoided the centre. He knew the West End would be locked down, and that police would be everywhere. He’d seen the helicopters flying overhead and heard the sirens screaming past the B&B all morning. From the window he’d seen military trucks, no doubt filled with soldiers, passing on their way into London.
He’d watched the footage on TV, of course, and seen the devastation on Shaftesbury Avenue. The emergency services coming out of the building into the sheeting rain with body bags. The wounded, their faces and clothes bloody, staggering shell-shocked across the debris-strewn pavement. He’d seen the screaming family members weeping into the camera, as increasingly dramatic statistics rolled underneath them. Fifty feared dead . . . a hundred feared dead . . . a hundred and fifty feared dead . . . Part of him exalted at the success of this latest strike. Another, admittedly smaller, part of him hoped that this would not be as spectacular as his own bombing. There was pride at stake, after all.
A little after ten o’clock, however, he’d seen the other major news item. It twisted him up inside as if someone had put a hand round his heart and squeezed it. A second bomb had exploded almost simultaneously in a ground-floor flat in Hammersmith.
One fatality.
A twenty-three-year-old man believed to be of interest to the security services in the wake of last Friday’s explosion in Paddington Station . . . explosives found in the flat . . . thought to be an accidental detonation . . .
Jamal’s lip had curled. He had thumped the arm of his chair in anger and indignation. Thought to be an accidental detonation? He spat on the carpet. He shouted at the TV, loudly at first, though he quickly checked his voice so as not to alert his landlady. He had paced the room, wondering what he should do. Finally he decided that he had no choice. He had to speak to Abu Ra’id. And since there was no way to contact him by phone or e-mail, he would have to go and see him in person.
And so here he was. Pacing the tiles of the posh dining room that made him feel so uneasy. He had bad memories of it. Memories of making the video in which their young jihadi colleague had tried – and failed – to sacrifice himself. Of the strange sound the knife had made when Sarim had forced it into his throat. Of the blood. Detonating a bomb was easy. There was no need t
o see anything, or to witness the brutal reality of what you were doing. Killing someone with a knife was different. Like slaughtering a chicken, instead of buying it ready-fried from KFC. He had relived the moment in his sleep, countless times, and always woken up sweating.
He continued to pace the room. There was no remnant of that moment of martyrdom. The blackout blinds still covered the floor-to-ceiling windows, but there was no bloodied tarpaulin. No backdrop. No camera. Did the room smell a little different to usual? Jamal thought perhaps it did. He tried not to think of that as he sat rigidly on a high-backed dining chair.
The door opened. Jamal felt his heart pound as he expected Abu Ra’id to enter. But it wasn’t the cleric who walked in. It was a young woman, about Jamal’s own age. She had dark skin and curly hair, and wore no make-up, but was beautiful nonetheless. There was a wariness in her dark eyes. A hardness. But she also seemed anxious. She looked around the room, as though checking it for threats. Only after a few seconds did her eyes fall on Jamal. She nodded in an unfriendly way.
‘I’m Jamal.’ He introduced himself uncomfortably. ‘I’ve seen you down the mosque, innit?’
The girl shrugged.
‘Posh crib, this,’ Jamal persisted. ‘Don’t know who pays for it.’
No reply.
‘What’s your name?’
‘I keep it to myself,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe you should do the same.’
Jamal bristled. ‘Yeah?’ he said. ‘Well I’m here to see Abu Ra’id.’ He said it with a certain pride, because to be granted an audience with Abu Ra’id was to be favoured.
‘Me too,’ said the girl.
‘Yeah, well . . .’ Jamal started to say. But he suddenly stopped speaking. A figure filled the doorway. Broad shoulders. Beard flecked with grey.
Abu Ra’id.
‘Welcome, both of you,’ he said. ‘You’re sure you were not followed?’
‘I am,’ Jamal said boastfully.
Abu Ra’id gave the girl an enquiring glance. She shook her head and that seemed to satisfy him. He stepped further into the room. For a moment he stood a couple of metres from where Jamal was sitting, his face quite calm. Suddenly Jamal realised he had taken the only seat in the room. He jumped up as if it had suddenly turned burning hot and looked nervously at the cleric.
‘Thank you, Jamal,’ Abu Ra’id said. ‘I’m not as young as I was.’
He sat down. The chair seemed far too small for him. It creaked as it took his weight.
He paused. Then he looked at each of them in turn.
‘You have done very well,’ he said. ‘I am pleased with you.’
Jamal looked at the girl. ‘Is she . . .?’
‘The Trocadero,’ Abu Ra’id said calmly. ‘She used her charms to lure a young man to his destiny.’
Jamal found himself exchanging a glance with the girl. He clenched his jaw. ‘Sarim is dead, Abu Ra’id.’
The cleric inclined his head sadly and outstretched his palms. ‘We mourn his passing,’ he said, ‘and rejoice that he has achieved paradise.’
Jamal blinked. ‘But . . . but Abu Ra’id, surely you understand what this means.’
Abu Ra’id gazed calmly at him. ‘What does it mean, Jamal?’
‘Well, that he was killed . . . that the security services executed him. That they know who we are, Abu Ra’id.’
There was a dead silence in the room. Abu Ra’id looked again from one to the other. ‘You do not need to worry,’ he said.
‘But Abu Ra’id, they killed him!’
‘No,’ the cleric said. His voice was suddenly sharp, and it made Jamal jump. ‘Listen carefully to me. They did not kill him. Sarim was meddling with explosives. He should have known better. His death was an accident. A terrible accident, but an accident.’
Jamal stared at the cleric. He barely knew what to say. ‘Abu Ra’id . . . that’s what they say on the news, but surely you don’t believe that?’
Abu Ra’id nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I believe it.’
Jamal glanced at the girl. She also looked uncertain at Abu Ra’id’s statement. To contradict the cleric took a braver man that Jamal, however, and he bowed his head in a gesture of respect.
He raised it again as the girl spoke.
‘Abu Ra’id,’ she said. ‘Forgive me, but if you are so certain that the authorities do not know who we are, why are you in hiding here? Why aren’t you at the mosque, where your children are eager to see you and hear your voice? Why aren’t you with your family?’
Jamal held his breath. He had never heard anyone talk to Abu Ra’id like that. The cleric’s face was expressionless as he sat in silence for a moment. Then he stood up and walked over towards the floor-to-ceiling windows. He pressed a button on the wall. Almost noiselessly, the electric blackout blinds rose, to reveal the pristine glass of the windows and the vast sprawl of London spread out beyond.
‘Abu Ra’id,’ Jamal said urgently. ‘Do not stand so close to the window . . .’
But his warning was ignored as the city presented itself before them.
It was an impressive sight. Jamal could see everything: the Shard, the London Eye, the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, Big Ben, the bridges over the snaking Thames. He saw the Millennium Dome, and the unused landing strip of City Airport, framed by an inlet of the river. It crossed his mind how many targets there were in London, each one more iconic than the last.
All three of them continued to stare for a moment. There was something strange about the sight. It took a moment for Jamal to realise that there was barely any traffic on the river, and with a flash of intuition he realised that there were probably only police boats and those run by the security services allowed on the water. Jamal picked out two helicopters hovering lower than them over the north bank of the river. He realised they were flying over Piccadilly, over the site of the latest bomb.
London, he could see from this snapshot, was running scared.
‘Two weeks ago,’ Abu Ra’id said quietly, ‘a drone strike in eastern Pakistan killed one hundred and thirty-six people. It was not even reported in the British press. And yet, when their own people start to die . . .’
His voice trailed off.
He didn’t sound angry. Sad, if anything. That gave Jamal a bit of courage. ‘Abu Ra’id,’ he said. ‘They are mentioning your name on the television and in the newspapers. They are wondering why you have disappeared from the streets. I am worried for you, that they will . . .’
‘QUIET!’ Abu Ra’id roared with such sudden violence that Jamal physically started. He exchanged a glance with the girl, who looked similarly shocked and was edging away from him.
Silence.
Abu Ra’id breathed on the window and, in the mist that formed, he drew the Arabic symbol for God. Jamal felt a chill. He was reminded of the last time he saw that symbol, in this very room, hanging on a backdrop in front of a bloodied tarpaulin.
Abu Ra’id pressed the button again. As the blinds silently descended, he turned. There was a hard glint in his eyes. ‘If you do not wish to continue this important work, please just say the word. Your allegiance will not be in doubt, but there is room in our organisation for many different people’ – he looked over to the wall where the young man had been sacrificed – ‘who we may use for all sorts of different purposes.’
The girl’s eyes fell to the floor. She looked chastened. And scared. There was no doubt in Jamal’s mind that she understood just what Abu Ra’id was threatening her with. As did he.
Abu Ra’id stepped away from the window. ‘You will return to your homes,’ he said. ‘Your home, Jamal. You will not hide like a coward. And you will stay there. Wait for your instructions. And remember: God looks after the faithful, and so do I. But the unfaithful?’ He looked at each of them in turn. ‘The unfaithful are punished.’
He turned his back on them again. The audience, Jamal understood, was over.
He walked backwards to the door. Neither he, nor the girl, he sensed, could get out of ther
e quickly enough.
The corridor that led to the exit was brightly lit. Jamal and the girl hurried down it, shoulder to shoulder. They passed a bathroom on the right-hand side. The door was slightly ajar, and as he hurried by it, Jamal saw inside. It was all marble and mirrors, with crisp white towels piled by the sink and a bath twice the size of any he had ever seen before. Two white towelling dressing gowns hung by a hook on the wall, but in the split second that he passed the door, he noticed something else: black robes of some description, hanging alongside them. A burka. He didn’t know why, but the sight made him feel very uneasy.
Outside the main entrance to the apartment sat the two men who had been in attendance both times Jamal had visited. Dark skin, broad shoulders, no hint of a smile. Jamal didn’t doubt that they were armed, and he felt their aggressive stares burn into his back as he and the woman waited for the elevator to arrive. It seemed to take an age, but even when the doors had closed around them and they had started the long, silent journey to the ground floor, he felt far from safe.
Claustrophobic. Hunted.
Stepping out on to the glamorous marble atrium of the ground floor, with its tinkling fountain and barely audible piped music, Jamal immediately felt the hot glare of the concierge, smartly uniformed behind his desk. He and the girl hurried past him without a word, then out into the early evening.
The plaza in front of the building was crowded. An outdoor fountain glowed thirty metres ahead of them, but none of the pedestrians paid it any attention. They seemed only intent on getting home. It struck Jamal as ironic: they no doubt thought that here, in the business centre of the capital, they were most at risk. And yet their enemy was hiding out right in their midst.
He pulled up his hood and turned to the girl. She still hadn’t told him her name. He thought about asking her again. She was very beautiful, and for a crazy moment he wondered what would happen if he tried to kiss her, even though he knew he was far too shy to do it.
