by Ian Black
Hazma walks a pace behind, until they stand immediately beneath the enormous rotating structure. Imran jogs his enormous body over and hands them both tickets.
Joining a short queue they shuffle along to the front where Ruparela greets the ticket collector warmly, “Good morning, sir,” before pointing towards Hazma and asking the man politely, “My daughter suffers from claustrophobia, especially in crowded enclosed places. As it is quiet today, would it be at all possible to have a pod to ourselves please?” he smiles broadly.
The cockney ticket collector obliges willingly, “No problem, guv, but may I check your bag first?”
Ruparela passes his smart leather shoulder bag over, informing him, “There’s an iPad inside.”
“No problem, guvnor.” The man does a quick security check inside the bag, hands it back then points to the opening door of the next arriving glass-encased pod/capsule rotating into position in front of them. Ruparela steps aboard, as the ticket collector mentions to Hazma, “Mind your clothes don’t catch in the door, love!” Hazma keeps his head down, avoiding eye contact, and steps in.
The door closes automatically as the wheel rotates slowly, inches at a time. They sit alongside each other on a bench seat at the far side of the pod, overlooking grey rippling waters and boats bobbing as the wheel continues its circumnavigation. For 180 degrees, as the pod rises, Hazma admires the expanding vista; a sensational view of the City.
“You’ll enjoy this!” The doctor refers to his iPad, “I think you’ll find my presentation even more spectacular than the view.” Now they’re alone, away from prying eyes, Hazma takes off the headdress. Ruparela passes the iPad across, reaches over, presses a triangular play button and begins a PowerPoint presentation; talking over it with pride. “While you were away, we planned hard, and like I said, the timing of your escape is perfect.” Barely containing his excitement, “Watch carefully. This… will happen… tomorrow!”
The presentation opens onto a colour photograph of the Palace of Westminster and Big Ben, taken from the south riverbank. He gives a running commentary, “Ah… the British Houses of Parliament… quite magnificent in its splendour!”
Picture number two appears, which is an old cartoon illustration of Guy Fawkes and his co-conspirators, with text overlaying the picture entitled The Gunpowder Plot. Ruparela continues, “In 1605, disillusioned with the oppression inflicted on its people by the rulers of England, Guy Fawkes concocted his famous Gunpowder Plot… He planned to kill the king and his government by blowing up the Houses of Parliament… Unfortunately… he was foiled!”
Picture number three is of a large rippling red-white-and-blue British Union Jack flag. An intensifying bitterness grows in the doctor’s voice, “And now, 400 years later… the British government continue to oppress innocent people, at home, and right across the world, and though their once-proud nation crumbles in irreparable demise… they still reek of tyranny!”
Still ascending, the pod, having travelled a third of its circumference, gives a panoramic view of London’s skyline, and though Hazma is engrossed in the presentation, his peripheral vision tempts him to check out the impressive vista teasing the corner of his eye.
Picture number four appears, showing a squadron of British flag-flying tanks travelling across desert sands. Ruparela’s commentary turns into more of a rant now, which refocuses Hazma on the screen; the doctor vents, “Every time there is any disturbance in the Middle East… the British government consider military action, backing up their pals, the trigger-happy Americans!” Bolting upright, he stands at the full-length glass window looking down across the Thames towards Parliament, then with clenched fists thrusts his arms into the air yelling, “IT MUST STOP!”
He turns around wearing a fanatical expression. His passionate outburst inspires Hazma, who’s eager for more, but Ruparela takes a breather, pulls a silk handkerchief from his lapel pocket and wipes away moisture from his brow. His nostrils flare as he snorts in breath, returns the handkerchief, looks Hazma in the eye and pronounces, “Tomorrow, we finish what Guy Fawkes started.”
He sits back down alongside Hazma as the iPad shows picture number five, an aerial satellite view of the Houses of Parliament and its immediate surrounding area. Three black crosses have been marked and lines drawn between them to create a triangular formation overlaying the Parliament building at its centre.
With his fingers, Ruparela zooms in onto Parliament’s roof, and explains, “At midday tomorrow, the Prime Minister holds his question time,” he pokes the screen, “there, in the House… It’s one of the few times that eminent politicians of all parties are in the same place at the same time.”
Picture number six shows inside Parliament, jam-packed with debating politicians. Ruparela continues, “We will take out all of Britain’s MPs… with one strike… The leaders, the cabinet, shadow cabinet, the speaker etcetera, etcetera, all of them, throwing Britain immediately into a state of utter, ungoverned emergency!”
Hazma’s intrigued, “How?”
Picture seven is also taken inside the House, but shot from a low angle with the lens pointing upwards to emphasize the high roof. Ruparela explains, “The MPs meet and debate in the Commons Chamber, a single-story building with a very high ceiling… Tomorrow… Heaven will fall… that ceiling, will crash down upon their heads. The entire British political population will be wiped out… in one blow!”
“But how?”
Picture eight shows the previous aerial satellite photograph, but now three red lines with directional arrowheads have been drawn from the crosses, and each line points and meets directly on a median point at the centre of Parliament. “Triangulated mortar fire!” he explains. “Our engineers have determined that one direct mortar hit will bring down that ceiling… We will fire three! The combination of blast, fire and falling debris will kill practically everyone inside.” Ruparela takes the iPad back and explains further, “In our training camps we tested repeatedly to find the optimum weapon and distance to succeed. A team of six men on three high-powered motorcycles will carry three pre-loaded mortars to predetermined firing points, where trajectories have been calculated to guarantee… a glorious result!”
“Doctor,” Hazma’s impressed, “that’s incredible!”
“I know… thank you, and now you will witness it too!” he returns the iPad to his bag.
With the glass pod now over the top and well into its descent, the doctor points to the niqab. “Put it back on.” Hazma ducks his head in, as Ruparela confirms, “Tomorrow, as Big Ben strikes twelve… we strike Britain!”
The speaker above their heads announces the pod is nearing its docking station. Both men stand in readiness. Ruparela turns to face Hazma, and through the veil’s slotted hole looks him directly in the eye, and then passionately states, “The world has seen 9/11, 7/7… Tomorrow,” he pauses, “we give them something new to name!”
•
Back in the car, as Imran picks his way through unforgiving traffic, Hazma scratches the uncomfortable niqab making him sweat, then confirms with the doctor, “I will be on the attack team?”
Ruparela shakes his head, “No… You weren’t here. I scoured our people from Bradford to Baghdad to find six hand-picked men suitable. They’ve trained for months, I cannot change them now, but don’t despair, you’ll be at my side throughout.”
Hazma sounds disappointed, “I want to play my part.”
“You have played your part…” he assures him. “Your time will come again.”
Hazma’s eyes look dejected; he slumps back in the plush seat.
Imran finds a gap in the traffic and picks up speed, as Ruparela asks, “You still have that iPhone… that the reporter gave you?”
“Yes… it’s in the safe house.”
“Good…” The doctor taps his own iPhone on the table, “I’ll email you a file detailing timings, launch sites, personnel, weapons etcetera, etcetera… Read…” he smiles, “and enjoy!” Continuing to smile, he nods and confirms, “I
’m very pleased you’re home.”
“So am I…” Hazma replies. “We had to get out of there!”
“Ah yes… we. Tell me about your friend… George!”
“He’s a good man… We were thrown together really, cellmates, and surprisingly got on well pretty much straight away. Although our pasts were different, we’d both lost our parents at a young age, so kind of understood what had happened to each other; you know, the hurt… We watched each other’s backs, and he saved me once, when I was… in a… sticky situation. I owe him… He’s my friend, Doctor.”
Ruparela looks perplexed. “That may be the case, but why bring him here, to us? Didn’t you think it may create a problem?”
“No!” Now Hazma sounds perplexed, “I thought my word would be enough. He has no one, nowhere to go. He seems a bit strange I know, but George is an honourable man… I’d trust him with my life.”
“And I’d trust you with mine!” Ruparela replies, then emphasises, “But he’s not like us!”
Hazma turns his head to the side, breaking eye contact.
Which the doctor notes, “I see you are passionate about this.”
“I am!” Hazma looks back. “He’s alone. He has no one… I remember what that’s like… The only other person who’s shown any interest in him… was the journalist.”
“Ah…” He nods. “The American.”
After a pause Hazma asks, “How did it go, when you met her?”
He laughs, “Ha… I tied her in knots!”
Hazma explains, “She reckons she’s trying to understand us, to suggest peaceful solutions.”
He laughs again “Ha!” shaking his head, “What’s to understand? They kill us… we kill them back!”
The car slows to halt outside the safe house. Ruparela leans across the table, grasps Hazma’s hand and says, “Listen, I know this man’s your friend, you escaped together, you trust him etcetera, etcetera, and I do value your word, but… our plans are delicately poised. We cannot take chances… He must remain restrained and detained until our task is complete.” His steely eyes bore into Hazma. “That’s my final decision.”
Hazma knows better than to argue, and lowers his head, “Okay.”
“I will email the file. Study it… Tomorrow, you’ll be my general… I’ll see you later with the others for a final briefing.”
The electric motor slides the door open. Hazma steps onto the pavement, as Ruparela repeats, “Tomorrow will be a great day!”
Hazma nods his shrouded head and watches the door slide closed before the car speeds away, but then from the doorway behind hears Binda’s anxious voice, whispering loudly, “Hazma come quickly!”
He follows him into the house, closes the door and yanks off the headdress and gown with relief; but as he wipes sweat from his face notices that Binda’s sweating too, profusely as he holds the machine gun nervously, twitching, his pulsating eyes protrude like a panicking fly’s.
“What’s wrong?” asks Hazma.
“Your friend is a spy!” he blurts.
“What?”
Binda explains, “After I’d tied and gagged him a phone beeped in his pocket. It was a text message from MI11 intelligence asking where he was and if he was safe… He’s a spy!”
Hazma shakes his head, “Binda, calm down.”
“You’ve been tricked.” He insists, “You’ve let them infiltrate us!”
“BINDA!” Hazma shouts the man down, “The message is not from MI11, it’s from a reporter, Millie, that we met in prison.”
He becomes hysterical, “A REPORTER! WHAT? Does Ruparela know?”
“Yes, yes,” he touches Binda gently on his arm to calm him, “he knows all about it,” and ducks into the cloakroom. But on entering the safe house Hazma groans in dismay, “Oh no! Binda!”
The hard-backed chair lies on its side on the floor, with George bound to it. A stream of drying blood runs from his nostril, across grey two-inch duct tape covering his mouth.
With a pained expression Hazma asks Binda, “Why?”
“He’s a spy!”
“He’s not a spy, you fool!”
“Don’t call me a fool!”
“Don’t act like one then!” Hazma stoops, feeds his arms beneath George and with a struggle wrestles the chair upright, apologising, “I’m sorry, George,” and begins untying the ropes restraining him.
“Don’t do that!” Binda warns forcibly.
He continues untying, “He’s bleeding, Binda… My friend is bleeding because you beat him.”
Binda insists, “Do not untie him! The doctor ordered he must be restrained at all times.”
With his mouth still taped, George swivels his eyeballs between both arguing men, until Hazma crouches down to concentrate on unravelling knots, as a steel mechanism slides and clicks, Binda cocks the machine gun.
That cold distinctive sound stops Hazma dead in his tracks. He looks up at Binda disbelievingly, in stunned silence. After a moment he stands, and very slowly moves towards him, glaring, only stopping when the machine gun barrel actually touches his belly, and then offers his words calmly, “Binda… in case you’d forgotten… I’m Hazma Sahar. Your friend, your brother. I lived with you, I fight alongside you. I go to prison for you, for us, for Allah, and yet, after all that…” he takes a deep breath, shakes his head slowly then yells, “YOU POINT A GUN AT ME?”
Binda flounders for words. Confused, his eyes blink like Belisha beacons; he’s caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, and must follow Ruparela’s instructions, but has strong allegiance to Hazma.
The tense moment is interrupted… by the white iPhone vibrating on the table.
Binda glances at the phone, then back to Hazma. Thoughts flash as his cognitive functions suggest he’s overreacted, which prompts him to slowly lower the machine gun, and relax his shoulders. A second vibration draws Binda’s eyes to the phone, which Hazma sees and snatches the weapon clean from his grasp. With swift deft technique he releases the magazine, clears the loaded round from the chamber and tosses the weapon away across the table.
Binda seems mesmerised by Hazma’s slick action, and nervous as his friend scowls, prowls in close and growls, “Let me tell you something I learned from a Pixie.”
Binda gulps, blinks, and enquires, “What’s that?”
Hazma grabs him by the throat, “DO THAT AGAIN AND I’LL BITE YOUR FACE OFF!”
He tries to pull back, but Hazma retains a firm hold and continues, “YOU IDIOT! Do you really think I’d jeopardise everything by bringing a spy here?”
Binda’s face looks blank. Hazma thrusts him towards the table, taunting, “Check it. Go on. See who the message is from.”
Picking up the phone, he twitches and blinks uncomfortably, then opens the message and reads out sheepishly, “It’s… an email, from, the doctor… an email.”
“Exactly…” snaps Hazma, “from the doctor; an email about tomorrow. I know all about the operation. Ruparela knows all about George.”
Like a scolded child Binda places the phone down, retrieves the weapon, and skulks out through the door.
Hazma returns his attention to George and unties his friend before carefully, but painfully, peeling the duct tape from his mouth. George winces, stretches his jaw wide in relief and stands, stretching out his arms and legs to get circulation moving.
Stood in the middle of the room, George looks around… then in his own inimitable innocent style drawls, “Why have you brought me here?”
With utmost sincerity Hazma apologises, “I’m so sorry, George… honestly. I didn’t think it would be like this. It’s just… there’s something heavy going on, that’s why they’re all nervous, that you’re here… We’ll get you cleaned up, and something to eat and drink.”
“I want to go,” George announces; he means it.
Hazma looks back at him, not knowing what to do or say.
George insists, “I’ve gotta get out of here. You know how that feels. I want to go, now!”
&n
bsp; The Iraqi sighs.
“Haz!” George pleads, “Please?”
“I’m sorry, George…” he shakes his head, “but you can’t.”
“Why?”
Hazma holds his arms out apologetically, “I didn’t know… about an operation… that’s planned for tomorrow.”
“So what? Let me go!”
“I can’t… The operation’s a big one.”
“I don’t care, let me go.”
“You can go afterwards, after tomorrow, when the operation has finished.”
“What’s the big deal then, what is it?”
Hazma checks nobody’s entering the room, then in a hushed voice replies, “It is a big deal… We’re blowing up Parliament.”
Cogs whir in George’s mind, “Where the queen makes rules?”
“Not the queen, the politicians!” He confirms, “Where they peddle pretentious politics with their petty here-heres and stupid orrrderrs!”
“You’re going to blow them up?”
Hazma nods.
“Why?”
“The British government sanctioned invading my country… It was unjust, illegal and proven so. The British politicians that supported it are war criminals, but what punishment did they get? What sentence did they serve?” He answers his own question, mocking, “Bad press! That’s all they got!” Seething his words out, “They must suffer, like my people did, and they will… tomorrow!”
George looks concerned, “How many will you kill?”
Hazma shrugs, “Er… I don’t know, exactly… a few hundred.”
“Will that make your revenge complete… Will you be happy after, and live a normal life then?”
“I…” Hazma’s non-committal, and doesn’t answer.
So George mocks him, “After killing a few hundred people, you don’t know if your anger will be gone?”
“No!” he replies arrogantly, “I don’t!”
George labours his point, “You can’t, just, keep killing, Haz, with no end to it… What’s the point in that?”
Hazma glances at the door.
George continues, “I’ve learnt… I killed two dragons, then ended up in prison with loads of them! But you can’t kill them all… That makes you like them!”
