by Ed Grace
At first, it took him a while, but he kept practicing it. He’d put the small end of the bolt into the bolt carrier. Rotate the locking lug. Slide it forward. Look at the guy next to him as he reached for the gas piston so he could see what it looked like. Put the gas piston in the end of the bolt carrier. Ensure the rear notches align. Insert the buffer. Align the notched end again. Put the dust cover into the notched area below the rear sight. Lock into place.
At first, this took him ten minutes; far longer than anyone else took.
Then it took him five minutes. Then two. Then one.
It didn’t take long until he overtook everyone else and was able to assemble the rifle in under twenty seconds.
Then the rigorous, physically draining parts of weapons training began. He would have to crawl along the ground with his gun, leap over bags of sand, belly crawl through small holes in the ground, jump over tyres that had been set alight, crawl under barbed wire, learn how to attack in convoys and practise targeting his firearm.
He was told to memorise parts of the Quran. He was told to memorise parts of the Hadith. The Five Pillars. Sharia Law.
His Arabic improved and he could recite these in either language.
He prayed. He ate. He slept. Then he woke up the next day and it all started again.
He always looked forward to mornings the most. The drills and operational training took place during the day — the morning would begin with prayers, then a sermon.
It was the sermons that really excited him. They kept him motivated. They reminded him why he was enduring that day’s gruelling training. Various generals spoke of championing the global Islamic community, of how fighting as an ally of Allah will grant them passage to Heaven, and how they would not be deterred just because they were the underdogs — someday the Islamic nations would become the most powerful nations, and they would end the West’s humiliation of the global Islamic community. They were taught about martyrdom, saving the oppressed, honour, the victory of Allah, and the end of days — and the generals were always able to provide the right verse from the Quran to show that Allah believed in their cause, always reminding them that “Allah loves the doers of good.” Even the Quran had managed to predict that “they will continue to fight you until they turn you back from your religion if they are able” — something they would never do.
Zain quickly became a martyrdom seeker. To give his life to fight the oppression of his brothers and sisters would be the most honourable death, and a sure path to Heaven.
They were shown videos. The kinds of images that showed the atrocities committed by the West in its mission to suppress the growth of Islam.
Such as the initial bombing of Iraq. The United Kingdom and United States searched for Saddam Hussain with bombs, and did not care who they killed. They watched footage of homes being lit up, and none of them had Saddam in there.
Videos of CIA training for enhanced interrogation techniques. Interrogators torturing their prisoners with waterboarding, sleep deprivation, controlled fear, and any other act they planned to use to get Muslims to talk.
A film of a bomb going off in a village in Afghanistan. British soldiers celebrated a job well done while mothers searched the rubble for their children.
All reminders of the many reasons they fought Islamic oppression.
Sometimes he thought, if those bastards who killed Fahad could see him now, what would they say? Would they fight, or would they run?
He could aim his AK-47 and spray them with bullets until they were nothing but a pile of bodies.
One day, after training and afternoon prayers, Azeer came to find Zain. He led him away for a private conversation.
Zain felt nervous, like this wasn’t just an ordinary conversation. Like there was something Azeer had to say.
He was right.
“I’m moving you onto a different program,” Azeer told him.
“What? Why? Have I not been doing well?”
“You are doing better than most, and that is why I am moving you.”
“What program are you moving me to?”
Azeer smiled and put a hand on the young man’s shoulders.
“The martyrdom program.”
In that moment, everything fell into place.
Finally, he was going to get his chance to avenge the West’s oppression on Islam.
He was going to be involved in a pivotal moment in this war.
And Allah was going to welcome him to Heaven with open arms.
HMP Brenthall, United Kingdom
NOW
Chapter Forty-Two
Sullivan had one recorder with a limited hard drive, so he had to work hard to ensure he translated everything quickly. He would record Azeer’s conversations every night then, during the day, he would plug headphones in and turn the volume up as high as it would go. He would strain to hear the words but, covering his ears to remove all other noise, he would be able to make out most of them. It was a difficult language, but he’d spent enough time in the Middle East that he could at least tell the difference between the various words.
He hit pause at the end of every sentence. Wrote it down. Played the next sentence. Hit pause. Wrote it down. Played, pause, wrote. Played, pause, wrote.
He wouldn’t have breakfast. He didn’t have time. This would take him all morning, and well into the afternoon.
Then his cell would be opened, and they would be allowed into the courtyard. He would listen to Azeer and his gang leave their cells to intimidate whoever they chose to intimidate that day. He would watch as all the other prisoners went past.
And he would not join them.
Al would usually stop at his door.
“Are you coming out?” he’d say, followed by something like, “we still have a game of Rummy to play.”
“Not right now. Maybe another time.”
Al would look down, disappointed, and hobble away with his walking stick.
Once Sullivan had finished writing down all that was said, he was only halfway there. He’d transcribed the conversations — now for the translations.
He would use the Arabic to English dictionary to look up every word.
But he would find nothing. Just vague sentences, nothing conclusive. The attack was coming soon, but his intel gave him nothing to go on. Just ambiguous comments such as:
Kul shay jahez.
Everything is ready.
Kul shakhs ya’eref ma ’alyh fe’aloh.
Everyone understands what they are doing.
Qareeban.
Soon.
Still, he persisted.
Missing breakfast.
Turning down Al’s requests for a game of cards.
Watching as Azeer left his cell, full of laughs and cajoling his mates.
Transcribing, translating, and repeating.
Until it came to four days before the thirty were up, time was running out, and he did not have a single thing to go on.
He stood, launched his pen across the room, and kicked the bed — an action that caused more harm to his foot than to the metal bed frame.
He hadn’t even realised that their cells had been opened, meaning he didn’t notice Al appear in the doorway behind him.
Sullivan stood, hands on hips, panting.
He recalled Sajid. His death. His pointless, meaningless death.
How many more Sajids were going to die?
Within days, maybe even sooner for all he knew, people were going to die, and the generic statements he kept translating were not helping him to figure out where or when.
“What on earth could be so bad?” came an ageing voice from behind Sullivan.
Sullivan turned, saw Al, and forced a smile.
“You’re not used to being in prison, are you?” Al asked.
“Nah.”
“You’re in for murder. That right?”
“Yep.”
Sullivan hoped his one syllable answers would tell Al that this wasn’t the best time, and he was not in the
mood.
It did not. Instead, Al hobbled into the cell and perched on the end of the bed.
Sullivan quickly shifted his pad and paper out of the way so Al couldn’t see them.
“Oh, don’t worry. I don’t plan to read your memoirs, or whatever it is you’re writing.”
Sullivan said nothing. He wiped sweat from his forehead, despite how cold the cell was.
“Would you like to talk?” Al asked.
“I really wouldn’t,” Sullivan snapped.
“Do you know how long I’ve been here?”
Sullivan shrugged.
“Seventeen years,” Al said. “Seventeen long years. And do you know how much longer I will be here?”
Sullivan didn’t respond. He didn’t care.
“Until the day I die,” Al said anyway. “So you just learn to come to terms with it. Once you accept the way things are, it becomes a lot easier.”
Sullivan scoffed. He’d spent too much time accepting the way things are. He’d accepted being a trained killer. He’d accepted being a wandering nomad. He’d accepted being a useless alcoholic.
Acceptance was what kept making him resolved to stay in shitty situations.
“You lost someone, didn’t you?” Al said.
“What?”
“I saw your face when you watched the news of the terrorist attack in Brighton. Someone you know was killed, weren’t they?”
Sullivan leant against the sink. Folded his arms. Dropped his head.
“Yeah,” he admitted.
“A woman?”
“Yes.”
“Was she a girlfriend of yours?”
What a question.
Was she a girlfriend?
She’d tried to be.
“Sure.”
“That’s the hardest part of this. Not being able to go to a funeral, or to say goodbye, or even know what’s happening. You’re trapped, and she’s gone.”
Sullivan nodded.
“Tell me about her.”
Sullivan hesitated.
“Her name was Kelly,” he said. “She was…”
“Beautiful?”
Sullivan chuckled. “You could say that.”
“Yeah, they always are, the most dangerous ones. Always so beautiful.”
“I think I was more dangerous than her.”
Al nodded. “Didn’t treat her right?”
“Could say that.”
“Regret it?”
“I regret a lot of things.”
“See, that’s the thing about women. They will forgive far more than we ever would. They put up with our shit, and we resent them for it — how bad is that?”
Sullivan said nothing.
“But they are also intuitive — especially the beautiful ones. They know. Even if you don’t say it, they know what you’re feeling. So long as you kept fighting for her, she will have known how you felt.”
“You think?”
“Oh, I know. She knew that you loved her, even if you didn’t.”
Al stood, using his walking stick to pull himself to his feet and regain his balance.
“Now stop moping around in your cell and come out and play a game of cards,” Al said.
“Maybe later. I still have some things to do.”
“Fine.”
Al hobbled to the door.
“Hey, Al,” said Sullivan.
Al paused and looked back. “Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Al nodded and left.
Sullivan returned to the translating, remembering why he was doing this.
Because Kelly would want him to.
Because he was the only one who knew.
Because he was the only one who could do anything about it.
So he kept going, over and over again, looking up each word. He found nothing, after nothing, after nothing.
His patience began to wane, and he grew more and more annoyed.
He just never found anything.
Until it was two days to go, and he did.
Unfortunately, it may already be too late.
Chapter Forty-Three
Kelly was eventually returned to her cell. She could not give them answers while she was dipping in and out of consciousness, and they needed her to recover before they delivered the next round of torment. They fixed her wrists to the chains that hung from the wall, leaving her to dangle with her knees a few inches above the floor.
She was beyond degraded and beyond hurt. She was broken. She was a wreck.
But she was also defiant.
She had kept her mouth shut and come to terms with the agony. Hopefully, they would not need her beyond their next attack; they only wanted to know how MI5 knew about the Brighton Pier bombing so they could ensure no one would stop the next bomb. The thirty days were nearly up, and after that, it wouldn’t matter. Death couldn’t be too far away. She just had to endure until then.
Or she could try to escape. If she was going to die anyway, what did she have to lose?
She had little energy left in her, but she had plenty of fight.
Her crotch was bloody and numb. Her body was empty yet heavy. Her mind was fatigued.
But her resolve was not yet dead.
All she needed was a chance. An opportunity. Her hands may be bound and her body may be hurt, but her awareness was intact. If she could just find her moment, an opportunity, some way she could fight back…
She shook her head. Was she being foolish? Delirious?
Most people in her position would accept their fate.
Actually, most in her position would talk.
She refused to be most people.
So she waited, helplessly dangling. She didn’t know if they were watching her, it was too dark to know. So she played up to it.
She hit her feet around like she was finding it too painful. She thrashed out like she was desperate to lie down.
She closed her eyes and bowed her head, pretending she was just about to lose consciousness.
As soon as she did, more thrash-metal music played on loudspeakers next to her ears. It was a horrible, uncomfortable sound. Brief, yet painful. Her ears throbbed at the screams.
It ended, and she opened her eyes.
These were techniques the CIA had been known for in their fight against terrorism. They had called them Enhanced Interrogation Techniques.
The rest of the world had called it torture.
There was a whole list of things they could still try. She hadn’t been waterboarded yet. She hadn’t been subjected to any medically invasive procedures. Hell, she was surprised they hadn’t molested her yet — surely that would be next?
She refused to accept it.
She refused to answer their questions, and she refused to relent in her determination to defy them.
She closed her eyes and played at being hurt. She was hurt, but she exaggerated it, made it more.
She did not want them to know she had her wits about her.
She did not want them to know that she had no intention of enduring anymore of these barbaric acts.
Just come and get me, she thought.
Then they’d see just how much this little, insignificant, inferior woman was capable of.
Chapter Forty-Four
Azeer was happy.
He couldn’t have dreamt of a month as glorious as this, and he thanked Allah for watching over him in his mission.
He lay in bed, dreaming of the final demonstration. The oppressors of Islamic state, these infidels, these representatives of Satan — they would have no idea how much suffering they were yet to endure.
The biggest attack was coming.
Hasim turned his phone on, just as he did for two minutes every day, checking for messages from Alhami.
They never had any messages. Everyone knew not to contact unless it was an emergency. On this day, however, the phone vibrated and received a text.
Azeer asked Hasim, “Man haza?” Who is this?
Hasim hesitated.
“Man?” Who?
They did not say the name of their confidants aloud, but Azeer had no doubt who it was. Hasim showed the screen to Azeer, and he was right.
He sighed.
Zain was a good man, and he was growing into a fierce warrior. But he was also young. Timid. Shy. Despite being such a brilliant servant of Allah and a soldier for the cause, he doubted himself too much.
“Aatini alhatef.” Give me the phone.
Azeer snatched the phone and rang him.
Hasim looked out of the window, checking for any prison officers that may walk past.
He said, “Ma alamr?” What is it?
“Azeer, I just had to talk to you.”
“Why?”
“I’m just…”
Azeer knew Zain wanted to say nervous, but did not have the guts to admit such a thing.
“Remind me what you’re fighting for,” Azeer said.
“I know what I’m fighting for, it’s—”
“Then remind me.”
Zain sighed. “Allah. My brothers. My sisters. For the slaughter of fallen Muslims.”
“And who slaughtered them?”
Another sigh. “They did.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“The Americans. The British. The French.”
“Think bigger.”
“The United Nations.”
“You’re right. That means no one is on our side but us.”
“I just—”
“You just nothing.”
“I’m worried I’ll screw it up.”
Azeer gripped the mattress.
“Remember your training. We have taught you all you need.”
“I just—”
“I will be there with you.”
There was a pause.
“You will?” Zain asked.
“Yes. I will be there to pray with you. I will be there to remind you of the glory you will find. I will be there to remind you of Allah’s love.”
