Ride or Die

by Khurrum Rahman

‘You know Central Masjid, Southall, right?’

  ‘I know of it,’ I said.

  ‘Every day, just before Zohar prayers, a small crowd would gather outside the Mosque to listen to Ali Akbar.’ Omar paused, expecting a response. Was I, Jihadi Jay, supposed to know this Ali Akbar guy? Should I have been on some sort of Jihadi WhatsApp group?

  I dropped him a shrug. ‘I’ve not heard of him.’

  ‘He was an educator.’

  I stopped myself from snorting through my nose. Educator! Hate preacher would be more accurate. The type who attach themselves like fucking cancer and spit hate in places of peace, and they do it with free speech as their protector.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘The crowds would grow and circle around Ali Akbar’s feet, but Tommy here kept his distance, as though he didn’t belong, but he would hear everything. He listened to every truth, as Akbar spoke about every unjustified attack on Muslims around the world. He learnt how we developed our strength and resilience, that we weren’t bound by uniform or the rules of war. How ordinary people performed extraordinary acts.’

  I lifted my eyes and risked a look at Tommy through the rear-view mirror. Thankfully his eyes were off me, but his face was set tight and his gaze was out of the window. I turned back to Omar, who in stark contrast had a face full of emotion, and was animated with it. He was in his fucking element.

  ‘We showed them that what they have in weaponry and technology, we have twice that in heart. We refused to kneel down while they took us apart in our own homes. We retaliated in kind and devastated them. Berlin, Brussels, Paris. We fucking devastated them!’

  From the backseat, Tommy said, ‘London.’

  ‘Yeah, Tommy!’ Omar laughed cruelly. ‘London, too. Especially London.’

  We sat quietly for a minute with only the sound of my heaters on full. I stared out through the windscreen as the rain started to come down and hamper my view. I ignored Omar, who was glancing at me as if he wanted me to react, respond, fucking rejoice.

  Omar – who else? – broke the silence. ‘There’s a war taking place right under our noses. We can’t hide from it. Tommy here recognised that he had to pick a side.’

  ‘I’m going back inside,’ Tommy responded, and skulked out of the car, his presence replaced by the chill.

  ‘Don’t worry about him, he’s just a little frustrated,’ Omar said. ‘The rain’ll cool him down.’

  I watched him through the watery film of my windscreen. Despite it pissing down he walked slowly and let himself into the house.

  ‘Can you trust him?’ I asked. If I could cast suspicion or mistrust on a next man then chances are I wouldn’t be looked at with suspicion.

  Omar considered my question for a moment. ‘Who can you trust anymore, Jay? Everyone has an angle,’ he said. ‘As long as I can see the angle, that’s good enough for me.’

  ‘What angle?’ I questioned, because once again I didn’t know what the fuck he was chatting about.

  ‘I wanted something from Tommy, and he delivered. He wants something from me, which I will deliver soon enough. Then we walk away in separate directions.’

  ‘What’s he want?’

  Omar turned in his seat and with smiling eyes said, ‘Guns, Jay! AK-47 assault rifle and a matching sidearm. Untouched, untraceable and enough ammunition to blast a hole in the history books.’

  I fought to stay in his shadow, to stay perfectly still. I’d been here before, with his father. A road trip north.

  Coventry.

  ‘That’s right!’ Omar nodded and I realised that I’d uttered it out loud. ‘My father told me how you accompanied him to Coventry to acquire weapons for the Oxford Street attack.’

  I closed my eyes.

  ‘Ten sawn-off AK-47s. Ten Glock 19s,’ I said in a whisper. ‘Yeah, I remember.’

  When I opened my eyes he had his hand out, formed into a fist. I summoned up the energy to bump my fist with his and match the glint in his eye.

  ‘What’s Tommy got in mind?’ I managed to ask. I had to know.

  ‘I don’t know, and I don’t need to know. Too much knowledge can be dangerous, you feel me? I am merely a facilitator.’

  ‘Alright, okay,’ I said buying some time. I wasn’t going to learn anything more about Tommy, but I needed to know more about the bigger picture. ‘So you’re the London connection for Ghurfat-al-Mudarris?’

  ‘Shit, Jay, you really have been off the radar. Ghurfat-al-Mudarris has ceased operations. There’s a new wave, which I’m part of. Have you not heard of Al-Muhaymin?’

  ‘Al-Muhaymim,’ I repeated slowly, committing it to memory.

  ‘Min,’ Omar corrected. ‘Al-Muhaymin. Definition: Bestower of Faith. A splinter cell based on the teachings of Al-Mudarris, but the methodology is very different. Gone are those days of careful planning, years in the making. Al-Muhaymin attacks are at will.’

  Omar was right. Things had changed. New York 9/11, London 7/7, articulated attacks, meticulous planning. Now there was an impatience, the surge of a new terrorist. Homemade bombs, acid attacks, using vehicles to mow down innocent bystanders, for fuck’s sake. It was happening, and it was being carried out by those on both sides of the war.

  ‘I visited Afghanistan earlier this year,’ Omar continued. ‘I met with some of the senior members of Al-Muhaymin. They kept me close, but they also kept me on the outside.’ Omar turned and looked at his father’s house. The way it loomed over us, I swear it had moved a few feet. ‘It didn’t matter that my father died for The Cause, they wouldn’t reveal their secrets.’

  ‘So you’re not a part of Al-Muhaymin? You’re just another sympathiser.’

  ‘Maybe that was true, but not anymore.’

  ‘What’s changed,’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  Omar opened the car door and stepped out, the cold rushed in and rooted me to my seat. I looked past him, at the house of horror. Omar popped his head back through the open door.

  ‘Come on, then. I have a gift for you.’ He shut the car door behind him. I debated my next move for all of a second. I flipped open the glove compartment and wrapped my fingers around Imy’s handgun.

  Chapter 30

  Major General Stewart Sinclair sat straight-backed at the head of the long table in Boardroom 3 of the SIS building. He sat alone. The rest of Thames House was abuzz with nervous energy. The breathtaking and calming view of the River Thames was unable to help him find the solace of the answers that he was searching for.

  Sinclair was second to John Robinson in grade and nothing else. He was a military man who insisted on keeping his title. In 2016 he had been drafted by MI5 to help locate and capture The Teacher, the man they now knew as Abdul Bin Jabbar. It had been in this very room that Sinclair had insisted upon and initiated the move to enlist Javid Qasim.

  Now, in the very same room, the Major was starting to doubt the decision of recruiting the son of the most wanted man in the world, and allowing him access to secrets vital to national security.

  The door to Boardroom 3 opened without prior warning, and a head glanced inside as though it had popped itself around many doors before locating him.

  ‘Ah, Lawrence,’ Sinclair bellowed, the authoritative boom in his voice not diminished regardless of the developments concerning Qasim’s involvement in Robinson’s capture.

  Teddy Lawrence glanced around the room, as if the conversations held in that room echoed back at him. ‘Major, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ he said, with only his head present in the office. ‘We’ve established eyes on the location.’

  Sinclair nodded, showing no sign of urgency, his head inclined towards the window, eyes on the grey river under the grey, overcast sky. Lawrence waited a beat for a response. He checked the time on his watch before shutting the door behind him, and took a seat adjacent to Sinclair.

  ‘You don’t seem yourself, my boy,’ Sinclair said.

  ‘It’s been an incredible forty-eight hours. First the mess with I
mran Siddiqui. And now this with Javid Qasim. So, yes, you could say I’m feeling a little—’

  ‘Restless?’

  Lawrence nodded. ‘I should update you, Major. This morning we questioned a Ravinder Dhaliwal, a BT Openreach engineer. We made it abundantly clear that the odds were very much against him, and he didn’t hold back. It would seem that he was contacted by one Samuel Carter to carry out private work for him. Highly illegal and highly lucrative, to the tune of ten thousand pounds, with ten more to follow on completion. Cash. An offer too good to resist for a family man with a gambling addiction. The job was to disable the fibre line from the exchange which sat at the end of the Clareville Road. Layman’s terms, he disabled the broadband for the whole street, rendering the CCTV useless between sixteen hundred and eighteen hundred hours. The same window that John Robinson was taken.’

  Sinclair shifted ever so slightly in his chair as rain started to spit at the window.

  ‘We also contacted S&L domestic services, who provided us with the name of the young lady who was on duty at Robinson’s home. Sophia Hunt. We still haven’t located her yet. However, a search was carried out at her property and we seized ten thousand pounds hidden away neatly within her personal computer. Like Dhaliwal, Hunt is also in financial straits. We’re not able to confirm until we have spoken to Hunt, but I’m certain that Samuel Carter is the benefactor.’

  Lawrence had said much and wanted to add more, but Sinclair was staring into the distance and Lawrence wasn’t sure if he was wasting his time and breath. So he waited, checking his watch again, and eventually Sinclair said, ‘Qasim?’

  ‘We have two two-man teams on surveillance at a location in Osterley, West London. And a helicopter circling two miles out. The house belongs to the late Adeel-Al-Bhukara who we know had ties to Ghurfat-al-Mudarris. We’ve been following Qasim ever since he left his home this morning. First he was sighted at Clareville Road, hovering around Robinson’s house. And now we’ve followed him to the Osterley location.’

  The rain picked up, silent in its attack through the thick glass. The River Thames looked angry and judgemental as the waves crashed against the Albert Embankment opposite. Lawrence itched to leave and be back in the Comms room, watching the developments unfold on screen, but he could feel Sinclair had something on his mind. Lawrence waited patiently, finding the will to not check his watch for a third time.

  Then in a soft tone that Lawrence was not familiar with, Sinclair spoke.

  ‘We’ve treated that boy badly.’

  ‘Major?’

  ‘Coercion, Lawrence. Lies! Repeatedly, for our own gain. We sent a young man, ill-prepared, halfway across the world into hostile territory in the full knowledge that what he would discover would have a psychological effect on him. A devastating effect! If that wasn’t enough we dangled him like a carrot to an ass without any concern for his welfare. And once we reached our goal, captured his father, we simply washed our hands of him. Now look! Look where he is now. Back at the house where we once sent him to be groomed.’

  ‘With all due respect, Major. I don’t think it’s what it looks like.’

  Sinclair thumped his fist on the table. The water in the glass jug in front of him rippled angrily, like the river outside. Sinclair turned his attention away from the window and met Lawrence’s eyes.

  ‘It looks like Qasim has finally decided which side of his toast he likes buttered, is what it bloody looks like. It looks like he’s involved in the abduction of John Robinson! Possibly the murder! I would not be bloody surprised!’

  ‘All due respect, Major. We shouldn’t ever have used Qasim. Not like that anyway. But… bottom line, we reached our objective.’

  ‘At what cost, son?’ Sinclair said. ‘The decision Robinson made behind his desk, the decision that I made in this very room, has had a very real and irrevocable effect in the real world! We have pushed and pushed that boy until his only choice was retaliation.’

  ‘Retaliation? Is that what you think, Major?’

  ‘You don’t agree, Lawrence?’

  ‘God knows Jay doesn’t see the same picture as we do, but I just can’t see him involved in the abduction. I can’t.’

  ‘But he is involved. You’ve seen the CCTV footage with Qasim and Sophia Hunt in the phone box. The same girl who we can place at the time and location of the abduction. How have we not found her yet?!’

  ‘ANPR cameras picked up Jay’s BMW on the M4, getting off at junction 3 towards Hounslow, after which he took back roads and kept under the radar of any CCTV.’

  ‘Under the radar!’ Sinclair snorted. ‘That would be his past drug-dealing experience.’

  ‘With all due res—’

  ‘Stop saying that,’ Sinclair snapped. ‘Respect is implied. Speak freely.’

  Lawrence placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward drumming his fingers gently. Sinclair allowed him the time to gather his thoughts.

  ‘I just can’t see it,’ Lawrence said, evenly.

  ‘Tell me, Lawrence, if not this, then what?’

  ‘You’re right. We have treated Jay badly, no question. And if we had to make the decision again… I think it would be the same. Time and again. Let me tell you how I see it, and bear in mind that Qasim and I have history, a semblance of a relationship, albeit not a great one. Despite how we’ve treated him, and despite his connection to Ghurfat-al-Mudarris, I believe Jay is on our side.’

  Chapter 31

  Jay

  It chilled me. Made my heart dip way down into the pit of my stomach, and I knew it wasn’t just the cold, it was this house. This hole of fucking evil.

  ‘Upstairs,’ Omar said as he climbed up the narrow staircase.

  I placed a foot on the bottom step, gripped the banister and willed myself to follow him. Memories, so fucking unwanted, came rushing at me, the way my Brothers would skip up these very stairs twice a week in excitement and anticipation for sessions packaged as Islamic Studies with Adeel-Al-Bhukara holding court, spilling and spouting and indoctrinating impressionable young minds into believing they had no choice but to stand, to fight for a bullshit cause.

  Here I was, back again, following Omar, the rotten apple who’d landed pretty fucking close to the tree. Each step I took was an effort, the stairs steep and neverending, the chintzy faded wallpaper closing in on me and making me gag. Halfway up and I wanted to drop to my knees and throw the fuck up. I managed to reach the top and tried to even my breathing, but I’d always been shit at that, so instead I just exhaled loudly, a cloud of warm air coming from my mouth. There was a pull-down metal ladder leading up to the loft. I held onto it, in case my legs gave way.

  ‘Brings back some fond memories, huh?’ Omar said.

  I averted my eyes and they betrayed me by landing on the closed door which led to the unfurnished bedroom that I wished I’d never set foot in.

  ‘It’s where it all happened.’ Omar smiled a sad little smile. I nodded and tried to mirror it. ‘How many walked into that room determined? How many marched out of there like soldiers?’

  I forced myself to meet his eyes.

  ‘You, Jay, you were one of them. You were the most important.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I said, but the words barely left me.

  ‘Do you want to…?’ Omar gestured towards the room. ‘Trip down memory lane?’

  ‘No!’ I said sharply, stupidly. ‘Maybe later.’

  ‘Right!’ Omar clapped his hands loudly, breaking me out of my trance. He craned his skinny neck and looked up towards the open hatch. ‘Hang back a minute, let me see if your gift is ready.’ He climbed up the metal ladder and disappeared through the hatch.

  I heard a hushed exchange, and realised that Tommy was already up there.

  ‘I don’t trust him,’ I heard him say.

  ‘Keep quiet. He’s down there,’ Omar said, in a whispered berating, his voice bouncing off the confines of the loft and making its way down through the hatch.

  ‘Why’d you have to tell him al
l that shit about me?’ Tommy hissed. ‘You see how he was looking at me in the car.’

  Fuck! He’d noticed. Obviously he’d noticed. I was so vexed at what he did to Sophia that my contempt must have been painted on my face.

  ‘I need you to chill the fuck out. In fact, wait for me downstairs.’

  ‘I’m staying put.’

  ‘You had one job, which you have done and which you will be rewarded for. The rest of it is none of your damn business. Go wait for me downstairs.’

  I took a step back as mud-encrusted black boots set foot on the ladder. Tommy climbed down and without acknowledging me he stomped his way downstairs.

  Omar popped his head through the hatch. He rolled his eyes. ‘Can’t get the staff nowadays. Come up.’

  I scaled the ladder and climbed inside. It was like ice up there, colder than the rest of the cold house, colder than I’d ever been. I zipped my parka jacket all the way up and lifted my hood tight over my head.

  A dim light came from a bare bulb at the end of the loft, illuminating a figure. Through the tunnel vision of my hood I could make out the shape of an overweight man slumped on a chair. I’d never met him before, but I had no doubt that I was staring at John Robinson. I kept my emotions in check.

  ‘My gift to you,’ Omar said, gesturing like a magician. ‘The Assistant Director of Counter Terrorism.’

  I nodded my head within my hood, glad that he couldn’t make out my reaction.

  ‘We don’t have much insulation up in here, it’s the coldest part of the house,’ Omar said, and I didn’t have to look at him to know he was smiling. ‘Let’s go say hello.’

  I took the smallest step, followed by another, and it felt like a journey. This was the man I held solely responsible for fucking up my life. For dangling me like a juicy fucking carrot to entice Bin Jabbar out of hiding, without regard for my safety. The same motherfucker who, despite what I had done for him, had always doubted where my loyalty lay.

  I stood in front of him.

  Robinson was tied topless to a chair, the rope eating easily into his flesh. His naked torso trembling from the cold. I looked down at the top of his slumped, balding head. The broken shell of a once powerful man, who had made decisions from the safety and comfort of his desk, decisions that had seen innocent Muslims suffer. He was asleep or unconscious or near death, and I could hear a humming vibration through his closed mouth, an effort to stay warm. Blue veins mapped his body which had turned a patchy grey, and I counted seven holes drilled into his shoulders, arms and waist, encrusted in dried blood. I stopped counting and snatched my eyes away from his tortured, holey body and lowered my eyes to his wet-stained lap and the smell of stale piss hit me.