Circle of Fire

by S. M. Hall

  ‘So, are you sending anybody up to Leeds?’ Maya asked.

  ‘No need,’ Simon said, reaching for his jacket. ‘There’s already a surveillance team up there. They know about the bookshop.’

  Maya’s mind was buzzing. ‘So, you can get somebody to track him – arrest Khaled Husain.’

  Simon’s face wrinkled. ‘We don’t want to arrest anybody at the moment. The balance is precarious. Let’s see what develops.’

  ‘I’m sure Mum’s in Leeds,’ she said. ‘The kidnappers had northern accents. They could have moved her into a different car. They could have deliberately confused you.’

  Simon picked up his briefcase. ‘I’m perfectly aware of that, but there are other things linking the kidnap to the farmhouse. I have to go,’ he said.

  ‘Then I want to come with you,’ Maya said, getting up.

  ‘That’s out of the question.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t know what’s going to happen.’

  ‘Then let me go up to Leeds. I could speak to this Khaled guy. Nobody would suspect me.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘That’s not possible, Maya. Your mother would never forgive me if I put you in danger.’

  ‘Where’s the danger? You just told me Pam’s not been taken north, that she’s in the farmhouse. I’d just be talking to a guy.’

  ‘And what if he’s the one who betrayed Pam?’ Simon asked her. ‘No, we have specially trained agents to do this sort of work.’

  ‘But I could go now,’ Maya said determinedly. ‘Olivia could take me. Mum wouldn’t have sent me a message if she didn’t want me to find Khaled and talk to him.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘No, Maya. I think you misunderstood.’

  ‘But she knows . . . she knows she can trust me. And she knows I’ll be desperate to help, so she’s giving me something to do. Don’t you see? And I’m Muslim. Well, my family was. It wouldn’t be dangerous because they’d think I was one of them. She wants me to go and speak to Khaled Husain, I know she does.’

  Simon bit his lip and winced. ‘The best thing you can do for your mum is stay here and stay safe. She may contact you again – her message gave us three days.’

  Maya was only half-listening, she was looking into the distance, her lips pressed together, biting at her nails. ‘Mum told me,’ she whispered. ‘She wanted me to go.’

  ‘I have to leave,’ Simon said, putting on his jacket. Picking up Pam’s laptop he turned to Helen. ‘We’ll let you know the minute there’s any news.’

  They watched him go across the garden, slip through the hedge and stride across the back field towards the helicopter.

  Maya felt he was deserting them, and hope drained away as he disappeared from sight. She wasn’t sure he’d really listened to her, treated what she’d said seriously enough.

  ‘I’m going up to my room,’ she told Gran.

  ‘Why don’t you stay down here? I’ll make us all a cup of tea,’ Olivia suggested.

  ‘Yes,’ Helen said, ‘that would be nice.’

  ‘I want to be on my own for a while,’ Maya said. Slowly she climbed the stairs, went into her room and locked the door behind her. Sitting down at the desk she reached into the back of a cupboard and pulled out her laptop, then she bent to open a drawer. Copying Pam’s files had been smart, the one good move she’d made, and she congratulated herself as she slotted in the disk. Elbows on the desk, she propped her head on her hand, stared at the photo of Khaled Husain and re-read her mum’s words – Khaled Husain, Manager of the Red Moon bookshop.

  It was true that when she was little and Pam’s work had taken her overseas, they’d had an understanding that wherever Pam was, she’d look up at the moon and think about Maya, and from her bedroom window Maya would do the same. One snowy night, the night before her eighth birthday Maya had been in their London apartment staring at the moon hanging above the city skyline, hoping her mum would be back in time to help her celebrate. It would be easy to think that was what Pam had been remembering – but Maya knew it was something more.

  Scrolling down the report she read:

  A group in Leeds calling themselves the Allied Brotherhood are the English cell of Red Moon. Self-styled leader of the AB is Omar Hamed.

  Maya’s mind flicked back. She pictured the driver of the silver Mercedes. She was certain he’d been watching her and Pam, waiting for them to reach a pre-arranged spot so that he could alert his men. It surely wasn’t a coincidence that he’d driven past and scared them just before the jeep arrived.

  Operation Red Moon is a plot to blow up major public attractions at weekly intervals in important European cities this summer. When the code word is given, their plan will be put into operation. The * marked characters are pledged suicide bombers.

  Maya’s blood ran cold as she scanned the rows of photographs. She was sure these were the people who’d captured Pam. Bombings, shootings, beheadings – every gory picture she’d ever seen in the newspapers and on TV bloomed in her head. When she looked again at Khaled’s picture, she saw it was marked with an asterisk. Just as before, his eyes seemed to be telling her something. Did he know where Pam was? Was he a friend or an enemy?

  She leaned forward, scrolled down the screen and studied the other photos. Men with beards, mostly young, some wearing tight black caps, a couple with long hair under baseball caps. A few women, their heads covered, their eyes dark and unsmiling. Twelve photos marked with an asterisk – nine young men and three women willing to die for their cause.

  Maya’s eyes flicked over them, and one image in particular caught her attention – a man with a round podgy face who was almost smiling, his nose broad, a gap in his front teeth – but the most distinctive feature on his face was a scar across his forehead. She leaned closer, staring. It was him! One of the guys who’d grabbed her. She’d glimpsed the scar under his hood. It was unmistakable.

  A deep shudder ran through her. Gripping the edge of her desk she closed her eyes. In the distance she heard the helicopter taking off from the back field. Simon was on his way to the farmhouse, but here in front of her was evidence to show it was the Leeds group who’d captured Pam. Simon was heading in the wrong direction.

  Her mum’s words echoed in her head. Look for the moon, Maya. As she twisted the ring on her finger, her mind was flooded with sounds and pictures. Ear-shattering gunfire, the spatter of gravel, blood, thick and dark, draining life, glistening on grass.

  She squeezed her hands together, saw a cellar, stone-cold and dark. A family in hiding, a little girl clinging to her mother’s hand. From outside came the crack of rifles, the shouts of a crazed mob. Huddled together, the family waited. Finally the firing stopped. A door opened, footsteps thumped down the stairs.

  That was the last time she saw her family. Pam had rescued her. She owed her life to Pam; now it was time to honour that debt.

  Chapter Eight

  Working quickly and quietly, Maya grabbed a small rucksack and threw in her mobile and some basic clothes: a fresh pair of jeans, knickers, a couple of tops. Skidding into the bathroom she scooped up toothbrush and toothpaste, caught sight of her face in the mirror, wiped a smear of blood from her upper lip and smoothed a dab of concealer over a graze on her cheek. From the hook on her door she picked up a jacket, put it on and was ready. Looking out of the window, she spotted two security guards on the back lawn and a host of TV cameras and journalists at the gate. Somehow she had to get out of the house without being seen.

  Money! Scooting over to her desk, she snatched her purse out of the drawer, made sure her bank card was in it and shoved it in the zip compartment of her rucksack. Hoisting the rucksack onto her shoulder, she tiptoed over to the door and listened. Somebody was coming up the stairs.

  There was a light knock on her door.

  ‘Maya? It’s Gran. Are you all right?’

  She slipped back the bolt and put her head round the edge of the door. ‘Is there any news?’

  ‘No, nothing yet,’ Helen
answered.

  Maya sighed. ‘I’ll come down soon. I just want to be on my own for a while.’

  ‘All right, darling.’

  She listened to Gran’s footsteps fading and going downstairs. A pang of guilt struck her – if she left the house, she’d cause Helen more worry. But she had to go. She couldn’t just sit around and wait three days – she had to do something.

  Snatching up a notepad, she scribbled a quick note to Helen and left it on her pillow. Don’t worry Gran. I’ll be back soon. Then, tiptoeing along the landing she glanced over the banister into the hall below. There was nobody there, but spotting the cellar door gave her a great idea – a short tunnel led from the cellar to the old ice house in the back garden.

  Blood racing, nerves trembling, Maya crept down the stairs. At the end of the hallway she wrenched opened the cellar door. It creaked loudly. Without waiting to hear if anybody would come running to investigate, she moved forward onto the top of the cellar steps, closed the door behind her and was immediately swallowed by darkness.

  Feeling for every step, she edged her way down. At the bottom it was slow-going, but she didn’t dare put on the light. She crept forward, running her hand over the crumbling surface of the wall until she found the opening of the tunnel to the ice house. A damp, musty smell rose as her fingers traced the curve.

  The tunnel seemed much longer than she remembered but, at last, her hand touched a smooth, hard, flat surface in front of her. Raking along what she hoped was the top ledge of the door, she touched something cold; it moved, and her hand closed round a key.

  The lock was stiff and took precious minutes to open. Maya cursed softly as she snagged a nail and hurt her bandaged hand, but eventually she succeeded – the key turned. Wedging her shoulder against the door, she gave a few mighty pushes and shot out like a cannonball into the garden and daylight.

  Blinking as sunlight flooded her eyes, she looked around – thankfully the coast was clear, there were no police or agents lurking about. But it wasn’t only cops that worried her; Simon had warned her, ‘Be vigilant, keep close to the house, these fanatics will stop at nothing.’

  Anxious to disappear as quickly as possible, she sprinted over the grass, dodging into the nearest bush. Ducking low, she made her way under the trees towards the stile, leapt over it in one fast fluid movement and was onto the woodland path. It was tempting to look back to see if anyone was following, but she resisted. Instead, she adjusted the straps of her rucksack and started to run.

  Eyes gleamed from the shadows, twigs cracked, leaves rustled. If anyone was watching, Maya knew she was an open target. The only thing she could do was run fast, retracing her footsteps from this morning, dodging under low branches, sliding down the bank, leaping the stream. The marathon training paid off – even with the heavy bag on her back, she flew. Everything blurred into ripples of green and brown, and then she was aware only of the sun dancing on her face, the sweat prickling her back, the rhythm of her feet and the need to get to the railway station.

  At the top of the wood she climbed the stile into an open field. If she could make it through there, then she thought she’d be OK. Glancing over her shoulder, she started to run downhill to the dark ribbon of road. Cars flashed along the valley floor, the sun rippled over the long grass. She was beginning to feel safe, when suddenly a helicopter rose from the hill behind her, the throbbing engine swamping her ears.

  Convinced it had been sent to search for her, Maya looked desperately for cover. There was nothing – not even a tree or bush. She shielded her eyes. It was coming closer, sun glinting on the round, perspex bulge of the cockpit, any moment she’d be spotted. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a horse. Without much hope she pulled her bag from her back, dropped it on the ground and whistled.

  Come on. Please believe I’ve got a nice treat for you in my pocket.

  She whistled again and the horse lifted its head, turned and came galloping, full pelt.

  Over her shoulder the helicopter was getting closer; soon the pilot would be able to see her face. But with a small earthquake the horse ground to a halt and stood in front of her. She put an arm round its neck, felt in her pocket and – glory of glories! – she found half a packet of polo mints. The horse smelt them and Maya hid her face in its thick mane as the helicopter flew overhead.

  As the horse was nuzzling for the last polo mint, the helicopter disappeared from sight, and it didn’t return until Maya had skipped down the hill and was crossing the river bridge in front of the railway station. If the crew had been sent to spot her, they hadn’t succeeded.

  In the station she bought a ticket for Leeds and waited for an anxious twenty minutes on the platform. At any moment she expected a shadow to fall across her, a hand to grab her shoulder, but nobody approached and when the train arrived she knew she was going to make it. She’d escaped, and now she could put her plan into action.

  * * *

  While the train rumbled along, Maya tried to work out what she was going to do. She had to admit her plan wasn’t exactly watertight, but she was certain that all the evidence pointed to the Leeds group. If she could get to talk to Khaled Husain, she’d make him give her information and she would get it quicker than Simon’s team could. She’d find her mum, and together they’d stop the bombs. Even if she was wrong or her plan was crazy, she had to try. And if Khaled Husain was the one who’d betrayed Pam – a double agent? It was a chance she had to take.

  The train journey seemed to take forever. She wished she could contact Simon and ask him what was happening at the farmhouse. If only he had agreed to use her to suss out the bookshop, then she would have backup.

  The train jolted and stopped suddenly, panicking her. This was ridiculous, she had to control her nerves; only if she was calm could she think clearly. Looking out of the window, she saw the train was standing at a little country station, and for a moment she was tempted to get off, turn round and run back home.

  Doubts plagued her mind, nibbling at her brain like maggots. What if Pam had phoned home with another message? What if she’d already been rescued? But even if this had happened, Maya knew she had to carry on; she had to find Khaled and get the all-important information her mum needed.

  She rested her elbows on the table in front of her as the train started up again. The plants and bushes outside blurred into swathes of green and yellow. Simon could play his waiting game, ask his team to keep watch and gather intelligence, but Maya was certain that Pam’s kidnapping was connected to the Leeds cell. And if Khaled knew where Pam was being held, if he had a clue about the hiding-place, somehow she’d make him tell her.

  It wouldn’t be easy. She’d have to be alert, cautious, scope Khaled out before she revealed who she was. Could she present herself as a Muslim girl? She had tried to forget everything about her religion – now she tried desperately to remember. Maybe the sensible thing to do was to say she was on a quest to learn.

  As the train pulled into Leeds City station, she was full of trepidation. She’d never been to Leeds before, had only a vague idea of where she wanted to go, and knew it was quite possible that police would be on the platform waiting for her.

  Occupying the seat opposite her, long legs sprawled under the table, was a gum-chewing lad wearing a baseball cap. He’d been a bit of a pain, to be honest – taking up most of the leg room, a copy of The Sun spread out over the table, elbows planted – but the baseball cap he was wearing gave Maya an idea.

  ‘Cool cap,’ she said to him.

  He looked at her as if she were mad.

  She smiled at him. ‘Give you a tenner for it.’

  Now he knew she was mad.

  ‘Cost me more than that,’ he shot back.

  ‘But it’s not new, is it?’

  He took if off and looked at it. ‘Nah.’ He stared at her. ‘What do ya want it for?’

  ‘My boyfriend’s meeting me. I haven’t seen him for six months. I want to see if he recognises me with that cap on.’

>   His face wrinkled. ‘Ten quid for a bit of a joke. You rich or somethin’?’

  She shrugged.

  He eyed her to see if the offer was still on. Maya gave him a nod.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Done.’

  He shoved the cap across the table and Maya reached for her purse.

  ‘Are you from Leeds?’ she asked him.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you know where Hyde Park is?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How do I get there?’

  ‘Number ninety-six bus.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He took her money. The train was stopping. He stood up and watched her put on the cap. ‘You wanna stick all your hair under it,’ he said. Then he gave her a hard stare. ‘You’ll still look like a Paki, though, won’t you?’

  Chapter Nine

  The number ninety-six double-decker shuddered past shabby shop fronts, graffitied walls and blowing litter. On board, the atmosphere was cheerful, with passengers exchanging loud greetings. It was a mixed bunch; in front of Maya a black guy in a Leeds football shirt was chatting to his grandson; over the aisle a group of women in bright dresses were speaking their own language, and when the bus stopped two women in full black robes and veils got on and walked past her. She didn’t feel out of place. The lad on the train who’d called her ‘Paki’ had given her confidence – she reckoned she blended in.

  Where to get off the bus was a problem, but when it passed a green-domed mosque and shops with Arabic writing above the windows, it didn’t take much brainpower to work out that this would be a good place to start her search. The bus slowed down and a group of five women dressed in dark clothing got up. Maya followed them. The women stood on the pavement talking, while Maya pretended to study the jewelled fruits on display at the Begum Fruit Emporium. When their chatter faded and it seemed as if they were going their separate ways, Maya plucked up courage and stepped forward.