THE THESEUS PARADOX: The stunning breakthrough thriller based on real events, from the Scotland Yard detective turned author.

by David Videcette

  ‘And what about your dad?’

  ‘My father said it literally changed his life for the better when he found them and their work. But then thirty years later, the same lot he was involved with turned against him because he disagreed with some of the stuff they were doing and their interpretation of one of the Hadith. He was ostracised by them for a while. They made his name mud. Made life very difficult for him until he agreed to go back. They turned out to be wrong’uns, but he’s still with them. I’m sure there are some good ones, but with my dad’s lot there is a tendency to recruit the weak and the troubled and then assert power over them, so they don’t have a voice to make decisions. There’s an element of mind games played to keep you there. And you hear stories…’

  ‘What sort of stories?’ asked Jake

  Zarshad’s face clouded over for a moment. He looked troubled as he spoke quietly. ‘On the internet forums. People who have left say that a lot of abuse goes on.’

  123

  Wednesday

  2 November 2005

  1200 hours

  The Trafalgar, King’s Road, Chelsea

  ‘What, you mean a bit of bullying goes on?’ replied Jake.

  ‘No, it’s more than that. You hear it time and again. People who’ve spent lengthy parts of their lives with the TJ. There are stories of abuse problems.’

  ‘What, mental or physical?’ Jake was all ears.

  ‘Both, and it’s not just by the new kids on the block. I’ve heard tales of established TJs that are meting out hard-core verbal and serious physical abuse. Some for decades, even. It’s like there’s a culture of bad behaviour in places. Some of the stuff you hear about beatings and protection rackets, all sorts of criminal activity. And no one is supposed to say anything because they might appear anti-Muslim. You never grass on your own kind. TJs are taught to stay away from you kaafirs and your police. It’s a very separatist movement, but that just enables the bad apples to do what they want to do. The bad ones, they love the isolation of the TJ community from everyone and everything else. It gives them free reign to do what they want.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve renounced your faith?’ Jake asked, curious about Zarshad’s leanings now.

  ‘My father, he really believed in their stuff; preached it to me. I grew up in Fulham, not fucking Faisalabad. I didn’t want those beliefs foisted on me. The TJs gave my father a choice – either I became part of TJ or he had to stop talking to me. He tried to leave. They got all heavy on him about it, threats and stuff. They ostracised him. Fucked up his business. Made him move out of his home. Stopped people talking to him. The pressure was too much and he went back to them. We’ve not spoken since. I renounced my faith altogether as a result of that. What kind of belief structure forbids you from seeing your own son?’ Zarshad was looking into his now-empty pint glass as he finished his sentence. Jake thought that he could see him welling up.

  ‘I’ll get you another pint, mate…’ Jake said as he stood up. ‘Terrorism, are the TJs involved in that?’

  ‘Terrorists? You mean are they political? Would they support an armed struggle against governments?’

  ‘Yeah, is that what they’re like?’ Jake asked, still standing.

  ‘Tablighlis will tell you that they aren’t political – it’s all complete bullshit. Their founder, Ilyas, started Tablighi Jamaat in India back in 1927 because he wanted to give Muslim communities more local influence and representation, more of a say in how things worked.

  ‘Ilyas felt that local Muslims were not committed to their faith, some were being “Hindu-ised” or had turned to Christianity. Muslims weren’t figuring on the census. They were losing representation and power in their own communities through decreasing numbers.

  ‘Ilyas said he got some sort of divine inspiration to begin the TJs whilst on a pilgrimage to Mecca but, really, it was all about putting a stake in the ground for Muslim influence. They protest so much about being non-political. His whole game was politics. That’s why he started it in the first place, to mobilise and motivate the community. Religious reaffirmation meant votes, votes meant Muslim influence, influence led to power and power led to money and land. That’s what the TJs want – that’s their game. I wouldn’t say they were terrorists, but every movement has some sort of objective.’

  Jake began to walk toward the bar.

  ‘Numbers…’ Zarshad said.

  Jake stopped midway between the bar and where he’d been sitting. He turned and looked at Zarshad, who was staring into space, deep in thought, his eyes fixed on nothing.

  Zarshad continued. ‘Their power’s in their numbers – the numbers of people they can get to do things in common. They slowly and gradually gain traction, become more powerful, win favour, wear people down.

  ‘Tell me, Jake, which is stronger? A tiny drip of water or a slab of granite weighing thousands of tons?’

  Jake stood motionless. He imagined a huge slab of granite with a drip of water on it.

  ‘That drip of water will fall onto the slab of granite. It seems harmless at first, just sitting there. Until that drip is joined by others. Tens of others, a hundred others, thousands of others, millions of others, billions of others… drip, drip, drip, drip, drip. What happens then, Jake? What happens to the granite where the drips converge?’

  ‘It wears a hole in the granite,’ he replied.

  ‘A hole so smooth that the big strong slab of granite looks like it was a block of cold butter cut with a red-hot knife. Eventually the drips will wear a smooth hole right through. The water goes where it wants; nothing can stop it then.

  ‘It all starts with an annoying drip. No one notices it, not even the rock. No need to worry, it’s just a drip. Numbers, it’s all about numbers. That’s why Ilyas started Tablighi Jamaat. That’s what he wanted. People in larger numbers hold the balance of power. And every single number matters to the TJs. They want as many Muslims as possible following them, controlled by them.’

  Jake continued to the bar. He returned with two more pints of cold lager and sat down opposite Zarshad.

  ‘Why do the TJs want control of people? What can they achieve by it?’

  ‘What do you see along the King’s Road, Jake?’

  ‘I see flash designer shops and swanky cars. What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Yeah, people are a commodity, Jake. People are money, they’re power. They need places to live, cars to move around in, shops to shop in, beds to sleep in. Control them and you control their money. Simple. It’s religious economics.

  ‘If you can isolate an entire community, make them all think in the same way, make them all do the same sorts of things… If you and your friends rented them all places to live? If they shopped in your shops? If they voted for your friends in elections? Can you see the power that gives you?’

  Jake thought about the East London mosque site. About the planning application Claire had placed inside Dusty’s box. He said nothing to Zarshad in response.

  Zarshad continued, ‘Imagine how much that’s worth? Hey, imagine you were a drug dealer and you could sell them drugs?’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘There’s a huge number of young men who were previously drug addicts in TJ. They actively recruit people who have had drug or drink problems. I’ve often wondered how that can keep happening. It’s obvious to me, to be honest – their people are just a mass market for anything and everything.’

  ‘Are you saying TJ is just a front for a criminal enterprise?’

  ‘Of course I’m not. There are people who do Dawah that really believe in it; think they’re doing God’s work. It’s no better or worse than those American Mormons going off around the world and doing their missions, trying to convert people. Pretty harmless stuff really. What I’m saying is, there’s also corruption, lots of it – it’s human nature, isn’t it? Muslims are no different; they still commit crime. Jus
t like you have your bent coppers, MPs fiddling expenses, Catholic priests that have abused children, or the IRA and its money-laundering schemes. There are some people in TJ who exploit others for their own good. I call them “religious entrepreneurs”. It suits them that many of their flock are poorly educated, can’t speak English or can’t speak the language of their grandparents, are unskilled, illegal immigrants, drug addicts or suffering from depression. These are by far the easiest sorts of people to control, because they have nowhere else to turn.

  ‘You can’t separate religion from economy, Jake. And you know better than me, where there are questions of money and finance, power and control, there’s always crime.’

  124

  Sunday

  6 November 2005

  1107 hours

  Happy Eater, Reigate, Surrey

  ‘So what you got for me on Shahid, Len?’ asked Jake in the middle of a mouthful of hash brown. ‘You said you had big news from the National on the text?’

  Jake was shouting Lenny to a heart attack on a plate by the roundabout on the old A-road near to Lenny’s house. He was back on his legs again. He had stopped the drink fully now and the drugs. The suspension was still in force and he was still in limbo. Nothing could be properly dealt with until Claire was found, but he was back on full pay and his brain was once again in gear.

  ‘OK. So you know we didn’t pursue Shahid Bassam and the flat you found because the boss wanted him as a witness?’

  ‘Oh, yes. What’s the latest?’ asked Jake eagerly. He was still gutted that he hadn’t been allowed to continue with his line of enquiry and uncover more dirt on Shahid.

  ‘Well, I’ve found out some more info, which may or may not be relevant. The National Crime Squad are looking at his brother.’

  ‘His brother? Why?’

  ‘It’s in connection with drugs importation and money laundering. Get this, his brother is connected to a gang that the National reckon have made £19 million!’

  ‘Jesus wept!’ shouted Jake.

  ‘I know!’ Lenny exclaimed. ‘There’s something going on with drugs importation and money passing between Pakistan and the UK.’

  ‘Blimey. If you were in any way connected to something like that, you might well be worried if you suddenly got a visit from the Met out of the blue. And his brother was supposedly quite devout? Do you remember? They were both going on some religious Tablighi Jamaat trip together. Dawah in Bristol or something?’

  ‘So much for the brother being all religious,’ said Lenny. ‘How can you be religious and connected to a criminal gang like that?’

  125

  Thursday

  17 November 2005

  1529 hours

  East London wasteland, site of proposed mosque

  Jake shivered in the rusty old VW van that he’d bought with Stephanie’s money. He hadn’t noticed it until he was sat in the back but it smelled like something had died in there. Washing the inside of it out twice still hadn’t gotten rid of the stench. A curtain with a small hole in it was rigged up across the bulkhead. It wasn’t perfect, but it did the job of concealing him whilst he sat on a plastic garden chair in the back of the van and watched.

  The place was busy, with men coming and going at all times. He’d not spotted a single woman since he’d been there. He was parked up behind a mesh-wire fence on an empty industrial unit adjacent to the mosque site. Just a collection of prefabricated buildings on an otherwise barren piece of wasteland, hemmed in by railway lines and a creek.

  He had waited several days to see Mohammed Biaj. There were things he needed to know. Things that he thought he might glean from staking the place out. So far it had yielded nothing. He was no further forward than a week ago.

  He’d half expected to see Claire. He was still wrestling with himself as to whether she was on his side or not or whether this was all an elaborate set-up for some reason. Yet all he’d seen was a lot of bearded men. The older ones looked impoverished. The rest were a younger flock – angry, boisterous and rebellious.

  It felt like he’d been sat in the back of the freezing VW for weeks now. It was late afternoon; the light was failing. It would be dark soon.

  His talk with Stephanie had hit him hard. He’d wanted to tell her everything, to share all the little confidences like they’d done once upon a time.

  If he’d tried to explain to her that he was now no longer operating within the law, however, she would have told him that he was crazy. That he’d finally lost it. That she knew this day was coming.

  He realised that he was now conducting his very own version of Operation Theseus. Perhaps he always had?

  Sometimes he wondered if he was insane. Why couldn’t he follow the rules like everyone else? Go with the flow. Maybe the stupid rice-packet actions from the MIR might have led somewhere if he had?

  Jake had researched the owners of the piece of land he was now looking at. This was the land on which they were proposing to build the largest mosque in Europe, the ‘mega-mosque’. The owners were a charitable trust, an arm of the Tablighi Jamaat sect, and the land had been purchased back in the mid-nineties.

  A black VW Golf with tinted windows and shiny hubcaps flashed its lights toward a security booth at the gate, breaking Jake’s train of thought. The site’s entrance was protected by a security guard who inhabited a brick-built hut and operated a vehicle barrier. The guard stepped out of his hut and looked into the vehicle. It struck Jake as an unusual scene outside a place of worship.

  The barrier was raised and the car wriggled its way down the muddy track toward a selection of Portakabins.

  A few minutes later, Jake watched Mohammed Biaj emerge from behind the barrier on foot. He was wearing white kurta pyjamas and an off-white skullcap, but had thrown a green flying jacket with zip-pocket sleeves over the top.

  There was a short conversation with the security guard manning the hut before Biaj walked up the road and past the old van that Jake was sat in.

  Jake needed answers and he wasn’t getting them sitting in the van.

  He waited until the security guard in his high-visibility vest had returned to his cosy square-metre of office before he got out of the vehicle and followed Biaj up and around the bend in the road.

  As Jake got to the apex, Biaj had disappeared. A short concrete ramp led down toward the creek; Jake assumed this was where Biaj must have gone.

  As Jake walked down the ramp, the smell hit him. Sewage mixed with chemical effluent; the smell he thought had been coming from the van. It was the creek. It was black, a thick, oil-like film floating on top. Abstract shapes were breaking the surface at the water’s edge. Jake thought he could make out the murky outline of an abandoned vehicle, but he couldn’t be sure.

  He found Biaj standing on a path by the stagnant creek’s edge, his back to him. He was staring across the water toward an expanse of partially excavated wasteland.

  The incandescent skyline of Canary Wharf was visible beyond. The setting sun reflected off the chrome and glass surfaces of the high-rise buildings; they glowed as if ablaze. Wasim’s words from his martyrdom video rang in Jake’s ears: ‘…Taste the punishment of the Burning Fire.’

  Jake approached quietly and stood by the side of the bearded Middle Eastern-looking man who was lost in thought, gazing at the horizon.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ asked Biaj gruffly without turning to look at Jake. He spoke with an educated English accent that held just a faint hint of an Iraqi inflection.

  Jake was surprised by the bluntness of the question. Biaj didn’t even appear to have seen him approach.

  ‘What do I want?’ Jake asked. ‘What do you think I want?’

  ‘That van you got out of has been there for some days. You’ve obviously been watching the site for some reason. I assume it’s me you want.’

  Jake decided now was not the time to play games. �
��I want to talk to you,’ he said.

  ‘Reporter? Security Service? Police officer? White supremacist?’ Biaj barked back.

  ‘Just someone who’s interested in finding out the truth.’

  ‘The truth about what?’

  ‘The truth about your plans for the biggest mosque in Europe.’

  Biaj narrowed his dark brown eyes. ‘What do you mean “the truth”? It’s hardly a secret.’ He turned to face Jake fully. ‘You look like a policeman,’ he sneered.

  Jake ignored the comment. ‘There’s more to this mosque than meets the eye though, isn’t there?’ he asked, fishing for a reaction, a loose thread.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘It was a hefty investment back in the nineties. Seems odd that you’ve still not built your great big mosque here. Lack of money?’

  ‘I could see the potential of this site. It was perfect. I sold them the vision of what we could really have. I wanted a seventy-thousand-capacity mosque…’ Biaj pointed across the creek as he spoke.

  The two of them stood looking at the barren industrial landscape that lay before them. The silence lasted too long. Biaj was waiting for Jake to speak, but Jake was thinking. There was something important in what he’d just heard this man say, but he couldn’t quite grasp it there and then.

  Biaj broke the silence. ‘It’s no secret; it’s well known what I wanted here. Who are you? What’s this about?’

  Jake heard it again – the intonation in Biaj’s voice, the way he moved his eyes as he said the word ‘wanted’.