by Alan Gibbons
7
There is somebody waiting for Majid on the concourse. Bashir Mirza has his arms folded and greets him with a look of quiet amusement.
‘Salaam alaikum.’
‘Wa alaikum assalaam.’
Bashir unfolds his arms and embraces Majid.
‘Welcome back.’
He releases Bashir and leads the way out of the station.
‘This way.’
Majid looks at the hurrying crowds, the queue to get a Harry Potter photo, the clusters of people gazing up at the information boards. He wonders if this could be the target, if all these men, women and children with their everyday hopes, dreams and anxieties are in Bashir’s firing line.
‘Long time, no see.’
‘Yes, a lot has happened.’
‘The war happened. How are your injuries, Rocket Man?’
Instinctively, Majid touches the side of his face where the blast burned through his skin.
‘It still keeps me awake sometimes.’
‘But no lasting damage?’
Majid wonders how to answer. How do you assess damage? He relives the MiG-29 attack every night. He hears the crack of ordnance and feels the raw, unstoppable power of the impact. He sees his comrades torn to bits, body parts blackening in the aftermath of the explosion.
Majid remembers when he believed all Bashir’s lies. He swallowed every one, every over-egged story of his links with the mujahideen all over the world. He wants to say he was a kid then, but it wasn’t that long ago. He knew what he was doing. Majid recognises Bashir for what he is: a dangerously unstable free agent with a grievance, a man who has gathered six, eight, ten co-conspirators to kill and maim in the name of a faith he twists for his own purposes.
Majid realises he hasn’t answered Bashir’s question.
‘No, no lasting damage.’
They cross Euston Road with its noodle bars, coffee shops and bookmakers. Bashir pulls a fob from his pocket and unlocks the last in a row of cars. Majid makes a mental note of the number plate to pass on to Kate.
‘I envy you.’
‘Really? Why?’
Bashir glances at Majid as if pitying him.
‘Look back there: false people living false lives. You got to fight the idol-worshippers and the hypocrites. My brother, you are a warrior of jihad.’
Majid remembers the way he lay on a bed of stones, pain tearing his flesh like a cheese grater. He remembers how he cried for his mother as his skin burned.
‘I went out there to treat the wounded.’
Bashir grins.
‘Save the sob story for somebody else. This is Bashir you’re talking to.’
‘What do you mean? I did.’
Bashir isn’t impressed.
‘Didn’t stay that way though, did it? There isn’t a man born of woman who doesn’t like the feel of a rifle in his hands. Admit it. It’s the excitement.’
Majid doesn’t answer. They get in the car and pull away from the kerb.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Safe house.’
‘How safe?’
Bashir slaps Majid’s leg.
‘I like your style, Rocket Man. You always had a sense of humour.’
I must have done, Majid thinks. Once he saw a revolutionary, a man who could inspire. Now he sees a thug, a bully, a fake.
‘Five have got eyes on us, man, but we’ve got eyes on them back. Surveillance and counter-surveillance, that’s the name of the game.’
Is Kate aware of this? Who is ahead of whom in this deadly game?
‘You do mean MI5?’
Bashir meets the question with pitying sarcasm.
‘No, the Famous Five. Are you for real, brother? Our enemies have been following us for weeks.’ He winks. ‘They won’t be watching us much longer.’
There it is again, the drumbeat of the domestic war. Majid feels as if he is walking among explosions, or the ghosts of them. All the while he looks around at the London where he grew up, at the crowds going about their routines, there is another shadow world where death awaits, ready to bleed out into these lives. Majid no longer thinks in terms of responsibility, of who cast the first stone. He had those angry words in his mouth and they choked him like marbles.
‘What’s going down, Bashir?’
Majid realises he may be asking too many questions too soon, inviting suspicion. Kate advised him to make his enquiries slowly, gaining Bashir’s confidence, teasing his way to the truth like peeling back the layers of an onion.
‘Not here. We’ll talk when we reach the safe house.’
The safe house is in fact a flat on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise block in the East End. There is a mattress on the living room floor. It is ripped in one corner. There is a table and one chair. That is the sum total of the furniture. The kitchen is even more sparsely furnished. There are some kitchen units. One of the doors is missing. There is a fridge, a microwave, a cup, a plate, a knife and fork. Bashir opens the fridge to show him some ready meals and a few cans of Coke and Fanta. Bashir sees the way Majid is looking at the place.
‘Not quite the Dorchester, but it should be adequate until we are ready to move you.’ He waits a beat then puts his question. ‘I hear Yusuf died. Was it instant?’
‘Yes, he didn’t know what hit him. Nobody did.’
‘He died fighting a cruel enemy. Masha’Allah.’
‘Why did you never go out there yourself, Bashir?’
Bashir can hear a barb in the words. His expressionless eyes study Majid’s face.
‘There are many ways to do God’s work, my brother. My destiny lies here.’
He gestures out of the window at the carpet of lights that stretches out in every direction.
‘Give me your phone.’
Majid hands it over and watches Bashir replace the SIM.
‘My number is in your phone. It is the only number you will ever need.’ He sees the way Majid gazes at the view. ‘You like that, yeah?’
‘I grew up here. It’s in my heart.’
‘I grew up here too. Tell me, what do you see?’
Majid hesitates. Bashir puts people to the test. Just like Omar did.
‘I see the citadel of my enemies.’
Bashir smiles with satisfaction. Right answer. But Majid is telling him what he wants to hear. What he sees is home and he aches to return to his old life.
‘Some people say this is the greatest city on Earth.’
It is as if he has thrown down a gauntlet to Bashir.
‘This is where the infidels’ pulse beats most strongly,’ he retorts. ‘With our guns and our suicide vests we are going to rip London’s fat, sentimental heart out of its chest.’
‘When?’
‘What is the date today, my brother?’
Majid frowns.
‘June thirtieth. Why …?’
Then he understands.
‘That’s right, Majid. A week today there is an anniversary, when our mujahideen martyred themselves in the heart of London.’
Majid feels sick.
‘They boast about their security. They say never again.’ He grins. ‘We say again.’
He beats a rhythm.
‘Again, again, again: until our caliphate stretches from the land of the holy places to the gates of London, Paris and Rome. Not long now, my friend.’
Then he is gone. Majid lets out a long, shuddering breath. He sweeps the flat for bugs. One of Kate’s colleagues, a guy from the A2 technical division, showed him how. He declares it clean. Before long, he is picking at the stitching to release the SIM he has hidden in his waistband. He replaces the card Bashir inserted with the one he has kept concealed in his jeans. Kate answers instantly.
‘They’ve got me in a safe house. You can locate it from my signal.’
Kate’s voice crackles through the speaker.
‘No need. We watched you all the way.’
‘Right.’
We watched you all the way.
Of co
urse you did. He tells her his news.
‘Bashir gave me a date. Kate. I know the target, it’s the seven/seven commemoration.’
8
A few miles across the city Nikel is talking to Amir.
‘Why don’t we go and laugh at England Awakes?’
Amir turns and stares.
‘Are you kidding? What if there’s trouble?’
‘I don’t want to fight anybody, just let them know they’re not welcome in this town. I thought you’d be up for it.’
‘My dad would ground me for good.’
That’s one reason. The other is a brother he believes is dead.
Majid.
Amir nearly collides with a couple of Year Sevens careering out of the gate.
They are walking to the bus stop, checking their phones, parallel messaging. Amir is on the lookout for Nasima.
‘Thing is, Nikel, your enthusiasm for this demo is a bit of a surprise. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t have you down as a street fighter. You seem more the academic type.’
‘You mean I’m a geek.’
Amir likes his new friend’s honesty.
‘Well, yes. That’s about the size of it.’
Nikel grins.
‘Who’s arguing? The geeks inherit the Earth.’
The smile fades.
‘Thing is, those guys see me as a soft touch. They think they can shove me around. I’ve had enough.’
Amir is seeing Nikel in a new light. He has never really taken him seriously until this moment.
‘So you’re really going to turn out for the counter-demo?’
‘You bet I am. Are you going to join me?’
Amir gets a mental flashback of his father chopping with his hand to reinforce his orders.
‘I can’t.’
‘No such thing as can’t.’
‘There is if you’ve got a dad like mine.’
‘Rod of iron?’
‘Got it in one.’
Only that isn’t the whole picture. Amir remembers the way Majid used to barge past Dad and march out into the night, reducing his father to frustration and his mother to tears. He can hear their voices.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Who do you plan to meet?’
Majid never answered and there was nothing his father could do. Majid melted into the night and found something he thought was greater than himself.
‘Keep making the excuses,’ Nikel tells him. ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way.’
They reach the bus stop. Nasima is there with Lucy. Lucy says something and the two girls giggle. Nikel drops his eyes self-consciously. Amir is the first to speak.
‘Nikel thinks I should go to the protest on Saturday.’
Nasima’s eyes widen.
‘Are you crazy? Don’t even think about it. What about Dad? What about Mum? Have you forgotten what they’ve been through?’
Nasima glances round at Lucy and Nikel.
‘What’s got into you, Amir? Do you want to screw everything up?’
There is no answer.
‘Amir?’
‘OK,’ he says finally. ‘I won’t go.’
The twins rejoin Nikel and Lucy. They are about to board their bus when Jace puts in an appearance.
‘You listen to your sister, Amir,’ Jace says. ‘You stay at home like a good little Paki. Saturday belongs to us.’
Amir squares up to Jace.
‘What did you just call me?’
‘You heard.’
He makes the shape of each letter with his mouth – P A K I – while his mates move in behind him, laughing. He takes his time over it, enjoying the effect. Nasima starts to drag her brother away.
‘Ignore him, will you? He just wants to get a reaction.’
Jace hears what Nasima said and swaggers off.
‘Looks like I got one.’
Nasima and Lucy jostle their way on to the bus. Nikel follows. Amir is the last to get on. He is watching Jace strolling down the road away from the stop, thinking how he would like to wipe the smile off that smug, smirking face. The demonstration just got more inviting.
AUTUMN, 2013
Majid had his rucksack over his right shoulder. For weeks, he had been different, a stranger in his own home. Nasima had complained that he was bullying her, demanding that she dress more modestly.
‘Step aside, Dad. You can’t stop me going out.’
‘You are not leaving this house until you tell me where you are going.’
Amir and Nasima watched the scene. Majid was so angry. His eyes were cold and brooding.
‘You can’t control me, Dad. Just get out of my way.’
‘You are going to meet them again, aren’t you? Why do you entertain idiots who are not worth the dirt on your shoe?’
‘That’s it, Dad: just keep insulting my friends.’
Mum tugged at her husband’s sleeve.
‘Please stop shouting, Naveed. We can sort this out as a family.’
Dad was trembling with anger. He jabbed his finger at Majid.
‘He is the one you should be talking to. He listens to this loudmouth Bashir more than he listens to his own parents.’
He tapped at Majid’s temple, and Majid brushed his hand away in fury.
‘I am not a boy, Dad. I make my own decisions.’
‘And each one is crazier than the last. You spend every waking hour listening to this takfiri, this crook.’
‘You know nothing about Bashir.’
‘I know he is filling your head with filth. Telling you that everything wrong in the world is the fault of America and Britain. Our family came across half the world and worked hard. This country you hate gave us a home and a job.’
‘And where do your taxes go, Abbu-ji? On bombs and guns to kill Muslims. They arm Israel. They rain their bombs on Gaza, Iraq and Afghanistan. They torture our brothers. They send their drones to kill us in Pakistan. Is that what you work for, to arm the Kuffar?’
‘Do not use that filthy word in this house.’
Majid’s face twisted.
‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m out of here.’
Mum stared up at him then, at the bag in his hand.
‘What do you mean? Majid, where are you going?’
Dad looked terrified. Panic had replaced anger.
‘No, Majid. Don’t trust this man Bashir. He is an extremist. He is using you.’
‘He listens to me, Dad. He takes time to explain things. I didn’t know what made the world tick until I met Bashir.’
‘He is filling your head full of lies.’ Dad made a grab for the bag. ‘You will not leave.’
Majid rushed out into the street.
Nasima was the first to react, racing to the door. ‘Don’t do it, Majid, please don’t go!’
Majid had made his decision. He reached the street corner and turned.
He didn’t look back.
9
FRIDAY, 1ST JULY
There are three people in the room to begin with: Kate Armstrong, a fellow member of the Counter Terrorist section called Jack Cole and their superior, Jen Sherbourne. Jen has just plucked Jack from his desk. Majid would have recognised the fourth member of the group. He joins them after a brief knock on the door. He is a tall, well-dressed Asian man.
‘Before you start,’ Nabil said, ‘I need to bring this to your attention.’
Jen flicks through the folder, glances at Nabil, and pushes it across the table. It has the MI5 crest: Regnum Defende.
Defend the Realm.
Kate reads the top sheet and her heart sinks. It is Nabil’s summary of what happened on the train. She tries to keep her face impassive.
‘Kate, how can we trust an agent who is this easily provoked? Nabil felt he had to intervene.’
Kate stares at her fingers. It’s a wonder her nails are not chewed to the quick. ‘I have put months of work into this operation. I would have pulled the plug weeks ago if I thought he was unreliable.’
&nb
sp; ‘Can we trust him?’
Kate remembers Majid’s face as she played videos of Islamic State’s atrocities across eastern Syria and western Iraq. She spared him nothing. She saw the changing emotions as his cause crumbled before her eyes.
‘Kate? Is he trustworthy?’
‘I believe so.’
Jen’s eyes widen. She was expecting Kate to offer a stronger defence of her man.
‘You believe so?’
‘I am sure.’
Jen dismisses Nabil. ‘You can go. We will take it from here.’
She turns back to Kate. ‘Let me ask the question again. We have six days to avert a major incident. Think before you answer. Can he handle the stress?’
This time there is no hesitation.
‘Yes.’
Jen taps her teeth with a pen.
‘We have recruited an agent and placed him in the middle of London. He is in touch with two Islamist activists.’
‘Three,’ Kate says.
‘Jamil Daud? He is just ballast. We facilitated this because we thought we could neutralise some of the most dangerous cells in the UK. We have intel of a consignment of semi-automatic rifles. God knows what else they’ve got in their arsenal. We have to intercept them before they fall into the wrong hands. If this goes wrong there will be serious repercussions.’
Kate knows what that means. The security forces are haunted by the events of 7 July, 2005 and other atrocities in European cities. It was the day they failed. Now there is the threat of a repeat.
Jen points out the MI5 crest on the folder. ‘That’s our bottom line. Take your time, Kate. I want your considered assessment.’
Kate remembers every minute she spent in Majid’s company, every doubt, every twist and turn of his recruitment. She remembers one conversation in particular.
They were in a room with white walls and thin, yellow curtains. There were two chairs and a table. The afternoon light was fading. Majid was slouched in his seat, arms thrown over the back. He was tired and increasingly impatient at the continuing interrogation. This was the time to push him to the limit in search of the truth.