by Alan Gibbons
‘Syria’s where it’s happening. They’re calling it the Fourth Reich, the worst since Hitler. Ten thousand killed in custody. They’re torturing people out there, electrocuting them, ripping out their fingernails. They’re reducing cities to rubble. Bashir says he knows people. They’ll sort out all the arrangements. I’m up for it. Who’s with me?’
‘You mean … go out there?’
‘Why not?’
Jamil closed his eyes. He was the one who had to say no.
‘My mum’s sick, yeah? She’s got cancer. I can’t come with you.’
Yusuf didn’t understand. What’s one sick mother compared to millions suffering?
‘You’re making excuses. What about you, Majid? Still think helping out at this charity of yours is enough? Still think boxes of food and medicine are going to bring down Assad?’
‘When did I ever think that?’
‘You put your heart and soul into the collections.’
Majid rubs his nose.
‘Yes, and I’m proud of the work I’ve done. I am not going to pick up a gun, but I can work out there as a medic.’
Yusuf’s eyes blazed with excitement.
‘You mean it? We’re going to do it?’
Majid nodded slowly, as if only now realising what he had agreed to. It was as if he was sleepwalking.
‘Yes, we’re going to do it.’
Jamil stands in the doorway, remembering the sound of Majid’s voice, slow and distracted at first, then louder and stronger.
They’re dead, but the war goes on. Jamil murmurs his personal pledge to those responsible.
‘I’m going to avenge my brothers. I’m going to bring the war home.’
SPRING, 2014
The sky was dimming, turning to ink. Majid felt dizzy. It was hard to believe it was really happening, but the landscape before him was unlike anything in London. The ground was stony and treacherous. In the distance, there were olive groves. Until that moment, everything had gone as Bashir told them it would: the arrival at Istanbul Atatürk Airport, the transfer to Antakya, the Turkish name for the ancient city of Antioch. The streets of the town were busy. Yusuf ’s Arabic was better than Majid’s. He made it his business to talk to some of the men they met. He identified Yemenis, Saudis, even a German-born Iraqi. An hour’s drive brought them to the border.
‘Is this it?’
Their driver waved them forward. They had to pay him double to get this far.
‘Bashir said somebody would meet us here.’
There was a shrug from the driver.
‘I don’t know any Bashir.’
There were knots of people on the hillside to their left and right.
‘Yallah. Move. Hurry up.’
Majid noticed three silhouetted figures watching them from the Turkish side of the border.
‘Who are they?’
He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see a man in his thirties, grinning at him.
‘That’s the gendarmes,’ said the man. ‘Somebody has probably bribed them to let us cross the border. Stop dawdling or they might change their mind. Did you come to join the revolution?’
‘We came to make our jihad.’
The smile faded from the man’s face.
‘Have you got Syrian blood?’
Yusuf stepped in.
‘His people are from the Punjab.’ He bent and picked up a handful of soil. ‘This is my land.’
‘Where is your family from?’
‘Hama.’
The newcomer seemed happy with that. He offered his hand.
‘I am Mahmoud. Come with me.’
19
SUNDAY, 3RD JULY
Bashir calls. Less than a minute later he is at the door. Majid hears him kicking it and opens up. He sees why Bashir didn’t use his key. He has carrier bags in both hands. Majid can smell the aroma of a takeaway and his stomach growls.
‘OK, you’ve got food. What’s this other stuff ?’
‘Clothes and a pair of shoes.’
‘What’s wrong with the gear I’ve got on?’
‘This is security. Five can put bugs in shoes, all kinds of stuff. Did you never see Enemy of the State?’
‘Will Smith? That wasn’t MI5.’
‘MI5’s got that sort of equipment, that’s what I’m saying.’
Majid feels his scalp crawl. Bashir’s paranoia would be comic if it wasn’t for the SIM in his waistband.
‘Don’t you trust me, Bashir?’
‘This is a precaution. We’re about to move. Everybody follows the same rules.’
‘Even you?’
‘Even me. Five’s running an agent.’
Bashir shoves the pile of clothes at him.
‘Get changed.’ He laughs. ‘Call this battledress.’
Majid sets off for the bathroom. His heart is slamming. Kate’s words flutter through his mind.
We’ve got your back.
It doesn’t feel like that. Here, with Bashir, he feels utterly exposed, hung out to dry.
‘No, get changed here, where I can see you.’
Now it isn’t just Majid’s scalp that’s crawling. His skin is prickling all over.
Majid nods and starts to undress. It is as if he is peeling away every layer of protection. His mind is racing. What if Bashir sees Kate’s SIM?
‘What’s wrong? Turning shy on me?’
Bashir chuckles and Majid forces a reciprocal laugh before taking off his trainers then stripping to his underpants. Majid bundles his clothes together, desperately feeling for the SIM. He can’t find it. What the hell?
‘Something wrong?’
Majid is scanning the floor.
‘No, I thought I had a stick of chewing gum in the pocket. Must have gone through it already.’
Bashir nods.
‘Chewing is good for the nerves. By the end of this, you’ll have jaws like a hyena.’
Majid watches as Bashir runs his hands over the jeans, shirt, even the socks and T-shirt. That’s when he sees the SIM. A crackle of fright goes through him. It is lying on the floor between them. It must have fallen out when he was changing. Has Bashir seen? If he has, Majid is a dead man. Suddenly, it is as if that tiny piece of black plastic is throbbing, growing, taking up the whole floor.
Majid takes a chance and thrusts his trainers towards Bashir for him to examine next. With Bashir occupied, Majid slides his bare foot across the floor and places it on the small, black card. He feels it stick. He continues to dress in the new set of clothes, praying the SIM will cling to his skin. He pulls on his socks and ties his laces. It’s still there.
Alhamdulillah.
Thanks be to God.
Bashir turns to leave.
‘Five days and counting, Majid. Next time you see me, we go to war.’
With Bashir gone, Majid has time to think. There are two possibilities. One, Bashir was telling the truth. They make sure everybody is clean, just as a precaution. Two, he is under suspicion. That means Bashir could have planted a bug.
Think, Majid tells himself. What did Bashir do? Where did he go? He stood here, in the middle of the floor space. I looked away while I was dressing. Could he have planted anything? Majid examines the room, running his fingers along surfaces, peering under units.
Nothing.
He wonders if he can take a chance. He is late calling Kate. What if they pull the operation? There is a stash of machine guns out there somewhere. At least one other cell is at large. The idea sickens him.
It is hard to concentrate. Majid’s thoughts fly about without making any sense. He stands there for at least a minute. Finally, he takes off his shoe and sock, pulls out the SIM, puts it back in the phone and makes the call. There is nothing to tell. The call is routine, the routine of madness. Majid hangs on to Kate’s voice like a man clinging to drift wood.
‘Anything to report?’ she asks.
‘It’s still on.’
After the call, he swaps the SIMs, puts his sock and shoe back
on. He is trembling. He makes his way back into the flat and washes his face with cold water. Droplets of moisture glint in his beard. His eyes are bleak and hard. They have witnessed too much.
And it isn’t over yet.
It has only just begun.
20
Amir joins the rest of the family in the living room.
‘Sulk over?’ Nasima whispers.
He gives her the dead eye then pinches her forearm.
‘Hey, that hurt!’
They get the parental stare, but nobody wants to rock the boat. They are done with shouting for one day. It is a fine evening outside. Sunlight shimmers along the far wall of the room. Four pairs of eyes are fixed on the TV but nobody is watching. Once more, it is Nasima who speaks first. She leans across to her mother.
‘Have you spoken to Nanny Ammi tonight?’
‘She’s on the mend. It wasn’t too serious a fall. Nothing broken, just bruising. You know what she’s like. It is killing her to sit still and have everybody fussing over her.’
Amir turns round.
‘Does she know about my arrest?’
‘We had to tell her.’
Amir lays his head on the back of the couch and stares at the ceiling.
‘I’m sorry, Ammi-ji. You too, Abbu-ji.’
Dad comes to a decision.
‘No, I didn’t handle it well. Instead of shouting and yelling, I should have listened. The last eighteen months have been hard on you.’ He sits forward. ‘Look, I find it difficult to talk about Majid. So many times, I sat in judgement on other parents, passed comment on their children. I should have been more humble. What kind of father am I to have a son like Majid?’
‘Dad …’
‘No, hear me out. Every day I wonder if there is something I could have said or done. What made Majid change? We had a son who did well at school, was training to become a doctor. I thought our job was done. He was a success, a boy to be proud of. Was it those friends of his? He never stopped hanging out with them. Was I too strict, too lenient?’
‘You tried, Abbu-ji. He wouldn’t listen.’
‘I should have asked for help. Pride is a terrible flaw. I acted so high and mighty and I have fallen a long way.’
Mum goes over to him. She kneels next to his chair and rests a hand on his arm.
‘Nobody is judging you, Naveed. You are a good man. You did everything you could. We both did. Sometimes … I don’t know … maybe sometimes, no matter what you do, your children have to make their own decisions, whether they are right or wrong. Majid was a wonderful boy, but he wasn’t perfect. He was always wilful, so headstrong and stubborn.’
‘A bit like me?’
She smiles.
‘Yes, like you. He was always so angry at injustice. It made him compassionate for others, but it created a rage inside him. That’s what made him go.’
‘I just wish they could have returned his body. It is so hard not knowing about his last moments.’
‘It will have been painless, Naveed. Death in a rocket attack is sudden.’
‘Yes, at least he is at peace.’
‘He is at peace. Alhamdulillah.’
21
Kate is working overtime. Everybody is in a high state of tension. The evening news has confirmed what the security services already knew; that the Home Secretary has raised the alert from Severe to Critical. There is a knock on the door.
‘Come in.’
Jen enters the room. She does not make eye contact.
‘You wanted to talk to me, Kate?’
‘It’s Bungee. He was late calling in.’
‘How late?’
Kate is feeling uncomfortable.
‘Two hours.’
‘Did you ask him why?’
‘No, he’s brittle enough as it is. I thought I might push him over the edge.’
‘What’s the word from the A4 team?’
‘Bashir Mirza called in at the flat earlier. He had bags with him. One was from a convenience store, one of those Twenty Four Seven places. The others were from a clothes shop. Jeans, T-shirts, a shoe box.’
Jen considers the information.
‘It sounds as if our boys are ready to move. We’d better be on our toes.’
Jen takes a seat, crosses her legs and checks her watch. That she stays to talk is an indication that she is taking Kate’s concerns seriously.
‘We have all the main players under surveillance. We are ready to move in at any time. Bungee could hardly be safer.’ Her eyes fix on Kate. ‘Or are you wondering if we’re safe with him?’
Kate asked Majid the same question just two months ago. In an instant she is back in that room with him, a shaft of sunlight falling on the table between them.
‘Make me believe you. Prove you’ve put extremism behind you.’
Majid laughed.
‘Define extremism.’
This irritated Kate. This far into their relationship, they didn’t even have a common vocabulary. She needed to close the gap.
‘Slaughtering innocent people to impose a reign of terror. Making videos of cold-blooded murder … Do you want me to go on?’
Majid leaned forward.
‘Drones, Daisy Cutter bombs, non-existent weapons of mass destruction … Do I need to go on?’
‘Is this how you prove yourself to me? You talk the language of the jihadis?’
Majid wasn’t fazed by her raised voice.
‘I’m talking the language of truth, Kate Armstrong. Have you forgotten what happened in 2003? Two million people marched against the Iraq war. The British government spat in the face of popular opinion and bombed the country anyway. And you expect me to believe in democracy?’
Kate wasn’t impressed.
‘And how old were you in 2003, Majid? Nine? Ten?’
‘The point is,’ he insisted, ‘that there was a time when the majority of the British people used – what did you call it – the language of the jihadis. The West’s atrocities paved the way for Islamic State.’
‘Wrong. Political Islam existed long before the war on terror.’
‘And the Crusades, racism, colonialism: how old are they, Kate?’
She threw down her pen in exasperation.
‘Save me the history lesson.’
Majid sat back and folded his arms.
‘And you save me the sanctimonious hypocrisy.’
She felt she was losing him.
‘Bashir Mirza did a good job indoctrinating you.’
‘Reminding you how the world works isn’t indoctrination. I wasn’t brainwashed. I made my own decisions …’
Majid trailed off suddenly, remembering why he was here. Kate took advantage of the silence.
‘You’re not convincing me of your reliability, you know.’
Majid nodded briefly. ‘Do you know why you can trust me? Bashir got me to Syria by telling me what I could do for my Muslim brothers and sisters.’
He raised his hands and turned them slowly.
‘These hands were meant to heal. I met somebody who showed me how precious life is.’
‘Who?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Not any more.’
Kate made a note. Find out who Majid met. It might be important.
He started talking again.
‘Do you know what they expected me to do once I got there? They pushed a gun in my hands. They wanted me to kill those same brothers and sisters in cold blood. It might not sound much to you, but that changed everything for me.’
Kate relives that moment, not just the words, but the conviction with which it was delivered, the bitterness, the sadness in his eyes. The images fade and she is back in Thames House, answering her boss.
‘It’s a risk, Jen, but I believe it’s one worth taking. You’re right. We know the main players, at least some of them. We don’t know the target. We don’t know where the weapons are. Move now and we lop off a few branches. Get our timing right and we tear up the whole tree.’
Jen nods.
‘One last thing, his codename. I’ve always wondered. Why Bungee?’
Kate smiles.
‘He fell a long way, but he bounced back up.’
SPRING, 2014
The hospital wasn’t what Majid expected. He walked along a corridor with pockmarked walls, glancing up at the flaking, whitewashed ceiling. A strip-light was missing. Everywhere he looked, there was dust. A hot wind blew through windows without panes.
‘Not quite the NHS, is it? We try to clean, but the dust keeps coming back. It’s the bombing. It covers everything with this dust.’
He turned to see a doctor in her late twenties. Shaima was beautiful, with almond eyes and dark hair, tied in a bun. She went uncovered, something that surprised Majid. He had believed all the women here donned the niqab.
‘Did you work in the UK?’ he asked. ‘Your English is great.’
‘I studied there,’ she answered. ‘Five years. My big brother still lives in London.’
They stepped into a ward that was as bare as it was shabby. Majid saw a little girl lying on a bed with her mother by her side. Both her legs had been amputated. The stumps were wrapped in bandages.
They walked from bed to bed and exchanged words with people torn apart by war; at least, Shaima did. She had to translate for Majid’s benefit. They reached a woman in late middle age. Her eyes were those of somebody older.
‘This is Noura,’ she told him. ‘The army came to her village. They tortured her son and burned him alive.’
Majid nodded. ‘It is stories like hers that made me come to Syria.’
Noura said something.
‘What was that?’
‘He was barely more than a boy: seventeen. You remind her of him.’
Majid didn’t know what to say.
‘Tell her … tell her I am sorry for her pain.’
Shaima spoke, and Noura nodded.
‘Shukran.’
Thank you.
Majid met Shaima’s look. They made their way outside.
‘So you came to heal?’
‘That was my idea, yes. I only completed two years of my training.’
‘You will learn more in a month here than a year at medical school.’ She brushed some of the ever-present dust from her coat. ‘You will have to learn quickly.’