The Trap: terrorism, heroism and everything in between

by Alan Gibbons

  Shaima wrapped the white coat around her.

  ‘You came with Yusuf, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I don’t see you as friends. He talks like an Islamist. You don’t.’

  Majid dropped his eyes.

  ‘Why are you really here, Majid?’

  He laughed.

  ‘I am starting to wonder that myself. I listened to a man. He seemed to have all the answers.’

  ‘And he talked to you of jihad?’

  ‘That’s right. How do you know?’

  Shaima laughed.

  ‘You’re not the first. You won’t be the last.’

  Shaima’s lips parted then closed as she thought what to say. Finally, she spoke.

  ‘We called this our democratic revolution. It started with such hope. With joy. There were marches that filled the streets and stretched as far as the eye could see.’ She faltered. ‘Look how they answered the people’s call for freedom.’

  Before them, there was a scene more like a moonscape than a modern town. There were collapsed buildings, houses that had been pounded to dust, minarets that had bent like a giraffe’s neck. There was graffiti on the remaining walls, but it had faded. Shaima read the Arabic script for him.

  The Syrian people refuse to be humiliated.

  A few metres away there was another slogan.

  There is no God save Allah.

  She pointed out a flag, rippling in the distance.

  ‘I hear you are with Mahmoud.’

  ‘That’s right. He was our guide from the border. Without him …’

  Majid let his arms fall at his sides.

  ‘Without him,’ Shaima said, ‘you would have turned back and gone home. There is no shame in admitting you made a mistake. You should leave, Majid. There is nothing for you here except death.’

  ‘I have no home,’ Majid told her.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Mahmoud is a good man among so many butchers. He will let you go. The rest is up to you.’

  Majid picked up a stone and threw it.

  ‘What’s going to happen: to the war, I mean?’

  ‘It has lasted three years. It could last three more. There is something strange going on, Majid. The people are ground between the army and the jihadis like grain between millstones.’

  ‘The jihadis have more money, more vehicles, more weapons. Men like Mahmoud will have little choice but to join them or die.’

  ‘How do you still manage to smile?’

  Shaima thought for a moment.

  ‘I remember when I was happy. I had such a blissful childhood. My parents doted on my brother and me. We used to go to Latakia. The beach there is beautiful. My father encouraged us to travel and study overseas. It is because of him that I went to London.’ She became serious. ‘Come back in the morning and we will get to work. I like the phrase in English: good to have you on board.’

  Her face brightened. Majid returned her smile and made his way across the rubble-strewn ground to where he was going to meet Yusuf. He was looking forward to seeing Shaima again.

  22

  MONDAY, 4TH JULY

  The interview takes place in the head teacher’s office. Present on one side of the conference room table, with their backs to the window, are Mr Lucas, Amir’s mentor, Mr Khan, and a plainclothes police officer who introduces himself as DI McEvoy. Facing them are Amir and his parents. They find themselves squinting because of the bright sunlight. There are photos on the wall showing the smiling faces of six recent students who won places at Oxford or Cambridge. The message is simple: this is what success looks like. Amir didn’t expect to be this nervous, but his heart is slamming.

  ‘I must say, Mr and Mrs Sarwar,’ Mr Lucas is saying, ‘that I am disappointed you did not inform us of your family’s …’ He takes a minute to select the word. ‘Your family’s history.’

  Dad is about to say something when he registers his wife’s warning glance.

  ‘That said, we must look forward. As yet, the press has not picked up on Amir’s relationship to your older son. Amir is just a young man who let himself down.’

  ‘DI McEvoy tells me that there is no evidence that you have undergone radicalisation, Amir, but we are concerned about your political trajectory. The police are concerned that you are showing negative and hostile feelings towards the values of this country.’

  ‘I went on a march, that’s all.’

  His mother leans forward.

  ‘Against our instructions, Mr Lucas.’

  Mr Lucas undoes the middle button of his jacket.

  ‘I understand that, Mrs Sarwar. We can’t always hold the parents accountable for the actions of their children.’ He glances at Amir. ‘No matter how irresponsible they may be. As a school, we do have responsibilities, and one of those is to counter extremism. Your elder son—’

  ‘Majid. His name was Majid.’

  ‘Majid took a wrong turn. He was involved with some very dangerous people.’

  ‘You are clearly an intelligent young man, Amir. You must be aware of the issues here.’

  Amir starts to say something, but Mr McEvoy talks over his voice and he falls silent.

  ‘We will have to monitor Amir’s behaviour in school. Mr Lucas says he will be meeting Mr Khan regularly to review his progress.’

  ‘Progress?’ Dad is confused. ‘Do you mean his academic work?’

  ‘Mr Lucas is talking about Amir’s attitude to integration,’ replies McEvoy.

  ‘What does that mean? He is British. He was born in London.’

  ‘Mr Sarwar, without judging you in any way, your elder son …’ He stops, remembering the plea to refer to him by name. ‘Majid died fighting in Syria. Our records show that he had a close relationship with known radicals. You must understand our concern that Amir may be tempted to move in the same circles.’

  That draws an instant response from the Sarwars.

  ‘We moved house three times to make sure that did not happen.’

  There is a short silence during which the tick of the clock seems to echo like a hammer striking metal. Mr Lucas picks up the thread.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Sarwar, we want to do the best by Amir. I have spoken to his form teacher and she tells me that he is a quiet, hardworking boy. I am not accusing Amir of anything—’

  Amir interrupts.

  ‘So why do I have to meet Mr Khan? Why are the police here?’

  ‘We want you to take part in the Prevent programme, because it is in your own interests. It is about understanding our British value systems.’

  Dad raises an eyebrow.

  Mr Lucas clarifies.

  ‘I mean our common values, Mr Sarwar. As you said, we are all proud to be British.’

  Amir snorts.

  His mother puts her hand on his in an attempt to calm him down.

  ‘Mr Lucas, will this have to go on his school record?’

  ‘Mr Khan will draw up a report on his meetings with Amir. His involvement in the strategy will not appear in any references we write when he applies for jobs or for university. You can be reassured of that.’

  ‘Do we have any choice in the matter?’

  DI McEvoy fields this question.

  ‘We would strongly advise that you agree to Amir’s participation.’

  ‘So that’s it?’

  McEvoy clears his throat then gives his answer.

  ‘That’s it.’

  23

  Majid is sitting against the wall of the flat. He picks up his phone and inserts the SIM Kate gave him. He is due to call her. He has barely slept. Bashir’s words keep buzzing in his head. The next time he comes, they will go to war. He feels as if he has been searching for a home for a long time. He didn’t find it on the streets of London. It wasn’t there on the hillsides of Syria or in its broken towns and villages. He relives one of his interviews with Kate.

  ‘I don’t know if I can do this.’

  ‘You said you had seen enough
innocent people get killed.’

  ‘I know. It’s just …’

  Omar wanted him to be strong, a lion. Majid remembered the day three men surrendered. They were his age. They shared the same hatred of the West. Yet here they were with terror in their eyes, waiting for a man they once thought of as a brother to take their lives. Majid tries to speak a second time. Kate isn’t listening.

  ‘Just hear me out. You want a middle way? There isn’t one. If you cooperate with us, maybe you can avoid jail-time. If you don’t, the going rate is at least four years, more likely ten to twelve with the evidence we have on you. With time off for good behaviour, you might be out by the time you’re thirty. That’s the price of your caliphate.’

  The room where Kate conducted her interviews was bare like this one. He gets to his feet and paces the floor. For a short time after he crossed the border into Turkey, everything was clear. Bashir had to be stopped. Now, nothing is simple. He is thinking of walking straight out of the door and surrendering himself to the waiting surveillance team. That’s when his phone goes. It’s Kate. He laughs in spite of himself.

  ‘Why didn’t you call in? Is everything all right?’

  He stares at the time on his phone. ‘Am I late?’

  ‘Yes. You were supposed to call in half an hour ago. You’ve got me worried.’

  ‘I’m OK. Sorry, I lost track of time.’

  ‘Listen, Majid, we have got to keep this brief. If Bashir calls and you don’t answer, he will be suspicious. It’s Tuesday tomorrow. This is too close for comfort. You’re going to have to press him for information. How do you feel about that?’

  ‘I won’t let you down.’

  SPRING, 2014

  The sky was clear and blue. There was the rolling thunder of shelling somewhere across the hills. Majid flinched whenever there was the crash of a missile or the roar of a barrel bomb. The reaction of those around him was different, a kind of weary acceptance. Then there was an ear-splitting explosion. Shaima gave him a reassuring smile.

  ‘Keep working.’

  He was helping suture a wound. Tyres crunched on the rubble and shadows flickered across the window. The door burst open and three men rushed in, carrying a child. She was limp, like a doll, smeared with fresh blood that spilled over her skin and clothing. Shaima guided the group to a trolley and helped them lay her down. The child was convulsing. The men stepped back. Shaima was examining the open wound in the girl’s leg.

  ‘I think the wound is clean.’ She nodded. ‘Majid. Apply some pressure.’

  They worked quickly, intensely. Once the bleeding stopped, Shaima stepped back. A short man with anxious eyes took her hands. Then he moved on to Majid.

  ‘Shukran, shukran.’

  Majid cursed his lack of Arabic and simply nodded. There was no time to talk. Already, another victim of the shelling was being carried in.

  ‘Is it always like this?’ Majid asked.

  Shaima pulled a face.

  ‘Often, it is worse.’

  24

  MONDAY, 4TH JULY

  Majid’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and presses it to his ear. On this handset there is only one caller.

  ‘Shoot.’

  It is Bashir.

  ‘Go down to the first floor. Not ground. Got me? First floor. Take the stairs, not the lift. Wait there. Just say yes to acknowledge.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Majid hangs up. His chest is tight with anxiety. He changes SIMs and calls Kate.

  ‘Something’s happening. Bashir wants me to go to the first floor. Tell your people to hurry.’

  ‘We’re on to it. You’re in luck. The surveillance team just rang in. Bashir is in his car out front. The instant he makes a move, they will track him. Go straight down.’

  Majid kills the call, lets himself out of the flat and jogs down the fourteen flights of stairs. His throat is tight. He has no sooner stepped on to the first floor landing than a man detaches himself from the shadows. Majid doesn’t recognise him.

  ‘Who are you? Where’s Bashir?’

  The man is painfully thin, white and blue-eyed. He is wearing a plain black ski hat, which seems odd given the clammy, summer weather.

  ‘No questions. Follow me.’

  He leads the way to a service door marked private. Majid notices that there are splinters around the lock.

  ‘One you did earlier?’

  ‘Just cut the chat.’

  OK, so he doesn’t want to be friendly. They walk through an untidy storeroom to another flight of stairs. At the foot of them there is a door that opens on to a small yard, separated from the tenants’ car park by a breeze-block wall. Ski Hat gestures Majid forward.

  ‘Over there.’

  They are in a side street. Majid searches for some sign of Kate’s team. He hopes they are watching from a distance. Ski Hat pulls out a key fob and sidelights flash. Majid commits the blue Escort to memory, just as he did Bashir’s plate.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Majid demands. ‘What happened to Bashir?’

  Ski Hat opens the car door.

  ‘You ask too many questions. Bashir does the explanations.’

  Majid’s throat is dry. If the team has eyes on Bashir then nobody is watching him. Ski Hat drives through dark streets for about half an hour and pulls up. He points out an illuminated window.

  ‘This is it.’

  Majid follows Ski Hat to a flat at the end of the block. The property next door is empty, as demonstrated by the steel security grilles on the door and windows. Majid gives the area the once-over.

  ‘Nice.’

  Ski Hat’s pale blue eyes give him a look that is bordering on contempt. He opens the door on to a room where two Asian men are waiting. They greet him like a long-lost friend. The taller of the pair bumps fists with a bewildered Majid.

  ‘So you’re the Rocket Man. Salaam. We saw the vid. You survived an air-to-ground missile. That makes you a legend.’

  ‘Yes, respect. You fought on the front line. What was it like?’

  Majid touches the side of his face.

  ‘Painful.’

  The answer earns him laughter from the Asian men; not from Ski Hat. The guy has the personality of a cucumber.

  ‘I’m Hamid. This is Faisal.’

  Majid nods in the direction of Ski Hat.

  ‘And him?’

  ‘Abu Jihad.’

  Majid finds it impossible to suppress a laugh.

  ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

  He inspects the living room with a cursory glance. ‘So what’s the score here?’

  Kate said to force the pace. That was then. Now he is a fish out of water.

  ‘Bashir will explain when he gets here.’

  ‘Where’s the bathroom?’

  Hamid points across the hall. Once inside the bathroom, Majid swaps SIMs and texts Kate what he knows. He is about to change the SIMs back when a fist bangs on the door. It’s Ski Hat. Majid can’t grace him with the name Abu Jihad.

  ‘What are you doing in there, writing your will?’

  ‘I’ll be out now.’

  ‘Bashir’s just arrived. He says he needs your phone.’

  Majid’s heart slams. Bashir sounds suspicious. Majid pauses to control his breathing then he remembers something. He adds Ski Hat’s number plate to Kate’s text and presses send. That done, he swaps the SIMs and looks at the one Kate gave him.

  If Bashir does have doubts, this could expose me, he thinks. Reluctantly, he snaps the small, black card and flicks the fragments out of the bathroom window. He takes another moment to compose himself and unlocks the door.

  He feels the loss of the SIM keenly.

  It was his last link to Five.

  25

  Kate is on her way to the block of flats with Jack.

  ‘What a cock-up!’ She is playing nervously with her wedding ring. ‘The guys on the ground were too slow to respond. I knew something was wrong when Majid said they were sending him to the first floor, no
t ground level.’

  She pounds her fist on the dashboard and Jack shakes his head.

  ‘At least we’ve got Bungee’s text. That was quick thinking.’

  She reviews the information Majid was able to send.

  ‘A white male driving a Blue Escort. Calls himself Abu Jihad. Two Asian males, Hamid and Faisal. A maisonette flat within twenty to thirty minutes’ drive of the safe house.’

  ‘Any news on the registration number?’

  ‘Nabil is running a check.’ She is still playing with her ring. ‘We should have known something was going down when Bashir stayed in the car.’

  ‘There’s no point beating yourself up over it, Kate. Bashir’s clever.’

  Kate shakes her head.

  ‘We should be cleverer.’ She points. ‘We’re here. Pull over behind the white van. That’s the A4 team.’

  She unbuckles her belt and marches over to the two guys in the van.

  ‘OK,’ she says, ‘who’s going to walk me through it?’

  The volunteer is a man called Dave Latham, ex-military, experienced, meticulous, ready to go the extra mile. If Bashir got one over on Latham, he has got to be good. Latham leads Kate round the corner.

  ‘Bashir was sitting in the car for a good ten minutes before we got your call. Suddenly, he took off at high speed. You could say we were caught between a rock and a hard place. Phil took a walk round the back of the flats while I went to the street corner. All Bashir did was drive round here, abandon the car and take off. I don’t know where he went. It’s like chasing a ghost.’

  ‘So in a couple of minutes we lost both Bashir and Bungee?’

  Latham nods.

  ‘That’s about the size of it. Sorry, Kate.’

  She feels defeated.

  ‘Show me how they did it.’

  They climb to the first floor. Latham leads the way through the service door and down to the rear exit.

  ‘Whoever was waiting for Bungee must have parked out here somewhere.’

  Kate imagines the sequence of events for a few moments, sighs and pats Latham on the arm.