by Alan Gibbons
‘Your food is on the table. We don’t have long.’
Majid knows what he’s got to do.
Breathe. Steady yourself. See this thing through.
31
WEDNESDAY, 6TH JULY
Kate is sitting in a transit van with Jack in tow, listening to the crackle of radio traffic. Earlier, Special Branch inserted a fibre-optic cable into an airbrick so that they can monitor the movements of the occupants in the London maisonette. They now have footage of the second cell. The three men look bored and listless. The only sign that they could be preparing an act of terrorism is a blanket-covered bump in the middle of the living room floor. Jack leans forward, examining the screen.
There is more radio chatter. This time it is the firearms team leader. The Met has deployed its specialist firearms command, SCO19, also known as Trojans because of their armed response vehicles. The armed officers are ready to go in.
‘Confirmed: three males; two Asian, one white. No other occupants. We have no visual of bomb-making equipment, no visible firearms. Are you getting audio and video feed?’
‘Confirm that.’
There is a short pause.
‘The only object of interest is whatever the blanket is covering.’
Kate rubs her palms on her skirt. Her job is done. The house is identified. The firearms unit takes responsibility for the raid.
‘Three targets. One unidentified object.’
The radio crackles again and the image on the screen jerks, breaking up slightly.
‘Ready for the assault. On my count.’
Kate is jumpy. One misjudgement will lead to disaster.
‘I wish this was over.’
‘It won’t be long now,’ Jack Cole answers.
There is a final message from the firearms team leader.
‘Thirty seconds away. Twenty.’
In her mind’s eye, Kate can see the assault team assembling in silence, the Glock 17s strapped to their thighs. When the order comes to go in, it is like a whipcrack.
‘Go, go, go!’
There is a crash as the Enforcer door-ram breaches the lock. Dark-garbed figures fill the screen, firearms trained on the startled occupants. There is no resistance, no attempt to reach the blanket. The suddenness of the operation has paralysed them, choked off any impulse to resist. Soon the three men are biting the carpet, arms restrained behind their backs. A second team is rushing an object away for examination; it looks like a bag. It is some time before a fist pounds on the van door and Jack opens up. There is an exchange of conversation and he turns to Kate.
‘The house is secured. We’re clear to approach.’
Groups of local residents are watching the forensic team going into the house. Kate watches them: mothers, fathers, grandparents, children. She imagines what the cell could do to them. They sum up the vulnerability of human life.
‘What was under the blanket?’
One of the firearms officers holds the front door open.
‘See for yourself.’
‘Suicide vest. They hadn’t got round to arming it. No automatic weapons?’
‘No, no shooters.’
‘What’s in the bag?’
‘Improvised device. Explosives. Ball bearings. Nails. Nasty. Designed to cause the maximum injury. Your intel was spot on, Kate. Job done.’
Kate doesn’t comment.
On the way back to Thames House, there is no discussion of what happened. They are focused on stage two of the operation. Jack is the first to share his thoughts.
‘Well, we took out cell one with a day to go. Now we’ve got four days to stop cell two.’
‘So you’re sure the target is the anti-terrorism conference?’
‘It’s the obvious candidate.’
‘All I’m saying is, we can’t exclude other possibilities. I still think London is favourite. Did you compile the list of targets?’
‘You know I did.’
Kate’s ringtone breaks the tension. It’s Nabil. She listens, acknowledges his message and hangs up.
‘Something wrong?’ Jack asks.
‘Nabil just identified one of the men Abu Rashid met. His name is Radek Kalas, a known gunrunner from the Czech Republic.’
Jack grimaces.
‘Looks like we’re not out of the woods yet.’
32
Nasima is fiddling with her bag’s dodgy zip and chatting to Lucy when she sees a familiar figure standing on the far pavement.
‘What’s Dad doing here?’
Amir stops wrestling around with Nikel and follows the direction of Nasima’s stare. Already, a sense of unease is ticking away inside him.
‘Now he’s waving.’ Rolled eyes follow. ‘What have I done wrong this time?’
Nasima sighs. ‘It isn’t always about you, Amir. If he has taken time off work, it must be serious.’
Lucy sees them starting to walk away.
‘Are you two going somewhere?’ she asks. ‘I thought you were coming round to mine later, Nas.’
Nasima shoulders her school bag.
‘Looks like there might be a change of plan, Luce. Dad hasn’t picked us up from school since we were in juniors.’ She sees the expression on her father’s face. The flickering anxiety is new and unsettling. ‘I’ll call you, OK?’
Lucy is left standing with Nikel, wondering what’s going on. Already, Nasima has forgotten about her.
‘Dad looks really worried. What’s going on?’
Their father is hurrying across the busy road. For a moment he is stranded between two lanes of traffic, hopping from one foot to the other as he looks for a gap. Finally, he reaches the pavement.
‘We have to go.’
His voice is urgent. He has his eyes on the pedestrians as they hurry by. Nasima’s voice is shaky.
‘Dad, are you all right? What’s wrong?’
He shakes his head.
‘Not here, Nasima. Follow me. We’ve got to go.’
The twins are aware of Nikel and Lucy staring as they weave their way across the road to the family car.
‘Dad, why are you behaving like this?’
‘Keep going. I will explain in the car.’
By now, Amir is becoming as agitated as his sister. He slips into the passenger seat and Nasima climbs into the back.
‘Is this about me?’
There is no answer. Dad is driving fast.
‘Dad,’ Amir murmurs, ‘I think you need to slow down.’
Then a yell of warning. ‘Dad!’
A woman stops dead on a zebra crossing as Dad slams on the brakes. The car rocks on its suspension and Dad seems to crumple before his children. The pedestrian glares at him then carries on her way. Nasima and Amir watch their father resting his head on the steering wheel until the driver behind hits his horn. Dad clears the shock from his mind and drives on.
‘I wasn’t concentrating. No more questions until we get to the hotel.’
Amir turns to look at Nasima. Hotel?
She shrugs her bewilderment.
The drive takes fifteen minutes. The hotel is part of a no-frills, cut-price chain. Dad pulls into a corner parking bay, unfastens his seatbelt and leads them into the building. He gains access to the stairs with his key card.
‘Where’s Mum?’ Nasima asks.
‘She is upstairs.’
They climb the stairs and Dad unlocks the door. Mum rises to her feet. There are two suitcases in the middle of the room and two sports bags belonging to the twins.
‘What is this? Where are we going?’
‘We are staying right here,’ their father says. ‘We need to stay away from the flat until things calm down.’
He walks to the window and peers outside.
‘Dad, what’s wrong? What are you looking for?’
‘Reporters. They came round the flat.’
Amir throws his head back.
‘Reporters. So it is about me.’
‘No, Amir,’ Mum says. ‘It is not about you. It’s M
ajid. The press has made the connection.’
‘This is spinning out of control,’ Dad says. ‘Somehow, journalists at the Reporter have found out about Majid. I don’t know how they did it, but they have put it all together: Amir’s arrest, his referral to Prevent, the fact that Majid joined those takfiris. They are going to publish an article tomorrow. By Friday morning, everybody will know about Majid. We will be a family of extremists.’
‘But that’s crazy,’ Nasima cries. ‘Amir isn’t Majid. How can they do this to us?’
A few spots of rain strike the windowpane.
‘And that’s why we’re hiding out here?’
‘Yes. Your mother and I wanted to protect you from those vultures. The newspapers have got everything. They are going to paint us as terrorists.’
He finds himself speaking to his dead son. ‘Oh, Majid, if only you knew what your madness has done to us.’
Nasima takes one of her father’s hands between hers.
‘What do we do now, Abbu-ji?’
Her father shakes his head.
‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.’
33
Bashir pulls over. They are in a layby on a lonely country road. Majid’s heart kicks.
‘Why are we stopping here?’
Bashir ignores the question.
‘Get out.’
There are woods to their left.
Majid doesn’t like the chain of events. ‘What’s this about?’
Bashir opens the boot.
‘Get your bags, all of you.’
Jamil is jumpy.
‘What for?’
‘Somebody ratted the cell out to the police. I’m going to find out who.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Bashir held out his phone.
‘There was a raid.’
Majid feigns shock.
‘How? How the hell did they know where to look?’
Bashir presses his knuckles into his temple.
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
He draws a butterfly knife.
‘Move.’
Before long, they are in a clearing. It is a peaceful spot. There is birdsong and dappled sunlight, but Majid is uneasy. Bashir starts with Abu Rashid.
‘Jamil, pat him down.’
Jamil finds a set of keys, a knife, some change and not much else. It doesn’t give Majid any confidence that both Bashir and Abu Rashid are carrying shanks.
‘Now check his bag.’
Jamil goes through it with trembling hands.
‘Nothing.’
‘OK, one down. Now Majid.’
Jamil repeats the operation. At one point he meets Majid’s gaze. There is terror in Jamil’s eyes. Something is wrong.
Bashir supervises the bag search. Satisfied, he turns to Abu Rashid.
‘Now, you search Jamil.’
At this point, Jamil breaks down.
‘Look, I’ve got to tell you something.’
Bashir shakes his head fiercely and points the blade at Jamil’s face.
‘Not a word or I’ll give you a joker’s smile.’
Abu Rashid goes through the bag, feels something and tugs at the bag’s lining. ‘He’s got something hidden.’
He holds up a phone. Jamil’s eyes widen.
‘So who’ve you been phoning, Jamil? Got friends in the government?’
Majid feels sick.
‘It’s not the way it looks. I had to hide the phone. My mum’s ill. Cancer. I just wanted to check in with my sisters, see she was OK. You can look at my call history.’
Bashir’s face doesn’t betray any emotion.
‘Bashir, I’m telling the truth. Ask Majid. He knows my mum. She hasn’t been well.’
Majid stumbles out a confirmation.
‘That’s right. It was all going on before I left for Syria. She was starting chemo. Come on. Cut him some slack.’
Abu Rashid folds his arms. ‘We said no phones. End of. Somebody gave Five the low-down on the house. I think we’ve found our rat.’
Jamil is in full panic mode. He understands the consequences of the hidden phone.
‘Listen. Please. Just listen to me. I know it looks bad, but I can’t just forget about my mum. Have some heart.’ He looks at Majid. ‘You know I’m no plant, Majid. Tell them. Please!’
Majid can feel the pulse throbbing in his throat. This is bad.
‘Check his calls, Bashir. I’ve known this guy since we were kids. I would trust him with my life. He would never work for the security services.’
‘That’s right.’ Jamil is begging with his life. There are sweat stains on his shirt. ‘I hate them. If somebody’s passing information, it ain’t me.’
Bashir is deaf to his pleas.
‘There’s a mole, Majid. They knew about our guys. Put two and two together, bro.’
Majid feels hope ebbing away. Bashir is standing to one side of Jamil, Abu Rashid to the other.
‘Look, let’s talk about this.’
‘There’s no time, Majid. We’ve got to move. Now.’
Abu Rashid has produced his own knife, a large blade with a serrated edge. Jamil’s eyes widen. Now he is trembling, spittle running on to his chin.
‘Don’t do this, man. I didn’t talk to anybody.’
‘What’s the problem?’ Abu Rashid demands. ‘You’ve been talking about martyrdom. It’s going to come a little early, that’s all.’
Jamil is begging for his life.
‘The phone is for my mum. Tell him, Majid. Tell him!’
Abu Rashid is pushing Jamil deeper into the trees. Majid looks on and it is as if he is dreaming. Everything he sees, everything he hears is distant, echoing strangely.
‘Help me, Majid. Help me!’
Jamil’s cries are like stones dropping into water, sending out ripples of helpless fear, but Majid doesn’t move. He looks on, and the horror envelops him like a shroud.
Moments later there is a small, sharp cry and crows rise noisily from the undergrowth.
Abu Rashid reappears.
‘Let’s go.’
SPRING, 2014
The explosion woke Majid. He had got used to the sights and sounds of war, but there was a sound he would remember in his dreams for the rest of his life: this single crack, followed by an ominous rumble. An hour after the shell hit, he became aware of a figure in the doorway.
‘Yusuf? What’s wrong?’
‘You’ve got to come. It’s the hospital.’
Majid followed Yusuf to the Hilux. He was numb. His footsteps seemed to fall in a different world to this one. The vehicle’s engine was throbbing, ready to leave. Soon they were roaring past cypress trees. There were a few poppies nodding in the breeze. They saw the usual sights: the rubble that was once the dome of a mosque, the numerous craters left by the regime’s merciless shelling, a cemetery framed in the dawn light. Majid stared numbly at his surroundings. Women passed in fluttering black abayas. Majid barely registered the scene.
He eventually recognised the fig grove to their left. They were nearly there. That’s when they saw the smoke on the horizon. As they climbed down from the Hilux, Mahmoud appeared, wearing the black of the Islamic State. Majid rushed towards him.
‘Shaima, is she …’
‘I’m sorry, Majid. The missile brought the roof down on her while she was sleeping. She wouldn’t have felt any pain.’
That is how he learned of her death. While Mahmoud’s voice died away, the last survivors to be pulled out of the rubble were staggering into one another, falling against their rescuers. Majid placed his hands on the side of the Hilux and closed his eyes.
‘Where is she? I want to see her.’
He found her laid out on a blanket. The sun was on her face. She was covered in dust.
‘It is as if she is sleeping.’
Majid’s heart was as hard and dead as a stone. He couldn’t believe what had happened.
‘She was good. She was the best person I ever met.�
��
Yusuf was by his side.
‘I know how you felt about Shaima. Do you want to avenge her?’
A black fire had ignited inside Majid’s soul.
‘Yes.’
‘By force of arms?’
‘Yes.’
Yusuf nodded.
‘Then I will show you the way.’
34
THURSDAY, 7TH JULY
Majid feels like a prisoner.
There are two bedrooms in the small terraced house in Dunstable, but Bashir insists that they all sleep in the same room. Majid gazes out at the cramped yard, the retail units just beyond the wall, the scrap of dull sky. The other two never let him out of their sight. He watches the late afternoon light and runs the same questions through his mind. Why here? What is the target? There is still no sign of the guns, just that one tantalising photo.
Majid drops into an armchair that has seen better days. The varnish on the arms is cracked and peeling. There is a spring working its way through the upholstery. He keeps reliving the moment Abu Rashid marched Jamil to his death.
Abu Rashid complains loudly. ‘The waiting is killing me.’
Bashir looks at Majid.
‘What about you, Rocket Man?’
Majid forces out a reply.
‘Yes, I’m bored.’
Bashir grunts.
‘You don’t have enough to occupy your tiny minds.’
‘So give us something to do. Tell us about the target.’
‘Why the hurry, Majid? Are you so hungry for martyrdom?’
Majid wonders whether it is time to take risks.
‘You say I’m the main man, Bashir. You want me to be your warrior, but you don’t trust me. I thought we’d had this out.’
He has got Abu Rashid’s attention. He clearly wants to know how this is going to play with Bashir.
‘You owe me, Bashir. I lost a good friend in Syria. I lost another here.’
‘Jamil was a rat, Majid. He had a phone hidden in his room.’
This time, Majid is not pushing at the boundaries. He is speaking from the heart. ‘You had him killed for nothing, Bashir. That phone was to call his mum. I think you even know that. Why did you kill him? Does it give you some kind of kick?’