Sleeper 13: The most explosive must-read thriller of 2018

by Rob Sinclair

  Twenty yards in front a small moped with a delivery box was parked next to a makeshift grocery stall. Cox could see the young driver, helmet on his head, on his feet talking to the stall owner.

  Cox lifted the gun.

  ‘Give me the keys!’ she shouted in Arabic.

  Both men, together with just about every other person in sight, suddenly stopped what they were doing and turned and stared.

  ‘The keys!’ Cox screamed.

  A gunshot boomed behind her. People screamed. Cox ducked, but didn’t stop running. She saw the moped driver crumple to the ground. The key fell from his hand. Another gunshot. Cox was sure she felt the bullet whizz past her ear. She half-turned and fired four shots of her own, again no target in sight, simply trying to put off her attackers. It did the trick.

  She bent down to scoop up the key and jumped onto the moped. Bizarrely, what stuck in her head in that moment wasn’t the thought of the chasing pack, but her annoyance that the stall owner, cowering behind his vegetables, was cursing her and asking Allah to punish her, like she was the one in the wrong.

  Cox turned the key and pulled the throttle and the squeaky machine pulled away. Beyond the stall she quickly turned into an alley to give herself breathing space from the shooters behind. She pulled the throttle harder, the front wheel almost coming off the ground. It certainly would have done if the engine had a bit more grunt.

  Only then did she risk a look behind her. The entrance to the alley, already twenty yards away, was clear. She turned her focus back to the front. All clear there too. She took a series of quick turns, heading into the labyrinth of the old town. Streets she knew as well as anyone.

  After five minutes, sure there was no one in front or behind, she ditched the moped out of sight behind some industrial bins, then, after wiping the blood from her face with her hijab, quickly walked onto a busy market street, less than half a mile from the safe house.

  Losing herself in the crowds, she took out her phone and re-typed her earlier message.

  Holiday needed.

  This time she hit the send button without hesitation. Less than thirty seconds later the phone buzzed and she looked down at the response.

  Three hours. Stay safe.

  She could only hope and pray for the chance to hold out that long.

  THIRTEEN

  The fifteen boys were sitting on the bare concrete floor in three neat rows of five. The imam, brown thawb and flowing camel-hair bisht, was sitting on the edge of the desk in front of them in the mostly bare room. There was little furniture; it was nothing like what Aydin had become used to in classrooms back in London. Not all the rooms at the Farm were like this one. Each was functional. Designed for a specific purpose. The purpose of this room was to learn about the Quran. Paraphernalia and propaganda and quotes from the sacred text lined the walls, though all of the boys had their eyes firmly fixed on the imam as he talked.

  All of the boys except Aydin, who busily flicked through the thick book in his hands, a frown on this face.

  ‘. . . And slay them wherever ye find them,’ the imam continued, ‘and drive them out of the places whence they drove you out, for persecution is worse than slaughter . . . and fight them until fitnah is no more, and religion is for Allah . . .’

  Aydin, eyes still glued to the text in front of him, his frown deepening, raised his hand in the air. It took him a few seconds to realise the whole room had gone deathly silent. When he looked up he saw all the other boys were staring at him. Some of their faces were accusing, others looked more astonished. Aydin locked eyes with the imam, who looked annoyed at having been disturbed, but he simply raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Yes, boy?’

  ‘But isn’t the context of the passage, of all the Sword verses, that the Muslims were under attack? That this was a defensive war and they were being told to fight the aggressors. This was an instruction at a specific point in time. Not just an everlasting statement to every Muslim to kill in the name of Allah.’

  The imam said nothing to that, just stared at Aydin for a few seconds and the boy felt himself begin to shrink. He’d asked the question not as a challenge of the imam, but out of genuine curiosity. The truth was he was enthralled by the texts, not just the Quran, but all of the other books that taught them about the history of their people and the religion. His question was borne of real intrigue and the desire to understand, though he sensed it was not welcome.

  Yet before his brain could stop him, he opened his mouth again.

  ‘The way I saw it, was that if a leader today told his soldiers to bombard the Syrians in Damascus, it wouldn’t mean that the soldiers would have to bombard every Syrian for eternity, would it? Isn’t what we’re reading here just a specific instruction at one point in time, in one place, to one group of people?’

  ‘Dear boy,’ the imam said, his tone at odds with his words, ‘I fear it is you who may be taking this out of context. Yes, this one passage was written in relation to a particular cause. But there are many, many more, and the cause is one that is abundantly relevant today.’

  ‘Which cause?’

  ‘The persecution of our people. We are in a defensive war now, just as our people were then, and these same instructions absolutely apply just as much.’

  Aydin wasn’t entirely appeased by that, but he could tell both from the reaction of the imam and the groans and shifts of his brothers that there was no sense in pushing the point further.

  ‘Let me ask you this,’ the imam said. ‘Do you think it acceptable that the non-believers can drop their bombs, shoot us with their guns, divide and destroy our countries and our cities and families, and injure and kill our women and children?’

  ‘Of course not, but––’

  ‘Then you must see these passages for what they are. These are instructions for what we must do. Do you understand?’

  Aydin paused for a second. ‘Yes,’ he said, unconvincingly.

  Moments later there was a crash as the door behind the boys opened. Aydin and half a dozen of the other boys whipped their heads round to see the stocky form of the Teacher entering the room. As usual he had an angry snarl on his face that made all of the boys straighten up and hold their breaths.

  The Teacher strode up to the imam.

  ‘Okay, boys, I think that’s enough for today,’ the imam said before turning to the Teacher.

  The Teacher bent down and whispered something into the imam’s ear. The imam simply nodded a few times. Then when the Teacher had finished, the imam whispered back. He looked over to Aydin as he did so, then after a few seconds the Teacher too craned his neck so he was staring, coldly, at the young boy.

  Aydin realised he was trembling.

  ‘Please, back to your rooms now,’ the imam said, and each of the boys got to their feet. ‘Except for you,’ he added, still staring over at Aydin.

  Aydin gulped as the other boys traipsed out, some of them giving him sorry looks, one or two looking amused at his plight. When the last of the boys left, the room went silent. Aydin tried his best not to look the Teacher in the eye, though he felt the big man’s hard glare burning into his mind.

  No one said a word. After a few moments the Teacher loomed forward towards Aydin, baring his teeth like a wild dog. The young boy squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could, the only defence he could muster to save him from the monster.

  FOURTEEN

  London, England

  Aydin wished he could fill his head with more positive memories, but as he walked out of the recreation ground and back along the road towards flat 12c it was those thoughts of the Farm and what he’d been through there, at his father’s making, that echoed in his mind.

  The multi-tool was already in his hand as he walked up the stairs and along the exposed corridor to the front door of 12c. He reached the heavily weathered, yellow door. It looked like it’d been that sickly colour for years, though last time he’d been there it was cherry red. The doors to all of the flats had similarly garish colours, a strange
attempt to make the dwellings appear nicer, and perhaps the occupants happier than they really were.

  First taking a quick glance along the corridor to check he was alone, Aydin used the torsion wrench on the multi-tool, and a hair clip he’d found on the street minutes earlier, to quickly release the simple barrel lock. He pushed open the door. For a brief second he wondered whether there was an alarm, but why would anyone around there bother? He was sure few people had anything worth stealing. The burglars all likely travelled the short distance to nearby more affluent suburbs for their nightly jaunts.

  He shut the door behind him and took in the musty smell of the place. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant smell, and he wasn’t sure exactly where it came from. A combination of bleach and air freshener and damp, but also undeniably it was a smell that he associated with home. The sensation as the odour triggered deeply buried memories knocked his focus and for a few seconds it was like he’d been transported back in time. He could hear their voices. His little sister, squealing in delight as she charged around. His mother, her authoritative yet endlessly loving tone. He heard himself too, heard the innocence and wonder in his words, his endless questions about life and everything in it, mostly mundane, but occasionally profound. He heard the sound of the TV, could recall sitting in front of the screen; always too close, his mum would yell at him. He’d watch cartoons and other shows for hours, in stitches the whole time. Tom and Jerry. Mr Bean.

  Then came the voice of his father. For many years so loving, Aydin remembered how it all changed so quickly. How his father came home one day and told his wife to stop wearing make-up, told her what she could and couldn’t wear, that she wasn’t allowed to see her friends any more without him. He told her God demanded it.

  Remembering that brief time before he was taken from his mother was enough to wrench the more pleasant memories from Aydin’s grasp.

  He moved through the gloomy space. There were only four doors off the hallway. The first was what used to be his bedroom. He peered inside through the open door. He wasn’t surprised to see it was completely different to how he remembered. There was no sign that it used to be a bedroom at all, the room now filled with almost senseless clutter. He’d thought perhaps Nilay had still been living there, but clearly that wasn’t the case.

  He walked further along, passing the bathroom which he noticed had been refurbished since he was last there, though it looked tired and scruffy still, no doubt because it was cheaply fitted with even cheaper fittings. Next he passed his parents’ bedroom. It was neat and tidy in there and the smell of his mother filled his head, initiating a burning – a yearning perhaps – in his heart.

  He spotted two picture frames by one side of the double bed. One was of Nilay as a teenager. She looked beautiful, her dark eyes dazzling, her black hair glistening, the softness of her unblemished skin evident even on photographic paper. The other picture was of Aydin and his mother, smiling faces, on one of their rare trips abroad, to visit family in Turkey. That trip, the first time he’d left the UK, remained one of the most wondrous experiences of his life.

  Trying to hold on to the fond reminiscence, he moved to the end of the hall where the last doorway led onto the cramped everyday living space; kitchen, lounge, diner. Three spaces that together weren’t much more than fifteen feet long, and narrower than that. It had never seemed small when he was little, though, and actually was way better than what he’d become used to after he was taken. Looking at it all these years later it seemed uncomfortably pokey, and he could sense just how poverty-stricken his mother remained, to have been stuck in such a rotting place for so long.

  Despite the meagre size of the home and her obvious lack of wealth, the living space was lovingly decorated and crammed with traditional Turkish, Middle-Eastern and Persian art and ornaments, together with photos and knick-knacks that told the stories of the family, their history, and of their home country.

  Again Aydin noticed not a single picture of his father anywhere in sight. There were one or two photos of Aydin, but most were of Nilay, the undoubted jewel in the family. And rightly so. He moved over and picked up one of the pictures of her. A candid photo, taken in profile, set against a yellow sandy background. Wearing a silky hijab, a pair of large-framed sunglasses covering her eyes, her mouth was open in a broad smile, though it wasn’t clear who or what she was smiling at.

  He noticed a white van in the background, emblazoned with a company logo. His first instinct was that the picture was of her in Syria, where she was killed, working for the charity Believe. But when he looked more closely he saw the logo was actually of a security company, and the website address on the van ended in ‘.tr’. Turkey. He frowned and turned the frame over then slid away the clasps to remove the back cover. There, in his mother’s handwriting, was the date and place of the picture. Istanbul, Turkey. The date was just three months ago.

  ‘What were you doing there?’ he said out loud to his dead sister.

  As if in response there was a sound from out in the hallway. Not his sister’s ghost, but a key turning the lock on the front door.

  FIFTEEN

  His mother was home. Aydin had come all this way because he needed to see her. But not like this. He moved over to the fire-exit door in the kitchen that led onto a metal staircase that connected all of the flats at the back. He turned the lock and opened the door and quietly shut it behind him, then quickly retreated down to street level. He moved across the yard and round to the road, and then headed away, his mind filled with disappointment at his behaviour.

  Why hadn’t he just stayed and seen her? Wouldn’t she want to know that he was alive, that he was okay? Most likely she believed she’d lost everything – her husband, her daughter, her son. But she hadn’t.

  Although his mind was distracted as he walked away, his training was still there – part of his subconscious – and it wasn’t long before he spotted them, fifty yards behind him. Two men. He only got a brief glimpse before they disappeared from sight but one of them was big and wide, the other smaller, perhaps a similar build to himself. Both were dressed casually, and although their faces were somewhat obscured by their hoodies, Aydin could see from the colour of their hands that their skin was not pale, but like his.

  He despised what they had made him into, in so many different ways, yet he realised he should also be grateful for some of the skills he had. One of which was a sixth sense as to when he was being watched and followed. He barely even needed to think about it any more. He simply noticed people. He noticed everything and everyone around him, his brain automatically filtering the world he saw and putting everything and everyone into different categories. No threat, minimal threat. Red alert. The two men behind him fell somewhere between those last two categories. He had no doubt that they were tailing him, but he didn’t yet know who they were. Possibly just local gangbangers wondering who the new face on their patch was, but it was equally likely they were undercover police or intelligence agents who had somehow tracked him from Dover. Or even the traffickers who he’d earlier attacked.

  The most obvious possibility, however, was that the two men had been sent by his own brethren to end his sorry existence permanently.

  Aydin was determined to find out which of those options was true, but there was no need to rush the situation. He needed to retain the upper hand, fight back on his own terms and in his own time and place of choosing. That’s why he didn’t just lead the two men into a deserted alley and attack them there and then. Instead he went for a walk. A long walk. For three hours he took winding routes through north London streets, never veering into territory that would allow them to spring an attack. He stopped for food and drink twice. He bought some replacement clothes from a charity shop; jeans, T-shirt, a hooded jacket that together cost less than twenty pounds. There was heat on him, and before long he anticipated he’d need the new clothes, so he decided it was better to be prepared than to wait too long. The clothes he was wearing were already smeared with blood, and he was
only expecting that situation to worsen in the not-so-distant future.

  As early evening approached the streets and the roads became busier and busier and finally were crammed with commuters on their way home from work. The crowds made the job of the watchers all the more difficult, but Aydin knew they were still out there. When the rush hour began to die down, he decided it was time to make the first move. He wanted to find out who the men were.

  He worked his way around to the nearest Tube station, Wood Green, and walked quickly through the curved corner entrance that was flanked by two large ventilation towers. He headed straight for a machine and with the loose change in his pocket bought a single trip ticket – not that he was planning on actually stepping onto a train. Instead he moved across and out of sight of the main entrance and quickly stripped off his hoody and pulled on the blue one he’d bought earlier. He swapped his white trainers for the black ones in the bag as he hopped along, then placed the new maroon cap over his head. A light transformation, though hopefully one that would buy him a few seconds at least. Without breaking stride, he slung the backpack over his shoulder again and moved over to where he could see a help desk. The young woman behind the desk gave him a disinterested smile as he approached and he put his face up to the vent in the plastic screen to speak to her.

  ‘I was told to come back after six,’ Aydin said to her. ‘I dropped my phone on the track this morning. Is it possible to get it now?’

  ‘What was your name?’

  ‘Emre Arslan,’ he said, the name popping into his head seemingly from nowhere – a trick he’d learned long ago for thinking on the spot by using the familiar. The name was an amalgam of two different Turkish footballers

  ‘Okay, just wait a second,’ the woman said before spinning round on her chair and moving out of sight.

  Aydin looked around him. No sign of the two men yet. But this needed to be quick. He was glad seconds later when the woman came back and indicated over to Aydin’s right. A podgy middle-aged man in a bright orange jacket was heading straight for him. He didn’t look particularly accommodating.