The Trap: terrorism, heroism and everything in between Read online

  Hugh heard her out. If a silence could be smug, that’s how Kate would have described the next few seconds.

  ‘OK, Hugh, I know you’ve got something else. Stop holding out on me.’

  ‘What if this guy is different?’ Hugh said. ‘And what if he name-dropped Bashir Mirza?’

  The instant Kate heard the name, the back of her neck prickled. Bashir’s activities had set off all kinds of alarms before he went missing several months earlier.

  ‘And what,’ Hugh concluded with a flourish, ‘if the name David Obi, aka Abu Rashid, also came up in conversations?’

  By then Kate was salivating. Bashir and Abu Rashid continued to rumble ominously on the radar. They had come up in a briefing only a week earlier. If the absconder knew how to get to them, he could be a vital asset.

  ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I would be very interested. I might even put in a request for a business class ticket to Istanbul.’

  ‘So you would like to work together on this project?’ Hugh asked.

  ‘It’s a distinct possibility,’ Kate answered.

  She remembers everything about that fateful phone call: the muddy light in her office, the drone of the traffic, the wail of the police siren in the distance. 7 July, 2005 was over a decade ago, but the wound was fresh. Kate had been new to the job then. She had been on leave and was driving back to London when the overhead signs lit up all along the motorway. The message is imprinted on her: AVOID LONDON. AREA CLOSED.

  That summer’s morning, fifty-two innocent people were killed and seven hundred were injured. The thought of a repeat attack haunted Kate and every one of her colleagues. A motto was established. We have to get lucky every time. The terrorists only have to get lucky once.

  She returns to her desk, remembers her sandwich and starts to eat. She chews thoughtfully and picks up the framed photograph of her husband and daughters. She finds herself smiling, remembering the way they burst through the door and leapt on the bed that morning. Then an image fills her mind: a fire flash, spraying glass, a roiling mass of flame and smoke. She imagines her family’s faces curling and blackening, then being blown away like ash. It takes something big to keep Kate awake at night, but this image is one of them.

  In a few minutes she will put a call through to her immediate superior, Jennifer Sherbourne. It is over a year since Majid Sarwar came into her life. He has come good with his promise to contact Bashir Mirza.

  Now it is time to activate him.

  3

  It is nine miles as the crow flies from Thames House to the cramped, rented flat above a Turkish restaurant in north London where Amir Sarwar lives with his twin sister and their parents. From Thames House, the view is of London’s history, power and majesty. It is just two miles to the Houses of Parliament, another half a mile past that to Buckingham Palace. Every way you turn there are echoes of the past. In contrast, the streets around the flat are a jumble. Here, people concentrate on making ends meet. A forty-five-minute drive from Kate Armstrong’s office overlooking the river, Nasima is beating her twin brother up the stairs.

  ‘Loser!’ she teases, as she turns her key in the lock.

  ‘You are really sad,’ Amir sighs, tossing his bag on the sofa.

  Nasima wishes Amir wasn’t so subdued. He has been this way for months and he doesn’t show any sign of snapping out of it. She doesn’t say anything. She has had to get used to his moods. Once upon a time, it was three of them jostling through the door after a sprint along the street. Majid and Amir were thick as thieves back then. Nasima hears their voices as if Majid were still here.

  ‘I gave you a twenty-metre start and I still beat you home.’ Majid boasted.

  ‘You wait until I’m your age,’ Amir yelled.

  Majid, wrapped his arm round his younger brother’s neck.

  ‘You’ll never be my age, you idiot.’

  Amir, squirmed in the headlock: ‘You know what I mean.’

  Nasima’s eyes sting as she remembers.

  ‘We’re home,’ she calls, knowing Majid will never be home again. A hand of darkness took him.

  ‘Do you really think I didn’t hear you coming?’ her mum answers. ‘You thunder up those stairs like a pair of baby elephants.’

  Amir peers round the kitchen door where she is browning chicken in onion, ginger and garlic paste.

  ‘It isn’t our fault. There’s no carpet on those stairs. I thought Dad was supposed to bring it up with the landlord. How long are we going to be in this dump anyway?’

  ‘Once we have a buyer for our house, we will start looking for somewhere. This is only short-term. We won’t be here forever, Amir.’

  ‘That’s what you said in the last flat and the one before that. When do we get to settle down? It’s a year since we had a normal life.’

  Mum sighs.

  ‘Why do we have to have this discussion over and over again? When your brother shamed us, we had no choice but to look for somewhere else to live.’

  ‘You’re the one who had to open his mouth and tell somebody who we were,’ Nasima reminds him. ‘That’s why we had to move the last time.’

  Amir scowls.

  ‘That’s right, blame me.’

  ‘I’m not blaming you,’ Nasima says. ‘I’m just saying there’s a reason for all the moves.’

  ‘We could have kept our heads up,’ Amir protests, ‘and stayed where we were. The only reason we’re doing this is Dad’s pride.’

  Amir growls his frustration. ‘Majid, Majid, Majid. That’s all I ever hear. When are you going to accept that he’s dead and gone?’

  ‘Amir, that’s enough!’

  He sees his mum’s chin tremble and rushes an apology.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ammi-ji. I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it. That was thoughtless.’ His arms flop at his sides. He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted … he wanted what was no longer possible. ‘I’m just fed up of living like this.’

  Nasima fumbles in her sleeve for a tissue.

  ‘It’s OK, Nasima. It’s just the mention of his name. I know it’s stupid, but I still expect him to come walking through the door.’

  Nasima flashes a warning at Amir. Don’t do that again.

  ‘Don’t cry, Ammi-ji. Please.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She laughs. ‘Out of my kitchen, you two. You’re going to make me burn the garlic.’

  Nasima pushes Amir roughly as they leave the kitchen.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she hisses.

  ‘I didn’t think.’

  Everybody says Nasima has a placid nature, but she can be fiery in defence of her mother.

  ‘That’s your problem. You never do. You’re just like …’

  Amir shakes his head, anticipating the end of her sentence.

  ‘Is that right? I’m just like Majid? I loved my brother, Nasima, but no way am I like him. Tell me, when did I run off to Syria and pick up an AK-47? When did I start talking about the khalifa?’

  Nasima tilts her head. ‘I think it’s my turn to say sorry.’ She sees his bag on the sofa. ‘If you want a quiet life, you need to move that before Dad gets home.’

  Amir takes a deep breath, decides against arguing, and marches into his room. He kicks the door shut behind him and shoves his bag under the bed. He glances out of the window at the tiny yard below. Greyish mist cloaks the streets. There’s a knock at the door. Amir is unable to quell the smile that springs to his lips. That will be Nasima come to make up. She hates conflict. He is glad she always makes the first move.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me. Can I come in?’

  Amir opens the door to let her in. She holds out a flat, upturned palm.

  ‘Peace?’

  Amir grins and brings his hand down on hers in a playful slap.

  ‘Peace. Sorry. I just want to go home.’

  ‘You and me both.’

  ‘Is it too much to want our old lives back? I don’t understand.’

  Nasima feels sorry for her brother. W
hile she is just about able to accept her lot, Amir craves his mates, his old routines. She has already made new friends, but he prowls around on his own, brooding about the past.

  ‘It isn’t going to happen, is it? You know what Dad says.’

  That sets Amir off. Soon, he mimics his dad’s deep, fractious voice.

  ‘I can’t hold my head up in the street. Majid brought shame to this family. I can’t walk down to the shops without somebody staring at me, thinking I am a bad father. No, I will not stay in this house another day: not one more day.’

  Nasima smiles.

  ‘You’ve got him down to a tee.’ Then a chuckle. ‘Just don’t do it when he’s around.’

  Raindrops rap on the window. Amir flops on the bed and stares up at the ceiling. He follows the pattern of a large crack. There are two brown circles where water has come through in the past.

  Three lousy flats.

  Three rain-damaged ceilings.

  ‘No chance of that. I’d never hear the end of it.’ He continues the impression. ‘Where is your respect? Do you think I work all the hours God sends to have you acting like a clown?’ He loves the way Nasima laughs at his impression and lays it on even more thickly for her benefit. ‘You are going to grow big clown feet and a big clown nose to go with your big clown head.’

  Before long the pair of them are doubling up with laughter, voices echoing around the flat. Just then, the door goes.

  ‘Shush. That’s Dad coming in now.’

  They spill out of the room and stand to mock attention. Laughter is still bubbling on their lips. Nasima’s eyes are sparkling.

  ‘Welcome home, Abbu-ji.’

  Amir follows her lead.

  ‘Yes, welcome home, Abbu-ji.’

  Their father frowns.

  ‘What’s got into you two?’

  Mum appears.

  ‘I think they’ve been at the laughing gas.’

  Dad pulls the Evening Standard from under his arm. He turns three pages, laying it out on the table.

  ‘Have you seen this?’

  They gather round and read the headline.

  Councillors say: mosque marchers not welcome.

  ‘Sometimes it feels as if trouble follows this family around. We don’t seem to be able to cut a break.’

  Nasima picks up the newspaper and skim-reads the article.

  ‘What do these England Awakes people mean, no new mosque? There’s a mosque on the site already. All they are doing is extending the building.’

  She remembers seeing the plans for a new study centre.

  ‘These are not rational people, Nasima. They are intent on causing trouble.’

  Nasima throws the paper down in disgust, but it is Amir who comments.

  ‘They’re dangerous idiots. Some of the kids at school are going down there on Saturday. They’re planning a welcoming party.’

  Nasima stares.

  ‘You knew about this already? You didn’t say anything to me.’

  ‘Nikel only told me about it today.’

  ‘Nikel? What, the dorky one in your Maths set? Hair like a Mr Whippy ice cream?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Does that mean His Royal Majesty Amir has finally decided to make friends with the locals?’

  Their father cuts in.

  ‘You listen to me, both of you. You will not go near the mosque on Saturday. You will not go within a mile of it.’

  That’s a novelty, Nasima thinks, telling them not to go to the mosque.

  ‘Do you hear me?’

  Amir can’t help himself.

  ‘Dad, the whole street can hear you.’

  At that, his father’s head snaps round. Amir drops his eyes instantly.

  ‘Sorry, Abbu-ji.’

  He feels his hand on his shoulder, squeezing.

  ‘You will not make a joke out of this, Amir. Do you really not understand what I am saying? I have lost one son. I will not lose another.’

  Amir is close to tears.

  ‘Dad,’ Nasima says, ‘you’re not going to lose him. Amir is a good boy, a sensible boy. He works hard at school.’

  She can see her father’s fingers burying themselves into Amir’s shoulder. His voice is low.

  ‘Majid was a bright boy too. He could have been a doctor, a solicitor, a well-paid professional.’ He takes a breath. ‘Instead, he chose to go running into the arms of those fanatics, those takfiri zealots. It is not just intelligence that matters, Amir. It is common sense. You get these big ideas when you are young and you start chasing all kinds of crazy dreams. You have to stay grounded, both of you.’ His attention is all on Amir. ‘Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, Abbu-ji.’

  ‘Nasima?’

  She wants to ask what she has done to make him ask such a question, but she keeps her thoughts to herself.

  ‘Yes, Abbu-ji. Of course.’

  As Nasima goes into her room she, like Amir, has something at the back of her mind.

  It spells danger.

  AUTUMN, 2014

  Nasima was home alone when she saw Dad’s car thumping on to the drive. The headlights swept through the windows. Nasima never drew the curtains when she was doing her homework. She liked to look out at the night. Hearing Dad kill the engine, she left her books on the bed and jogged downstairs.

  To her surprise, as she went to open the door, she saw that Dad was talking to somebody. It was a few moments before she recognised him: Majid’s friend, Bashir. Her heart kicked. He was the reason Majid walked out of the house. He was the reason … for everything. Throat tight with anxiety, Nasima opened the door. Bashir was wagging his finger in Dad’s face.

  ‘This is the only warning I will give you, old man. If the police come calling, and you breathe a word about me, I will come back.’ His eyes glittered. ‘I will come for you.’

  He reached for something in his jacket pocket. Nasima saw the flash of a blade.

  ‘You’ve got a lot to lose, Naveed: your wife, your second son, your obedient daughter.’

  Dad’s eyes were wild.

  ‘Come near my family and I will—’

  Bashir leaned forward.

  ‘Yes? What will you do? Come after me with your baseball bat? That went well last time.’ He smirked. ‘You’re out of your league.’

  The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Bashir glimpsed Nasima watching. He nodded in her direction.

  ‘Remember what I said. You have a lot to lose.’

  Dad watched Bashir walking away down the street and glanced at Nasima.

  ‘How much of that did you hear?’

  ‘I heard enough. Dad, do you really think he would hurt us?’

  Dad nodded.

  ‘I wouldn’t put anything past somebody like him.’ His gaze ran down the hall. ‘Are they still out?’

  Nasima nodded.

  ‘Listen. I am going to ask you a very big favour, Nasima. Please keep quiet about this. Don’t say a word to either of them. I don’t want them worrying.’

  ‘Yes, Abbu-ji.’

  Bashir had gone, but Nasima could still feel his presence like a cruel wind brushing against her cheek.

  4

  WEDNESDAY, 29TH JUNE

  The mood in the family home would be very different if they knew Majid was alive. Kate Armstrong’s agent, codenamed Bungee, has just boarded the train from Cambridge to Kings Cross. He thinks about his handler. He only has one way to contact her: the SIM card storing her number that he has sewn into the waistband of his jeans. He finds an unreserved seat opposite a couple in their fifties.

  ‘May I borrow your newspaper?’ he asks.

  ‘Help yourself.’

  Majid registers the wife’s brooding gaze, the undercurrent of hostility. He has seen this kind of look before. He will see it again. Majid closes his eyes and remembers three kids looking for answers, but all he found on that tract of parched earth on the Syrian-Turkish border was death. Now he is on his way back to London, where his journey started. Kate h
as promised that an A4 surveillance team will be there when he leaves the train. They will watch his every step, follow his every move. He remembers his pact with Kate. A Devil’s pact, Bashir would say, selling your soul to the Kuffar.

  He remembers Kate’s words. ‘Be careful. You will be in danger – there is no avoiding that – but you will be protected every step of the way. Believe me, we know our business. We will do everything to keep you safe. In return, you will obtain the information we need to prevent an atrocity.’

  That’s the deal. He is a prized asset, a man who matters. Leaning his forehead against the window, he watches the countryside flash by. He feels tired. It has been this way for weeks. It is as if the decision he has taken weighs him down like a great rock. It is one thing to walk away from the horror of the Syrian conflict. It is another to serve the British state. He looks at the front page of the newspaper:

  Threat Level Critical.

  And the strap line:

  Home Secretary advises vigilance. A terrorist attack could be imminent.

  The man opposite catches his eye then nudges his wife and leads her to empty seats just down the carriage. Majid is half out of his seat, tempted to go after the couple and confront them, when he notices somebody watching. An Asian guy down the aisle is paying close attention. To Majid’s surprise, he comes over.

  ‘Salaam alaikum.’

  After a moment’s hesitation, Majid replies.

  ‘Wa alaikum assalaam.’

  The newcomer follows Majid’s gaze to where the couple are sitting.

  ‘They’re not worth it.’ There is an offered hand. ‘I’m Nabil.’

  Majid takes the hand in a firm grip. That kid on the street corner is a dead man. He is dead to his family and to everyone who knew him: almost two years dead. He has a different identity now, codename Bungee, and a name for moments such as this.

  ‘Usman.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Majid examines the man’s jacket and the crisp, white shirt beneath, the smartly pressed trousers, the designer glasses.