to the suite opened. Ghulam noticed in the reflection of the glass that Pathaan had entered.
‘I trust our guests are satisfied with their accommodation‚’ Ghulam said.
Pathaan was aware that he was being watched in the reflection‚ so replied silently with a slight nod and sat down on the armchair closest to the gold-plated phone. He slipped off his sandals and placed his bare feet on the coffee table. Out of the top pocket of his crisp‚ half-sleeved white shirt he took out a well-worn‚ small tin container and pried open the lid and removed a ready-wrapped paan. He folded it in half and then half again and placed it on his tongue before vigorously chewing it as the taste exploded inside his mouth‚ coating his teeth in red salivation.
Ghulam eyed him momentarily in part fascination‚ part frustration. Aba Abassi‚ known only as Pathaan‚ was head of security and the only person on his payroll who did not afford him the respect that was demanded of a Sheikh. However‚ although belligerent at times‚ Pathaan was a necessity; a confidante and protector‚ one who was highly trained in many forms of combat‚ which he carried out with pleasure and if the mood took him.
Ghulam had requested Pathaan to organise this meeting. It had taken Pathaan six flights and three cities in three different countries to arrange. Out of the three esteemed guests invited only two had turned up with the obedience that was expected of them. The third had needed to be convinced onto the Lear Jet.
‘Alright‚’ Ghulam said. ‘Let us commence.’
Pathaan picked up the gold-plated phone and dialled. It rang three times before he got a response. He ran his tongue slowly over his teeth‚ relishing the taste of the paan. ‘Three rings‚’ he said on answer‚ ‘is not acceptable.’ He waited for the apology before instructing‚ ‘Send them up.’
*
Mullah Mohammed Ihsan and Mullah Muhammad Talal entered the hotel room. Sheikh Ali Ghulam stood at the head of the table. Something in his face made the two Mullahs hesitate about greeting the Sheikh as etiquette would usually dictate.
‘Sit.’ Pathaan made the decision for them.
At the far end of the table was placed a large wide-screen monitor‚ with a USB pen drive attached.
‘This has come to my attention‚’ Ghulam said‚ quietly. He nodded towards Pathaan who‚ with the press of a button on the remote‚ executed a file.
The footage was clear but without sound and motion‚ as though shot by a security camera. The time stamp read 15.22 and the date 26/12/2017. It showed a young man sitting on the back step of an ambulance‚ a blanket wrapped tightly around him and tucked under his chin. Even from the distance that the footage was captured‚ it was plain to see from the way his shoulders rhythmically shuddered that he was crying‚ as he looked around‚ lost‚ at his surroundings.
‘Who is this Brother?’ Talal asked.
‘He is no Brother of ours‚’ Ghulam glared‚ his eyes ablaze with fire. ‘This man is a traitor.’ Pathaan placed a thin manila folder on the table. Ihsan opened it and stared at the 7×5 photo. Bright eyes and a nervous smile looked back at them as though he had just been caught. Which he had. ‘I received intelligence from one of our men on the ground in London. This is the man behind the betrayal of our leader. His name is Javid Qasim.’
Ihsan cleared his throat and although it was just one word‚ he spoke it with careful measure. ‘How?’
‘Qasim attended our training camp‚ by invite‚ in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa where he was able to ascertain important details of our operation.’
‘How much did he find out?’ Talal said‚ finding his voice again after being under Ghulam’s glare.
‘Enough!’ Ghulam slapped his palm on the table. A small bowl of hummus upturned. He then began softly drumming his fingers.
Enough as in Javid Qasim found out enough? Or Enough as in I don’t want to hear another word from you? Talal decided it was best to wait for Ghulam to continue in his own time.
‘This man‚ this Muslim‚ cowardly hid under the guise of a soldier of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris,’ Ghulam said‚ quietly. ‘Crossing the border into Afghanistan to meet with Abdullah Bin Jabbar and reporting every detail to the British Secret Service.’
The silence that followed screamed a thousand questions.
‘The one thing I despise more than a Kafir‚ is a Munafiq.’ Ghulam spat the last word as if it burnt a hole on his tongue. The others in attendance were aware of the treatment reserved for such a Muslim. ‘And it is for that reason that I hereby put forward a fatwa on Javid Qasim.’
At 12 Millbank – Thames House‚ MI5’s headquarters – Teddy Lawrence‚ a young MI5 officer‚ knocked and entered the minimalist office of John Robinson‚ Assistant Director of Counter Terrorism Operations. It was the first time they had met since the foiled terrorist attack on Oxford Street on Boxing Day.
Lawrence had climbed the ranks rapidly‚ due largely to their close working relationship. Robinson had seen in him a kindred spirit‚ whilst Lawrence saw opportunity.
Robinson had lost weight everywhere but on his stomach. His sweat-stained white shirt hung loose over his shoulders. Uneven growth on a face that managed to be both pale and ruddy red. Alcohol probably‚ stress definitely‚ reasoned Lawrence. Whatever it was‚ Robinson looked like shit and no longer like a leader of men.
Lawrence‚ despite what they were facing‚ had kept up appearances. Seven fitted suits for seven days. Monday was a charcoal grey three piece. He’d been in the office for nearly three minutes without Robinson having uttered a word. Lawrence watched him standing at the floor to ceiling window‚ staring out onto the stunning views of the Thames as though the answer would float to him in a message in a bottle. They had both received the same brief that morning.
The Teacher was no closer to being located.
After the London attack‚ The Teacher was quick to go under‚ hidden away in the vast wild lands‚ somewhere in Pakistan or Afghanistan‚ unable to lead the might of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris. Still‚ the attacks occurred across Europe; smaller in scale but with a frightening frequency. Despite The Teacher’s absence‚ his work continued.
Robinson mumbled something‚ but Lawrence couldn’t quite hear as Robinson still had his back to him. Lawrence hesitated before asking‚ ‘Sir. Can you repeat that?’
‘Javid Qasim‚’ Robinson said‚ ‘is the key.’
Lawrence now understood why Robinson had his back to him. It would have been an embarrassment for him having to backtrack‚ and he probably didn’t want it seen in his face. It had been Robinson who’d terminated Qasim’s contract – a rash decision‚ considering what he’d achieved for them in such a short period of time. From Qasim’s intelligence alone‚ they’d narrowly avoided a multiple gun attack in the heart of London. Just as vital‚ Qasim had revealed The Teacher’s locations and hideouts‚ along with a detailed description of the man that the world’s authorities had‚ previously‚ had no knowledge of. After that it had been out of Qasim’s hands. It should have been enough. Yet they had still failed to locate and capture The Teacher.
Robinson concluded there were doubts about the legitimacy of the intelligence‚ and he’d been quick to voice his judgement. It didn’t sit comfortably with him that Qasim clearly had mixed emotions in what was asked of him. Robinson refused to let anyone who was sympathetic to the beliefs of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris continue working for the Secret Service. It had muddied the waters further when Qasim’s relationship with The Teacher came to light.
At