“Islam will wear out as colour on a garment wears out, until no one will know what fasting, prayer, Hajj and charity (zakaah) are. The Book of Allah, may He be glorified and exalted, will be taken away at night, and not one verse of it will be left on earth. And there will be some people left, old men and old women, who will say: We saw our fathers saying these words, Laa ilaaha ill-Allah, so we say them too.”
—The hadith of Hudhayfah ibn al-Yamaan (may Allah be pleased with him)
1
They met in the refectory of the big old manor house. It had once been the grand residence of a Lord, who, having gambled away the family fortune, had sold the house to a hotel chain; but unable to make it pay, the chain had sold it on again, and, becoming increasingly dilapidated, now was the Abu Afifa Madrassa. Supposedly it was a secondary education facility for Islamic students. Actually, it was the UK base of the Haz ut-Tahrir, an extreme jihadi organization.
It was still dark as Hasan arrived; he pushed through the heavy oak door, leaving a trail of wet footprints from the dew. His rubber-soled combat boots squeaked on the varnished pine floor as he crossed to one of the benches and sat down.
Three minutes later Zafir walked in, carrying an ungainly bundle of three war-surplus gas masks. Like Hasan, he wore black denim jeans and a black Barbour jacket. The jackets had hoods which left their faces in shadow.
“We’re a bit early,” Hasan said. The place had the acoustics of a crypt; it made him want to speak in a whisper.
“Better be early on Allah’s business, especially dealing with spies,” Zafir replied roughly, as if challenging the silence of these early morning hours.
Zafir went over to Hasan, placed the masks on the table, and sat down. Hasan saw that Zafir wore a military-style belt with carry loops. Tucked into the belt were an aerosol can and a leather sheath, from which the bone handle of a combat knife protruded. Hasan’s own belt was of simpler design. A pair of gunmetal handcuffs dangled from it, and nothing else.
Zafir stared at Hasan. “Now we’ll deal with that snake. I can’t understand why we didn’t suss him earlier. He’s a Jew. I bet Mohamed is not his real name.”
Hasan thought about the man who called himself Mohamed Malik. He had been with them about three months, living at the madrassa, doing the work allotted to him, causing no trouble. Probably they would never have suspected him, but for a new member who arrived in the last week: an eighteen year old youth who’d been in trouble with the law.
The new guy took one look at Malik, then asked to see the Sheikh.
Malik had been seen leaving a Jewish club. Now they knew what he was: a spy. When he was out of his room, Hasan and Zafir searched it thoroughly and found a tiny digital recorder.
Hasan looked up. Six minutes to five. From outside came a faint rustle and then the door opened. A chill passed through him, and he shivered. The Sheikh filled the doorway. He was just over six feet in height. Deep grooves ran from his nostrils down past the corners of his mouth. His face carried the lines of one who expects to be obeyed, not one who laughs at life.
“Hassan, my brother,” he said in his deep baritone voice. “Are you prepared for jihad? And you, Zafir? Are you ready?”
“Yes, Sheikh,” they replied almost as one, rising from the bench to a position of attention. The Sheikh crossed the floor, appearing to glide over it in his black robe. He stood in front of them and gazed into their faces, giving Hasan the unpleasant feeling that his doubt stood nakedly revealed.
“Have no doubts, and the strength of Allah will be with you,” the Sheikh said in his clear, strong voice. “Zafir, you will use the pepper spray.” he continued. “You must be very quick. Take no chances. This yahoodi will no doubt be skilled in the arts of defence. Allah hu akbar.” He reached out and took a gas mask, then turned for the door. Zafir and Hasan did likewise.
They took a winding path of smooth asphalt that led past ornamental shrubberies to the dormitory huts. The crescent moon gave just enough light to see by.
Hasan quietly entered Malik’s hut.
Zafir and the Sheik followed him.
The three of them took up position in front of Malik’s bedroom door. Hasan looked at the Sheikh, who nodded his head, then back at Zafir. He pulled the mask over his face and settled it in place. It stank of old rubber.
Zafir touched his arm to get his attention, and gestured. Hasan nodded. Someone was beating a muffled drum somewhere; then he realised it was his own heartbeat, amplified by the mask. They braced themselves against the wall and raised their booted feet, then kicked hard.
The flimsy wooden door splintered and crashed to the floor.
Zafir leaped into the room.
Hasan followed. He saw Malik flip like an acrobat off the bed, landing on the floor in horse riding stance, hands and feet seeking targets, then Zafir, arm outstretched, shot him with the aerosol spray. He went down, heaving and choking.
Zafir gave him another shot.
Hasan watched for a moment as the Jew writhed helplessly on the floor, clawing at his eyes. Hasan took a large syringe from his pocket, bent down, and jabbed the needle into Malik’s side, below the rib cage, then pressed the plunger, hard.
Malik went into spasm.
When Hasan brought the syringe back out of him, he saw half the needle was missing.
The Sheikh, standing just outside the door, lifted the edge of his mask for a moment to speak clearly: “Get him up. Bring him to the penitents’ cell.”
“I broke the needle off in him, master,” Hasan said with difficulty through his mask.
“It won’t matter. Be quick!”
Zafir and Hasan pulled Malik to his feet.
The Sheikh gripped his jaw, tipped his head back and peered into the man’s dark brown eyes. They stared back, blankly unfocused, the pupils dilated. A trail of saliva flowed from his thin-lipped mouth; his breath rasped in his throat. The Sheikh nodded and they pulled Malik out of the room.
“Prepare him,” the Sheikh said. “We will put him to the test at nine.”
Hasan and Zafir dragged Malik across a lawn of manicured grass, along a gravelled drive, over several yards of stone paving slabs, then down a flight of steps at the side of the grand country house, the headquarters of the madrassa. His heels trailed along the rough stone.
Zafir shouldered open a door of varnished oak and they half-carried Malik down an echoing corridor, arriving at a small door of studded pine.
Hasan saw that Malik’s heels had left blood on the floor and made a mental note to clean the tiles later.
Freeing one arm, Hasan searched in his pockets then pulled out an old-fashioned cast-iron key and fitted it into the lock. He pushed the door open, reached inside and clicked a switch. Fluorescent lamp starters chattered, then the tubes flooded the space with light. The room inside was like a monk’s cell: stark whitewashed brick, quarry-tiled floor, ten feet deep, barely six feet high and eight wide. Bare of furniture. Originally it had been the wine cellar, but all traces of that had long been expunged.
“Get him over to the wall, Hasan. Quick, damn it, he’ll be coming round soon,” Zafir said. Oily ringlets of black hair showed at the sides of his hood, but his face was in shadow.
Hasan said nothing, merely nodded. Between them they manhandled Malik over to the far wall and propped him against it, Hasan pushing on his chest to keep him upright while Zafir fastened the Jew’s left wrist, then the right, into rubber split-blocks. Hasan checked his work then pinioned Malik’s head in a heavy brace with a rubber strap.
They bent down and secured his ankles with stainless steel manacles.
“Just as the Sheik wanted,” Hasan said, surveying the prisoner. The Sheikh would be pleased. Malik was spread-eagled on the wall like a butterfly in a collection.
Zafir nodded.
Silently, the two men left the room. Outside, birds sang their dawn chorus as the eastern horizon brightened with the new day.
Hasan checked his watch and turned to Zafir.
“Don’t be late. Nine sharp.”
“Late? You’re joking. I’m looking forward to it,” Zafir replied.
Hasan returned to his bedroom garret in the lodge. Unable to sleep, he went into his tiny bathroom and scrubbed his face until it was raw, to get rid of the stink of old rubber left by the mask. Traces of the spray still clung to his clothes, and he coughed harshly as they irritated his throat. He stripped off his jeans and jacket and flung them into the bath, then poured water on them until they were saturated.
He lay on his hard bed in his underpants, staring at the water stains on the ceiling and wondering what the Sheikh planned. In particular he worried about the needle.
Hasan woke up. His alarm clock read eight thirty-seven. He swung his legs off the bed, then dressed in his brown day robe. The Sheikh did not tolerate lateness.
Zafir was waiting for him outside the penitent’s cell. Moments later the Sheikh arrived, carrying a green canvas bag under one arm. He brought out the antique key and fitted it into the lock.
* * *
Inside the cell, Malik heard the grating noise as the key turned. His thoughts had been racing furiously since he recovered consciousness and found himself pinned to the wall. He had a splitting headache, his heels hurt like the devil, and there was a sharp pain in his side every time he moved.
They were coming in.
“Ahh. There we are,” the Sheikh said. “You have nowhere to go. Speak now, speak. Who sent you here?”
Malik stared at them. He would not show fear to these bastards. They were an odd trio, he thought. The thick-set, squat disciple with the oily black hair; his madrassa name was Zafir, but originally he had been Jaffir, third-generation Pakistani immigrant, born and educated in Britain but sent somewhere in Pakistan regularly. A nasty piece of work.
The other one, Hasan, son of a Somali asylum-seeker, was built like a runner, tough and wiry, razor-cut hair. He was one of the recruiters, spending most of his time in the city looking for runaway teenagers, the younger the better.
Malik brought his gaze back to the calm, black-robed man with the leonine face and full head of silver hair, watching as he reached into a green bag.
The Sheikh brought a small towel out of the bag, reached inside again, and produced a two litre plastic soda bottle full of water. The two disciples moved forward until they stood in front of him on each side, then the black-gowned imam advanced on him, holding the towel by its top corners.
Malik’s world turned white as the Sheikh draped the towel carefully over his face, tucking the edge into the stout rubber clamp that pinioned his temples.
A gush of water saturated the cloth, plastering it to his skin. His nostrils filled with moisture and he opened his mouth to breathe, but the wet cloth stopped the passage of air. The harder he tried, the more it sealed itself around his lips.
He knew no one would save him. Khawdash Haganah, the UK Jewish paramilitary group named after the WW2 Jewish resistance, had left him in no doubt of it. And he was a month overdue to report. There’d been no opportunity to slip away.
His lungs were on fire. His legs shook and he began a little dance with himself, all courage forgotten as his body screamed for oxygen. A gray mist rose up before him and he moved thankfully towards it, then someone snatched away the cloth and he filled his lungs with one painful gasp.
“It can be over so soon. Who sent you here?” the Sheikh waited but Malik stared dully back at him, chest heaving as he sucked air. “This will not stop. You are not James Bond, and no-one is coming to save you.”
Zafir caught the Sheikh’s slight nod and dropped the cloth over the prisoner’s face again, leaned sideways and tipped the bottle to saturate it. This time they waited longer, until the spasms passed their peak.
Zafir peeled the cloth away from the prisoner’s face. Malik took a while to come round. He glared wildly at the Sheikh, unable to turn his head to the side so he could see his other tormentors.
“Who sent you? Who? It can all be over”, the Sheikh said. “Who sent you?”
Malik knew they would not stop. Had to tell them something, something . . . credible. Don’t tell them anything, don’t even think the name, someone would come for him, had to come for him . . . but no, he was deep cover, always deep. This was not a movie.
The cloth came back again, again, and always after the choking, lungs burning, stomach twisted into a knot, there was the Sheikh’s face before him. He felt the hand at his head. No, not again!
The Sheikh turned and opened the door of a small white cabinet on the wall. It bore the red cross of a first aid box. Reaching inside he removed a syringe, sterile needle, and a small brown bottle sealed with wax. Upending the container, he pulled back on the plunger and watched the syringe fill with a pale amber fluid.
“Have you ever heard of a pretty little plant called the Blue Rush, you filthy Jew? It grows in the high deserts of Afghanistan,” the Sheikh said. “No? What a pity. You will be feeling quite different, soon. Like a new man.” He bent forwards and pushed the hypodermic needle into Malik’s neck just above the collarbone, angling it down, then pressed the plunger.
Malik heard him say, “We’ll start with two hundred volts.”
He peered at the man in the black robe. The room spun gently and things had a pinkness about them.
Here came the face again. It looked very odd. Then he realised. It was the devil.
With his last moments of free will, he moved his jaw to oppose two teeth, and bit hard.
Not enough force.
Harder. . . harder.
Just when he thought the dental implant had failed, the false cap collapsed, releasing a lethal dose of fentanyl.
Grateful, he swallowed.
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