Fortress

17

The house was Victorian, one of a terrace that seemed to go on for ever, winding up the hill. There was no sign of rioting in this part of town and, for that matter, no sign of any Muslim presence. A removal van was parked outside, its engine idling, the driver reading a paper propped on the steering-wheel. ‘War Zone Britain’ was the headline.

Sam pressed the entryphone. Above it there was a small security camera. He looked into it, trying to appear pleasant and unthreatening.

‘Yes?’ asked a metallic voice, through the speaker.

‘I’m here to see Leanne.’

Silence. He was about to press again when the door inched open. An elderly Asian man in a suit jacket that was too large for him peered out.

‘Is she here — Leanne?’

The old man continued to stare at him. ‘Wait.’

He shut the door.

It was raining hard. Sam started to feel foolish, his already battered morale ebbing away. Then the door opened again and a woman in her mid-twenties, pale but with large dark brown eyes, stood in front of him. Her face was attractive but unanimated, like an empty canvas waiting for someone to add the character.

‘Leanne?’

She didn’t answer, just waited for him to say something else.

‘I’m here about my brother — in Syria.’

She frowned. He guessed what she was thinking: that he didn’t look the part.

‘We’re from Bosnia originally.’

He couldn’t remember the last time he had owned up to this. He’d never raised it with Helen and she hadn’t asked. It sounded weird and out of context.

She opened the door wider and gestured for him to enter. For a second she reminded him of Helen. He felt a sharp pain as his conversation with her came back to him.

‘Are you Leanne?’

She had a maroon scarf draped over her head, and wore a long dark green smock with loose trousers. He followed her down a hall stacked with boxes into the kitchen where there were more boxes and black sacks. She stood in their midst.

‘Leanne’s not with us any more.’

Her speech was oddly formal. He also detected the trace of an American accent.

‘I’m Sahim.’ He felt the occasion merited his real name.

‘Nasima.’

‘Are you with the same organization?’

‘Just the medical supplies.’

Her tone was cool. Even though she had invited him in he felt he had already outstayed his welcome.

‘Look, I’m not — I’m just trying to trace my brother. He went to Syria — with this organization’s — seemingly with the help of this Leanne. A friend went with him — Bala Pazic — but he came back. He was injured. He was the one who told me to come here.’

She peered at him, frowning. ‘I’ve seen you on TV.’

For the first time in a grim twenty-four hours he felt a small glow of pleasure. ‘Oh. Thanks. It was just — a few appearances.’

She made no comment as she moved towards the cooker and opened a cupboard. ‘Tea?’

All her movements were as economical as her speech, as if she was conserving her energy. She retained the same fixed half-smile she had greeted him with at the door.

‘Yes, thank you.’

Something about her accent told him she wasn’t British by birth, but her manner suggested she was very much assimilated, just like him. He felt comforted by that.

He heard floorboards creaking above.

‘Do you know where in Syria your brother is?’

It all rushed out of him, like air from a balloon: how Karza and Bala had suddenly volunteered, the picture his brother had sent back. As he talked, he realized what little information he had. She listened with the same blank expression. The kettle boiled, and she dropped a teabag into a mug with the Red Crescent emblem on the side. Maybe they really were organizing medical supplies. He couldn’t tell if she was paying any attention.

‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Both, please.’

She put the mug down. ‘What motivated him? Was he very committed?’

This wasn’t the moment to be honest.

‘I think they felt they could make a difference — though I don’t think he knew what he was getting into.’

The truth was far more banal. Sam likened it to the lure of gang culture. He imagined Karza’s childish glee at being given a gun for the first time and a sense of importance. His lack of imagination would have stood him in good stead. That much Sam had learned from his studies. Some of the most effective gang members were the least imaginative. No risk of seeing the other side of the argument or the consequences of their deeds.

Feeling better, the tea lubricating his scratchy throat, he gave her a version of his visit to his mother, her emotional plea to him to find Karza, and the encounter with Bala, his stump and the tag. There didn’t seem any point in holding back.

‘He got back. He’s lucky.’ Her voice had a harder edge.

‘So what happened to Leanne?’

‘She’s gone.’

‘To Syria?’

Her face clouded. ‘She’s in custody. There was some confusion about the priorities of the charity. It was supposed to be about taking medical supplies to the victims of conflict. But because they started sending people over, it’s having to be wound up.’ She waved at the bags and boxes.

Sam felt the chances of finding his brother diminishing by the minute. ‘Bala thought she might know where he is.’

‘Do you want to go and find him?’ There was more than a trace of irritation in her voice.

‘Well, not exactly.’ He didn’t want to sound like a coward, but nothing would induce him to go anywhere near the place. He hadn’t even any desire to go back to Bosnia. ‘You know, work commitments,’ he added weakly, because she looked like someone who would appreciate what he meant — then flushed; it sounded like a cop-out.

But she didn’t react. He had no idea what she was thinking.

She focused on him again. ‘What are your work commitments, exactly?’

He gave her a quick rundown, leaving out the Oxford débâcle. He hoped she was impressed and wouldn’t notice that he didn’t actually have a job. But he carried on regardless, as if her blank stillness and lack of response was a vacuum he had to fill. ‘But Karza’s not had the same luck as me. I think going to Syria could have been the making of him.’

‘So you love him very much,’ she said, without looking up. ‘Well, it’s just us and Mum. They’re all I’ve got. And he is the apple of her eye.’

‘It must be terrible for her, not knowing if he’s alive or dead — or something in between.’

Her gaze was cold, as if she couldn’t conceal her contempt for these naïve recruits, blundering into a war zone hopelessly unprepared. ‘People coming from the West, if they fall into the hands of government forces they tend to get singled out for — special punishment. And some of the rebel groups are also hostile to them.’

He closed his eyes for a moment, at the thought of having to tell his mother that her darling younger son was being tortured. ‘Is there anything you can do?’

She handed him a pad. ‘Write down your brother’s name, parents, date of birth, last known address, email and any phone numbers. Yours too.’

‘Can I ask why?’

‘Not all our callers come with the best of intentions.’

He reddened. ‘Of course, and I understand, but rest assured you’ve no reason to be suspicious of me.’

She left the room. He heard her go up the stairs, then more footsteps above. He sipped the tea. He had no experience of charities or organizations that sent people to war zones. All his focus was on domestic criminal behaviour, understanding what turned people into thieves and drug-dealers. He hadn’t a clue what had inspired his brother or Bala to go to Syria, other than some foolish search for excitement inspired by too much computer gaming and the belief, common to young men, that they were invincible. The last time they had met, Karza had talked with great reverence about his own internal jihad, the challenge to live according to his new-found faith. He hadn’t said anything about fighting the actual war. Prior to that, the two of them had never had a serious conversation about anything, except Karza’s lack of work or money. Now he thought about it, he should have seen it for what it was: a turning point.

Eventually Nasima reappeared, holding a printout. She looked troubled. ‘It’s not very good news. I’m sorry.’

Immediately he imagined breaking news of Karza’s death to their mother and somehow being blamed for it.

‘The militia he was with have been absorbed by ISIS.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The Islamic State of Iraq in Syria. They’re affiliated to Al Qaeda.’ She seemed slightly disappointed at his ignorance. ‘They captured them in the Salahedin district of Aleppo. It’s not clear whether they’re being held against their will or if they’ve joined them. There are some confirmed deaths but your brother’s name’s not among them, so that’s one good thing. He could have been injured and they’re treating him — or he might have escaped.’

‘Are there any hospitals?’

‘All medical facilities in the rebel-held areas are regarded by the government as legitimate targets. If he’s in need of attention he’s probably either in a safe-house or out in the hills somewhere.’

‘Can you get him out?’

‘You mean send him a ticket for easyJet?’

The gibe seemed to come out of nowhere.

He blushed. ‘I didn’t mean to imply that I thought it was easy.’

To his huge relief, she smiled slightly. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that we get a lot of relatives asking the same question when our focus should be on helping the Syrian casualties.’

‘Of course. What would it take? Is it a question of money? Not that I have much.’

‘We are a charity, Sahim.’

The room filled with the sound of sirens. Several police vehicles sped past the front door. She sighed. ‘Not a good situation.’ She seemed to expect a response.

‘Well, no.’

‘You don’t seem very bothered.’

He didn’t have a ready answer. The struggles of the Muslim community bored him. He had devoted his life to getting away from all that. Ranting imams, extremists rejecting modern society, women covering themselves and hiding away: it was a tragedy. Look at Jana: all the spark ground out of her. She summed up everything he hated about his culture. But so much of what they were struggling with they had brought on themselves. Even Bala’s tag. He’d had it coming to him.

But if he said this to Nasima, it might end his chances of finding Karza. So he settled for one of his stock sound-bites. ‘This country’s been good to me. I’ve a lot to be grateful for. I know it’s not a popular view.’

She tipped her head while she digested this. In fact, it wasn’t a stock response: it was what he really believed. But now he was wondering if he had said the right thing. He was beginning to get the feeling he was being auditioned. Was this the right line to be taking if he was going to get them to help him find Karza?

She stood up. ‘We’ll try to find out more about your brother. I’ll contact you if we get anywhere.’

‘Or I could call you?’

She smiled bleakly. ‘All our calls and emails are monitored. Leave it with me.’ She moved towards the door. ‘I’ve got your address. I know where to find you.’