First Response

MARYLEBONE HIGH STREET (11.52 a.m.)

Faisal Chaudhry sat and stared at the card in his hands, reading the typewritten words for the third time, unable to get his head around what he was being asked to do. Each time he thought about the consequences of the suicide vest going off he felt so light-headed he feared he would pass out.

He jumped as a hand fell on his shoulder. Shahid was behind him. ‘It is time,’ he said.

‘Brother, this is a mistake,’ said Chaudhry.

‘Just do as you’re told and everything will be all right,’ said Shahid.

‘Brother, I am in Al-Qaeda. I am one of the chosen ones. I have been trained in Pakistan. I was trained in explosives and guns and everything. I’m one of you, brother. I want to kill the infidel, too. But not like this, brother. This is not what I was trained for. I’m a jihadist. I’m a fighter. Give me a gun, give me a knife, and I’ll kill with a happy heart. But I can’t blow myself up, brother. I can’t.’

‘This is how you will best serve Allah, brother,’ said Shahid, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Follow your instructions and six of our brothers will be released. You will leave the country with them and your actions will be a beacon for jihadists all over the world. Now, go and serve Allah.’

The fight went out of Chaudhry. He nodded.

Shahid opened the door. ‘Allahu Akbar.’

‘Allahu Akbar,’ mumbled Chaudhry, as he shuffled towards the door. He climbed out and the door slammed. He walked away and didn’t look back.