Secret Asset

26

Rashid knew nothing of the Englishman’s warning that his identity had been uncovered, and Bashir had conveyed none of his own alarm, though he had stressed to Rashid and the other conspirator that they were not to be in contact with anyone.

And Rashid would have obeyed this unquestioningly had he not been worried about his sister Yasmina. She was sixteen, and vulnerable; he had tried in the last two years, since his own increasing involvement with Islam, to watch over her, grown concerned as she entered adolescence, grown even more concerned when she began to make friends with boys, especially English boys—Rashid knew, even if his parents had not realised, that Yasmina was a pretty girl.

She adored him, her elder brother by three years, but he found it difficult to influence her. Her nature seemed so outgoing and her interests so different from the religious principles he now adhered to.

He had no scruples about leaving the household so abruptly, for his parents no longer featured in his mental galaxy. He didn’t hate them, no, he pitied them, for he saw how they, as first-generation implants in an alien society, had lost all sense of their origins and their faith. They would not ever be truly welcome in this new “home” either, he concluded with some bitterness.

He thought of the young man from the bookshop Bashir had killed. What kind of Muslim could he have been, to work for Western masters? Had he no shame? Did he not recognise his betrayal of his faith, of his brothers in Islam?

Rashid had not done the killing himself—it was understood that, small as he was, he might have trouble finishing the job quickly. And inwardly, he knew he might have been too scared. He was not by nature violent. Bashir seemed to sense this, for he had told him often enough that his instinctive aversion to violence meant he was a very strong man, to be willing to undertake violence in the name of Allah.

So he had served as the fatal decoy, distracting the boy with his falsely friendly greeting while Bashir sprung out from an obscured doorway at the back of the warehouse which ran along the alley and, running quickly, stabbed the bookshop boy once, hard, in the lower back. As Rashid stood lookout, Bashir had swung his arm around the neck of the already slumping figure and, propping him up, in one violent motion slit his throat.

Now in the early afternoon, after midday prayers in the sitting room and a lunch of soup and bread, Bashir had said he could go out. “Don’t go far,” he said. “And stay out of shops.”

“Of course,” said Rashid, but within five minutes he was catching the bus into the heart of Wokingham. He got off as soon as he reached an area dense with shops, and in the next street he found one selling mobile phones. He bought the simplest model, pay as you go, and a ten-pound voucher for it.

Just beside the shop was an alley leading into a small courtyard, and there he tried to dial, but there was no signal, and when he looked at his watch he realised he had already been gone almost an hour. Bashir would soon be worried. Back at the bus stop, he waited impatiently for over ten minutes; he did not want to use his phone there, where several people were standing in the queue.

At last the bus came. He got off one stop early and walked quickly, his concern about being away too long outweighed by his urgent need to phone Yasmina. He broke into a run and when he was within a street of Somerset Drive, stopped by some railings and dialled Yasmina’s mobile phone. He was far more worried about Bashir’s anger than he was about the police. He felt perfectly safe, since his throwaway phone was untraceable—he knew that. Bashir used them, whenever he called the contact point.

“Yasmina?”

“Rashid, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Yasmina.”

“But where are you?”

“It doesn’t matter—I’m not allowed to tell you. But I am fine. That’s why I have rung. To tell you not to worry. I should be home in just a few weeks.”

“Are you sure?” Yasmina sounded surprised, and Rashid wondered why. “Is it safe to phone?” she added.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” asked Rashid.

“It’s just—” she began, then stopped.

“Tell me, Yasmina.”

“All right, but you mustn’t let Papa know. Not even that we talked. A man came here looking for you. He said he was from the Benefits—but I don’t think he was. Papa was very upset afterwards.”

Rashid’s pulse began to race, and his right hand, holding the phone, shook so much that he had to steady it with his left. A passing woman looked at him oddly, and he turned around to face the railing away from her gaze. “Why didn’t you tell me this?” he asked angrily.

“But, Rashid, I didn’t know how to reach you. You left without warning. You didn’t even take your phone.”

He knew this was true, and tried to calm his agitation and keep it from turning to rage at Yasmina. She was the only ally he had outside his two comrades in the small house. He knew his parents would never understand; they had probably helped the police as much as they could. And his little brother was just that—little, not even fourteen years old. “Do you know what this man wanted?”

“Yes, Rashid. He wanted you.”

In Thames House the trace came through to the monitors immediately. The phone on Judith Spratt’s desk rang. “We’ve got a call to Wolverhampton that we’re tracking now. Think you’ll want to hear this one,” said Lawrence, a junior transcriber, to Judith.

There had been so many false alarms already—a series of mysterious calls for the Khan father which turned out to be secret arrangements for his wife’s birthday—that Judith was reluctant to get excited. “Is it to the house?” she asked sharply.

“No. It’s to the sister’s mobile—though A4 say she’s in the house. We think it’s her brother.”

“Fast as you can then,” said Judith, convinced despite herself.

Five minutes later, Lawrence came back with a transcript of the conversation, which Judith, now joined by Tom Dartmouth, scanned quickly. “Where was the call made from?” asked Tom.

“We’re working on it. It was a mobile phone, probably a throwaway,” explained Lawrence.

Tom looked at Lawrence. “How close a fix can we get on him?”

Lawrence shrugged. “Can’t say at the moment. Two, maybe three miles?”

“In any direction?”

Lawrence nodded and Tom swore softly. “That’s a hell of a big area. Unless he’s in the Highlands or North Wales. In any urban area God knows how many thousands of people there are.”

“Thanks, Lawrence,” said Judith, and the junior withdrew. She would praise his quickness later, but now she and Tom needed to determine exactly what they had—and what to do next. She looked at Tom, whom she was beginning to like in spite of herself—generally speaking, she liked to get on with things on her own, and found section heads got in the way rather than helped. But Tom’s style was to stand back. He was almost detached, though he offered advice when asked and was always very calm. That suited Judith. She said to him, “Dave was hoping the family would keep quiet—apparently the parents were totally bewildered when he explained what their son was up to. They promised to cooperate completely. But the sister was always going to be the weak link. Now thanks to her, this Rashid bloke knows we’re looking for him.”

“No bad thing,” said Tom calmly. “If he can screw up this badly when he thinks he’s safe, let’s hope he screws up even more now that he feels hunted.”