He ended the call and looked at his watch. He’d arranged to meet Chaudhry and Malik at three o’clock so he had time to kill. That was the biggest drawback of the job that Button had given him. Babysitting the two men meant that most of the time he was just sitting around doing nothing but waiting for the phone to ring. He wasn’t enjoying being a handler; he much preferred the adrenaline rush of being undercover. He switched on his TV and flicked through the channels, trying to find something interesting to watch. He gave up after five minutes and went over to the bookcase at the side of the fireplace. The books there had been selected by Damien Plant as the sort of books that would be owned be a freelance journalist, so mostly they were non-fiction, reference books and biographies. Tony Blair’s autobiography was there, and as Plant was a diehard Conservative Shepherd figured that there had been an element of sarcasm in the choice, especially as a yellow sticker on the front cover showed that the price had been slashed to one pound. He took it over to the sofa, flopped down, and started to read.
Chaudhry fiddled with his tie for the hundredth time since he’d sat down at the table. He was in the Pizza Express down the road from the university and close to Trafalgar Square. The restaurant was on two levels and he actually preferred the basement level, which was larger and with more room between the two tables, but sitting at a table on the ground floor meant that he got a clear view of the entrance. He’d arranged to see Jamila at seven but had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and ordered a bottle of sparkling water, ice and lemon. Despite the water his throat felt dry and scratchy and it hurt when he swallowed. He could feel his hands sweating and he wiped them on his trousers, grateful that he’d liberally sprayed himself with deodorant before leaving the King’s campus.
He’d done as his father had asked and made contact with Jamila on Facebook. She had accepted his friendship within an hour and he’d immediately gone to her page. There were several dozen photographs of her with her family, on holiday, and doing her volunteer work in Pakistan. Most of her friends seemed to be either girls or fellow students at UCL. Her hobbies were tennis and the theatre and she liked listening to Rihanna and Lady Gaga. In none of the photographs did she seem to have a boyfriend and her relationship status was single.
They’d messaged each other back and forth through Facebook and posted stuff on each other’s walls, mainly music videos that they liked or YouTube videos of animals doing stupid things. Then one day she’d said that she was having a boring week and he offered to take her for a meal and she’d accepted. So they still hadn’t spoken, and he wasn’t a hundred per cent certain that he would recognise her in a crowd. The pictures on her Facebook page gave off mixed messages. In Pakistan she was never without a headscarf and had her arms and legs covered, but there were pictures of her playing tennis on a grass court wearing very short shorts.
He swirled the ice cubes around his glass with his finger and when he looked up he realised that he’d been wrong to think that he wouldn’t recognise her in a crowd. She was standing at the entrance, looking around, her chin up confidently, a slight smile on her face. Her skin was a rich caramel colour, her hair black and glossy, longer than it was in her pictures, but her eyes were her most striking feature: so brown they were almost black, with lashes that were so long they might have belonged to a cartoon character.
She was wearing a long coat and had a Louis Vuitton bag over her left shoulder, and as she turned in his direction the coat opened to reveal a tight skirt that ended just above the knee, the legs of a catwalk model and black high heels. As he looked up from the shoes he realised that she was looking at him and he stood up. His hand knocked against his glass and the water spilled over his trousers. He jumped back, cursing, and the glass fell on to the tiled floor, shattering into a dozen pieces. All the diners turned to look at the noise and Chaudhry felt his cheeks redden. He bent down to pick up the pieces of glass but a blonde waitress rushed over and said that she’d take care of it for him. As Chaudhry picked up his napkin and pressed it against the damp patch on his trousers, Jamila walked up to him.
‘Oh dear, are you okay?’ she asked, and Chaudhry was amazed to hear a Scottish accent until he remembered that she was from Glasgow.
‘Sure. Yes. No problem.’ He carried on dabbing at his groin. ‘I’m such a klutz.’
‘Nice to meet you, Mr Klutz,’ she said. Her grin widened and she held out her hand. ‘I’m Jamila.’
‘Yes, of course you are,’ said Chaudhry. He held out his right hand and then realised that he was still holding his napkin. He apologised, transferred it to his left hand and shook hands with her. Her skin was soft and smooth and her fingernails were bright pink with gold tips. ‘Great to finally meet you,’ he said. ‘In person, I mean.’
The waitress had put most of the pieces of broken glass on her tray. She stood up and smiled at Chaudhry. ‘Why don’t I move you to a table downstairs?’ she said. ‘Save you waiting while I finish cleaning up.’
Chaudhry smiled at her gratefully. She took the two of them down the staircase to the lower floor and handed them over to a tall Australian waiter with a surfer’s physique and sun-bleached hair. He took Jamila’s coat, showed them to a table by the wall and gave them a couple of menus. Chaudhry ordered another bottle of water.
As the waiter walked away, Chaudhry apologised again. Jamila waved off his apology. ‘I’m forever knocking things over,’ she said. ‘I just hope I don’t do it in the lab or thousands of people could die.’
‘Are you serious?’
She grinned. ‘No, they haven’t let me near the dangerous stuff yet.’
‘I never liked microbiology,’ he said. ‘Everything is so. .’
‘Small?’
Chaudhry laughed. ‘Exactly. I prefer patients that I can talk to.’
‘But it’s micro-organisms that’ll be making a lot of them sick. Viruses and bacteria, they’re the big killers.’
‘Well, cancer, heart attacks and strokes are the big killers, but I know what you mean,’ he said. He winced as he realised how he’d managed to be both arrogant and patronising in the same sentence. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘I mean, you’re right. It’s an important field.’
‘It can be boring at times,’ she said. ‘My dad wanted me to be a doctor but I told him that I couldn’t face spending the rest of my life around sick people.’
Chaudhry chuckled. ‘That would pretty much rule out medicine,’ he said.
‘I’m not even sure if I want to stay in science,’ she said. She shrugged. ‘Still, that’s part of the reason for being at university, isn’t it? To find yourself.’
Chaudhry nodded but couldn’t think of anything to say. He was finding it difficult to concentrate because every time he looked at her he got lost in her eyes.
‘Do you drink?’ asked Jamila, looking up from her menu.
He frowned, wondering if it was a trick question. He was a Muslim and Muslims didn’t touch alcohol. ‘Not really,’ he said. He grimaced. ‘Actually, not at all.’
‘Never? Not even a taste?’
Chaudhry chuckled again. ‘It would be like eating pork,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t even want to try.’
She put down the menu, looking uncomfortable.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Would you mind terribly if I had a glass of wine?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure.’ He held up his hands. ‘Just because I don’t drink doesn’t mean others shouldn’t.’
The Australian waiter returned with the bottle of sparkling water. He poured it for them and Jamila asked for a glass of white wine. As he headed off she smiled at Chaudhry and his stomach turned over. She did have the most amazing smile.
‘So you don’t drink because you’re a Muslim?’ she asked.
Chaudhry nodded. ‘Sure. The Koran says intoxication is forbidden.’
‘Raj, I’m not planning to get drunk.’
‘I know, but that’s not what I meant.’ He felt his cheeks redden again. ‘I don’t know. . it’s just part of me. No alcohol. Pray five times a day.’
‘And one day you’ll make a pilgrimage to Mecca?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you give a percentage of your earnings to charity?’
‘I’m not actually earning yet. But when I am, yes, of course.’
She leaned forward and his stomach turned again as she smiled. ‘I’m making you uncomfortable. All this talk about religion. I’m sorry.’
‘You’re not. Really.’ That was a lie, he realised. But it wasn’t the conversation that was making him
