Dead Men

dressed, many in jeans and sweatshirts.

Above them was the dome he had seen from outside, the inside decorated with brightly coloured mosaics. A huge chandelier hung from the centre, and around the dome’s edge there were inscriptions from the Koran.

There were no women in the prayer hall, of course. They were prohibited from praying with the men and banished to a gallery upstairs. It was the way of Islam, Salih knew, but he disagreed with the way that the sexes were segregated. He had never been married, but one day he hoped to have a wife and when he did he would not force her to cover herself from head to foot when she went outside. Salih considered himself a good Muslim and he had read the Koran many times, but he knew that most religious leaders had twisted the words of the Holy Book for their own ends.

Salih began to pray. Like all good Muslims he prayed five times a day, though more often than not he didn’t go to a mosque to communicate with God. As he prayed, he looked around and eventually spotted the man he had come to see. His name was Hakeem and, like Salih, he was Palestinian. Hakeem’s family had been killed by the Israelis and he had fled to Europe, first to France and then to Britain where he had applied for asylum. Hakeem had been less than truthful with the Bangladeshi lawyer who had handled his application and with the Home Office panels he had appeared before. While it was true that his wife and two sons had been killed when Israeli soldiers stormed his house in Gaza, it was because Hakeem was a skilled bombmaker who had sent more than a dozen suicide-bombers to kill civilians in Tel Aviv. Four years after he had arrived in London, Hakeem was granted British citizenship.

As Hakeem got to his feet and headed out, Salih caught his eye. Hakeem hurried over and the two men embraced like the old friends they were. Hakeem kissed Salih on both cheeks. ‘Finally you come to England,’ he said, squeezing Salih’s shoulders. ‘I can show you the sights.’

‘I’m here for work, not pleasure,’ said Salih.

‘You said you needed my help and, as always, I am here for you,’ said Hakeem. ‘Nothing is too much trouble for the man who saved my life. Come, let me buy you a drink and we can talk.’

Hakeem put his arm around Salih’s shoulders and they left the prayer hall. ‘Have you been here before?’ asked Hakeem.

‘London, or the mosque?’

‘The mosque.’ Salih shook his head. ‘Quite a coup,’ said Hakeem. ‘It was designed by an Englishman – can you believe that? King Faisal of Saudi Arabia put up a third of the cost. I don’t think he could believe his luck – can you imagine the Saudis agreeing to build a cathedral in one of their royal parks?’ He laughed. ‘The British, they think they are so magnanimous, but in reality they are stupid. They think so little of their heritage that they throw it away.’

‘They see being multicultural as a strength,’ said Salih.

‘It is a weakness,’ said Hakeem. He slapped his chest. ‘I have a British passport, but I am a Muslim first.’ He waved at the men filing out of the prayer hall. ‘Every single man here would say the same. That is what the British will never understand. Our religion is what defines us. It makes us what we are. What do they have? A hollow church that bends with the wind, that allows abortion, adultery and men to lie down with men. Up to fifty thousand Muslims come here to pray during the Eids, and there isn’t a church in the country that can boast that. Islam is growing stronger by the week as their religion withers and dies.’

They walked to a cafe close by a bookshop that specialised in Muslim publications. Hakeem ordered two glasses of fruit juice and the two men took a quiet table where they couldn’t be overheard. ‘So how can I help you?’ asked Hakeem. ‘What is it you need from me?’

Salih lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I need two men. Two men who can be trusted.’

‘To do what?’

‘To kill.’

Hakeem sipped his juice. ‘Who is to be killed?’

‘A woman.’

‘An infidel?’

‘A Muslim. A young girl. But it has to be done, and it has to be done with violence.’

‘The men who help you, will they be at risk?’

Salih shook his head. ‘Everything will be planned to the last detail.’

‘I have two young men who are eager to prove themselves. They will need to be told a story, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘They would have to think that what they are doing is for the jihad.’

‘I will make sure of it,’ said Salih.

Hakeem glanced around the room, but no one was paying them any attention. ‘Their names are Mazur and Tariq. British-born, they were brought up as Muslims but became fundamentalist three years ago. They have spent time in Pakistan and were selected for special training.’

‘Special training?’

‘They were considered shahids,’ said Hakeem. ‘And I think it would have not taken much to persuade them to take the final step. They are both committed. The fire burns inside them already. It just needs to be fanned.’

Salih nodded. The shahids were happy to die for Islam as martyrs, the front-line warriors of the jihad. They believed that if they died serving Allah, they would be rewarded with a place in Heaven, alongside seventy of their relatives. And Heaven for the shahids meant an eternity of sex with seventy-two black-eyed virgins and eighty thousand servants to take care of them. Salih didn’t believe in the seventy-two virgins- in fact, he was dubious about Heaven as a concept – but the shahids believed, which was what made them so dangerous. A man who truly believed in a glorious afterlife would have no hesitation in crashing an airliner or blowing up a Tube train, providing that the last words on his lips were Allahu Akbar. God is great.

‘Do they worship here?’ asked Salih.

‘They used to go to the Finsbury Park mosque,’ he said. ‘They were selected and groomed by Abu Hamza himself.’

Salih knew of the hook-handed preacher who had taken control of the inner-city place of worship and turned it into an al-Qaeda training camp. ‘They must not look like fundamentalists,’ he said.

‘They shaved off their beards when they came back from Pakistan, and they wear Western clothing,’ said Hakeem. ‘We moved them away from Finsbury Park when Abu Hamza became a publicity junkie.’

The British authorities had tolerated Abu Hamza’s brand of racial hatred for years, but eventually their patience had worn thin. He had been sent to prison, convicted of inciting murder and racial hatred, but not before he had despatched hundreds of British Muslims to training camps in Pakistan and Afghanistan. ‘They are below the official radar?’ asked Salih.

‘They are what the authorities here call “invisibles”. They can travel freely in and out of Britain, yet they have dual citizenship so they arrive in Pakistan as nationals and can stay there as long as they like. I heard of them and suggested that they return to London. They can make a bigger impact here.’ He lowered his voice again. ‘We are trying to get them into Heathrow,’ he said. ‘We already have two of our people working on the security staff at Terminal Three. Now we are trying to get Mazur and Tariq on the baggage-handling staff. The British are so politically correct that they aren’t even allowed to question why so many Muslims are applying to work at the airports. But the day will come when we have everything in place and you will see an event to rival Nine Eleven in the United States.’ He raised his glass in salute. ‘And while I give my life to Allah, what are you doing? Creating havoc for money?’

‘If I create havoc, I’m not doing my job properly,’ said Salih.

‘But you do what you do for your own ends,’ said Hakeem. ‘Where is the glory in that?’

‘There is no glory,’ agreed Salih.

‘But there is money?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Salih. ‘There is money.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and handed over a bulky envelope. ‘This is for your expenses.’

Hakeem weighed it in his hand.

‘Ten thousand pounds,’ said Salih. ‘That is for the introduction. There will be another forty thousand if the two men are suitable.’