‘I shall use it wisely,’ said Hakeem.
‘I am sure you will,’ said Salih.
As soon as Charlotte Button had had breakfast, over the
‘Zoe, I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday but I didn’t get back until late. Daddy says you lost your phone.’
‘It wasn’t lost, it was stolen,’ said Zoe.
‘Have you told the school?’
Zoe’s sigh was loaded with sarcasm. ‘Of course,’ she said.
‘And will they tell the police?’
‘Mum, it’s a phone. The police don’t care about phones.’
‘I’ll need a police report to make a claim on our insurance,’ said Button.
‘I don’t think the school likes to call in the police. They handle things themselves.’
‘Oh, so they’ll find it for you, will they?’
‘Mum, please. Just send me a new phone, okay? Dad said you would.’
‘And did Dad say why he couldn’t do it?’
‘He said he was busy.’
‘And I’m not?’ Zoe sighed again. Button pictured the contempt in her daughter’s eyes, and the way her lips had pressed into a tight line. ‘I’m sorry, honey. I’ll get you a phone and send it to you.’
‘A Sony-Ericsson, okay?’
‘What’s a Sony-Ericsson?’
‘It’s a phone. Everyone here has one.’
‘I thought Nokias were the phones to have.’
‘Oh, Mum, Nokias are so yesterday. The new Sony-Ericsson is savage.’
‘Savage? That’s good, right?’
‘Yes, Mum, that’s good.’
‘Okay. Is everything else all right?’
‘Fine,’ said Zoe. ‘Look, I have to go. Love you.’
‘Love you,’ said Button, but the line was already dead.
She sat on the bed tapping the phone against the side of her head. Zoe was thirteen and had boarded at the school since she was eleven. It had been Graham’s idea, but Button hadn’t needed much persuading. They both had careers, and the only other options would have been a live-in au pair or turning Zoe into a latch-key kid. They had agreed that boarding-school was a better solution, and Zoe had been surprisingly agreeable. It had made her more independent, and she was thriving in the hothouse academic environment, but with that had come a coldness that often brought tears to Button’s eyes. She wasn’t sure if it was normal teenage rebellion or because Zoe had been sent away from home, but either way it was painful.
She tossed the phone on to the bed. Zoe was their only child and there had been complications that made it unlikely they’d have more. Not that she and Graham had planned a big family. Zoe had been an accident, a happy one but an accident nevertheless, and neither Button nor her husband had ever put her in front of their careers. They loved Zoe, of course, but Graham wanted to build his business and Button had always been determined to get to the top of her profession. And to do that she had had to make sacrifices. Button didn’t regret the decision they’d made, but that didn’t make Zoe’s coldness any easier to bear.
She picked up the phone and pressed redial, then cancelled the call. Zoe had lessons to go to, and she wouldn’t appreciate being dragged back to the phone. In any case, what could she say to her? That she loved her? That she missed her? That she wished she was there to give her a hug? She caught sight of herself in the mirror above the dressing-table and flinched. She looked scared.
She stood up and stared out of the window over the city. It was impossible to have everything, no matter what the glossy women’s magazines said. You couldn’t have a successful career, a fulfilling sex life and an adoring family. You had to make choices, and more often than not those choices led to sacrifices. No one had forced her to send Zoe to boarding-school, just as no one had forced her to join MI5 or SOCA. Suddenly she craved a cigarette, and laughed. Once a smoker, always a smoker.
Salih watched the two men from across the restaurant. They were young Pakistanis, with glossy gelled hair, dark brown skin and black eyes. They looked like a couple of male models, tall with broad shoulders and tight stomachs. He toyed with his coffee cup and wondered why two such good-looking young men would consider blowing themselves into a thousand pieces. They were British-born, which meant they had access to the country’s health and education systems, they lived in a country where the police didn’t shoot rubber bullets or worse into crowds, where civilians weren’t dragged off the streets and searched or roughed up, where soldiers couldn’t kill children and receive nothing worse than a reprimand.
Salih had been born in Israeli-occupied Gaza, where children died because hospitals lacked equipment and medicine, where schools had no textbooks, where two-thirds of the population had no jobs and where most families lived on less than ten dollars a month. Salih understood why so many Palestinians wanted to take up arms against the Israelis, and why so many were prepared to give up their own lives. But Mazur and Tariq weren’t Palestinians. They hadn’t grown up under the heel of an occupying power. They were free men in a free country, which was what made their decision to give up everything for Allah so mystifying.
The slightly taller of the two, who was sporting a small gold earring in his left ear, laughed at something the other had said, showing perfect white teeth. A waiter brought them cups of coffee and a hookah pipe, which he lit for them. The guy with the earring took the first smoke, then handed the mouthpiece to his friend. They were early. Salih had told them to be in the cafe at midday, but it was only half past eleven.
Salih toyed with the almond croissant on his plate. He preferred to work alone but there were times when he needed assistance and this was such an occasion. One person alone could not do what he had planned. There had to be three, which meant he needed Mazur and Tariq. He took out his mobile phone and called the number Hakeem had given him. A few seconds later an Asian pop tune sounded from the taller man’s pocket. He fished in his jacket and pressed his phone to his ear. ‘I am here,’ said Salih.
The man frowned. ‘What?’
‘Across the room.’
The man looked round and Salih held up his coffee cup, then cut the connection. The man said something to his friend and they both looked in Salih’s direction. Salih sipped his coffee, then put down his cup and beckoned them over.
‘You are Hassan?’ asked the taller of the two.
Salih held up the mobile phone and smiled.
‘Of course it is. He called you, didn’t he?’ said the other man. He held out his hand. ‘I am Mazur.’
Salih shook it. ‘Yes, I am Hassan. Please sit.’ Salih took the tall man’s hand. ‘You are Tariq?’
‘I am.’
He had a tight grip and his nails had been neatly trimmed. Salih could smell expensive cologne. Tariq sat down opposite Salih, and Mazur on Salih’s right.
The waiter brought over the hookah. Salih caught the fragrance of green apples from the smouldering tobacco. ‘May I?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ said Tariq.
Salih drew the fragrant smoke into his mouth, then blew it out and sighed. ‘That’s good,’ he said. He handed the pipe back to Tariq.
‘Hakeem said you needed help,’ said Tariq.
Salih kept his voice low. ‘There is something I need doing, and I need the services of men who are prepared to do whatever it takes to serve Allah.’
‘That’s us,’ said Mazur.
‘You were trained in Pakistan?’
Both men nodded.
‘Do you mind telling me why?’
‘We learnt what we could in London, through the Internet and books, but we needed real training,’ said Tariq.
