Live Fire (7 page)

‘Then we can have a drink?’

‘Yes, Razor,’ said Shepherd, patiently. ‘Then we can have a drink.’

Bradshaw walked through the prayer room, careful not to touch any of the prostrate men. It was large enough to hold five thousand worshippers, but it was still crowded. His bare feet whispered along the red carpet into which were woven the patterns of hundreds of individual prayer mats. High above his head, a painted dome was decorated with brightly coloured mosaics, a massive crystal chandelier hung from the middle. Inscriptions from the Koran, the most holy of books, had been painted around the edge. Several faces turned to look at him, registering surprise to see a Caucasian in their midst, but Bradshaw simply smiled blandly. He was used to being stared at in mosques and knew that he was watched out of curiosity, not hostility. He found a space close to the front and began to pray, eyes closed, the better to appreciate the power of the words he chanted.

When he finished he opened his eyes. He felt cleansed, as he always did after prayer. Some of the men standing and kneeling around him were wearing traditional Muslim dress, long flowing shirts that almost reached the ankles and skullcaps, and several were carrying well-worn copies of the Koran. Bradshaw was dressed casually but smartly in a linen jacket and trousers, and a shirt he had ironed that morning. Clothing was important, he knew. It was camouflage. Many of the men had long beards but he was always clean-shaven. That was also part of his camouflage, as was the slight smile that always played on his lips. He had taught himself to smile even when he was unhappy or worried. People trusted smiling, clean-shaven men in smart clothes. They didn’t trust angry-looking men with beards, wearing long shirts.

The man he had come to see was over to his right. Bradshaw knew he was a regular worshipper at the Regent’s Park Mosque. He was almost fifty years old and had a ragged beard that almost reached his chest. He was barrel-chested and wore baggy cotton trousers that flapped above his ankles, a long-sleeved pinstripe shirt buttoned up to the neck, and a beaded skullcap. In his right hand he held a string of amber beads and ran them through his fingers as he prayed. His name was Hakeem and he was Palestinian. As Hakeem stood up and adjusted his shirt-sleeves, Bradshaw walked over to him. ‘Brother Hakeem,’ he said quietly. ‘It is an honour to meet you.’

Hakeem eyed him coldly. ‘You have not met me yet, brother,’ he said, his voice a guttural rasp.

Bradshaw did not avert his eyes. He stared back at Hakeem, even though his stomach was churning. There was no human warmth in Hakeem’s eyes: it was as if they had been carved from black marble. They bored into Bradshaw as if they could see into his very soul. ‘I was told you would be expecting me,’ said Bradshaw, fighting to keep his voice steady.

‘You are Bradshaw?’ The question was almost certainly rhetorical because Bradshaw doubted that Hakeem was regularly approached by Caucasians in the mosque.

‘I am,’ he said.

‘You are younger than I expected.’ He continued to finger the amber beads as he studied Bradshaw’s face. ‘I shall see you outside in the park,’ he said. ‘Wait for me there.’

Bradshaw finished and turned away hurriedly to hide his embarrassment. He was not used to being treated like a fool and his first instinct had been to curse the man and his rudeness, but Hakeem had what he wanted so he forced himself to conceal his anger and walked away, still smiling. He retrieved his shoes from the racks outside the prayer hall and left the mosque.

He walked across the grass, watching a group of middle-aged women exercise their dogs as they gossiped in upper-class voices about house prices and the difficulty of getting decent cleaners. Two Goths, dressed from head to foot in black, sauntered hand in hand towards Baker Street. They wore tight black jeans, black boots, leather jackets, and white makeup with black mascara. It was only the swelling breasts that marked them out as female. A businessman in a pinstripe suit with a briefcase in one hand and a mobile phone clamped to his ear walked purposefully across the grass, barking at his assistant on the other end of the line. Bradshaw hated them all – hated them so much he could almost taste it.

He turned to look at the mosque, its gleaming gold dome glinting in the sunlight. Hakeem was coming towards him, still holding his string of beads. He did not break his stride when he reached Bradshaw. ‘Walk with me,’ he said.

He kept up a brisk pace and Bradshaw, who was several inches shorter, struggled to match it. ‘I was told you can help us with funding,’ he said, but Hakeem silenced him with a curt wave.

‘I shall be deciding the flow of this conversation,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bradshaw. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘And I don’t need your apologies,’ said Hakeem.

Bradshaw opened his mouth to apologise again but just as quickly closed it. He waited for Hakeem to continue. His legs were burning and he could feel a stitch growing in his side.

‘Which mosque do you use, brother?’ asked Hakeem.

‘I used to go to Finsbury Park, but not any more,’ said Bradshaw. ‘There are too many spies there now. The Government has spies in all the mosques.’ He was panting, and his forehead was bathed in sweat.

Hakeem nodded. ‘So where do you pray?’

‘At home. With my brothers. Don’t worry, I pray five times a day. I am a good Muslim.’

‘I didn’t doubt that, brother,’ said Hakeem.

‘I have proved myself,’ said Bradshaw.

‘How, exactly?’

Bradshaw lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘The car bombs in Soho.’

Hakeem turned to look at him for the first time since they had started walking. He raised his eyebrows. ‘That was you?’

‘That was me and my brothers,’ said Bradshaw.

Hakeem stopped suddenly and faced him. ‘Others have claimed responsibility.’

‘They wanted the glory. They are welcome to it. I am not doing this for the glory. I am doing this for
jihad
, for Allah. I am carrying out His will.’ There were those among the Muslim community, men that Bradshaw hated almost as much as he hated the unbelievers, who argued that
jihad
meant ‘struggle’ and not ‘holy war’. But Bradshaw had no doubt what the Prophet Muhammad had meant.
Jihad
was the duty of every good Muslim.
Jihad
was the reason that every Muslim drew breath.
Jihad
was what every Muslim lived and died for.

‘And where were you trained, brother?’

‘I was a soldier.’

‘You served in Iraq?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the army taught you to make bombs?’

Bradshaw shook his head. ‘I was an engineer more than a soldier,’ he said.

‘But the bombs were professional, according to the newspapers.’

‘Everything you need is on the Internet, these days. And two brothers with me have been trained. We knew to use that model of Mercedes for the second bomb because the petrol tank is exposed. We learned how to turn light-bulbs into detonators and how to use a mobile phone to set it off.’

Without any warning, Hakeem started to walk again. ‘And funding – where did you get the money from?’ he asked.

‘It was not expensive, brother,’ said Bradshaw. ‘I have some money and there are brothers prepared to support me.’

‘Where did you get the cars from?’

‘One of the brothers worked for a body shop in Kilburn. We waited until he had a customer with the type of Mercedes we needed and he got a spare set of keys. The other car we stole from the street.’

‘Is there not a danger that the Mercedes will be traced to the body shop?’

‘We waited a long time,’ said Bradshaw. ‘We let six months pass after we got the keys. Two months ago he left and got another job. I’m certain that the car will not be traced to him. The other we stole in south London.’

Hakeem stopped again. He steepled his fingers under his chin as he studied Bradshaw. ‘And who guides you?’ he asked.

‘Allah,’ said Bradshaw, quickly. ‘I am doing his work.’

‘But who on the mortal plane gives you instructions?’

‘No one,’ said Bradshaw.

‘No one?’ repeated Hakeem. ‘You are a totally self-contained cell?’

‘That is what gives us our strength,’ said Bradshaw. ‘We can betray no one, and no one can betray us.’

‘Then what is it you need from me?’ asked Hakeem.

‘Funding,’ said Bradshaw. ‘I am told you have access to finance.’

‘And who told you that?’

Bradshaw shrugged. ‘A brother who knows of my need for money.’

Hakeem was walking again, and Bradshaw hurried after him. ‘How much do you need?’ asked Hakeem.

‘Half a million pounds,’ said Bradshaw.

Hakeem exhaled through clenched teeth. ‘That is a lot of money.’

‘It’s one per cent of one per cent of one per cent of one per cent of a day’s oil revenue in Saudi Arabia. And I’m told that money flows from the Kingdom into your bank accounts.’

‘You have been told a lot, my friend.’

‘Information is power,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Information and money.’

‘And what do you know about me?’

‘Enough to know that you are a man to be trusted. A good Muslim who is doing the work of Allah.’

‘Specifics?’ said Hakeem.

‘You are from Palestine, though you now hold British citizenship. Your family were murdered by the Israelis. They fired rockets at your house and killed your parents, your brother and your three sisters. You became a bomb-maker and you sent more than a dozen suicide-bombers into Tel Aviv before you moved to France and then to London. The authorities know nothing of your background, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Hakeem. ‘It seems you have me at something of a disadvantage, as I know nothing about you.’

‘Who I am is of little importance,’ said Bradshaw. ‘What matters is what I have done and what I have yet to do.’

‘The people who entrust me with their money will need proof that you are indeed working for
jihad
.’

Bradshaw reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small white thumb-drive. He gave it to Hakeem. ‘Photographs of the car bombs being constructed. The drive is password-protected. You must enter your family name as the password. Failure to do that will erase everything on the drive.’

Hakeem pocketed it. ‘And they will need to know what you plan to do with the money.’

Bradshaw leaned forward and in a whisper he told Hakeem what he planned to do.

As he listened, Hakeem smiled.

Shepherd climbed out of his car and sighed. It had been two months since he had last mown the lawn in the front garden and even longer since he had done any weeding. It showed. The door opened and his son hurtled down the path towards him. ‘Dad!’ shouted Liam. Shepherd picked him up and hugged him. ‘Dad, I’m twelve, I’m not a kid!’ he protested.

‘You’re
almost
twelve and, anyway, I figure that until you’re actually a teenager I can pick you up and hug you whenever I want to.’

‘Did you get me anything?’

Shepherd lowered his son to the ground. ‘Is it me you’re happy to see or your present?’

‘Tough call,’ said Liam. ‘But that means you did get me a present, right?’

Shepherd grinned and pulled a Virgin bag from his pocket. ‘Two games for your Xbox,’ he said. ‘Shoot-’em-ups, lots of blood and gore, just the way you like them.’ Shepherd had given up trying to stop his son playing violent video games. When Liam had been younger Shepherd had banned them from the house but his son simply went to his friends’ homes and played there. Eventually Shepherd had capitulated. At least if Liam played at home he’d be able to keep an eye on him, though he’d never understood why anyone, least of all a child, would take pleasure from murder and mayhem.

‘Thanks, Dad!’

‘Don’t blame me if you end up as a psychopathic killer,’ said Shepherd.

‘If I do, it won’t be the video games.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Joke,’ said Liam.

Shepherd took his suitcase from the back of the car. ‘Have you been a good boy while I was away?’ he asked.

Liam looked up from the computer games. ‘What have you heard?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ said Shepherd.

Liam grinned. ‘Then I’ve been good,’ he said.

‘When’s the next parent-teacher meeting?’

‘Next year maybe. Katra’s cooking dinner.’

Shepherd noted the change in subject but didn’t comment on it. ‘What’s she making?’ he asked, heading for the front door.

‘Pigs’ testicles,’ said Liam. ‘It’s a Slovenian speciality.’

Shepherd stopped walking, horror on his face.

Liam laughed. ‘Got you,’ he said. ‘Joke. It’s shepherd’s pie.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘I’m serious, Dad.’

‘With real shepherds, no doubt.’ He carried the suitcase into the house and left it by the hall table. There was a stack of unopened mail on the table. Katra was sitting in the kitchen reading
Hello!
, a mug of tea in front of her. She looked up in surprise when he walked into the kitchen. ‘Dan!’ she said. ‘You’re back!’

‘It is my house,’ he said.

‘I just meant I wasn’t expecting you, I thought you were coming tomorrow.’ She got up from the kitchen table and moved towards him as if she was about to hug him, then appeared to change her mind and headed for the kettle instead. ‘Coffee?’ she asked. She was wearing a short denim skirt that was frayed at the bottom and a pink Diesel T-shirt. She had her hair tied back in a ponytail, her usual style when she was in the kitchen or cleaning. Shepherd had hired Katra as an au pair almost three years earlier, shortly after she had arrived in the country from Slovenia, and now he didn’t know how he’d manage without her. She took care of the house and she was great with Liam. He’d given her a cheque book and access to one of his bank accounts, and she paid all the household bills and even her own salary. Shepherd trusted her totally, with Liam and with his finances. ‘Are you hungry?’ There was hardly a trace of her old accent. She practised her English accent by listening to BBC newsreaders and endeavouring to copy them.

‘Famished,’ said Shepherd, sitting down at the kitchen table. He picked up the magazine. It was full of photographs of people he had never heard of.