LITMIR.BIZ

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in the UK.

      There was always action somewhere in the Middle East, particularly on the borders of their own country, and they had seen plenty, but a transfer to the army’s Secret Field Police, the SFP, had appealed to both of them and they had never regretted it. Recently, their orders had taken them to London, supported by excellent fake passports that turned Ali into Lance Harvey and Khalid, his younger brother by eighteen months, into Anthony. Dark-haired and handsome, in their late twenties, they looked exactly like what they were supposed to be, two young English gentlemen of means, out for a good time and determined to have one, a role that Ali and Khalid fitted perfectly, as they had a background of family wealth, easily tapped into in the City of London. Seated on either side of the fireplace in the parlour of their mews cottage, they were stunned at the information they’d had to absorb from two phone calls.

      The first, from the Minister of War, had been concerned with the new direction they were to take. The shock of that had barely sunk in when the Master had phoned. Religion had never been important for either of them, but orders were orders.

      ‘Colonel Declan Rashid, the Irishman, as they called him when we joined the SFP.’ Ali shook his head. ‘His record in the Iraq war was amazing.’

      ‘It doesn’t make sense to me,’ Khalid said. ‘The man is a true hero.’

      ‘That’s not what they are saying when words like traitor are flying around,’ Ali told him.

      The door to the study stood open, a computer beeped, there was the sound of the printer working. Ali stood up, went in, and returned with a sheaf of papers. Khalid sat beside him.

      ‘Holland Park,’ Khalid said. ‘We’ll have to have a drive past. Photos of everyone connected to the affair. It would seem we are to consider them all as possible targets. For the time being, totally familiarize ourselves with everyone connected, visit where they live and so on, and be ready when needed.’

      ‘An interesting bunch of people Ferguson has,’ Ali told him. ‘This Major Roper, the bomb expert, is a legend in his own right, and the IRA veteran, Sean Dillon, would appear to be ready to kill anybody.’

      ‘And usually does,’ Khalid pointed out. ‘Gangsters play an active role, too – this is Harry Salter and his nephew Billy.’

      ‘Obviously much in demand,’ Ali said. ‘But let’s not forget the lady. Captain Sara Gideon, the Military Cross in Afghanistan. But don’t get any ideas about her, Khalid. She’s entirely the wrong persuasion for you, my son. Sephardic Jewish. Her people have been in England since Oliver Cromwell.’

      ‘Well, I could say we’re all people of the book,’ Khalid told him.

      ‘Well, we don’t need to argue about it.’ Ali shrugged. ‘If she finds out who we are, she’d probably reach for her Glock and shoot us both. To shoot back is something I refuse to contemplate, but enough for now. Let’s go along to the Ivy, have a bite to eat and discuss a plan of campaign. Bring the information file and the photos with you, so we can study them again.’

      ‘You’re on.’

      It was raining hard, their Mini Cooper parked around the corner. ‘Umbrella time,’ Khalid said, picked one out of the stand, stepped outside, and opened it. Ali joined him. They moved into the street where the Mini Cooper was parked, found a hole in the road, three workmen sheltering in a doorway smoking cigarettes and talking. Two of them were older, rough and brutal-looking, badly shaved, wearing pea jackets. A youth in a yellow oilskin had been telling a joke and stopped as the Iranians approached.

      ‘Look what we’ve got here, a couple of bleeding nancy boys.’ His companions roared with laughter.

      Ali said, ‘Isn’t nature wonderful? That thing can actually talk.’

      The youth ran up behind, grabbing him by the shoulder. ‘Come here, you.’

      Khalid dodged out of the way with the umbrella, leaving Ali to turn, grab the youth’s wrist, twist it into a rigid bar, and run him into the yellow van. The nose crunched, the youth cried out, falling to his knees, rain washing the blood down over his face.

      There was a roar of anger from the two men. The first out of the doorstep reached for Ali, who spun around and stamped on his kneecap. As the man started to go down, Khalid raised a knee into the descending face, lifting him back to fall across the youth. The other man retreated.

      Ali said, ‘Chalk it up to experience, boys. Now, if I were you,’ he said to the standing man, ‘I’d shove them in the back of your van and get round to accident and emergency at St Wilfred’s. They do a lovely job, and it’s for free.’

      Khalid was already behind the Mini Cooper’s wheel, and he started the engine. Ali climbed in beside him.

      ‘Now, where were we? Oh, yes, the Ivy for a bite to eat and a discussion on a plan of campaign.’

      At the same time, the Master was phoning Hamid Bey. ‘I bring you some interesting news, An attempt was made on the life of Dr Ali Saif last night as he was leaving the Holland Park safe house.’

      ‘Allah be praised,’ the imam said. ‘Who was responsible?’

      ‘Better not to know,’ the Master said. ‘There’s such wildness around these days, and so many of our young people become angry and disturbed when they hear what is happening to our people in Syria, Somalia or Egypt.’

      ‘I agree wholeheartedly, but Allah will forgive me for branding Ali Saif as a black-hearted traitor to his religion and people.’

      ‘To put it mildly, he has faltered on his spiritual journey, but he may yet be saved, and I believe you could assist in this regard.’

      ‘I am at your command.’

      ‘He was badly wounded and is at present in a private hospital named Rosedene, where General Charles Ferguson provides treatment for those injured in his service.’

      ‘Ferguson, as I hardly need to remind you, is one of Al Qaeda’s most implacable enemies, he’s done great harm to us on occasion,’ Hamid Bey said. ‘What do you suggest I do?’

      ‘Ask to see Ali Saif. A not-unreasonable request. As imam, you were his spiritual guide.’

      ‘Until he betrayed the Cause,’ Hamid Bey said.

      ‘Yes, but you will put Ferguson on the spot with your request. He looks upon the Army of God and the Brotherhood that goes with it as the enemy.’

      ‘Which we are,’ Hamid Bey said.

      ‘You are missing the point. We must at all times appear to be what we claim, which is a spiritual and educational organization, offering the services of a multi-faith dispensary to the local population. I also suggest you take Lily Shah with you.’

      ‘Why would I do that?’ Hamid asked.

      ‘Because the fact that she is a Christian may smooth the way, indeed make things rather awkward for them. She is already something of a saint in Muslim eyes. All this helps to wrong-foot the police and the city authorities. A whole range of municipal workers are members of the Army of God Brotherhood – a Muslim trade union, if you like – but to us, a private army. And there is little they can do about it.’

      ‘I am proud to serve,’ Hamid Bey said.

      ‘Prove it by having one of your vans call on Captain Sara Gideon at Highfield Court tonight,’ the Master told him, and switched off.

      Next, he phoned Lily Shah. ‘There’s something I want you to do,’ and he told her what he had just arranged with the imam.

      ‘What will be the purpose of this?’ she asked. ‘If Ali Saif has gunshot wounds, he will be laid low for some time, but when he left the Army of God to join Ferguson, he must have been an invaluable source of information. About me, for instance.’

      ‘Every embassy in London has an intelligence unit. People like us know who they are and they know who we are. The real work is trying to find

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