Homegrown Hero - Khurrum Rahman Jay Qasim

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I opened the fridge and sipped straight from the carton of OJ as my eyes landed on a Qatar fridge magnet that my Mum had sent me. Underneath the magnet was an old flyer.

      All Muslims Welcome.

      Heston Hall Community Centre.

      Every Tuesday and Thursday – 7pm onward – Workshop and Group Discussion.

      Bring with you a smile.

      I’d been attending the Tuesday sessions for the last couple of months. Maybe after the attack I wanted to be around normal‚ moderate‚ modern Muslims and not those who had ideas of devastating the West. They held talks for young Muslims‚ ranging from those facing ‘issues’ in the current climate‚ to those struggling to gain employment‚ or those who just wanted an environment where they were able to vent without judgement.

      I could gauge the opinion of Muslims up and down the country just by spending an hour or two in that room‚ bouncing from person to person‚ all of whom had justifiable reason to be full of anger‚ but had the good sense to just get on with it. Unlike that popular minority‚ these Muslims wanted a place to express‚ and not to take extreme action.

      This wasn’t about that.

      We shared stories‚ drank masala tea and munched on Jaffa Cakes. Once in a while‚ normally after an atrocity‚ we would be riled up at the media coverage or the lack of it‚ at our Brothers‚ or at the two patrol cars taking turns in cruising up and down outside the hall‚ just in case we all balled out wearing suicide vests and waving rifles‚ shouting Allah hu Akbar!

      My life‚ truth be told‚ wasn’t great. But a crappy office job and the Community Centre gave me some purpose. I didn’t have to report to MI5 anymore‚ I didn’t have to play spy‚ a role that I was fucking blackmailed into‚ coerced‚ as those bastards would call it. The only good thing that came out of it was that a nasty motherfucker named Silas who I owed a lot of money to was tucked away safely in jail thanks to a statement that I had given. Ten G I owed him; instead he got ten years. I was aware that when he was eventually released he would come looking for me.

      Until then‚ I couldn’t be touched.

       Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai

      Sheikh Ali Ghulam had lived his whole life in the United Arab Emirates in the city of Abu Dhabi. He despised being away from home‚ refused to join any of his wives or eleven children when they vacationed in the most extreme exotic locations around the world. He had a constant nagging thought that it was only a matter of time‚ and not coincidence‚ before a lunatic gunman or a suicide bomber decided that today was the day to spoil his vacation. The Sheikh seldom set foot outside of his home. He lived with his wives and his children and his servants on a sprawling estate‚ with two guest lodges and a small shopping village within the compound.

      It was only business that held the might to force him from his home. Sheikh Ghulam never had and never would conduct business from his home‚ not a meeting‚ a phone call or an email. Any communication would have to be hand-written on a note and delivered personally to him by only a select few. But business was now calling‚ and it was that very reason why he travelled the short journey to Dubai.

      Ghulam‚ dressed‚ as ever‚ in a long white thobe‚ and white headdress‚ stood with his back to the luxurious hotel room and looked out of the huge curved window of the Royal Suite on the top floor of the Burj Al Arab Hotel. The sun dipped and the skyscrapers obscenely illuminated the skyline. Ghulam could not make out the scene below him‚ but he imagined with certain distaste the crowd and activity that was taking place. Shameless and barely dressed women displaying all that should be precious to them‚ and burnt‚ ruddy-faced drunken men looking for a wife for the night. Westerners with their Western ways and a blatant disregard for the laws of a Muslim country.

      The door to the suite opened. Ghulam noticed in the reflection of the glass that Pathaan had entered.

      ‘I trust our guests are satisfied with their accommodation‚’ Ghulam said.

      Pathaan was aware that he was being watched in the reflection‚ so replied silently with a slight nod and sat down on the armchair closest to the gold-plated phone. He slipped off his sandals and placed his bare feet on the coffee table. Out of the top pocket of his crisp‚ half-sleeved white shirt he took out a well-worn‚ small tin container and pried open the lid and removed a ready-wrapped paan. He folded it in half and then half again and placed it on his tongue before vigorously chewing it as the taste exploded inside his mouth‚ coating his teeth in red salivation.

      Ghulam eyed him momentarily in part fascination‚ part frustration. Aba Abassi‚ known only as Pathaan‚ was head of security and the only person on his payroll who did not afford him the respect that was demanded of a Sheikh. However‚ although belligerent at times‚ Pathaan was a necessity; a confidante and protector‚ one who was highly trained in many forms of combat‚ which he carried out with pleasure and if the mood took him.

      Ghulam had requested Pathaan to organise this meeting. It had taken Pathaan six flights and three cities in three different countries to arrange. Out of the three esteemed guests invited only two had turned up with the obedience that was expected of them. The third had needed to be convinced onto the Lear Jet.

      ‘Alright‚’ Ghulam said. ‘Let us commence.’

      Pathaan picked up the gold-plated phone and dialled. It rang three times before he got a response. He ran his tongue slowly over his teeth‚ relishing the taste of the paan. ‘Three rings‚’ he said on answer‚ ‘is not acceptable.’ He waited for the apology before instructing‚ ‘Send them up.’

      *

      Mullah Mohammed Ihsan and Mullah Muhammad Talal entered the hotel room. Sheikh Ali Ghulam stood at the head of the table. Something in his face made the two Mullahs hesitate about greeting the Sheikh as etiquette would usually dictate.

      ‘Sit.’ Pathaan made the decision for them.

      At the far end of the table was placed a large wide-screen monitor‚ with a USB pen drive attached.

      ‘This has come to my attention‚’ Ghulam said‚ quietly. He nodded towards Pathaan who‚ with the press of a button on the remote‚ executed a file.

      The footage was clear but without sound and motion‚ as though shot by a security camera. The time stamp read 15.22 and the date 26/12/2017. It showed a young man sitting on the back step of an ambulance‚ a blanket wrapped tightly around him and tucked under his chin. Even from the distance that the footage was captured‚ it was plain to see from the way his shoulders rhythmically shuddered that he was crying‚ as he looked around‚ lost‚ at his surroundings.

      ‘Who is this Brother?’ Talal asked.

      ‘He is no Brother of ours‚’ Ghulam glared‚ his eyes ablaze with fire. ‘This man is a traitor.’ Pathaan placed a thin manila folder on the table. Ihsan opened it and stared at the 7×5 photo. Bright eyes and a nervous smile looked back at them as though he had just been caught. Which he had. ‘I received intelligence from one of our men on the ground in London. This is the man behind the betrayal of our leader. His name is Javid Qasim.’

      Ihsan cleared his throat and although it was just one word‚ he spoke it with careful measure. ‘How?’

      ‘Qasim attended our training camp‚ by invite‚ in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa where he was able to ascertain important details of our operation.’

      ‘How much did he find out?’ Talal said‚ finding his voice again after being under Ghulam’s glare.

      ‘Enough!’ Ghulam slapped his palm on the table. A small bowl of hummus upturned. He then began softly drumming his fingers.

      Enough

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