Stephen Leather - False Friends

Button nodded. ‘I’ll ask around, see what’s available.’ She stood up, bringing the meeting to an end. As he left the building Shepherd couldn’t shake off the feeling that she’d lied to him.

He waited until he was outside Thames House before calling Hargrove on his mobile. ‘I just wanted to say that I had no idea that was going to happen,’ said Shepherd.

‘Not a problem,’ said Hargrove. ‘Though I do feel as I’ve just been mugged at knifepoint.’

‘If I’d known I would have at least warned you.’

‘Spider, you work for MI5 now and Charlie’s your boss. And I’m a big boy. I know the way things work.’

‘She’s put us in a bastard position, though. If Superintendent Warner up in Birmingham finds out that we’re going behind his back he’s going to hit the roof.’

‘Hopefully that won’t happen,’ said Hargrove. ‘And frankly she does have a point. If Kettering is planning a terrorist incident then with the best will in the world the West Midlands cops aren’t geared up for dealing with it. If it was the Met then it would be a different story, but the chances are that if Warner does realise that Kettering is a terrorist rather than a vanilla criminal he’s going to be picking up the phone to Five anyway. This way Charlie can hit the ground running if the call comes.’

‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd. ‘I was worried you might be annoyed.’

‘I’m not happy, but I’ll get over it,’ said Hargrove. ‘My main worry is that Five will take all the credit for our hard work, but that wouldn’t be the first time.’

Hargrove ended the call and Shepherd rang Jimmy Sharpe. ‘Can you talk?’ he asked.

‘Till the cows come home,’ said Sharpe.

‘Why can’t anybody just answer that question with a straight yes or no?’ said Shepherd. ‘Fancy a drink?’

‘You read my mind,’ said Sharpe. ‘When and where?’

‘I’ll come to you,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just name a pub.’

Chaudhry’s mobile rang. He didn’t recognise the number but he took the call. It was Khalid. Khalid routinely changed SIM cards and once a month he replaced his phone. The intelligence services now had the capability to track a phone and monitor its calls no matter what SIM card was being used and wherever possible Khalid would use a public phone instead.

‘Have you been to evening prayers, brother?’ asked Khalid.

‘I have, brother,’ said Chaudhry. He and Malik had gone to the Dynevor Road mosque for the Maghrib prayers, which had to be performed just after sunset. It tended to be the busiest of the prayer sessions as those Muslims that had day jobs could conveniently drop by on their way home. The fourth of the five daily prayer sessions consisted of two rak’at prayed aloud, and the third in silence.

A teenager who had been praying in front of Chaudhry had neglected to turn off his mobile phone and during Chaudhry’s silent rak’at the boy had received a text message. He had then taken out his phone and begun texting, much to Chaudhry’s consternation. Chaudhry had been just about to say something when the imam had clipped the teenager’s ear and told him to be more respectful. Chaudhry was becoming increasingly frustrated at the mosque; many of the men going there to pray seemed only to be going through the motions and he had smelled alcohol on the breath of several of the worshippers.

‘Permit me to buy you and Harveer dinner,’ said Khalid. He never referred to Malik by his westernised name. Equally Raj was always addressed as brother or as Manraj. ‘There are two brothers who I would like you to meet.’

‘Of course,’ said Chaudhry.

‘Half an hour from now, then, brother. At the Aziziye Halal. You know it?’

‘Of course, brother.’

The Aziziye Halal was a traditional Turkish restaurant on the ground floor of the Aziziye Mosque on Stoke Newington Road, next to a halal butcher where Chaudhry bought most of his meat. The mosque had started life as the Apollo Picture House in 1913 and had shown soft-core sex films during the seventies before being converted into a mosque in 1983. It was much larger than the Dynevor Road mosque, with room for two thousand worshippers, and it was far more salubrious, if for no other reason than the Dynevor Road mosque was underground and the Aziziye was on the upper floor with large windows. It was the Turkish community who had pressed for the cinema to be converted into a mosque, and generally it was only Turks who worshipped there. The Turks were as protective about their mosque as they were about the business they controlled in the area.

Malik was lying on the sofa reading a book on Japanese cooking.

‘Khalid wants to see us,’ Chaudhry said. ‘At the Aziziye.’

‘The mosque?’

‘The restaurant. Get ready.’

‘I hope he’s paying.’

‘If he doesn’t you can ask him for the receipt and get MI5 to pay.’ Chaudhry could see from the look on Malik’s face that he thought he was serious. ‘Don’t you bloody dare,’ laughed Chaudhry.

Twenty-five minutes later they were removing their shoes at the entrance to the restaurant. Khalid was inside, talking to a waiter. Standing with Khalid were two young Asians. Chaudhry recognised them from the mosque, though he had never spoken to them.

The waiter, dressed in a black shirt and black trousers, headed over to a stack of menus as Khalid turned and saw Chaudhry and Malik. He walked towards them and kissed them on both cheeks. He was wearing a blue and white striped dishdash and a white skullcap, holding a chain of wooden prayer beads, and smelled of garlic and cheap cologne. He waved over his two companions. ‘This is Lateef and Faisal,’ said Khalid.

‘It’s an honour, brother,’ said Lateef, shaking hands with Chaudhry then pulling him close into a hug. He patted him on the back with his left hand. ‘A real honour.’ He was an inch or two taller than Chaudhry with the looks of a Bollywood leading man; his hair was gelled and slicked back.

Faisal was short and stocky with darker skin and cheeks mottled with old acne scars. He stepped forward and hugged Malik. ‘Salaam, brother,’ he said.

The waiter returned with the menus and took them along to their cubicle. Most diners in the restaurant ate in small cubicles, divided up with chest-high partitions. They varied in size from small ones that accommodated just two people to family cubicles where more than a dozen could eat in comfort, sprawled on red patterned cushions around low tables.

The waiter held open the door of the cubicle and one by one they filed in and flopped down on the cushions. Khalid sat down at the head of the table. There was an LCD TV screen behind him showing advertisements for the restaurant. Khalid pointed at the TV and nodded at the waiter. The waiter switched it off and handed out menus. Khalid waved the menus away and ordered for them all.

Unlike many of the Turkish-run Muslim restaurants in the area, the Aziziye Halal didn’t serve alcohol. The waiter brought a tray of fruit juices and water, and then disappeared to the kitchen. Khalid poured water into glasses for each of the men.

‘So, Lateef and Faisal will soon be following the glorious path that you both trod,’ said Khalid. ‘I thought it might be a good idea for you to tell them what they can expect.’

‘Was it amazing, brother? Being with the mujahideen?’ asked Lateef.

‘They were not with the mujahideen,’ said Khalid. ‘They are mujahideen. That is what happens over there. You go as men who want to take part in jihad but you return as Islamic warriors, as mujahideen.’

‘The training, was it hard?’ asked Faisal.

‘It has to be hard,’ said Malik. ‘You don’t know how weak you are until they get to work on you.’ He sipped his water. ‘I can play five-a-side all evening and never break a sweat,’ he said. ‘But after half an hour of physical training in the desert I thought I was going to die. We did obstacle courses and route marches; we walked in the hottest part of the day and we walked through the night. We ran, we crawled, we hid in trenches for hours. They teach you discipline like you wouldn’t believe. I lost about five kilos while I was there.’