Stephen Leather - False Friends

Khalid waved through the open window and the three men waved back.

‘Lamb to the slaughter,’ murmured Abu al Khayr.

‘Hush, brother,’ said Khalid, still fingering the beads. ‘And smile.’

Abu al Khayr smiled and revved the engine as the three men got into the van through the side door and took their seats, Fat Boy still in the middle.

‘I have booked a table at a restaurant owned by a friend of mine,’ said Khalid, twisting round in his seat. ‘He makes the best chapli kebabs in London.’

‘My favourite,’ said Fat Boy, rubbing his hands together.

Khalid smiled. He knew that.

The five men chatted and joked as Abu al Khayr drove to the restaurant in Seven Sisters, a couple of miles north of Stoke Newington. The traffic was heavy but even so they pulled up in an alley at the rear of the restaurant after just fifteen minutes.

The three men in the back climbed out and Khalid joined them. ‘I’ll find somewhere to park,’ said Abu al Khayr, and he drove off.

‘Right, brothers, in we go,’ said Khalid.

He pushed open a wooden door that led into a small yard where there were a couple of mopeds with boxes on the back labelled with the restaurant’s name and phone number. There was a wooden shed to the right, packed with cases of canned food and cleaning equipment. Khalid walked to the back of the building and knocked on the door there. A lock clicked and the door was opened by a cook in a stained white apron. He nodded at Khalid and the four men trooped inside. They were in a kitchen lined with stainless-steel work surfaces, two grease-covered ranges covered by dirty extractor hoods and three old refrigerators. One of the fridges shuddered as its compressor went off. Hanging from hooks were metal spatulas, spoons and knives.

‘Are they shut?’ asked Fat Boy. ‘Why’s no one cooking?’

‘They opened specially for us,’ said Khalid. He gestured with his chin and the cook locked the back door.

A pair of double doors swung open and two men appeared, dark-skinned and with matching heavy moustaches. One of them was carrying a wooden chair and the other was holding a carrier bag. The one with the chair set it down, then he hugged Khalid and kissed him on both cheeks. The second man followed suit.

‘Which one is it?’ asked the man who had brought in the chair.

Khalid turned and pointed at Fat Boy. ‘Him.’

Fat Boy stiffened, but before he could move his two companions each grabbed an arm. He struggled so they held him tightly. ‘What?’ said Fat Boy. ‘What do you want? What’s happening?’

Khalid looked at him coldly. ‘It’s time to pay the price for your cowardice,’ he said.

Fat Boy opened his mouth to scream but the cook stepped forward and shoved a cloth into his mouth, then tied it roughly at the back of his neck. Fat Boy tried to push himself backwards but his shoes couldn’t get any traction on the tiled floor.

Khalid set the chair down in the middle of the kitchen and motioned for the two men to get Fat Boy to sit. Fat Boy struggled but he was out of condition and the men holding him were fitter and stronger. His instructors in Pakistan had told him that he needed to lose weight and exercise more and for a few weeks he’d followed their advice but as soon as he’d returned to London he’d fallen back into his bad habits. It was a question of discipline, Khalid knew. To carry out jihad one had to be focused, committed and driven. A jihad fighter needed to be physically and mentally fit, and Fat Boy was neither. With hindsight it had been a mistake to send him to Pakistan, but it was felt that his technical expertise would be useful. And that much was true. He had taken naturally to bomb-making and at one point his instructors had considered sending him to Iraq to help with the struggle against the occupying powers.

The man with the carrier bag knelt down by Fat Boy’s side. He took out a roll of duct tape and used it to bind Fat Boy’s ankles to the legs of the chair. Once the legs were securely bound he used the tape to fasten Fat Boy’s wrists together.

Fat Boy’s eyes were wide with fear and his nostrils flared with each panicked breath that he took.

The man finished tying him securely to the chair and stood up. He reached into his carrier bag and took out two black-and-white-checked keffiyeh scarves. He handed one each to Fat Boy’s companions and they wound them round their heads so that other than their eyes their faces were completely covered.

Fat Boy had stopped struggling but he was making a soft moaning noise behind the gag.

Khalid took out his mobile phone. It was important to record what was about to happen, as a warning to others.

‘You know why this is happening, and it is your own fault,’ said Khalid.

Tears were streaming down Fat Boy’s face.

‘This is your own doing and no one else’s,’ continued Khalid. ‘We trusted you. We trained you. We helped you to meet your full potential, to become a soldier of jihad, to fight for your people and for Allah. We asked only one thing of you, that you follow our instructions. But when the call came, what did you do? You let us down. You were found wanting. We gave you simple instructions and you failed to follow them and that means that we can never trust you again.’

Fat Boy shook his head and tried to speak but the gag reduced the sound to a garbled moan.

‘There is nothing you can say to us,’ said Khalid. ‘You said you were sick but you still went to work on the day after we needed you. And sickness is no excuse. We need total loyalty. And we demand it. And when we do not get it, we react accordingly.’

The man with the carrier bag took out a clear polythene bag and handed it to one of Fat Boy’s companions. To the other he gave the roll of duct tape.

Khalid switched on the phone’s video camera and began to film. Fat Boy moved his head from side to side but there was no way he could stop the polythene bag being pulled down over his head.

The cook leaned against one of the work surfaces and folded his arms. He grinned as he watched Fat Boy struggle. ‘Allahu Akbar,’ he whispered. God is great. ‘Allahu Akbar.’

‘Allahu Akbar,’ repeated Khalid as he took a step forward, holding the phone in front of him. ‘Allahu Akbar.’

The rest of the men in the kitchen began to take up the chant as the man with duct tape slowly wound it round Fat Boy’s neck, sealing the bag. The inside of the polythene bag began to cloud over but they could all see the look of panic in his eyes.

The duct tape wound tighter and tighter and the bag began to pulse in and out in time with Fat Boy’s ragged breathing.

The chant grew louder and louder, echoing off the kitchen walls. ‘Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!’

Khalid took another step forward so that Fat Boy’s terrified face filled the screen. Condensation was forming on the inside of the polythene bag and his chest was heaving.

‘Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!’

A damp patch spread around Fat Boy’s groin as his bladder emptied. His whole body began to tremble, as if he was being electrocuted.

‘Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!’

The chef was screaming the words at Fat Boy, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes burning with hatred.

Fat Boy shuddered, and then went still. He wasn’t dead yet, Khalid knew. It was too soon for that. But he was now unconscious and death would follow within minutes.

The men stopped chanting and Khalid stopped recording. He gestured at Fat Boy. ‘And that, brothers, is what happens to anyone who betrays us,’ he said. ‘Let it be known that once you commit yourselves to jihad, there is no going back. One way or another you go to meet your maker. You can go as a martyr and receive your reward in Paradise; or you can go like this piece of cowardly shit, terrified and pissing in your pants.’ He slipped his phone back into his pocket. ‘As soon as he is dead we can dump his body, then we can go and eat.’