The Judas Gate

What Malik didn’t realize, however, was that Hakim had orders from the Foreign Ministry to cultivate him, with the aim of keeping an eye on Daniel Holley’s activities. Holley’s access to the international scene was undoubtedly of advantage to the government, but his past argued the need for a certain control as well. Which was where Hakim came in.

Malik poured the Colonel another coffee and Hakim said, ‘And how is Daniel? I was told he went to Paris on your company plane.’ He smiled gently. ‘Forgive me, but air traffic control passes such information to my office on a regular basis.’

‘Of course,’ Malik said. ‘And I understand.’ He was tense and his hand shook as he poured another coffee.

Hakim said, ‘You seem out of sorts. Is something worrying you?’

Malik said, ‘How long have we been friends?’

‘I would say thirty years. What’s brought this on?’

‘Through years of unrest, bloodshed, revolution, fundamentalist terror, one government after another—and yet here we are, still just as much friends as when we were dodging bullets together back at the university. If I can’t trust you, I can’t trust anyone. Would you agree?’ Malik asked.

Hakim said, ‘Of course.’ He put down his cup. ‘What is this, old friend?’

So Malik told him everything. The Albanians and the business with Putin, Afghanistan and Shamrock.

When he was finished, he said, ‘What do you think?’

He had made the worst mistake of his life, but Colonel Ali Hakim, delighted at such a treasure trove of information, managed to look alarmed and worried at the same time.

‘This is grave news indeed. We must proceed very carefully. Daniel will be seeing your cousin, Selim, in London?’

‘That’s right. He said he would value his opinion.’

‘And this General Charles Ferguson? I know of him, of course. He is a major player in the world of anti-terrorism and covert operations. So Daniel intends to offer his services in this affair?’

‘So he says, but what do you think about British Muslims operating with the Taliban?’

‘My friend, thirty years in my line of work means that nothing surprises me any longer. The Muslim population of Britain is substantial these days. That a few misguided young men would be tempted to join in the battle for the prospect of glory would not surprise me. But only a few, I think.’ He reached for his cap and swagger stick and got up. ‘I must go now. Try not to worry. I’ll keep a close eye on things, I promise you. If anything of interest turns up, I’ll report it to you. It would be useful if you could do the same.’

He went down the outside steps and walked away through the garden. Malik watched him go, suddenly feeling very much better.

Like many Arabs, Ali Hakim had grown tired of the uncertainty of Arab politics, the power usurped by one general after another, and the autocracy of the men with their oil billions to back them up. And then Osama bin Laden had appeared like an avenging angel, instantly embraced by Muslims all over the world, Colonel Ali Hakim among them. In spite of NATO and Britain and America, Hakim still believed in what to him was the nobility of bin Laden’s message. He had served Al Qaeda ever since.

He sat in his police Land Rover on a bluff looking out to sea, an encrypted mobile in his left hand. It had a tape device as well, and he switched on to record and dictated everything Malik had said. He felt no guilt. This was too important. He ended by punching his personal recognition button and hitting ‘Send’.

Hakim dealt with a man known as the Preacher, the individual responsible for all London-based operations, who had been placed in charge by Osama bin Laden himself. Thanks to modern technology, the Preacher remained anonymous and untraceable, though he knew the identity of everyone with whom he dealt.

But this did not apply to Ali Hakim. Uncomfortable with entrusting a mystery man with his life, Hakim had sought expert help from Wali Sofit, a computer expert of genius who, unfortunately for him, was serving fifteen years’ imprisonment for transferring many thousands of dollars to various bank accounts in Algiers. Presented with Hakim’s special problem and even more special mobile phone, plus the promise of future leniency, Sofit had gone to work. Hakim had told him he believed the Preacher to be a major criminal of some sort. Sofit had been somewhat surprised to come up with the name of a Professor Hassan Shah, based in London, but was delighted to be transferred to a soft job in the prison administration offices as a reward for his skill.

Ali Hakim waited in the Land Rover until a reply came back.

Your information of crucial importance. It will be dealt with as a matter of the highest priority.

Hakim switched off. So that was that. He felt sorry for his old friend Malik, and he’d always liked Holley, but the cause he served was more important than individuals. He switched on his engine and drove down into the city towards the police headquarters.

The man known as the Preacher, Hassan Shah, continued to sit on the bench outside the London School of Economics, where he had taken Hakim’s call. A pleasant-looking man of medium height, he was wearing a khaki summer suit, a faded denim shirt and tinted Ray-Ban sunglasses with steel rims. His black hair was too long.

Forty years of age, an academic and a working barrister when he wished it, with no wife or girlfriend (which made some people talk), he lived alone in the pleasant Edwardian villa where he’d been born in Bell Street, West Hampstead. His parents had departed for Pakistan years ago, his father having retired as a surgeon.

He was thinking of them now because of Hakim’s recording, thinking of Pakistan and the visit he had made on a holiday when he was sixteen, when he’d been taken to a youth camp and Osama bin Laden himself had appeared. The speech he had made had shaped Shah’s life.

Shah was a practising Muslim, but in a quiet way, nothing flamboyant. His rapid rise both as an academic and a barrister had, to a certain extent, been because he was a Muslim. The Foreign Office had sent him to Bosnia to investigate war crimes and then, pleased with his work, had sent him again and again, to Iraq many times and Kosovo. He’d been noticed, no question of that, and his success in court on a few difficult cases had led to the position he held now: Professor in International Law at the London School of Economics.

But he’d been noticed elsewhere also, the approaches cleverly disguised: simple requests for legal opinions relating to Islamic matters. Eventually, he discovered that, in effect, he’d been working for Al Qaeda without knowing it—and then he’d realized he didn’t mind; in fact that he welcomed the idea. Really, an opportunity to serve the cause was what he’d been looking for all his life. His own experience of the law, the courts, the legal system, the behaviours of the kind of people involved—they’d all taught him a great deal about human nature. He knew what made people tick, how to handle them, and most important of all, what made people afraid.

To run the London operation for Al Qaeda required brains and organizing ability. When it came to necessary violence, he only had to make a call to bring in whoever was best for the job. An inner circle of twenty stood ready to act.

The beauty of it was that not one of them knew Hassan—they connected by encrypted mobiles only. Shah remained just a voice on the phone: the Preacher.

Yes, it all worked extremely well.

‘Let’s see what we can do about this,’ he murmured softly, and he made a call.

* * *

Selim Lancy was the result of a mixed marriage. His father, a sailor, had insisted he be baptized Samuel, then gone back to sea, never to return. So his mother had made it Selim, the Muslim equivalent, and raised him in the faith. He never tried to pretend he wasn’t Muslim, and was particularly handy with his fists when he joined the army, 3 Para, where he endured three hard years in Iraq and Afghanistan, rising to the rank of Corporal. His service ended with one bullet through his left side and another in the right thigh.

He passed through the rehabilitation centre, where doctors put him together very nicely, but the army decided that enough was enough and he was discharged.

He returned home, and moved in with his mother, who was still fit and well at first, then started to attend the mosque again. He was surprised at the respect everyone gave him, and then realized why—when overtures were made suggesting that, as a good Muslim, he could serve Al Qaeda well. The idea appealed to him, just for the hell of it; for the truth was, he was anything but a good Muslim.

He made a living as a hired driver now. Sitting behind the wheel of a silver Mercedes, handsome enough in a dark blue suit and regimental tie, he was eating a chicken sandwich when his special mobile sounded.

‘Where are you?’ Shah asked.

‘Oh, it’s you, boss. I’m at the back of Harrods, waiting for a customer. I’m sitting behind the wheel of my new car—a second-hand Mercedes. My compensation money from the army finally came through.’

‘Well, that’s nice for you,’ Shah told him.

‘I haven’t heard from you for a while. Is this a business call?’

‘You could say that. I want you to check on a man called Selim Malik. He’s an art dealer with a place in Shepherd Market.’

‘What’s he done?’

‘He could be showing an unhealthy interest in rumours of British Muslims serving with the Taliban in Afghanistan.’

‘They’re not bleeding rumours, they’re facts, boss. I should know. I probably killed a few of them over there.’

‘That isn’t the point. I want to know if he’s actively investigating these stories. Check with other Muslims in the market; see what you can find out. No rough stuff. He’s precious cargo.’

‘Why’s that, boss?’

‘He knows things and he’s got a friend named Daniel Holley, who’s a killer of the first order. He may look Malik up. If he does, you must let me know at once. I’ve found a security photo of Holley. You’ll find it on line now.’

Lancy thumbed away at his mobile and Holley appeared. ‘He doesn’t look much to me, boss.’