small team of three waiters piled the table with platters of assorted meats‚ rice and naan breads. They ate in silence at the dining table‚ digesting the food quickly‚ hoping to get back to their hotel room and further digest what had been told to them. The only sound that filled the room was Pathaan noisily sucking away at the bones of a half chicken from the comfort of his armchair.
Ihsan and Talal were grateful that a spread had been laid on for them in the highest of company; they were especially grateful that the Sheikh had chosen them to share the information with. But they could not understand why it was them that he had chosen. The attacks on Oxford Street had been not of their planning‚ therefore they were not accountable for the failure of it. Ihsan‚ based in Germany‚ had his own students‚ three of whom were currently being prepped to visit a training camp. As for Belgium-based Talal‚ after careful watch‚ he had recruited twelve students from the deprived Molenbeek neighbourhood of Brussels‚ who had seen their local Mosque closed down as its teachings were seen as radical. Talal had been given an eighteen-month window in which to train these angry young men‚ and plot an attack in the very heart of Brussels.
Sheikh Ghulam placed his cutlery down on the table and loudly expelled gas‚ muted slightly by his fist. Ihsan and Talal followed suit but did not allow themselves the luxury of belching. They waited patiently but the impatience within them was clear. They wanted desperately to leave‚ to be away from Ghulam’s glare and Pathaan’s menace and to carry on this discussion in private quarters‚ to try to establish the possible reason why they might have been flown out to this meeting.
Ghulam had not seemed to address it. But they could not possibly question him.
Talal cleared his throat to speak. Ihsan shot him a look and discreetly shook his head. Talal went ahead anyway. ‘Who was responsible for Qasim? With all due respect we carry out intensive checks with every one of our students.’
Ghulam nodded at Pathaan‚ one that could possibly have meant anything. Pathaan stood up and Talal braced himself‚ as though he was about to receive a blow to the back of his head. Pathaan smiled at the reaction and disappeared into the master bedroom.
‘Imam Adeel-al-Bhukara‚’ Ghulam said‚ and Talal physically relaxed. ‘He was also invited to join us. However‚ the Brother did not demonstrate the same sense of duty as you both.’
‘So‚ he did not make it?’ Ihsan asked.
‘Pathaan can be quite persuasive‚’ Ghulam replied‚ as the bedroom door opened and Pathaan walked out dragging behind him a large metal suitcase on wheels. He laid it down flat‚ unzipped and flipped open the case. Inside Adeel-al-Bhukara was curled up in the foetal position‚ his walking stick laid across his body. Pathaan picked it up and poked him in the ribs with it. Al-Bhukara wheezed weakly and his eyes opened to slits.
‘Please‚ join us‚’ Ghulam requested‚ and al-Bukhara’s eyes widened in recognition.
Placing first one hand and then the other on the thick black Persian rug‚ he slowly crawled out of the suitcase before collapsing with exhaustion face down on the floor. His humiliation‚ far from complete‚ was furthered in the knowledge that his peers‚ his Brothers‚ could smell that he had urinated and see that‚ through the light cotton of his shalwar‚ he had defecated.
Al-Bhukara managed to lift his head towards Ghulam and mouthed water. His wish was granted as Pathaan‚ from a metal jug‚ poured water and ice cubes over his head. They watched as he managed to sum up enough energy to rise to his knees with his mouth wide open‚ and drink what he could from the waterfall. Whatever missed his mouth he collected in his hands.
Ihsan and Talal were up on their feet at the treatment of the much-respected Imam. The very same Imam who had a close friendship and unbridled trust with Abdullah Bin Jabbar‚ the honourable leader of their group‚ Ghurfat-Al-Mudarris.
‘Would you like us to leave?’ Ihsan asked.
‘Sit!’ Pathaan asserted‚ his arm outstretched and his finger pointing at them as if it could spit bullets.
‘Look at me‚’ Ghulam said.
Al-Bhukara met his eyes‚ but kept his head bowed. ‘Please‚’ he pleaded. ‘I did what I was told. I did what I believed was right.’
‘Javid Qasim was one of your students.’
‘I did what I was told‚’ Al-Bhukara repeated.
‘He was a traitor‚’ Ghulam raised his hand sharply. Al-Bhukara flinched. ‘He was Secret Service.’
Al-Bhukara lifted his chin‚ the sudden fire in his eyes matching that of Ghulam.
‘He was the son of Abdullah Bin Jabbar‚’ he hissed at the Sheikh and then the fire went out as quickly as it had arrived.
Ghulam took an involuntary step back. Ihsan and Talal glanced at one another‚ hoping that the other would tell them that they had misheard.
‘We waited patiently for the boy to become a man‚’ Al-Bhukara continued. ‘He started to move in the right circles‚ he started to take his Deen seriously. When word reached Bin Jabbar‚ he insisted that we should take him on. Fast track his education. I was but the facilitator. He was his father.’ He took a breath‚ it came out as a low whistle. ‘It was what he wanted.’
Ghulam regained his composure. ‘Abdullah Bin Jabbar... who has evaded capture for so many years‚ is now on the run. Is that what he had wanted?’
Al-Bhukara said nothing.
‘They are now aware of his description‚ his hideouts and his training facilities. I ask you again: is that what he wanted?’
A single tear slowly escaped Al-Bhukara’s eye.
‘Our cell has been compromised. Decades of hard work and planning‚ wasted. Is that what he wanted?’
Ghulam sat down on the chair‚ his outburst had tired him. He leant forward and with his finger lifted Al-Bhukara’s chin and said softly. ‘I do not care if Qasim is his bastard son. It is your role to thoroughly look at his background regardless of who he is. Good men died‚ men better than Qasim‚ and the Kafir now laugh at us‚ in their newspapers‚ on their televisions. I will not allow you to lay the blame at the feet of the great Bin Jabbar. As far as I am concerned‚ Javid Qasim was your responsibility.’
Al-Bhukara closed his eyes tightly. Sweat ran down his forehead and tears raced freely down his face. His body racked and shuddered as he clenched as hard as he could to stop himself adding to his already soiled shalwar.
Ghulam sat back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. In his heart he understood that Al-Bhukara had no choice. When an order comes from the very top‚ no question‚ it has to be obeyed. Bin Jabbar had always run Ghurfat-al-Mudarris with heart and emotion‚ loved and adored by his vast army as he walked‚ lived and broke bread amongst them. Now he was impoverished‚ moving from barely-furnished safe houses to barren caves hidden in high mountains.
It was not how a leader should lead.
Bin Jabbar was no longer in the position to give further orders; the remainder of his days were to be lived out‚ running and hiding as the net around him tightened. Ghulam saw himself as the natural successor. Change had been forced upon them‚ but it was a change that was required.
