Circle of Fire (15 page)

‘You won't, will you?'

‘Yes. That's exactly what I'm going to do.'

‘But you can't,' Maya shrilled into the darkness.

‘I have to,' Khaled said. He sat down on the bed and leaned forward, speaking quietly yet urgently. ‘If I give you to Omar, it'll prove my loyalty. He'll think I'm still true to the Brotherhood.'

‘So, I'm to be your sacrifice?' Maya demanded.

Khaled's eyes gleamed like dancing stars. ‘Omar wants fame. He's masterminding the biggest act of sabotage the world has ever known. If he brings it off, he'll be the undisputed leader of the AB in the Western world.'

Maya pulled up her legs and sat tall. ‘The Circle of Fire – bombs all over Europe.'

‘He has a new plan to blow up twelve planes simultaneously.'

‘My God!' Maya cried.

Khaled put a finger to his lips. ‘Shush! You'll wake my aunt.' He waited a moment, then continued. ‘Arms and explosives are being shipped to him. Twelve young men and women have pledged to plant and detonate the bombs.'

‘And you're one of them?' Maya asked.

‘Yes – which makes me part of Omar's inner circle. The information I find out and pass on will save hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives.'

Maya leaned back against the headboard, she could see the way his mind was working. ‘So, rescuing my mum isn't a priority any more?'

‘No. I'm sorry. This has become bigger and more desperately important than the fate of any one person.'

‘I'll give you away. I'll tell Simon you're a terrorist,' she threatened.

Khaled sighed. ‘It won't work. Simon knows everything. He's approved my plan.'

‘Including handing me over to Omar?'

‘Yes.'

Maya felt as if she'd been thumped in the stomach. Her eyes goggled. ‘He can't have.'

‘I'm sorry.'

Maya stared up at Khaled, waiting for him to give her some hope, to change his mind, but he didn't. His green eyes glowed back at her full of conviction and fervour.

‘Your mother would make exactly the same decision,' he said softly.

Maya looked at him in horror. Was he right? She didn't know. She was so frightened, she couldn't think. She wanted to scream at him. She could hit him, knock him out – she had to do something – but her voice was strangled, her limbs frozen with fear.

Khaled bit his lip and looked away. ‘The decision's been made.'

Maya glared at him with all the energy she could muster. ‘When?' she managed to croak.

‘Tomorrow – after midday prayer.'

‘I . . . I . . . won't stay here. I'll run away.'

‘I don't think so. It's your decision, but I don't imagine you want the blood of hundreds of innocent people on your hands.'

She took in a big gulp of air, heaving and choking as if it were her last breath. For a moment she covered her eyes. ‘You can't, you can't do this to me.'

‘He leaned forward, his face close to her;
everything blurred and she was lost in a pool of green light. She could smell his skin, salty and sweet at the same time. He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Maya, I. . .'

She didn't let him finish, but pushed him away. Light as a cat, he crossed the room and she saw his tall, slim figure silhouetted in the doorway.

‘Khaled!'

‘Yes?'

‘There has to be another way.'

He half-turned, and in a shaft of light she saw his hand rise, his palm turn upwards, his fingers spread – then he clenched his fist. ‘It's out of my control,' he said.

The door closed behind him. Maya blinked into the shadowy darkness. She could hardly believe what she'd heard – Khaled was handing her over to Omar, and Simon had agreed to it. Nobody would try and rescue her or Pam. They were to be sacrificed so that Khaled could prove his loyalty and save the world.

She lay back shivering in terror. There was no lock on the door, she could escape, she could go back to Gran. She didn't have to stay. In a few seconds it could all be over – slipping silently down the stairs,
out into the street, making her way towards the station. Bright lights, the safety of the train, the cover of darkness, then the warmth of the cottage.

* * *

The night was long. Maya tossed and turned, fretting and searching for an answer. She could see Khaled's reasoning. Of course he had to prove his loyalty to Omar. It was the only way he could obtain vital information – where and when the bombs would be detonated. The security services would act quickly, round up all the main players, disrupt their plans. But surely there was another way to get information? Simon's team could bug the bookshop, infiltrate Omar's meetings. Weren't they supposed to be trained in all the latest espionage techniques?

Lying on her stomach, she clutched at the pillow, pushing her face into its feathery softness. Inside her head two voices were arguing.

‘Get out now, he's given you a chance, they're not coming for you until morning. Get up! Go!'

Then a moment later another voice told her, ‘You can't run out on Khaled. Omar has to trust him. That's the only way to stop the bombs.'

‘And you have to rescue Pam. You have to finish what you started. You haven't come this far to give up without a fight.'

On and on the voices hammered. She'd never felt so lonely. Finally, with relief, she slipped into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Sounds from the busy street filtered into the bedroom. Maya woke with a sense that something was wrong, something was pressing down on her. Her limbs were stiff, her muscles tight, her hands clamped together. She sat up, stretching, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

Everything is Allah's will, nothing happens by chance.

It was as if somebody in the room had spoken the words – they resounded inside her head, calming, comforting. She didn't know where they'd come from, she wasn't sure if she believed in any god or prophet or spirit, but suddenly she was filled with hope. After all, hadn't she accessed the Red Moon file, found the bookshop, made contact with Khaled, escaped Omar, found refuge with Mariam? All these
things had happened, and had brought her closer to finding Pam. She must stay strong, she must have faith – everything would work out.

Rolling over, she sat up, rubbed at her sore shoulder and swung her legs out of bed, then, grabbing her jeans and T-shirt, she went across to the bathroom. Although she'd have loved a long, hot shower, she made do with a quick splash; she had to be alert, waiting, listening.

Out on the landing, she stiffened as the door from the shop opened below and footsteps rapped on the stairs. Relief flooded through her when Mariam appeared.

‘Ah, you're awake. Come, I've made some lemon tea.'

In the corner of the kitchen a small TV flashed out news – a Hollywood actor getting divorced, environmental protesters arrested at a power plant, and in a moment they were going to bring viewers up to date with the latest on the search for the kidnapped Security Chief and her daughter.

Mariam and Maya watched and waited while adverts for soap powder, cars and toys flashed across the screen.

‘With all my heart, I'm hoping they've
rescued her,' Mariam said.

Maya could hardly speak. Gripping the warm mug with both hands, she watched as pictures of Special Forces wearing breathing apparatus and body armour came up on the screen. A full assault on the farmhouse was taking place: officers advancing with guns and riot shields, billowing smoke, buildings ablaze and two men running out of the burning house, holding up their hands and fleeing towards the camera. A close-up showed one of the men with a blackened face being seized by an officer, his hands forced up his back and handcuffed.

‘Bomb-making equipment was found at the farmhouse, but there's no news yet of Counter Terrorism Chief Pamela Brown, who was taken hostage by terrorists two days ago, or of her fifteen-year-old daughter. The raid by Security Forces did not reveal their whereabouts and intelligence sources now believe that Ms Brown and her daughter are being held by another cell of the Allied Brotherhood in the Leeds area.

Suddenly she was aware that Mariam was speaking to her and she hadn't heard a word.

‘Sorry?'

‘I think you should let somebody know where
you are,' Mariam repeated, switching off the TV. ‘You have to let people know you're safe.'

‘They know,' Maya said. ‘The ones who matter know.'

Mariam reached into a cupboard, took out a big mixing bowl and set it on the worktop. She gave Maya a warm smile. ‘I think your mother is close by. You'll be reunited, I'm sure of it, and until then you're welcome to stay here.'

Maya thanked her. She watched Mariam's careful unhurried movements, pouring flour and water into the bowl, her hands moving swiftly and surely, mixing and moulding until she'd formed a smooth ball of dough. It would be easy to leave, escape while Mariam was busy. The thought almost carried her away, but she didn't move. Gripping the edge of her chair, she watched Mariam break off a small piece of dough and shape it into a ball; her hands went through practised patterns, patting and rolling. She created a circle of calm around her as she worked. The dough became a smooth, flat circle.

‘What do you know about Omar?' Maya asked.

‘He's from an old and much-respected family,' Mariam replied.

‘Does he have a wife?'

The dough circle spread wider and grew thinner. ‘He has a wife and five children,' Mariam answered. Then, with a wry smile, she added, ‘All girls.'

‘What's he like?'

Mariam picked up the circle of dough and turned it over. ‘Omar loves money and power. The first he has – he's very wealthy – but in his mind, a man with five daughters is a weak man. He has to prove himself.'

‘Do you think I could reason with him?'

Mariam's big brown eyes told Maya what a ridiculous notion that was.

‘Omar doesn't listen to anybody.' She lifted the board and took the rolled dough over to a griddle. As she slapped down the creamy circle, she said over her shoulder, ‘Only his father. He lives with him, and everything Omar does is to impress his father.'

‘Why?'

The dough sizzled and turned golden.

‘His father is a learned man, much revered in our community. Omar wants what his father has – respect – whatever way he can get it.'

Maya's mind was ticking as Mariam turned over the baking bread. ‘So even though Omar's rich, his father thinks he's a failure?'

‘Yes,' Mariam said, lifting the bread from the
griddle. ‘But his father is also very angry. It's a case of mistaken identity. His favourite son, Omar's brother, was arrested and is being held in jail. Majid is a well-respected teacher – an academic. I'm sure he has nothing to do with terrorism. I understand now, they arrested the wrong man.'

‘Where does Omar live?'

‘In Queen's Street, near his warehouse.' Her eyes narrowed. ‘What are you thinking?'

‘I'm not sure.'

Mariam stopped what she was doing and gave Maya a warning glance.

‘Don't try and oppose Omar. He's a cruel man. Wait until Khaled gets back. He'll have some news.'

Maya nodded, but her mind was working fast. Maybe there was another way.

Holding out a plate, Mariam offered her the bread. ‘Roti – it's fresh and very good. You must eat.'

Maya managed a smile. ‘Thanks, I will, but I need to go and wash my hands.'

In the bedroom, Maya crossed to the dressing table and took a quick look in the mirror. Picking up a brush she smoothed down her hair, then she caught up the scarf to make her hijab. Bending down, she looked for her trainers. They weren't under the
bed where she'd left them. She looked everywhere in the room, opened a cupboard and searched inside, but couldn't find them. They'd gone. She went back across the landing and poked her head into the kitchen.

‘Mariam, have you seen my trainers?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where are they?'

Mariam was stirring some sauce. She put the spoon down and went over to Maya. ‘Khaled asked me to keep your shoes. He was afraid you might run away.'

Maya backed away from her. ‘What did he say?'

Mariam smoothed back her hair with a floury hand. ‘He said you might try to tackle Omar by yourself.'

Maya forced a smile. ‘Oh no, that would be suicide.'

Trying to make her movements seem as natural as possible she picked up a warm roti and broke off a piece. It was delicious, fresh and light. She ate it quickly.

‘Can I take a shower?' she asked Mariam.

‘Of course you can. Help yourself to clean towels, they're in the bathroom cupboard.'

‘Thanks.'

Going into the bathroom, Maya turned on the shower, then – shoeless – she tiptoed to the top of the stairs. Just before she went down to the shop floor, she snatched a pair of Mariam's beaded slippers and, holding them in her hand, peeped through the door into the shop where Uncle Ali was serving customers. When he turned his back, she flashed through the shop and out into the street.

Omar's wife Shameen carried a big pile of neatly-pressed clothes and distributed them amongst the huge suitcases spread out in the sitting room. She was grumbling, a steady stream of complaints issuing forth against the hastily planned trip.

‘Why didn't I have more notice? The girls have studying to do. They don't have suitable clothing. I haven't had time to buy presents.'

Omar was sitting on the sofa, studying a map. He looked up. ‘You're taking enough presents to fill a bazaar. The charge for excess baggage will be more than my business is worth.'

‘Don't talk nonsense,' Shameen replied.

Omar folded the map. ‘I thought this would be a happy event for you – to see your family,
an opportunity for the girls to see their cousins.' He pouted. ‘I'm a thoughtful husband. How many times have you said that you miss your family?'