Hunter Killer by Chris Ryan Page B

he had no idea why the cleric was so convinced that this Docklands penthouse was safe, although he had noticed that the concierge was of Middle Eastern origin, so perhaps he was one of them. But Sarim trusted Abu Ra’id without question. He was more than simply his imam. He was, as Sarim had called him, his ustath – his teacher. And so he just accepted what he was told. He accepted that Abu Ra’id must live in these luxurious surroundings, while he must live in near poverty on the other side of London. And he accepted that nobody would find them here. They were perfectly secure.
    The cleric turned towards Sarim again. He wore a plain white dishdash , spotlessly clean. ‘He has prayed?’ he asked. Although Abu Ra’id’s features were Middle Eastern, his accent was English.
    ‘Yes, Abu Ra’id.’
    ‘And washed his hands and feet?’
    Sarim nodded.
    ‘And how does he seem? In himself?’
    ‘Scared, Abu Ra’id, if I’m honest.’
    ‘Ah,’ the cleric said sadly. ‘That’s to be expected. But it is us, Sarim, us who live in the lands of the infidel and wage our war against them, who have more reason to be fearful. Shall we join him?’
    Sarim nodded. He opened the door and held it open for the cleric, blinking as his eyes grew accustomed to the bright light in the corridor outside. As he passed Abu Ra’id stopped, tenderly put one hand behind Sarim’s head, and gently stroked his hair. Then Sarim followed him along the corridor and into the dining room of this extravagant flat.
    They had chosen this room because it was the largest and because the floors were tiled. The floor-to-ceiling windows took up only one side of this room. These too were covered with their blackout blinds, but they also had black sheets draped over them. Against one end, Sarim had personally hung a white drape, about five metres by five, with the Arabic symbol for God painted on it in black. In front of the drape was a large piece of plastic sheeting, folded double, as wide as the room and three metres deep. On the sheeting was a stool. Facing this little stage, at a distance of six metres and next to the dining table which they had moved away from the centre of the room, was a video camera fitted to a tripod. It was angled upwards so that it could get the drape and the stool fully in frame. And behind the camera, lighting up the scene, was a bright spotlight, illuminating everything. Jamal stood behind the camera, fiddling with the controls, ensuring everything was working. He looked as anxious as Sarim felt, and couldn’t take his eyes from Abu Ra’id now he had entered the room.
    ‘Fetch him,’ Abu Ra’id told Jamal.
    Jamal nodded. He left the room. Sarim stood awkwardly by the stool, not knowing what, if anything, he should say to Abu Ra’id. The cleric broke the silence first. ‘You have done well, Sarim,’ he said.
    Sarim felt himself almost shiver with pride. That was the thing about Abu Ra’id. Everybody was scared of him when he wasn’t around, but a simple word of encouragement like that would make you feel ten feet tall.
    ‘Jamal is nervous,’ the cleric continued. ‘More nervous than you. I sense it.’
    ‘Because of the bombing, ustath ,’ Sarim explained. ‘He doesn’t want to be caught, and thrown into a British jail.’
    ‘He does not believe me when I tell him he is safe?’
    ‘I think he believes you, Abu Ra’id. It’s just . . .’
    ‘Faith is difficult sometimes,’ the cleric observed. ‘But without it, we are nothing. And you and Jamal must know that I would not risk your safety for anything.’
    The door opened. Jamal re-entered, and behind him a young man whom Sarim knew to be only 16 years old. He was gangly, with a hooked nose, a protruding Adam’s apple and thin arms. His cheeks were covered in soft, downy facial hair that he had clearly never shaved. He wore a black dishdash , and an expression of hopeless terror. His eyes looked sore from crying and lack of sleep.
    ‘Karim,’ Abu