Countdown to Terror

Chapter Seven

Chapter 7

 

 

Samir was in a review with his tutor, and it was not going at all well. He had failed his exams the previous year, and in all probability would repeat the process again, as well as having missed a lot of lectures. The accountancy course had outlived its usefulness, and he would be able to let it fade away in a few weeks anyway, to the obvious disappointment of his father, who some years prior had optimistically dreamed of his son as a future Chancellor of the Exchequer. Samir left the tutor’s room somewhat stressed. Fortunately it was early evening and he was able to go straight to his martial arts class held in an old brick-built mill that had seen better days in downtown Stockport.

He had first gotten into martial arts at university. He had been athletic at school, mainly cross-country running and soccer, where the stamina gained from the demands of cross-country made him a natural for midfield. At university he became mates with Brian Johnson and Will Foster. Brian was the tallest and by far the heaviest, and his fearless aggression also made him a natural choice in the pack of the second eleven Rugby Union squad. During their sparring at kick-boxing, Will and Samir were saved from injury only by both being particularly fast and agile.

Back home Samir advised his father of his intention to quit his accountancy studies; the look on his father’s face said it all.

Mansoor adored his son, and despite being a very shrewd businessman, “there are none as blind as those who will not see”. He had wondered for some time what exactly Samir did with his time – the boy clearly was not spending that much on his studies, and he only spent the minimum time required to keep his job. One could not party all the time. They had had long discussions about the business, and on occasions Samir had assisted Mansoor in periodic tasks of a financial nature, but when the subject of joining his father in working in the business had been brought up, he had always managed to avoid being committed, much to Mansoor’s further disappointment.

Samir was saved from any debate on the subject when the phone rang, and like many busy men, fathers or not, the questioning thoughts drifted out of his mind as he concentrated on the next deal.

 

 

It was Friday 25th May, and the group was in yet another meeting with Hussein and the imam. Ibrahim Abelgadar had returned to London, and Hussein seemed to be in total charge, if still not talking much.

The imam was the communicator. ‘Samir, the report about your visit to the British Museum was excellent, and your comments about Islam’s Sacred Shrine confirm that you are a worthy choice for the mission. Ali and Abdullah, your work in assisting me has been exemplary, and together you will make a good team. Your place in heaven is assured, and Allah is pleased to have such faithful soldiers.’

This speech carried on in similar vein under the watchful eye of Hussein, who remained as impassive as a piece of granite, save for the fiery embers burning from those coal-black eyes.

And then it happened: there was a commotion outside, and raised voices, then a man screaming as the door burst open. ‘Imam, imam, please help me. They have my daughter, they have my daughter. She is defiled! Oh Allah, be praised. Please help!’