'I have taken every precaution I could think of,' Sallum answered.
Assaf was a commanding man, with a natural sense of authority. His voice was deep and balanced, each vowel perfectly pitched for the desired impact. 'Did they know who you were?'
Before driving down to Birmingham Sallum had phoned Assaf, leaving a message with his secretary that they should meet in the car park of the Toby Inn, on the A518, just off the M5 between Birmingham and Manchester. He'd made the call from a phone box: if he was being followed, a mobile call could easily be tracked. It was now just before eight. It was dark, a light rain was falling, and the only witnesses to their meeting were a few people parking their cars and heading into the pub. Nobody was likely to overhear them.
'I think so. She showed me pictures of the five men — the three who are dead and the two who are still alive.' He looked up at Assaf, scrutinising his face. 'Something isn't right. How could they possibly know it was me? And if they know, why would they let me go?'
Assaf shrugged. 'Maybe they are just fishing around, stopping Arabs at random and showing them the pictures in the hope of shaking something loose. Ever since the glorious events of September the eleventh they have been persecuting Saudis.'
'Yes, but maybe they do know something,' persisted Sallum. 'How did we get that list of men? It was only a day or two after the robbery, and we already knew exactly who was responsible.'
'Out of the network,' said Assaf. 'A man in the mosque in Solihull. A low-level sympathiser. British intelligence think they turned him, he informed on us and collected a couple of hundred a week for his trouble. Actually, he's double-crossing them. We know he's an informer, and we use him to feed them false information. Let them spend their time arresting newsagents in Hendon! He told us their names.'
'Do you think he's a triple, then?'
Assaf shrugged. 'It had occurred to me,' he said. 'But they let you go, didn't they?'
Sallum turned around, speaking with his back to Assaf. In the service of a cause as great as this, there were many sacrifices that had to be made. Sometimes including your own honour, your dignity, even your life.
The task of a true servant of the Prophet is to accept all without question.
'Let me get this straight,' he said. 'You're saying MI5 organised the hit on our boat. Then they give the information to this agent in Solihull, who they know is double-crossing them. So he tells you, and then you go and send me to assassinate the men. They are watching all the time, and that leads them to me.' He paused, his eyes scanning the car park with new vigour. 'And I lead them to you.'
'Clever, you have to admit that,' said Assaf.
Sallum turned to look at him. 'I care nothing for myself, you know that,' he said. 'If it is necessary to lay down my life for the cause, I make no complaint about that. But to let me lead them to you. . Without you, the whole network in this country would fall apart.'
Assaf smiled. 'You are a good man, but you worry too much,' he said. 'I was aware of what their plan might be. Of course I was. But as the information was offered, I had no choice but to act upon it. Men cannot be allowed to steal from al-Qaeda and live. That would be intolerable. I had no choice but to send you after them.' He paused, resting a hand on Sallum's shoulder. 'But I trusted your abilities enough to know you were unlikely to lead them to me. I have faith in you, as you should have faith in me, and as we should all have faith in the Prophet to lead us through difficulties.'
Sallum smiled.
The wisdom of the master is what I should surrender myself to.
'What should I do now?'
'They think they can outwit us with their double and triple crosses,' said Assaf. 'But we can out-think all of them, because we have faith and purpose, and they, for all their strength, have nothing but themselves.' He turned and started walking towards his parked car. 'Come with me. The moment of a famous victory is close.'
Acton Lane was thick with rush-hour traffic. Cars snaked and crawled along the road, the sound of the engines turning into one collective groan. Matt walked swiftly along the street, his head turning from side to side. A kebab shop, a mini-cab firm — they were looking for anywhere they might find an Arab who wanted to earn fifty quid without working for it.
'Here,' he said to Ivan.
The two men stepped inside the Paradise Kebab House. A poorly chosen name, Matt reflected as the smell of the place hit him. Some greasy looking meat was turning on a hot skewer and spitting fat. Ranged along the counter there was a selection of cut onions and gherkins, and some stale pitta bread. A couple of likely looking guys were standing at the bar, smoking. Another stood behind the counter. 'Anyone here speak Arabic?' said Matt. 'And want to earn fifty quid for five minutes' work?'
The two men looked at him suspiciously then shuffled out to the street. 'I don't mind, boss,' said the boy at the counter, 'so long as it doesn't get me into trouble with the law.'
Matt shook his head. 'Just listen to this tape and tell me what it says.'
He took the dictaphone from his pocket and placed it on the counter. The voice started up, droning on in Arabic. Matt was starting to find the sounds familiar even though he had no idea what they meant. 'OK,' he said, pressing pause. 'What's he saying?'
'Where's my cash?'
Matt peeled two twenties and a ten from his wallet and pushed them into the boy's hand. 'Well?'
'The guy is booking some travel tickets,' said the boy. 'He's flying to Egypt, and taking an internal flight from there, and he needs some hotel rooms reserved as well. Sounds like he's talking to a travel agent. If you want it word for word then you'll have to play it to me again.'
Matt shook his head. 'That's OK,' he said softly. 'I've heard enough. Give me a doner kebab, and one for my mate as well.'
He turned towards Ivan. The man had remained expressionless throughout the conversation, but somewhere behind his eyes Matt had detected a hint of satisfaction. Matt took a kebab from the boy. The rich, fatty smell of the meat drifted to his nostrils. 'You were right. It's her.'
Assaf pulled the case from the boot of his car and passed it carefully to Sallum. It was a standard black Samsonite attache case: you could see hundreds of them on any commuter train into the City every morning.
Sallum held it in his hands. It felt heavy — much heavier than he would have expected for a case of its size. 'What's in it?' he asked, looking up at Assaf.
'Plutonium,' said Assaf. 'Not a nuclear device, but three pounds of radioactive plutonium next to a conventional Semtex bomb. The blast will create a radioactive, contaminated area that will be unusable for at least five years.'
Sallum's grip on the case remained firm. 'Am I to deliver it?'
'You are my best man,' Assaf answered. 'The one person I trust absolutely. You know how hard it is for us to obtain any plutonium. I cannot waste it on idiots. Other men will clear the way for you, but you will plant the device, and trigger the detonation.'
It is for moments such as this that we devote ourselves to the cause. Truly, Allah has blessed me with this most noble of tasks.