His call was answered.
Dickie Naylor understood the effect of a bomb blast: the hammering detonation, the sound coming faster and louder than an express train from a tunnel, the orange- and yellow-tinted flash that almost blinded, the leaping column of acrid smoke and the slower climb of the debris, then the pressure wave of heated, dirtied air. He understood also the injuries of a bomb blast that killed and mutilated men and women and children thrown down with their bladders and sphincters loosened, pieces of concrete, glass, stonework and roofing tearing into their chests and stomachs, heads and limbs and shredding them. For many only tiny fragments of their humanity remained — the fingers on a severed fist or a shoe still worn on a foot; the spinal column often survived intact but lungs collapsed fatally from compression and so did spleens and livers; entrails were exposed and heads cast off…and if it was a cold day, or a chilly night, when a bomb exploded, steam exuded from the cut-open bodies of the dead and the living…And then there was quiet. Dickie Naylor, the nearly man, could justify his call to an island of the Inner Hebrides.
He spoke briefly, concisely, said what would happen and what should be done — and heard the gulls, the sea, the bloody gale's whine, and rang off.
Still, it rained; still he stood in the centre of the Paddington Green yard. He dialled again. He could not see into the car, did not know whether the old goat comforted Mary, or whether she, too, now received a lecture on martyr cells and motivation — maybe on the virtues of the legitimate weapon of torture…His call, into a personal line, was answered.
'Tristram, it's Dickie…Yes, I'm fine, yes…I'm at the Green. Our boy is sitting in an interview room and looking at the floor or the wall or the ceiling, saying nothing. Tristram, we need to move on a stage, on to areas we discussed…Yes, they're coming, but I need transport for them. I can't authorize, at my level, RAF flights. That has to come from you. I suppose we need a helicopter and a lift to a fast jet, an executive, for the leg down here…No, Tristram, I haven't a clue where the helicopter should pick them up, but there must be somewhere that isn't bog. When you've done the necessary, get the boys in blue to call me and I'll have the phone number they can liaise with…Tristram, I doubt I have to stiffen your resolve, but the clock's ticking. There is no alternative…I'm grateful, Tristram, for your appreciation of what needs doing. I'm on my way in and we have a mountain to clear, know what I mean?…Yes, "obfuscation" is an apt word for it. Be with you in an hour.'
He felt a burden was now shared and was relieved for that. He.strode to the car, brushed the rain off his coat.
Mary Reakes sat bolt upright in the seat beside the driver.
Hegner was saying, '…I accept there are no stereotypes for activists, but what is a common factor is the sense of brotherhood, family, tribe that exists inside the cell. It has taken over the role of parent and sibling. He might, after a few days of gentle probing persuasion, betray his father, mother, brother and sister, his cousins.
He will not, unless under extreme pressure, betray the cell…Dickie, you look like hell., You gotten things moving?'
He nodded bleakly, and slipped into the car. He could not get out of his head the quiet voice on the line, the birds' cries, the waves' roar and the gale's song.
They walked together, bent against the surge of the wind, to the McDonald farm.
At the door, declining politely an invitation to come inside for a pot of tea, Xavier Boniface told the farmer that they had business on the mainland, and would be away three days, or four.
Donald Clydesdale, and he knew there would be no hesitation from the farmer, asked if care could be taken of the cow, Marigold, and the heifer calf, Daisy, born in the lee of the hill that was close to the cliff of Cnoc nan Gabhar.
They would be attended to, and their sheep, goats, fowls and geese.
Boniface asked the farmer if he had seen the sea eagles up over the cliff and hunting in bad weather, and the farmer said they must hunt because the young in the eyrie had hatched. And he wished them well and did not ask what was their business off the island.
They trudged back to their house to pack their bags and make ready the gear they would take south. The light was failing and the weather worsening. It would be a rough flight for the helicopter's pilot, and there would only be the bright lights of their flash lamps to guide him in, but neither Xavier Boniface nor Donald Clydesdale had considered refusing the summons to come south.
His voice torn away by the wind, Clydesdale said, 'It'll be a hard nut to crack if Mr Naylor's called us.'
'Hard or soft, it'll be an important nut and needing to be cracked quick,' Boniface said. 'Nuts — hard or soft — with the right treatment, they all crack.'
The camera lens, like a fierce eye, caught him. He had the sheet of paper on his knee. Ibrahim Hussein, the drop-out first-year medical student, thought that at last he had memorized the text given him. He sucked in air, waited for the dropped finger to tell him to begin and felt a tightness through his body…He was told the bulb was blinking, that a new battery was needed, and the tension subsided, the text vanished from his mind. He heard the hiss of annoyance from the darkness behind the light that beamed on to him.
He knew now that Ramzi, the muscle, had run. Knew, too, that crisis engulfed the cell. Knew, also, that time was precious. It was to be his fourth attempt to speak the words written for him, and on three attempts he had stumbled and the thread had been lost. The filming of the video had first been held up by an argument between Faria, who had written it, and Jamal, who operated the camera: what language should be spoken? The Arabic, with the dialect of Asir Province, that was easiest for him and most suitable for the Al Jazeera satellite audience? The English that she had composed and that was aimed at the Crusaders' society? But Ibrahim Hussein did not have the depth of vocabulary to translate from English to the Saudi tongue, and Faria and Jamal had the taught Arabic of the Book, which was insufficient…The argument had been resolved by the Leader's cutting response to the delay: 'It is not important. He will speak what is given him.' Then more bickered problems.
Should he, or should he not, wear the waistcoat?
The martyrs in Lebanon, Palestine and occupied Iraq wore robes when their video statements were recorded, carried weapons and had slogans in praise of God painted on to the wide bandannas tied across their foreheads. There were no robes in Oakdene Cottage, and no Kalashnikov assault rifles. She denied it had been her responsibility to provide robes that fitted him. Jamal criticized the lack of a weapon, even a replica. The Leader had said, 'Again, it is of no importance. He does not want to wear the waistcoat, he does not — he does and he wears the waistcoat. Ask him.' They did. Ibrahim had said he would wear the waistcoat and, taking great care not to dislodge the wires between the sticks, the batteries and the button switch, the girl had eased his arms into it, then settled it on his shoulders.
The waistcoat's weight was on him. The girl sidled close to him, took the sheet of paper and he saw, momentarily, her smile — as if she encouraged him. He tried, in desperation, to remember what he would say — and why.
The finger dropped.
Ibrahim gulped.
The light bored into his face and the lens was bright.
He recited what he had learned. 'I would like to say to you that I have come to Britain to strive in the path of God and to fight the enemies of the Muslim faith. I am the living martyr. God, be He exalted. At this time when the oppression of the Crusaders and infidels destroys our people in all of the world where we live, I look for martyrdom as a sign that we — believers of the true Faith — can never be defeated. I…'