“My father always did exactly what suited him. For some reason, he must not have wanted my mother involved in the business any longer. I don’t know why. He must have known I would sell the business if he left it to me. In any case, he didn’t beggar her, don’t get that idea. He left my mother three houses and a great deal of money.
“Dealing with my mother was the difficult thing. I wasn’t in England more than a week before she was asking me to visit the South London Mosque with her and meet with the imam, Al-H?di ibn Mirza is his name. I finally agreed, for my own reasons, let me be clear about that. I was curious what it would be like to revisit my religion after so many years. The imam was all she could talk about with me—how wise he was, how his fire would bring Islam to the world, and the world to Islam. He was a genius, she said, at helping Muslims who had lapsed into the ways of the West with the greater jihad, their personal struggle to fulfill their religious duties. She was smitten.
“Finally I visited with Al-H?di ibn Mirza after prayers. He certainly had charisma, seemed comfortable speaking with people like me. He listened carefully to my concerns about the faith, blessed me for searching for my true path, invited me back to speak with him.
“To my surprise, the imam suddenly asked me over tea, to reconsider selling my father’s business. He said it was important to Islam that devout women like my mother continue in positions of power in England, that she was a pillar of the mosque and he needed her support. My mother obviously put him up to it, and it angered me. I was not very polite when I told him it was not his affair, and that it had nothing to do with Islam. He lectured me for a bit about my responsibilities, but when he realized he wouldn’t convince me, he bowed his head and apologized. I did as well, for being short with him. He changed the subject, spoke of my success as a journalist, and asked if I was interested in writing a piece about some of the young local men he had recruited to the faith. He said it might help me find my way.
“I told him I would think about it, that I’d only just moved to London and needed time. That was all that was said. I have thought back to that conversation many times, but I don’t know if that meeting with the imam had anything to do with this.”
Sherlock said, “MI5 already had the mosque and the imam under surveillance, Nasim. We knew you had been there. We’ll know to ask questions about your father’s business now. You were right to be upset, to suspect something.”
“Let me say that my wife, Marie Claire, was far more upset than I.” He paused, a memory bringing a quick smile. “She’d been against my going to the mosque with my mother in the first place, called it ‘sticking my foot into my mother’s tent.’ She called my mother, told her to stop trying to manipulate me using the imam, that selling my father’s business was my decision and she could keep her nose out of it. As you can imagine, my mother didn’t take this lying down. She screamed that Marie Claire was a worthless Crusader harlot, that she, my mother, would not rest until I returned to Islam. Needless to say, they haven’t had any contact with each other since then.
“You might laugh, but it hasn’t been easy for any of us.” He paused again, another smile playing around his mouth. “Marie Claire can be ferocious.”
When he looked up again, he whispered, “Do you know what is most painful for me? Realizing that Marie Claire, however she tries, cannot help herself or our children. And I am useless to her.
“You have heard everything I know. And you will use it to help my family. I am sorry it wasn’t more.”
“Did you have any idea you were a diversion, Nasim? That Saint Patrick’s Cathedral was the prime target? That the vice president of the United States was inside the cathedral when the bomb was planted? And other high-ranking members of our government?”
“No, I didn’t know. I did believe, though, there would probably be other attacks. Why a grenade in a security line if there was no more to it than that?”
“You never heard any of the men who took you speak of the vice president? Or any other American names?”
Nasim shook his head. “I only heard the word Bella—and as you know, that is Italian for beautiful. I can’t imagine their calling Vice President Foley beautiful. I suppose now they meant the beautiful cathedral, other cathedrals as well? They are prized symbols, are they not, monuments revered for their beauty?”
“Worse, they are effective targets for terror. If you can’t feel safe in a church, where are you safe?”
“Yes. Who would risk attending a place of worship if someone might blow it up? I pictured the incredible cathedral in Rouen, lying in rubble. It would be an awful thing.”
Sherlock said, “Until we find them, we can’t know what they will try to do next. Do you think there is any chance they will release your family?”
“Not while I am alive, in your custody. While my family is alive, they control me. These people know no mercy, no forgiveness, no understanding. They are like dogs. They defecate and move on. I pray my family is not already dead.” He raised hopeless eyes to her face. “I pray also that I am not being a fool to believe it possible.”
She brushed against the cuff on his wrist. “You have done the right thing, Nasim. If it is possible to help them, we will.”
Nasim looked down at his shackled feet. “They took me outside for a half-hour last night, when it was dark, to breathe in the fresh air, to let me feel I’m alive. I look forward to that. May I ask you to bring me a pen and paper now, so that I may write a note to my family? I will trust you to give it to them, if it is possible.”
“Yes.” As she rose, he said, “My kidney still hurts, but I don’t have any more headaches. Perhaps you are out of practice.”
“I thought I kicked you hard enough to give you a right proper concussion, maybe a short hospital stay. I’m glad I didn’t.” She smiled at him, waited for Cal to follow her out, and closed the door.
Was that a laugh she heard?
When Sherlock and Cal returned to the living room it was to see Jo raising a cup to Sherlock. “Well done.”
Giusti was rubbing her hands together. “We’ve already notified MI5 about this nom de guerre—the Strategist. We have nothing in our records about him. I’ve put out a call to find anyone by the name of Hosni Rahal, get us a location.”
She looked at Sherlock. “I’m sorry for Nasim. We won’t let him die, we won’t let that happen, but I fear for his family as much as he does.”
Cal said, “Seems to me Nasim asked the best question—why him? This imam? And why? MI5 needs to do some digging into the imam’s finances, his dead father’s, his mother’s. There’s got to be something there.”
Pip Erwin sipped his iced tea. “I still wonder why Nasim trusted only you, refused to speak to the rest of us. Just you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock said, “I think he wanted to tell someone, and I was the one he felt a connection to. It’s strange, though, how convinced he is he will die soon.”
Giusti nodded. “He clearly does. I don’t think there’s a terrorist within a hundred miles of this place, but I’m tempted to tighten security even so. Perhaps we should keep him in the house tonight.”
“He was so looking forward to being outside,” Sherlock said. “It would be an opportunity for me to talk with him again.”
Cal was standing next to the front window, his arms crossed over his chest. “Come on, you guys can’t really be thinking about taking him outside every night, among all those trees? Have you looked through an infrared sniper scope, like the Ares 6? Attach that to an H-and-K and you’re in business from hundreds of yards away. You can’t take that kind of risk, especially if Sherlock is with him.”
Jo Hoag walked to Cal, put her hand on his shoulder. “Cal, I’ve walked the grounds, and there are only a few spots that would be vulnerable to a sniper. We never let Nasim walk that way.”