‘Tsk!’ Malik spat, batting away his excuse. ‘I won’t tolerate lateness or lack of respect to our traditions. Understand?’
Hazim nodded, shifting uncomfortably under the man’s fierce gaze. Then, like quicksilver, Malik’s harsh expression switched to a genial smile and he clapped Hazim on the back.
‘No matter this time, Hazim. You were right to be cautious. Kedar, give him some of yours,’ he ordered a man to Hazim’s left. ‘A true Yemeni should never be without.’
Kedar, a man of Herculean build with a wiry beard, offered Hazim a handful of green stems. Chewing khat was the social norm in Yemen. All men gathered together at the end of the day to sit down, chew khat and put the world to rights, just as Americans met in Starbucks for coffee and the English enjoyed a pot of tea – except the intoxicating effect of chewing khat was the equivalent of several strong espressos in a row.
Nodding gratefully to Kedar, Hazim pulled a few leaves from a stem and popped them in his mouth. As he bit down, the bitterness of the khat’s juices hit his taste buds.
‘Do you have a Coke?’ he asked, trying not to grimace.
Malik threw up his arms in exaggerated outrage and turned to a man with thinning hair and rounded scholarly glasses. ‘This is what I mean, Bahir! The poison of America seeps into his bones. There’s fine Yemeni water over there,’ he muttered, indicating a large ceramic jug on a round wooden table. ‘The only and proper way to enjoy khat.’
Selecting the choicest leaves from his bundle, Malik stuffed several into his left cheek at once. He chewed slowly, carefully studying Hazim as the young man poured a glass for himself. ‘He doesn’t even have a beard!’ he snorted.
Sipping on his water, Hazim self-consciously put a hand to his shaven face and glanced round at his bearded brethren. The other men all eyed him guardedly.
‘He looks like a newborn,’ commented Bahir. ‘Hey, everyone, it’s Baby Hazim!’
The group burst into raucous laughter. Hazim flushed in humiliation and cast his eyes to the floor. But the jesting was ultimately good-natured, for all in the room knew the truth. Hazim had been invited into the inner circle of the Brotherhood precisely because he’d shown he was able to integrate effortlessly into American life.
Malik patted Hazim reassuringly on the shoulder. ‘Enough! Now we’re all here, we can begin,’ he announced.
The laughter of the other men died quickly, all conversation coming to a halt.
‘My brothers,’ he began, opening his arms wide. ‘Our organization has hidden in the shadows long enough. The time is ripe for a nightmare attack against our enemy. The toppling of the Twin Towers struck at the heart of America. Now I intend we destroy its soul!’
Malik fingered his prize jambiya as he spoke. The curved dagger was thrust into his leather belt, positioned in full view of everyone. The semi-precious stones adorning the wooden sheath glistened in the evening’s fading light and, with its handle of rare rhinoceros horn, no man would question his status as leader. While for most Yemeni men the jambiya was purely a symbol of masculinity and usually blunt, Malik kept his blade sharpened, having used it to slit many an enemy’s throat.
‘We must hit America where it hurts the most,’ he continued, his fervour building. ‘A wise man once said, “Kill a few, hurt many, scare thousands.” But in this attack, we need only kidnap one infidel.’
He paused, relishing the moment of power as his men leant in, mesmerized by his words.
‘Who’s the target?’ breathed Bahir.
‘The President’s daughter.’
A round of gasps met this revelation. Not from disgust, rather from admiration at the audacity of the plan.
But Hazim couldn’t hide his scepticism. ‘You seriously intend for us to kidnap the President’s daughter? One of the most protected families in the world.’
‘Yes,’ said Malik smugly. ‘The plan may be bold, but it’ll be as devastating and effective as a thousand bombs. Once we have her, we’ll demand the release of our brothers and force all infidels to leave our lands.’
The men cheered at this news, pumping their fists in the air. Hazim tried to get himself heard over the hubbub. ‘The United States doesn’t negotiate with those they label terrorists. What makes you think the President will bow to our demands?’
Malik removed his jambiya and inspected the gleaming blade. ‘What father wouldn’t if you held his own flesh and blood hostage?’
Connor’s thumb hovered over the Call button of his mobile. The telephone number glowed steadily in the display, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to ring it.
Was he doing the right thing?
He could hear his mum shuffling around downstairs, making them breakfast. Connor wondered if she’d manage on her own. The TV was on in the sitting room, the volume a notch too high for Connor’s comfort, to compensate for his gran’s failing hearing. But no one complained; their neighbours were just as old, and only the three of them lived in the house.
Spread out on his bed were the contents of the envelope. A company brochure promoting high-quality live-in carers for the elderly and chronically ill, plus a letter detailing Colonel Black’s offer. Connor knew exactly what it said. And each time he read the letter, the more sense it made.
His mum suffered from multiple sclerosis. On a day-to-day basis, he looked after her, helped by his gran. But when he was at school or martial arts training he couldn’t be around. And recently there’d been a couple of incidents that had worried him – the dropping of a pan of boiling water, then a painful fall down the stairs that had resulted in a broken wrist. As his mum’s condition worsened, she’d soon need full-time care. On top of that, he’d noticed his gran was finding it harder to cope. While her mind was still sharp as a tack, she was getting old and less mobile. As a family, they’d once discussed the idea of care homes. But his gran had been adamant it would be the death of her. The little terraced house was full of happy memories of her life with his grandad and father and she was determined to stay. For his mum’s part, she was more worried what would happen to her son if she was forced to go into a nursing home. Being a minor, Connor couldn’t remain in the house alone. And without any close relatives his choices seemed limited to foster care or entering a children’s home himself – prospects that appealed neither to him nor his mother.
Their ideal solution was a live-in carer. But there was no way they could afford one.
Until now.
Connor had spent the past week deliberating over the decision. He dearly loved his mum and gran and didn’t want to leave them. Yet by joining Buddyguard he would guarantee their well-being. And he considered it his duty to look after them, just as they’d looked after him when his father had died.
He glanced over at the photo on the bedside table of his father in Iraq. Six years had gone by, but there wasn’t a day when Connor didn’t think of him. His memories were now like snapshots in a dusty family album – playing football in the park, games of hide-and-seek in Epping Forest, sparring in their back garden. And with each passing year these snapshots faded a little more. Connor was worried that one day he wouldn’t be able to recall his father at all.
But Colonel Black and his father had been friends. He could fill in the missing pieces. And Connor desperately wanted to know more about his father’s secret life – what it was like being in the SAS and working as a bodyguard in hostile environments. He also needed to understand why his father had devoted himself to such a job, one that took him away from his family for such long periods. Connor realized he could never get his father back, but by following in his footsteps he might come to know him better.
Connor pressed the Call button.
It rang once before being answered in that familiar clipped tone.
‘Glad you’ve decided to join us,’ said the colonel. ‘One of the team will collect you Monday at 0900 hours sharp. Be ready.’
‘But … I-I still haven’t agreed to anything yet,’ Connor stuttered.