Circle of Fire (7 page)

The lock was stiff and took precious minutes to open. Maya cursed softly as she snagged a nail and hurt her bandaged hand, but eventually she succeeded – the key turned. Wedging her shoulder against the door, she gave a few mighty pushes and shot out like a cannonball into the garden and daylight.

Blinking as sunlight flooded her eyes, she looked around – thankfully the coast was clear, there were no police or agents lurking about. But it wasn't only cops that worried her; Simon had warned her, ‘Be vigilant, keep close to the house, these fanatics will stop at nothing.'

Anxious to disappear as quickly as possible, she sprinted over the grass, dodging into the nearest bush. Ducking low, she made her way under the trees towards the stile, leapt over it in one fast fluid movement and was onto the woodland path. It was tempting to look back to see if anyone was following, but she resisted. Instead, she adjusted the straps of her rucksack and started to run.

Eyes gleamed from the shadows, twigs cracked, leaves rustled. If anyone was watching, Maya knew she was an open target. The only thing she could do was run fast, retracing her footsteps from this morning, dodging under low branches, sliding down the bank, leaping the stream. The marathon training paid off – even with the heavy bag on her back, she flew. Everything blurred into ripples of green and brown, and then she was aware only of the sun dancing on her face, the sweat prickling her back, the rhythm of her feet and the need to get to the railway station.

At the top of the wood she climbed the stile into an open field. If she could make it through there, then she thought she'd be OK. Glancing over her shoulder, she started to run downhill to the dark ribbon of road. Cars flashed along the valley floor, the sun rippled over the long grass. She was beginning to feel safe, when suddenly a helicopter rose from the hill behind her, the throbbing engine swamping her ears.

Convinced it had been sent to search for her, Maya looked desperately for cover. There was nothing – not even a tree or bush. She shielded her eyes. It was coming closer, sun glinting on the round, perspex bulge of the cockpit, any moment she'd be spotted. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a horse. Without much hope she pulled her bag from her back, dropped it on the ground and whistled.

Come on. Please believe I've got a nice treat for you in my pocket.

She whistled again and the horse lifted its head, turned and came galloping, full pelt.

Over her shoulder the helicopter was getting closer; soon the pilot would be able to see her face. But with a small earthquake the horse ground to a halt and stood in front of her. She put an arm round
its neck, felt in her pocket and – glory of glories! – she found half a packet of polo mints. The horse smelt them and Maya hid her face in its thick mane as the helicopter flew overhead.

As the horse was nuzzling for the last polo mint, the helicopter disappeared from sight, and it didn't return until Maya had skipped down the hill and was crossing the river bridge in front of the railway station. If the crew had been sent to spot her, they hadn't succeeded.

In the station she bought a ticket for Leeds and waited for an anxious twenty minutes on the platform. At any moment she expected a shadow to fall across her, a hand to grab her shoulder, but nobody approached and when the train arrived she knew she was going to make it. She'd escaped, and now she could put her plan into action.

* * *

While the train rumbled along, Maya tried to work out what she was going to do. She had to admit her plan wasn't exactly watertight, but she was certain that all the evidence pointed to the Leeds group. If she could get to talk to Khaled Husain, she'd make him give
her information and she would get it quicker than Simon's team could. She'd find her mum, and together they'd stop the bombs. Even if she was wrong or her plan was crazy, she had to try. And if Khaled Husain was the one who'd betrayed Pam – a double agent? It was a chance she had to take.

The train journey seemed to take forever. She wished she could contact Simon and ask him what was happening at the farmhouse. If only he had agreed to use her to suss out the bookshop, then she would have backup.

The train jolted and stopped suddenly, panicking her. This was ridiculous, she had to control her nerves; only if she was calm could she think clearly. Looking out of the window, she saw the train was standing at a little country station, and for a moment she was tempted to get off, turn round and run back home.

Doubts plagued her mind, nibbling at her brain like maggots. What if Pam had phoned home with another message? What if she'd already been rescued? But even if this had happened, Maya knew she had to carry on; she had to find Khaled and get the all-important information her mum needed.

She rested her elbows on the table in front of her as the train started up again. The plants and bushes
outside blurred into swathes of green and yellow. Simon could play his waiting game, ask his team to keep watch and gather intelligence, but Maya was certain that Pam's kidnapping was connected to the Leeds cell. And if Khaled knew where Pam was being held, if he had a clue about the hiding-place, somehow she'd make him tell her.

It wouldn't be easy. She'd have to be alert, cautious, scope Khaled out before she revealed who she was. Could she present herself as a Muslim girl? She had tried to forget everything about her religion – now she tried desperately to remember. Maybe the sensible thing to do was to say she was on a quest to learn.

As the train pulled into Leeds City station, she was full of trepidation. She'd never been to Leeds before, had only a vague idea of where she wanted to go, and knew it was quite possible that police would be on the platform waiting for her.

Occupying the seat opposite her, long legs sprawled under the table, was a gum-chewing lad wearing a baseball cap. He'd been a bit of a pain, to be honest – taking up most of the leg room, a copy of
The Sun
spread out over the table, elbows planted – but the baseball cap he was wearing gave
Maya an idea.

‘Cool cap,' she said to him.

He looked at her as if she were mad.

She smiled at him. ‘Give you a tenner for it.'

Now he knew she was mad.

‘Cost me more than that,' he shot back.

‘But it's not new, is it?'

He took if off and looked at it. ‘Nah.' He stared at her. ‘What do ya want it for?'

‘My boyfriend's meeting me. I haven't seen him for six months. I want to see if he recognises me with that cap on.'

His face wrinkled. ‘Ten quid for a bit of a joke. You rich or somethin'?'

She shrugged.

He eyed her to see if the offer was still on. Maya gave him a nod.

‘OK,' he said. ‘Done.'

He shoved the cap across the table and Maya reached for her purse.

‘Are you from Leeds?' she asked him.

‘Yeah.'

‘Do you know where Hyde Park is?'

‘Yeah.'

‘How do I get there?'

‘Number ninety-six bus.'

‘Thanks.'

He took her money. The train was stopping. He stood up and watched her put on the cap. ‘You wanna stick all your hair under it,' he said. Then he gave her a hard stare. ‘You'll still look like a Paki, though, won't you?'

The number ninety-six double-decker shuddered past shabby shop fronts, graffitied walls and blowing litter. On board, the atmosphere was cheerful, with passengers exchanging loud greetings. It was a mixed bunch; in front of Maya a black guy in a Leeds football shirt was chatting to his grandson; over the aisle a group of women in bright dresses were speaking their own language, and when the bus stopped two women in full black robes and veils got on and walked past her. She didn't feel out of place. The lad on the train who'd called her ‘Paki' had given her confidence – she reckoned she blended in.

Where to get off the bus was a problem, but when it passed a green-domed mosque and shops with Arabic writing above the windows, it didn't take
much brainpower to work out that this would be a good place to start her search. The bus slowed down and a group of five women dressed in dark clothing got up. Maya followed them. The women stood on the pavement talking, while Maya pretended to study the jewelled fruits on display at the Begum Fruit Emporium. When their chatter faded and it seemed as if they were going their separate ways, Maya plucked up courage and stepped forward.

‘Excuse me. Could you tell me how to get to the Red Moon bookshop?'

Five pairs of eyes stared at her. A woman with a wide, smooth forehead under a white headscarf said something in her own language to her friend. Her friend replied without taking her eyes off Maya. It was unnerving. Perhaps they didn't understand her, and if they did, they'd probably never heard of the bookshop – most likely she was in the wrong area altogether. She was debating whether to walk away when one of the older women, her grey hair uncovered, turned to her.

‘Why are you wanting the bookshop?'

‘I . . . I . . . need some information,' Maya said.

‘What about? Her voice was so sharp and direct that Maya almost walked off, but just in time she
remembered the lines she'd rehearsed on the train.

‘I'm a student,' she said. ‘I'm writing a dissertation about the politicisation of young Muslims. I was told the Red Moon bookshop has lots of up-to-date stuff.'

The woman's harsh hawk-like face suddenly split into a smile. ‘The bookshop is very good,' she said. ‘My nephew Khaled will help you.'

Maya couldn't believe it. She'd hit the jackpot first time. She stood amazed, as the the grey-haired woman gave her directions.

‘Cross over the road, go past the clinic and turn right. You will see the bookshop in front of you.'

‘Thank you,' Maya replied.

As she walked away she was followed by ripples of laughter. She didn't know what they were finding so amusing, but at least they seemed friendly and for that she was grateful. She was trying not to think about what might be happening to her mum, but images haunted her like bad dreams – she saw her tied up and gagged, her face marked with bruises, her eyes dulled with pain. Instantly she pushed the pictures to the back of her mind – but the clock was ticking.

* * *

It was Pam's lowest moment. She rubbed the side of her face where the man had hit her with the phone. He'd been angry because she'd added the message to Maya about the moon. Afterwards she'd tried to convince him that it was a custom she and Maya followed when they were apart – each of them looking at the moon and thinking about the other. She could see that the woman half-believed her, but the man was suspicious.

‘You know what we agreed,' the man said.

Pam wasn't sure she'd agreed to anything, but she knew she didn't want them to hurt Maya.

‘I'm sorry,' Pam said. ‘I knew my daughter was upset so I wanted to comfort her.'

‘Your daughter will be beyond comfort if you disregard our orders,' the man said angrily. ‘Omar will not be pleased.'

Pam rubbed at her bruised cheek. ‘Then why do you need to tell him?' she said softly.

The man scoffed and spat on the floor. ‘We Muslims are not double-dealers and liars like you kafirs. Omar must be told. He must be warned. The girl could cause him trouble.'

* * *

The Red Moon bookshop was at the top of a side street that led off the main road. From across the street, the crimson shop front decorated with gold crescent moons looked like a store that might sell children's toys. As Maya stood checking out the premises she saw a dark figure slip away from an adjacent doorway and melt into the shadow of the buildings. Crossing the road she felt exposed, her skin prickled – somebody was watching her – but if it was one of the surveillance team, they didn't challenge her.

The door of the bookshop creaked and jangled as she tentatively stepped inside to look around. Shafts of sunlight striped the tall bookshelves, lighting up golden Arabic lettering on thick, leather-bound volumes. Paperbacks with titles such as
One Faith
and
Islam in the Modern World
were on display. There seemed to be nobody about, no owner or customer, but even so, her heart was racing – she felt as if she'd crossed enemy lines.

Nervously she edged towards the counter, took off the cap and bent to look at some pamphlets.

‘Can I help you?'

The words vibrated softly in the dusty room. She turned, but couldn't see anyone. Then, soft as a
shadow, he appeared from behind a bookcase and without a sound he was standing in front of her; the man with the green eyes, his photograph come to life. Maya was totally dumbfounded.

‘I . . . I . . . er . . . I came . . . I came to buy a book.'

‘Well, you've come to the right place.'

His voice was surprisingly deep and mellow. His eyes rippled with translucent light: they were the most beautiful eyes she'd ever seen. Captivated, all she could do was stare.

‘I'm Khaled,' he said.

She had to look away to gather her thoughts. ‘I was told you'd be able to help me,' she said. ‘I need some information.'

‘Yes, what about?'

She dared herself to look at him again; his eyes held hers. Her thoughts broke into pieces, her words stumbled out. ‘I'm a student,' she managed to say, ‘writing a special study.'

‘Yes, what is your subject?'

‘Erm, Muslim youth,' she replied. ‘Why young Muslims are disenchanted with British society.'

His eyebrows arched; he looked slightly amused. ‘Perhaps not all young Muslims,' he said.

She gulped, studied a poster on the wall, her mouth
dry, her nerves dancing. He stepped closer. ‘Don't believe everything you read in the newspapers.'

The way he was looking at her made her nervous.

‘Are you Muslim?' he asked.

A shiver of panic ran through her. She forced herself to concentrate, to remember her story; she had to hide her identity until she knew for certain whose side he was on.