Circle of Fire (16 page)

‘But you're not coming with us.'

‘I can't spare the time.'

His wife looked disgruntled. ‘For some reason, you want us out of the way.'

‘That's not true.'

At that moment Jasmina, their youngest daughter, ran into the room holding some shorts. ‘I want to take these, but Mila says they're not suitable.'

‘She's right. You won't be wearing those, they're far too short. Give them to me,' Omar ordered.

Shameen snatched them from her daughter, screwed them up into a ball and threw them onto an armchair. ‘I wish your father was coming with us,' she said to Omar. ‘He'd be so helpful.'

‘He doesn't have good memories of his final days in Lahore,' he said loudly.

‘That was a long time ago. Things have changed now,' his wife answered.

Omar's father, who was in the next room, heard their conversation. He came through and stood in the doorway. ‘The authorities have long memories,'
he said. ‘Anyway, how can I return home when my son's in prison?'

‘Omar glared at his father. ‘You always bring that up.'

‘It's not a small matter. My eldest son has been wrongly arrested and detained. His children are without a father.'

Omar turned away. ‘It's not my fault. What have I done? If you want to blame anyone, then blame the security services, the kafirs with their unfair practices, detaining people without evidence.'

His father's face flushed with anger. He shook his fist. ‘You were responsible for those inflammatory leaflets. Violence is not the answer to anything.'

‘Leave me alone,' Omar snapped, and, with a face like thunder, he picked up the remote and switched on the TV. His wife continued trying to stuff six sets of clothes into six different suitcases, and his father unfolded a newspaper. Omar seemed to be very interested in a programme about the Chinese economy, but grew more fidgety and agitated as he watched. Several times he looked at his watch.

‘Where is it?' he muttered.

‘What?' his wife asked.

‘Be quiet,' he snapped.

He stood up, and then sat down again, turned the volume up, then down, sat back, then sat forward on the big sofa.

‘Please can you move your feet?' his wife asked.

‘Shush!' Omar ordered. The TV screen flashed. He turned up the volume again and sat forward, his body rigid, his eyes intent on the screen.

‘
We've just received a statement reportedly made by the hostage Pamela Brown. Ms Brown, who is Head of the Counter Intelligence unit Viper, was seized by terrorists two days ago. The statement was delivered to the BBC this morning. This is what it said:

“I have recognised the just cause of the Allied Brotherhood and deplore the damage inflicted by Western powers on Muslim countries. In my role as Head of the Counter Intelligence unit Viper, I was in a prime position to aid my Islamic brothers. For two years I've worked as a double agent and have passed crucial information to the Brotherhood to help them plan attacks on Europe. I have converted to Islam and am committed to fighting the Holy War in the name of Allah, may His name be praised. No street or building in Europe will be safe until all Muslim prisoners are released and Western armies are withdrawn from Muslim lands.”'

Omar rubbed his hands with a broad smile on his face. ‘Spot on,' he said.

* * *

The pink beaded slippers were not the most practical footwear for running away in, but at least they fitted. As Maya slipped them on outside the fruit shop, she glanced up and down the street, unsure which way to go. Not towards the bookshop – she should steer away from that direction. Across the road there was a dingy-looking café; she dodged through the traffic and ducked inside.

The man behind the counter eyed her without a smile. When she ordered coffee and toast, he told her to sit down and he'd bring it over. The air was thick with steam. Two men with bushy moustaches were bending over tiny coffee cups, speaking passionately in a language she didn't understand. Maya went quietly to a table by the window which gave her a good view across the street to Mariam's shop.

Shoving a streaked plastic menu aside, she planted her elbows on the table and pretended to study a faded poster of the Blue Mosque in Istanbul, but her eyes darted constantly toward the street.
She became aware of the two men watching her; she couldn't actually see them, but when they stopped talking she felt the heat of their gaze.

What if they were Omar's men? What if they recognised her? How stupid she was to have gone into a café, she should have got clean away while she had the chance, but now she was trapped. If she left too soon, she'd arouse suspicion. The sensible thing to do was to sit tight.

The coffee was black and bitter, the toast like white cardboard, a slick of grease glistening in the middle. Maya nibbled at the edges, checked the street again, and saw Khaled walking fast. Behind him were three men, among them she recognised Nazim. Swallowing hard, she almost choked, dry crumbs spluttering over her hand. Omar's thugs were marching to capture her, disappearing into the shop. So Khaled had carried out his threat, but he wouldn't have his moment of glory. With a shaking hand she set down her coffee cup – now her plan had to work.

Leaving some pound coins on the table, she shot to the door. Looking neither left or right, she dashed down the street. If anybody was following her, she didn't want to know. No time to pause, no time
to look back, she hurried towards the crossroads, weaving her way through a group of mothers, toddlers, pushchairs and children.

She rushed blindly down two more streets, anywhere just to get away. Into a street lined with terraced houses, a newsagent's shop on the corner. Schoolchilden on their lunch break were shouting, grasping at crisps and chocolate, a friendly man behind the counter looked unfazed by the clamour.

‘Queen's Street? Yeah, I know it, but, it's a walk. Go down this road to the bottom, past the infants' school, carry on over the next two junctions, left at the traffic lights and you'll see it over the roundabout – lots of old buildings and warehouses.'

Maya thanked him, pushed past the school kids and hurried out. Walking fast, she glanced at the traffic. Would Khaled guess where she was heading? Would Omar's men come after her? It was a risk she had to take. Throwing caution aside, she started to run. It was madness to make herself so visible but, as her feet pounded the pavement, excitement flooded through her – it was positive action, real action. She was putting distance between herself and Khaled and, with hope in her heart, running towards her mum.

At the roundabout she skidded to a halt. There was no missing the sign on the opposite side of the road –
Omar's Carpets, Rugs and Antiquities
– white letters on a huge purple banner. She slowed down, stopped and stared. There was a big entrance on the corner, then the building stretched a long way down the road; on the lower part, the old stone walls were blank, but the upper storey was lined with tiny leaded windows. Was her mum inside the building? Was she behind one of the barred windows or crammed inside an underground cell? Maya sent her a mental message: Hold on, Mum. If you're in there, I'll rescue you. I can't, I won't fail.

As she crossed the road, the huge banner burnt a hole in the sky. Underneath it she stepped onto the pavement, just as a black car with tinted windows cruised past. She had the distinct feeling she was being watched as it drove slowly down the road. A shiver ran through her. Was it one of Omar's soldiers, or Simon's spies? She could trust neither.

Making sure it was all clear, she hobbled into the warehouse entrance. Her feet were sore, the pink slippers were not good running shoes. A notice on the door informed her that the warehouse was closed for the weekend. She tried the
door – it was locked.

Leaning back against the wall, she tried to think logically but found it hard to focus.

One step at a time, she told herself, take one step at a time. You have to get inside the building before Omar arrives to open up – if you do this, you'll have a chance. There has to be another door into the warehouse – a back door.

Ducking out of the front entrance, she tracked down the side of the building. When she rounded the corner she saw a black furniture van. It was backed up to the warehouse loading bay and the doors of the bay were wide open. Beside the van were a silver Mercedes and a red truck. Was Omar here? Was he inside the building?

Maya dodged behind the wall when she heard footsteps. Two men came out through the loading bay and climbed into the back of the furniture van. After a few moments, she peered round the corner and scanned the scene. Muffled voices and heavy dragging sounds were coming from inside the van. Silent as a shadow, she darted to side of the van and slid along it; the back of the van yawned wide. She glanced up, but couldn't see the men. She had to take a chance. Standing up, she braced herself
and dashed through the delivery bay and into the warehouse.

Rolls of carpet, rugs and furniture blocked her way. She plunged into the middle of them, crouching low, weaving through them, her heart hammering. Behind her, she heard the men dragging something down from the van. She threw herself onto the floor next to a giant roll of carpet as they came closer, their footsteps stamping, their breathing loud; they were carrying something heavy. Blood crashed in her ears, the footsteps paused and then continued. A loud voice split the air.

‘Take the cargo upstairs. Be quick and make sure you lock the door behind you. We don't want any more problems.'

It was Omar speaking. The sound of his voice turned her blood to ice, she shrank closer to the floor, trying to breathe gently.

He shouted again. ‘Hurry up. I want you back down here. We have to search the place. That girl's snooping around.'

Cold sweat trickled down Maya's back. How did he know she was at the warehouse? When had he seen her? Her knees were trembling so violently that she collapsed onto the floor. Flattening herself
against the carpet, she listened to clanging and banging noises, voices shouting, echoing, then fading. Then it all went eerily quiet, a door opened and footsteps rapped on the concrete floor – they were coming towards her.

Her fingers dug into the soft pile. She was sure she couldn't easily be seen, but if somebody leaned over the top they'd spot her. She took a deep breath and burrowed into the thick pile, pulling the loose edge over her head. Footsteps closed in, objects around her were moved. A heavy thump on the carpet sent a cloud of dust up her nose.

Please don't sneeze, Maya, please don't sneeze.

Her nostrils contracted, then Omar shouted, ‘She must have gone outside. Go and find her.'

Feet clattered past.

It's OK, she thought, they didn't spot me. But she dared not move.

She imagined Omar standing, watching and waiting for her to emerge. Her mind played tricks; his eyes loomed in front of her, boring into her brain, peering into her soul. She tried to stay in control, to lie still, but her skin started to prickle and itch. She grew hot and found it hard to breathe. The carpet was a trap, she couldn't escape – she was suffocating.
Everything went dark, a mocking voice inside her head told her, ‘Omar's always one step ahead, you can't beat him.'

Loud, sudden chimes startled her. Her mind snapped back into gear. Omar was answering his phone.

‘I know she's not at the fruit shop, I've already been told she escaped. Tell Khaled I want to see him and. . .'

His voice faded as he moved away, and Maya couldn't hear any more. After a few seconds she poked her head out from under the carpet and dared herself to peer over the top. Omar was hurrying towards the loading bay and when he disappeared outside, she stood up.

Glancing back over her shoulder, she edged her way through cabinets and tables, dodging behind a tall cupboard and then creeping forward until she came to a clear space. In front of her were a few metres of open concrete floor and behind, a brightly lit office.

On all fours she crawled to the office. From the doorway, the first thing she saw were CCTV monitors mounted on the wall. Of course, that's how he'd seen her. She should have known the building would
be under constant surveillance. On one screen was a clear picture of the front entrance, on another, she saw Omar at the back door, waving his arms about and looking angry. She crawled toward his desk and from floor level scanned the monitors; entrance door, back loading bay, side view, three shots of the warehouse floor, and a view of the office and one blank screen. Was that a secret room? Was her mum inside it? She looked up. The low ceiling in the office indicated a floor above. There had to be stairs somewhere.

Dashing to the door, she glanced back towards the loading bay – there was no sign of the men returning. Her eyes scanned to the side and in the corner she clocked a door. Scooting over to it, she went through to find metal stairs zig-zagging upwards to a narrow landing. Leading off the landing were two red doors. The first one opened into a kitchen scattered with half-eaten food, trays and crockery. In the corner was an armchair piled with blankets. The next door was locked. Desperately she jammed her shoulder against the door frame, but it wouldn't budge.

From below she heard voices and then footsteps ringing on the metal stairs. Her mind told her to move, but she couldn't. The walkway shook as the feet got
closer. She squirmed with fear then her survival instinct kicked in and she flew into the kitchen and hid behind the armchair, pulling the blankets on top of her head.

The door of the next room was unlocked, it opened and closed. Faint voices and a banging noise came through the wall, and then a cry. Her nerves fizzed, her ears tingled, straining for every sound. The door closed. Footsteps came into the kitchen.

A man's voice said urgently, ‘Quick, it's dripping everywhere.'

‘All right,' another man replied. ‘There's a first aid box in the cupboard.'