‘And what if you hadn’t liked her?’
His father laughed out loud. ‘We’ll never know,’ he said. ‘But I did have a few tense moments, I can tell you. They sent over a photograph but it was a group photograph and her face wasn’t clear because she was wearing a headscarf. There was no Skype back then and no Facebook. We managed a few phone calls but she was shy and she didn’t speak any English.’ He shrugged. ‘I tell you, I was bloody shaking when I got off the plane.’
‘You flew to Pakistan to meet her?’
‘To marry her, Manraj. It was a done deal by the time I arrived in Pakistan.’
Chaudhry’s jaw dropped. ‘And that didn’t worry you?’
‘I understood that I had an obligation to my father. How could I have refused? It would have been a slap in the face for him and for everyone who had helped him get to England.’ He sat back on the sofa. ‘Anyway, all’s well that ends well. We were met at the airport by her parents and they drove me to their village in this rickety old truck that seemed to be held together with string. The first time we met her whole family was there, so were my parents, and she had her face covered. The minutes before she took down her veil were the scariest in my life. Then she did and. .’ He grinned. ‘Wow. That’s what I said. Wow. I remember how everyone laughed. She was a lovely girl, Manraj. Like a supermodel. Her hair was just amazing; it came down to her waist and was so soft and shiny. And her skin. . I tell you, the first time I touched her arm I-’
‘Dad, please,’ said Chaudhry, holding up his hands. ‘Enough. I get it.’
‘Get what?’ said his mother, arriving with a tray of tea things and a plate of chocolate cake that she had baked specially for him. She put the tray down on the coffee table and sat next to her husband.
‘I was just telling him about Jamila,’ said his father.
‘Oh, isn’t she lovely?’ said his mother, picking up the teapot.
His mother wasn’t supermodel fit any more, thought Chaudhry, but she was still a lovely woman. The woman he’d known had always been cuddly rather than fit but as he looked at her pouring tea he could see what had attracted his father. She had high cheekbones and flawless skin the colour of the milky tea that she handed him. Her eyes were wide, with impossibly long lashes, and her hair was still as lustrous as a model’s in a shampoo advertisement. It was hard to imagine her as a simple village girl unable to speak English. His mother was always immaculately dressed, either in a traditional sari or in a western designer outfit, and she was always well made-up, even if she was just popping down to the local shops.
‘How would I know? I haven’t seen her,’ said Chaudhry.
Mrs Chaudhry looked over at her husband. ‘Didn’t you show him the picture?’
‘I haven’t had the chance,’ said his father. He grunted as he pushed himself up off the sofa and walked over to a sideboard that was loaded with framed family photographs. He pulled open a drawer and rooted through the contents.
‘She is gorgeous,’ said his mother. ‘And smart.’
‘Yeah, Dad said she was a microbiologist.’
‘And she’s got such a good heart. She took a gap year to work in an orphanage in Pakistan. Like you did last year. You’ll have so much to talk about.’
‘It wasn’t an orphanage Manraj worked at, it was a hospital,’ said his father.
‘It’s the same thing, giving up your time to help others less fortunate.’ She smiled at Chaudhry in the way that only a proud mother can and Chaudhry’s stomach lurched. He tried to cover his discomfort by sipping his tea.
He’d never lied to his parents before he started working for MI5 but there was no way he could have told them that he had gone to Pakistan to attend an al-Qaeda training camp, where he learned to strip and fire a whole range of weapons, construct explosive devices and manipulate biochemical agents. He’d told his parents that he was volunteering at a country medical centre during his Christmas break and he’d never felt more guilty than when his father had offered to pay for his ticket. The people at MI5 had told him that under no circumstances could he ever tell his parents what he was doing, that to do so would risk his life and theirs. So he had lied, and he hated himself for doing it.
‘Are you okay, honey?’ asked his mother.
Chaudhry forced a smile. ‘I’ve been studying too hard and not sleeping enough,’ he said.
‘Why don’t you stay for the weekend? I’ll feed you up, you can lie in tomorrow and if you need to get some work done you can use your father’s study.’
‘We’ve only just kicked him out of the nest. Don’t say you want him back already,’ said his father. He held up a photograph. ‘Here it is.’ He walked back to the sofa and gave the picture to Chaudhry.
Chaudhry took it. He looked at it for several seconds and then looked back at his father, his eyebrows raised. ‘Wow,’ he said.
Shepherd woke up early on Monday morning, half an hour before his alarm was due to go off. He’d spent the weekend in Hereford and had arrived back in London late on Sunday night. His back was aching, probably from the long drive, so he did a few stretches before heading to the bathroom to clean his teeth. His back was still sore so he decided to go for a run to see if that would loosen it up. He pulled on an old sweatshirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms and went through to the kitchen, where he kept his army boots and weighted rucksack. He figured it best to forgo the rucksack and he went downstairs. He jogged to the Heath, then set off on his regular route: up North End Way and round the Hampstead Heath extension, a large open space to the north-west of the main Heath. In the past it had been farmland and while it wasn’t as pretty as the rest of the Heath it was generally quieter and Shepherd always preferred to run alone. He did two circuits of the extension then cut around West Meadow and down to Parliament Hill Fields. Several running clubs used the Heath and as he got closer to the Parliament Hill athletics track he was overtaken by a group of serious runners, all in hi-tech trainers and Lycra shorts and vests. Several grinned as they overtook Shepherd and he heard one mutter something about Shepherd’s choice of footwear. Shepherd always ran in boots. Running was a survival skill as well as a way of keeping fit and the heavy boots meant that he was able to push himself to his limits faster and more efficiently. He headed east to Dukes Field, skirted the secret garden and then headed north to Cohen’s Fields, increasing the pace until he felt his calf muscles burn.
He reached Kenwood House, the spectacular white-stucco mansion built on the ridge that linked the villages of Hampstead and Highgate. Stopping at the duelling ground where grievances were settled with pistols during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, he dropped to the ground and did a hundred press-ups in four sets of twenty-five. Then he carried on running for another thirty minutes. He slowed to a jog as he headed back to his flat, picking up a copy of the Daily Telegraph and the Daily Mail and a carton of milk on the way.
Back in the flat he showered and shaved, changed into a clean shirt and chinos, then made himself a mug of coffee and flopped down on to the sofa. He sipped his coffee as he scanned the front page of the Telegraph, then turned to page two. His jaw tensed when he saw the headline of the lead story, then he began to curse as he read it. He was only halfway through when he picked up his BlackBerry and called Button.
‘Have you seen the Telegraph?’ he said as soon as she answered.
‘About an hour ago,’ she said. ‘We’re talking it through as we speak.’
‘And you didn’t think it was worth talking to me?’
‘I don’t think this is the sort of conversation we should be having on an open line,’ she said. ‘Can you come to the office?’