The man shrugged.
‘What is your name, brother?’ asked Mohammed.
‘Zach,’ said the man. ‘Zach Ahmed. You?’
‘Mohammed.’
‘A good name,’ said Ahmed. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Sudan. I am claiming asylum.’
‘Good luck with that,’ said Ahmed.
‘And you, brother? Where are you from?’
‘London, mate. I was born here.’
‘You are lucky. You are a citizen from birth. That is worth more than gold.’
Ahmed nodded at the chain linking them. ‘That why you wanted that man’s money?’
‘I have none,’ said Mohammed. ‘They give me a little but it’s not enough to live on. They won’t let me work. But being poor here is still better than being rich in Sudan.’ He held out his left hand and showed Ahmed the glittering watch on his wrist. ‘How much do you think I can sell this for?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s expensive, I’m sure.’
Mohammed nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’
‘How did you get to London?’ asked Ahmed.
‘I crossed the border into Libya. I reached Italy on a small boat and travelled overland to Calais. After three months there I hid in the back of a lorry and got to England.’
‘When was that?’
‘Four years ago. I claimed asylum on the first day I got here but it takes time. The money El-Sayed gave me will help my family.’
‘Your family are still in Sudan?’
Mohammed nodded. ‘I have two wives and six children,’ he said. ‘I had to tell the authorities here that they were killed in the fighting, but they are alive and well, and once I am a citizen I will bring them to join me. They already have the money that El-Sayed sent. That will help.’
‘Sounds like you have it all worked out,’ said Ahmed.
‘Everybody knows what you have to do and say to get asylum in England,’ said Mohammed. ‘It is a game that everyone plays.’
‘And how do you know El-Sayed?’
‘Everyone here knows him. He is a big man and a good man. A true Muslim. True to his faith and true to his friends. As he said to you, he is on your side.’
‘My side?’
Mohammed leant closer and lowered his voice. ‘He is a money man for Al-Qaeda. He sends funds to them and helps pay their people here. Everyone knows.’
‘I didn’t.’
Mohammed nodded enthusiastically. ‘He is a good man. And he loves his son.’
Ahmed smiled. ‘That was clear,’ he said.
‘I have often used him to send money back to my family,’ said Mohammed. ‘Small amounts, not like today. Sometimes he would not even charge me for the transaction. He said that he understands how difficult it is for new arrivals.’ He took a sip from a bottle of water. ‘Can I ask you a question, brother?’
‘I can’t promise to answer it, but go ahead.’
‘Why did you choose this place? This coffee shop?’
‘I’m not sure.’
He waved his left hand. ‘There are so many Muslims here. Why not choose a place with more kafirs? Look around you, brother. Most of the customers are Muslim, like you. And most of them support ISIS.’
‘You think so?’
Mohammed smiled. ‘I know so. I come here often, I listen, I talk. The brothers in Syria and Iraq are fighting the good fight. If I was younger I would be there myself. And one day, inshallah, they will bring the fight to this country.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Ahmed. ‘This country is offering you asylum. Why would you want to change it?’
‘I’m here because getting asylum is easy. And because I have many friends here. A Sudanese lawyer helps me and a Sudanese landlord rents me a room. I can talk my own language and eat my own food. But I am a Muslim and I want this country to be a Muslim country. ISIS can bring that about and, inshallah, they will, one day. Maybe not in my lifetime but in the lifetime of my children, I hope it will come true.’
Ahmed’s waistpack buzzed and he took out his phone. It was Shahid. ‘The coach is outside. Good luck, brother.’
Ahmed put the phone away and stood up. ‘It’s time,’ he said.
He took Mohammed over to the window and pulled away one of the sheets of newspaper. Outside there was a white coach with blacked-out windows. The driver had already opened the door and was staring straight ahead, his face blue from the flashing lights of the half-dozen motorcycles parked ahead of him. To their left was a black BMW SUV, and two police marksmen dressed all in black were sighting their weapons along the bonnet.
‘Do you think they will kill us?’ asked Mohammed.
‘They will be too scared that the vest will explode,’ said Ahmed.
‘They could shoot you in the head.’
‘Let’s try and look on the bright side, shall we?’ said Ahmed. He opened the door. Edgware Road had been cleared of traffic, other than police and emergency vehicles, but there seemed to be a lot of onlookers standing behind yellow and black police tape, many of them holding up mobile phones. Ahmed kept his head down and his right hand above his head as he and Mohammed walked to the coach. Ahmed went up the steps first. The windows were blacked out and it was only when he reached the top of the steps that he saw who was inside. There were eight passengers, four sitting behind the driver and four on the other side.
Ahmed walked down the aisle, Mohammed staying close behind him. He went right to the back of the coach and sat on the driver’s side, close to the emergency exit. Mohammed sat next to him. ‘Do you think we will go on the plane?’ Mohammed asked Ahmed.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Ahmed.
‘I’ve never been on a plane.’
‘It’s no big deal,’ said Ahmed.
The coach door closed and they drove off, following the six police motorcyclists.
‘I can’t leave England,’ said Mohammed, suddenly worried. ‘They said I’ll lose my asylum appeal if I leave the country.’
‘I’m sure if you just explain that, they’ll let you stay.’
‘Do you think so?’
Ahmed shook his head contemptuously. ‘Mate, I really don’t give a fuck.’
LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (5.55 p.m.)
Kamran looked over at the clock on the wall. Six o’clock was fast approaching and there had been no call from Shahid. The coach had left the coffee shop in Marble Arch and was on its way to the Marylebone pub, less than a mile away.
The main screen in the special operations room was showing the feed from the Met helicopter that was tracking the coach and its convoy. The road ahead was clear of traffic but there were still onlookers at most of the intersections.
‘If they detonate now, they’re going to kill a lot of people,’ said Kamran.
‘We’re doing our best to keep the rubberneckers away but the TV isn’t doing us any favours,’ said Gillard. ‘They keep showing the route the coach will likely take and everyone wants their own video to put on Facebook or YouTube.’
‘That might be Shahid’s plan. He lets the great British public do all the publicity work.’
‘I hope you’re wrong, Mo,’ said Gillard.
‘You and me both,’ said Kamran.
Captain Murray came into the Gold Command suite, putting away his mobile phone. ‘They’ve got the timing down to two and a half seconds but that’s about it,’ he said.
‘What do you think?’ asked Gillard. ‘Is that enough?’
‘I wish I could say it was, but two and a half seconds is still a long time when all they have to do is press a button,’ said the SAS captain.