The Saudi sneered at him, then pointedly looked away.
‘Taking care of you, are we? Plenty of clean underwear, and there’s an arrow on the ceiling of your cell pointing towards Mecca. Food prepared in accordance with your religious beliefs.’ Yokely sat down and adjusted his shirt cuffs. ‘How long have you been here now? Six months? I’ve lost track of time.’
The Saudi said nothing.
‘You think you’re smart, don’t you?’ asked Yokely, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet on to the table. He saw distaste in the Saudi’s eyes. ‘Public-school education, first-class degree from the London School of Economics. Well travelled. And me? What am I? The ugly American. Big, stupid, insensitive.’ He raised his coffee mug. ‘Guilty as charged. In the words of the great philosopher Popeye, I am what I am.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘I’d offer you some but I know that any form of stimulant is against your Islamic principles,’ he said. ‘So I won’t be putting temptation your way.’ He took another sip and sighed. ‘The thing is, if you’re so smart, why are you the one in chains wearing an orange jumpsuit, and why am I sitting here drinking coffee with an inch-thick T-bone steak waiting for me outside? One of life’s little mysteries, I guess.’
He swung his feet off the table and sat with his hands round the mug. ‘When do you think the modern Islamic movement started, Mr Ahmed?’
The Saudi stared sullenly at the floor. The door behind Yokely opened and a man in starched fatigues walked in. He put a tray on the table, then left without a word. A plate piled high with fried chicken, two steaming freshly baked hunks of cornbread and a bowl of coleslaw lay before them.
‘I think it goes back to 1928. The Muslim Brotherhood was formed by Sayyid Qutb. There are those who say he just stole the ideas of Muhammad Ibn Abd al-Wahhab, but I think he was very much his own man. Sayyid felt that the only way to stop the decline of Islam was if a small devoted team of what he saw as true Muslims applied themselves to forming as many Islamic governments as possible. I’m paraphrasing, of course.’
The Saudi was trying not to look at the fried chicken.
‘There were those who thought the Muslim Brotherhood was too soft, so one of Sayyid’s proteegees, Sheikh Taqiuddin al-Nabhani set up the more radical Hizb ut-Tahrir, the Party of Liberation. Nabhani thought that Islam and Western civilisation were mutually exclusive, that the two could not co-exist and that the only way to liberate Muslims would be to overthrow the existing nation states and replace them with a borderless world ruled by a new caliph. Since nine/eleven Hizb ut-Tahrir has been arguing that all Muslims are in a state of war.’ Yokely grinned. ‘Which would make me the enemy, of course.’ He waved at the fried chicken. ‘I’ve got a steak waiting for me outside, so please help yourself.’
The Saudi wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and looked away.
‘Go on, Mr Ahmed. I know the processed rubbish they feed you here must be getting you down. You used to eat in some of the best restaurants in the world, didn’t you? How did you rate The Ivy in London? It’s just about my favourite restaurant anywhere. Their fish and chips – out of this world. A simple dish, traditional British food, but perfectly cooked.’
The Saudi said nothing.
‘The funny thing is, fish and chips isn’t the British national dish any more. Did you know that?’
The Saudi didn’t speak.
‘These days, the British eat more chicken tikka masala than they do fish and chips. Amazing, when you think about it. Indian food – the Brits eat more of it than anything else. More than roast beef, more than steak and kidney pie, more than fish and chips. More than KFC, McDonald’s, all the fast food that we Americans try to get them to eat. And you know what all those Indian restaurants refuse to serve? Pork. And why’s that? Because most chefs in Indian restaurants are Muslims. You know, if I was an al-Qaeda strategist, I’d be suggesting that their operatives infiltrate the country’s Indian restaurants and organise a mass poisoning. I reckon that over one weekend they could probably kill twenty per cent of the population.’ Yokely grinned. ‘I know, I know, I’m wandering, so let me get to the point. The Muslim suicide-bombers that you sent against the London Tube were members of a splinter group of Hizb ut-Tahrir. Yet they attacked London, one of the most multi-racial cities in the world. Have you wandered around Riyadh lately? How many white faces did you see? How many Orientals? I doubt that you ever went on the Tube, Mr Ahmed, but I did and I can assure you that you’d be hard pushed to find a more mixed sample of humankind than in a London Tube carriage. You’d be lucky to see more than a handful of white faces. So my question, I suppose, is what you thought you’d achieve by blowing up Africans, Asians, Orientals, Muslims and Buddhists? You’re a smart man, can you explain it to me?’
Yokely smiled at the Saudi, his eyebrows raised.
The Saudi said nothing.
‘I guess not,’ said Yokely. ‘It’ll have to remain one of life’s little mysteries. But it makes no sense to me. New York is just about the world’s most multi-racial city yet that was al-Qaeda’s prime target. The thing is, you and your friends are bound to fail. Long term, everything you do is a waste of time. Do you know why?’
The Saudi folded his arms and stared at the floor.
‘Let me tell you,’ said Yokely. ‘It’s Turkey.’ He smiled and waved at the plate of chicken. ‘And I’m not talking about the sort you roast and serve up with cranberry sauce. You see, Mr Ahmed, the wealthier and more prosperous a country, the less religious it becomes. It’s sad but true. Religious attendance is falling throughout the West. Just about the only exception is Israel and, of course, that’s because you can’t be an Israeli unless you’re Jewish. Your foot-soldiers are poor Muslims with no prospects – homeless Palestinians, Iraqis with no jobs, Armenians with no health care. They’re angry because they’re poor, and you and your friends feed on that anger. But what’s going to happen when Turkey joins the European Union? And it will.’ He chuckled. ‘We’ll make sure of it. They’ll become part of Europe, and then what? Their living standards will shoot up – they’ll be buying cars and second homes like there’s no tomorrow, and pretty darn soon they’ll be thinking that perhaps there’s no real need to be down on a prayer mat five times a day, and that the odd bottle of wine with dinner is no bad thing. Then Muslims around the world might start to think that perhaps there’s a better way to live, and that if the seventy-odd million Muslims in Turkey can make better lives for themselves then maybe there isn’t much point in strapping explosives round your waist to blow up innocent civilians. And we’ll be there, the good old US of A, ready to sell them as much Coke and Starbucks, as many CDs and DVDs as they want. You see, you think I’m stupid, Mr Ahmed, but I know my history and I can use that to predict the future. We’ll win this crusade, and you’ll lose. In fact, you’ve lost already, it’s just that you don’t know it.’
The Saudi snorted softly but said nothing.
‘You don’t say much, do you? My colleagues tell me you haven’t said a word since you arrived here.’ He pushed the tray closer to the Saudi. ‘I suppose you know that we’re finding it harder to operate in Guantanamo Bay. The world is watching, and all that nonsense. Anyway, we’ll be moving you out. Sooner rather than later.’
The Saudi’s eyes darted to Yokely’s face. The American smiled at his reaction. ‘We’ll get your Combatant Status Review Tribunal out of the way first, just to make sure the paperwork’s in order, but then we’ll move you to the Ukraine,’ he said. ‘They’re very keen to help us, the Ukrainians, and they have some skilled technicians over there. Former KGB. Very heavy guys, Mr Ahmed. They make me look like a Boy Scout.’
‘This is a violation of my human rights,’ said the Saudi. It was the first thing he’d said since Yokely had walked into the room.