‘There’s nothing to suggest that they are. So far as we can tell, al-Shukur seems to be small-time. Relatively new on the scene. But, maybe, just maybe, that’s what makes them all the more dangerous.’
‘These buggers will go the extra mile to prove themselves,’ Noah said. ‘Do things that other groups won’t.’
‘Correct, and this
fatwa
is a case in point,’ Maya said. ‘Apparently, they roped a
mufti
to sign off on it.’
‘A... what?’ Gabrielle asked.
‘A
mufti—
a cleric who deals exclusively in Islamic law. Someone with real power and real influence.’
‘Okay. All right. Let me get this straight. A
mufti
is like a judge, and his word is law, and if he proclaims a death sentence, then Muslims everywhere are obliged to carry it out?’
‘Not quite. A
fatwa
isn’t an obligation. It’s an opinion.’
‘So Muslims don’t have to follow it?’
‘Well, think of it this way—if an individual respects a
mufti
enough, then, yes, he will bind himself to a
fatwa
, and he will follow through on it. It’s a matter of interpretation and free will.’
Noah rubbed his chin. ‘Except we’re not talking about a single individual. We’re talking about a multiplier effect. Individuals who think the same and feel the same will cluster around the
fatwa
. Start treating it as a unifying force. And then they’ll act in concert. Act as one.’
‘It’s swarm behaviour,’ Maya said. ‘Like bees reacting to their hive being poked by a stick. Their aggression is going to be communally driven.’
‘An us-versus-them mentality,’ Gabrielle said.
‘Afraid so.’
‘Charming,’ Noah said. ‘And what’s our response?’
‘My mother will touch base with the police commissioner. Ask him to authorise blanket surveillance on the Somalian community. Mosques. Shops. Community centres. Maybe even homes. See if there’s a local connection. And if there is, we’ll re-evaluate and go from there.’
A shadow crept over Gabrielle’s pretty face, and she scowled. ‘Surely you can’t be serious. You are talking about racial profiling here. The political fallout would be horrendous.’
Maya flicked her hand through her hair and stared at her. ‘This is not the time to get wishy-washy. Our principal’s life is at stake here.’
‘So is the survival of this government. In case you haven’t noticed, the prime minister isn’t doing too well in the polls and—’
‘And the economic summit is her way of shoring up support for her administration. Yes, I know. I’ve been paying attention.’
‘So reconsider.’
‘No.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Maya. The country already has enough on its plate.’
‘And it’ll have a lot more to deal with if this situation escalates.’
Gabrielle scoffed. ‘Well, look. Why don’t you talk to Abraham Khan again? Explain to him that the situation has changed. Convince him to suspend his tour. Go low-profile.’
Maya pressed her nails into her palms, feeling heat rising up the nape of her neck. ‘That’s not how we operate, and that’s not who he is.’
‘But—’
‘But nothing. I’m shifting our timetable forward. We’re leaving as soon as it gets dark.’
Gabrielle exhaled hard. ‘We are safe here. The Pacifica is a stronghold. We have it locked down. We don’t need to leave. In fact, we can fortify it a bit more if necessary.’
‘We’ve been over this, Gabrielle—’
‘Leaving early was
not
what we agreed upon.’
‘The situation is evolving. We have to adapt.’
‘No, we don’t.’
Maya shifted her jaw from side to side, seething. She felt like punching Gabrielle in the face and flattening that upturned nose of hers. Sure, they were supposed to pull off the bait-and-switch past midnight. In theory, that was the best time—the circadian rhythms of the reporters would be at their lowest ebb, making them less alert, more sleepy, easier to outwit. But, no, the dynamics had changed, and Gabrielle was a fool if she couldn’t see that.
Maya swallowed back her anger and smiled tightly. She kept her voice gentle, almost sweet, like she was talking down to a wayward toddler. ‘I’m sorry, Gabrielle, but we do have to adapt. See, the longer we wait, the longer we allow the unsubs to organise, the greater the risk becomes. And if some maniac decides to drive a car bomb into the Pacifica in the name of
jihad
, are you going to take responsibility for that? Well, are you?’
Gabrielle opened her mouth as if she was going to say something defiant. But then she hesitated and—slowly, very slowly—she shut her mouth, her eyes dipping, her lips quivering in resentment. She looked, for lack of a better word, constipated.
Noah sighed. ‘Easy. Gabrielle gets it.’
Maya looked at Noah. Shook her head. ‘I’m just saying… there’s going to be a lot of demonstrators showing up, and if something bad happens, we’re talking about massive collateral damage.’
‘Understood. We have to move, and we have to move soon. Not just for the principal’s sake, but for everyone else’s. But, look, with the press
and
the demonstrators to deal with, it’s going to be a lot harder.’
Maya knew exactly what Noah meant. In a perfect world, they would be able to carry out a dry run. A rehearsal for the motorcade route. Just so they could see all the choke points for themselves and formulate solutions to counter any ambush.
But right now, they just didn’t have that luxury. Any exfiltration would have to be improvised on the fly. And yet… it would have to be flawless. No second chances. No room for hiccups.
Maya wasn’t sure what bothered her more—what she knew about al-Shukur or what she didn’t. And she certainly couldn’t rule out the possibility that both the media and the protestors would act as an unhealthy magnet. So she had to assume that the threat level ran across the full spectrum—shooters, bombers, rioters.
Swell. Just swell.
Maya sighed. ‘Go back to the drawing board. Rework the bait-and-switch.’
Noah frowned. ‘In what way?’
‘Amp it up. Make it as aggressive as you can. It’s the only thing left to do.’
CHAPTER 32
Deirdre Raines knew trouble was brewing. She was watching a real-time video feed on her tablet computer; a bird’s-eye view from the surveillance drone hovering above the Pacifica. And she didn’t like what she was seeing.
Anglo Front members were surging along the street, closing in on the Pacifica. Sporting shaved heads and black clothes. Waving placards and banners. Chanting slogans. Pumping their fists.
Not good.
Not good at all.
Deirdre slipped on her Bluetooth earpiece. Dialled her daughter. Got her on the second ring. ‘Maya, you’ve got incoming. Skinheads approaching aggressively from the east.’
Maya exhaled. ‘Do you have an estimate?’
‘Approximately one hundred subjects. No, wait. Let me refocus.’ She tapped her touch screen. Panned the drone’s camera. Zoomed out for a wider view. Caught police and security scrambling to tighten the protective belt around the hotel’s entrance.
And not a moment too soon.
Rainbow Coalition members were streaming in from the other end of the street and—
damn
—it looked as if both factions were going to collide into each other. Like twin tidal waves. Yin and yang.
Deirdre stretched her lips thin. ‘Scratch that. There’s over three hundred subjects now. You have hippies approaching from the west. Equally as aggressive.’
Maya’s breathing grew ragged. ‘Okay. I’m at a window now. I can see them.’
The demonstrators were converging.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
But, no, they didn’t slam into each other, thank God. At the last possible instant, they hitched to a stop, their collective ranks rippling from front to back in a motion that reminded Deirdre of a caterpillar. The demonstrators settled into a face-off, anger festering, tossing gestures and jibes, banners fluttering. One group demonstrating in favour of Abraham Khan; the other group protesting against.
No violence.
Not yet.
But that could change in a heartbeat.
Deirdre raked her hand through her hair, her face pinched. ‘Maya, secure the principal and lock the hotel down. Lock it down as tight as you can.’
CHAPTER 33
Aishah had never felt more alive. Standing shoulder to shoulder with her friends. Raising her voice. Confronting these neo-Nazis. Refusing to take one step back.
The skinheads were jeering and spitting and making throat-slashing gestures. More animals than men. But, no, she would not flinch. Would not be cowed. With her headscarf swelling in the breeze, she lifted her homemade banner high, a recreation of Norman Rockwell’s Four Freedoms.
Freedom of speech.
Freedom of worship.
Freedom from want.
Freedom from fear.
Aishah waved her banner with pride, with conviction. It was everything she believed in. Everything she held dear. Everything she needed to defend—
Suddenly, there was a sharp thwack, and she felt her banner jerk and crinkle. A wet spray stung her eyes. Someone had just tossed a water balloon at her. She gasped, her breath caught in her throat. Then there was another thwack, and this time, the banner split into two and caved.
Idiots.
She had spent hours on the banner. Drawing it. Framing it. Mounting it. And now it was ruined. Absolutely ruined.
Idiots.
Face flushed, heart thudding, she dropped the banner and broke away from the front of the procession, adrenalin and anger spurring her forward. Friends tried to hold her back, but she shrugged off their attempts and kept on going. She wanted to get closer to the skinheads. To defy them. To shame them…
But policemen in riot gear were already fanning out. Banging their batons against their shields. Carving up a barrier between the Rainbow Coalition and the Anglo Front.
Gritting her teeth, Aishah searched for an opening. A gap. But, no, the cops had covered the entire street. Locked their shields together. Sewn things up tight. And one of them pointed his baton at her and shook his head, his black helmet gleaming. ‘You need to step back, Miss. Please step back now.’
Aishah swallowed and back-pedalled.
Curses.
Slowly, reluctantly, she rejoined the procession
.
The men of the Rainbow Coalition were swaying now. Shuffling. Then, as if a switch had been tripped, they launched into a
haka
, a Maori war dance. Crossing their arms. Slapping their chests. Thumping their legs. Chanting in unison. And the skinheads on the other side of the police cordon replied by barking and howling and flashing middle fingers. But the
haka
powered on anyway. Stronger. Faster. Louder.
It was like being at the centre of a storm. So much ferocity. So much passion. And it made Aishah smile, knowing that all this was being captured by the news crews. Being beamed all around the world. Inspiring others.
It was a heady feeling.
Heady indeed.
For years, she had played the role of the meek and invisible Muslim woman. Eternally subservient to her husband. Bearing the whippings. The bruises. The copper taste of blood in her mouth. The lack of self-worth. But one day, she had stumbled upon Abraham Khan’s writings on the internet. And they had awakened her from her stupor. Opened her eyes. Challenged her to defy. To push for divorce. To shatter the chains of bondage once and for all.
Alhamdulilah.
Aishah owed the man a million times over, even if she had never met him. And now… now was her chance to repay his goodness. Forget modesty. Forsake convention. She believed in him and all that he stood for, and his enemies were her enemies.
And, just like that, Aishah ripped her headscarf off, unpinned her hair and allowed it to catch the wind, billowing free. It felt glorious. Electrifying.
Damn all those who wanted to paint all Muslims with the same broad brush. They were fools. How could they not see? The age of
jihadism
was over. Osama bin Laden was dead. Tinpot dictators were collapsing all across the Middle East. And heroes like Abraham Khan were on the rise.
Inshallah
, the wave of freedom and dignity was undeniable. Unstoppable. And now, more than ever, the only
jihad
that mattered was the compassionate kind. Education. Reflection. Charity. Harmony. Progress. Yes, all this represented the true
jihad
now.
Aishah shook her head.
Truly, the racists were ignorant. They were agitating against the very man they ought to be embracing. A literary titan who had the power to rebuild Islam. Restitch the fabric of the
ummah
. Bring an end to the ideological rift between East and West once and for all.
If only they could see.
If only…
That’s when the skinheads erupted into shrieks and Nazi salutes and
Heil Hitlers.
Eclipsing the
haka
. Startling Aishah. And she blinked and craned her neck, trying to see beyond the police line.
The Anglo Front had parted down the middle, its members goose-stepping with military precision, and a grinning skinhead appeared from the rear and moved through the gap, rolling a creaky wheelbarrow forward. It looked choreographed. Conceited. Designed to seize attention. And it worked. The Rainbow Coalition’s
haka
faltered and waned, and Aishah’s friends fell into nervous murmurs, their heads bobbing.
The wheelbarrow rolled closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Aishah strained to see. Leaning left. Leaning right. The muttering got louder. The uneasiness grew. And that’s when she saw it. The wheelbarrow was filled with—she inhaled and gagged—copies of the Koran soaked in sweet-smelling petrol. And in that moment of moments, she flinched. As if someone had just scraped an ice-cold razor across her stomach.