After the adrenaline of the day before, today was a comedown for Asad. The three spent an hour with the rifle, removing the components, cleaning them, putting it back together. Mirza was particularly quiet.

‘What’s up, mate?’ asked Asad when they were alone in the sitting room later. Muhid was in his bedroom, reading another of his books on jihad. He had brought a dozen or so, and to Asad, they were mostly impenetrable. It was getting dark and the crows were calling to each other in their raspy, guttural voices as they settled in the ash tree outside the back door.

Mirza sucked his teeth. ‘Nothing, bro. Just tired.’

‘Go on, something’s up.’

Mirza looked around before lowering his voice. ‘It’s Abu Mujahid, man. I’m just wondering about him.’

Asad looked at Mirza’s trembling hands. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s not, you know, like us. There’s something about him. Do you trust him? I mean properly? Is he going to be a martyr too? At the end?’

Asad said nothing. Abu Mujahid had never made it explicit whether he too would be entering martyrdom. He rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. His beard was getting too long – he liked it trimmed close.

Mirza continued. ‘I mean, it would be better if he was, bro. It would feel like he was one of us. But sometimes he acts like he’s a general – you know what I mean. Like we’re just shit. Him telling us we can’t speak to families or nothing.’

‘You know why we can’t,’ said Asad.

‘Yeah, but isn’t it more suspicious that we’ve just vanished into thin air? Isn’t it better to talk to people? To hide in plain sight rather than be up here away from people?’

Muhid re-entered the room and looked quizzically at him.

‘What you talking about?’ said Muhid.

‘Nothing much.’ Asad watched Mirza again.

‘Time for Maghrib prayer,’ said Muhid austerely. He walked to the bathroom to perform ablution.

Mirza didn’t look Asad in the eye as he put away the rifle. One hand was still trembling.

#

CTOC, St Pancras, London

Through the window of the conference room, Gabriel could see the gothic spires of the old Midland Grand Hotel outside St Pancras station, cast in an orange glow of floodlights against the darkening purple sky. The hotel was an extraordinary building, a Victorian fantasy in red brick and gold leaf, with grand fireplaces and palatial staircases designed to rest weary passengers after their journeys from Birmingham, Manchester and Carlisle. The station had been converted into the Eurostar terminal, and the spires reminded Gabriel of a beacon, a signal that a more tantalisingly exotic life could be accessed from just a street away.

She turned back to face Bose, sitting at the desk. Abu Mujahid. She needed to focus on Abu Mujahid.

‘We know nothing about Abu Mujahid – where he is, what he’s doing, when he came home,’ said Gabriel grimly. ‘I’ve just spoken to MI5 and they are equally in the dark. They’ll be taking the lead on him for now.’