A Divided Spy (Thomas Kell Spy Thriller, Book 3) by Charles Cumming Page A

was waiting for his suitcase in the baggage hall. It was an instruction to meet him in the short-stay car park. Farouq had described himself as a tall man of fifty-five with ‘close-cropped grey hair’ wearing a dark brown suit. Shahid spotted him within moments of walking outside.
    ‘Peace be upon you,’ he said, greeting him in Arabic.
    Farouq shook his head.
    ‘I don’t talk like that,’ he replied. ‘Neither should you. You are not this person any more. You are not a religious man.’
    Shahid felt chastened. He had been in London for less than an hour and had already made a mistake. He had apologized to Farouq and they walked to the car in silence. Shahid watched him. There was something cold and determined about the man Jalal had sent to meet him.
    Once they were inside the car Farouq gave him the money and said:
    ‘I am going to drive you to Victoria station. You get the train to Brighton and you start everything now. You remember what you have been told?’ Shahid nodded. ‘You use the money to rent a room in a guesthouse. Find a job in the area. Join a gym. Open a bank account. Make friends.’
    ‘Yes,’ Shahid replied. ‘Jalal told me everything.’
    ‘No names,’ the man snapped back. ‘No details. I don’t know who you are. You don’t know who I am. At the moment I am just a person giving you a lift to Victoria.’
    Shahid wanted to tell Farouq about his past. He wanted him to know that he had fought bravely in the Caliphate, that he had been selected for martyrdom because of his high intelligence and courage. He wanted to feel that he had earned the respect of men like Farouq.
    ‘You are Syrian?’ he asked. The man’s accent, his features and his colouring were near-identical to men of a similar age that he had seen in the Caliphate.
    ‘I am your contact. That is all,’ Farouq replied.
    They were driving out of the car park. Farouq told Shahid that there was a number in his mobile phone for a man called ‘Kris’. Shahid was to write it down and keep it somewhere safe. If he was ever concerned about anything, if he had questions, if he needed to talk, he should call Kris from a public telephone, or with the use of a third-party mobile. They would arrange to meet. He was to be Shahid’s sole point of contact in the UK. Kris would also be the person who would provide him with the weapons necessary to carry out the operation.
    ‘You are Kris?’
    Farouq shook his head. Shahid could not decide if he was relieved by this, or dismayed. He did not like to think that he would not see Farouq again.
    ‘You must never say anything about the operation on an open line or in any written communication.’
    ‘I know that,’ Shahid replied. ‘I’ve been taught that.’
    ‘Good.’ The Syrian had brought the car on to the M4 and they were heading east into London. ‘Do you have doubts?’ he asked.
    Shahid wondered if the question was a trick planted by Jalal. Did they have concerns about him? Or did they expect Shahid to be uncertain at this stage, to have moments of fear and hesitation?
    ‘I have no doubts,’ he replied.
    ‘You will carry out your duty to avenge the Prophet?’ There was an unmistakable note of bewilderment in Farouq’s voice, as though such a sacrifice would have been beyond his own personal capabilities. Shahid felt strengthened by this. He now knew that he was braver than the man Jalal had sent to escort him. He understood that there were very few men with a faith and courage equal to his own.
    ‘I will carry out my duty,’ he replied, and looked out of the window at a car that had broken down at the side of the motorway. It was strange to be back in England. It was cold here. He felt that he was a long way from home. He had grown up in this place, but he had grown away from it. Out there, in the suburbs of London, in the squats of Liverpool and Manchester, in the mosques of Birmingham and Southampton, lay an army of men and women who would support him in his quest. He was