– somewhere in the mid-Atlantic trench. Southern readings for the latitude land me in thick rainforest in Mozambique and Brazil. The numbers are not an obvious location.
They’re too short to be a phone number or a postcode. The only other reference I can imagine they might give is a book code, indicating a page and line number in a book known to both sender and recipient. But I haven’t agreed on a book with anyone called Mohammed.
Then it hits me like a delayed reaction, as I hear the echo of my very own words: I also read the Qur’an. The ‘old friend’, Mohammed, is the clue. It’s so obvious I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to realise. Now I regret my uncivil behaviour towards my visitor.
For centuries the mas-haf code, virtually unknown in the West, has been used in the Islamic world to encrypt messages using the numbers of the Qur’an’s sacred verses. Being identical in every version of the text, irrespective of country or date of publication, the verses retain the same numbers and provide thereby an unchanging key.
I go to my bookshelf, pull out an English translation and race to the thirteenth chapter, called Thunder. The fortieth verse, or ay a , is a short one: ‘Whether We let you glimpse in some measure the scourge with which We threaten them, or cause you to die before we smite them, your mission is only to give warning: it is for Us to do the reckoning.’
There’s no need to look for any more clues. The reference to a warning is confirmation enough of the message. The question now is how to interpret it and, if necessary, respond. It’s strange news to get and I’m annoyed with myself for being hungover and slow. I regret my mind isn’t feeling sharper and that the whole significance of the message isn’t coming to me more quickly. The only thing I know for sure about the message is that it’s been sent by someone who knows enough of my background to be confident that I’ll figure out how to decipher it, and then how to interpret it. Whoever sent it also knows how to find me.
There’s a another sudden knock at the door, which has an effect similar to a powerful electric shock. I yank open the door with a scowl. There’s a different man standing on the doorstep, this time wearing a fake Barbour, jeans and trainers.
‘I’ve told your friend I’m a Muslim,’ I say gruffly.
The man’s eyebrows go up and down and he let outs a gravelly chuckle.
‘Well, in that case, As-salaamu aleikum .’ His voice is low, even and has a rasping quality as if something rough is being continually ground down in his throat. I frown at him. I’ve never met an Arabic-speaking Jehovah’s Witness and wonder if they’ve sent for a specialist to check my theology. He’s going to get a run for his money.
‘ Wa aleikum as-salaam. ’ I return the greeting out of reflex and look at him more closely. His frame is lighter than the other man’s, and the lines on his cheeks suggest leanness. He has short sandy-coloured hair, a neat moustache like an ex-soldier’s and looks a youthful fifty. His eyes have a watchful and mischievious sparkle. But he has no documents or bag. Before I can think of anything else to say, he speaks again.
‘Ana rafiq min landan.’ I am a friend from London. He speaks Ministry of Defence Arabic. ‘I parked down the road,’ he adds, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder. Then it sinks in.
It’s Seethrough’s man from the Regiment. The SAS has arrived.
‘Oh, Christ. Sorry. Come in.’
He smiles and his eyes dart watchfully over the hallway as he steps inside. ‘It’s H—— by the way. Friends call me H.’ The handshake is firm. ‘Late night?’ he asks with a knowing look.
‘Something like that.’
‘We’d better have some coffee.’
‘I’ve just made some.’
‘Good man.’
He sniffs the air as we go into the kitchen, puts his coat neatly over the back of a chair and sits at the table. The room’s a mess. I’m embarrassed and
They’re too short to be a phone number or a postcode. The only other reference I can imagine they might give is a book code, indicating a page and line number in a book known to both sender and recipient. But I haven’t agreed on a book with anyone called Mohammed.
Then it hits me like a delayed reaction, as I hear the echo of my very own words: I also read the Qur’an. The ‘old friend’, Mohammed, is the clue. It’s so obvious I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to realise. Now I regret my uncivil behaviour towards my visitor.
For centuries the mas-haf code, virtually unknown in the West, has been used in the Islamic world to encrypt messages using the numbers of the Qur’an’s sacred verses. Being identical in every version of the text, irrespective of country or date of publication, the verses retain the same numbers and provide thereby an unchanging key.
I go to my bookshelf, pull out an English translation and race to the thirteenth chapter, called Thunder. The fortieth verse, or ay a , is a short one: ‘Whether We let you glimpse in some measure the scourge with which We threaten them, or cause you to die before we smite them, your mission is only to give warning: it is for Us to do the reckoning.’
There’s no need to look for any more clues. The reference to a warning is confirmation enough of the message. The question now is how to interpret it and, if necessary, respond. It’s strange news to get and I’m annoyed with myself for being hungover and slow. I regret my mind isn’t feeling sharper and that the whole significance of the message isn’t coming to me more quickly. The only thing I know for sure about the message is that it’s been sent by someone who knows enough of my background to be confident that I’ll figure out how to decipher it, and then how to interpret it. Whoever sent it also knows how to find me.
There’s a another sudden knock at the door, which has an effect similar to a powerful electric shock. I yank open the door with a scowl. There’s a different man standing on the doorstep, this time wearing a fake Barbour, jeans and trainers.
‘I’ve told your friend I’m a Muslim,’ I say gruffly.
The man’s eyebrows go up and down and he let outs a gravelly chuckle.
‘Well, in that case, As-salaamu aleikum .’ His voice is low, even and has a rasping quality as if something rough is being continually ground down in his throat. I frown at him. I’ve never met an Arabic-speaking Jehovah’s Witness and wonder if they’ve sent for a specialist to check my theology. He’s going to get a run for his money.
‘ Wa aleikum as-salaam. ’ I return the greeting out of reflex and look at him more closely. His frame is lighter than the other man’s, and the lines on his cheeks suggest leanness. He has short sandy-coloured hair, a neat moustache like an ex-soldier’s and looks a youthful fifty. His eyes have a watchful and mischievious sparkle. But he has no documents or bag. Before I can think of anything else to say, he speaks again.
‘Ana rafiq min landan.’ I am a friend from London. He speaks Ministry of Defence Arabic. ‘I parked down the road,’ he adds, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder. Then it sinks in.
It’s Seethrough’s man from the Regiment. The SAS has arrived.
‘Oh, Christ. Sorry. Come in.’
He smiles and his eyes dart watchfully over the hallway as he steps inside. ‘It’s H—— by the way. Friends call me H.’ The handshake is firm. ‘Late night?’ he asks with a knowing look.
‘Something like that.’
‘We’d better have some coffee.’
‘I’ve just made some.’
‘Good man.’
He sniffs the air as we go into the kitchen, puts his coat neatly over the back of a chair and sits at the table. The room’s a mess. I’m embarrassed and
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