CHAPTER 45
Soon after Roger’s call, Kevin heard Khan talking to someone in the shop below. It didn’t last long before he then heard the front door close. He listened and waited, but all remained quiet until his phone rang again and made him jump. This time, it was Walid.
“Are we ready yet?”
“Not yet, man. Give it an hour or so.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“You’re not expected to. You’re expected to stay awake until I call you.”
“I’m a bit, you know . . .”
“Nervous, Walid?
“No. Only I, uh . . .”
“Why call then?”
“What if Khan’s hiding inside his room waiting for us?”
“He’s gone.”
“You sure? Where does he live, Kev? Does he have a wife?”
“I don’t know about a wife. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t, but he lives in that big three-storey house on the corner of Midland Road and Waverley Avenue.”
“How can he afford that?”
“Because he’s a big shot, Walid. Big shots live in big houses. Kurt told me it’s divided up into twenty flats. He rents them out. He also rents out other houses around here like in Shipley Street. And shops. Kurt also reckons he runs a taxi business. Maybe other businesses. Men come and go here and at the Waverley Avenue house all day. There are even some women and children who live there. Mostly Pakistanis. Maybe that’s his family.”
“Gord told me a lot,” Walid went on. “Gord says he’s into trafficking and money laundering. You think so, Kev?”
“Maybe,” Kevin said, putting his book down, “But Cass was recruited for terrorism. And don’t forget what else was in that package I picked up from Edinburgh. Hamish, Roger, and Colin Asher say it was detonators. Maybe they’re making bombs, Walid.”
“Yaa ilaahee!
“Yeh. You want to pull out of tonight?”
“No. You know, my mother was killed by crazy men who think Osama Bin Laden was a hero, and that fighting for Jabhat al-Nusra or Ahrar al-Sham or Daesh was cool. She said they know nothing and understand even less. She used to say it’s because they’re lost with no jobs and no future, that it’s not their fault but that they need proper education, guidance, and opportunities. Trouble is that the only guidance they get is radical Islam. They listen to talk about the decadent and evil West, and yet they then come here. It doesn’t make sense, Kev. She warned me not to get involved but to learn and understand by listening and making my own judgements.”
Walid clearly wanted to talk to nullify his nerves, so Kevin let him carry on.
“My mother taught me a lot, Kev. When we lived in South London, she told me to read books written by people with different views and different ideas, so I understood how complicated the world is. But she’d always wanted to go home to help poor people who, she said, were the ones that suffered the most. So we went home, and I saw things for myself and then . . . well, you know.”
Kevin saw Walid’s dilemma, felt for him, and changed the subject.
“I’m reading a book,” he said. “It’s about poor Americans, about how they were forced off their small farm and struggled to survive with no jobs and no money, and everything was out of their control. It was big shots, big banks with big money. Things happened Walid. They were desperate and left their home to search for work. Then they died by the roadside. They were starving. I didn’t know. I thought all Americans were rich.”
“Yeh,” Walid said thoughtfully. “And then there are those who have been welcomed here to escape war and poverty and to live with freedom and democracy but then bring all their old ways with them. When I was at school in Peckham before we moved to Syria, my mother used to say that education prevents crime.”
“Yeh. Cass’s grandmother was a case. She would call Cass a bad boy for mixing with bad boys like me, but she never left the kitchen. She thought she was still living in Pakistan.”
“The men are the worst, though, Kev. They’re dangerous.”
“Not all, Walid. Some are OK. Omar was OK. Cass and I were at school with Omar. Omar’s at university now, but his mum was a teacher and his dad a doctor at the hospital. A lot depends on who you mix with and your upbringing. Maybe if you’re born a bit richer, you have better opportunities and more confidence, but it’s still up to you to find a way. That’s life, Walid. My mum used to say that with guns, you can kill terrorists, but with education you kill terrorism.”
Walid thought about that. He paused. “How’s your mum, Kev?”
“OK.”
“You never talk about her.”
“No.”
“Gord told me about her.”
Thoughts about disloyalty suddenly crossed Kevin’s mind because he’d always kept his mum’s problems a secret, even from Cass. Then reality struck. Gordon had been around a long time. He’d seen things. He knew Khan. He’d probably met his mum. He’d certainly fixed her car once or twice. Was that why he was so keen to help? And what was the point in keeping things secret? Since he’d met Roger, he’d suddenly felt differently about things. Being honest with yourself and trusting others was surely the best way.
But “Yeh” was the only thing Kevin could think to say right then. “I’ll call you when it’s time to go.”
Ten minutes later, his phone rang again, and he could see it was an overseas call. Maybe he thought it was Cass, but this time, it was me, Kurt.