Yasser/ Warrington

      Yasser Ahmed sat behind a large leather topped desk in a black leather chair. It was very rare that he called a meeting but the situation required one. He could not allow himself to be exposed by a traitor or a fool with a loose tongue, so no one knew of his whereabouts. He looked at the faces around the room wondering who, if any, could be a traitor to the cause. He had called only the most senior men to meet and discuss his plans.

      “What do we know about this man that has been captured? Is his name Usef? Why was he chosen for this task?” Yasser asked the oldest man in the room. It was a mistake to entrust a relative stranger with an important task. Yasser trusted no one at all, especially a newcomer. 

      “He is a relative new comer to us but we were concerned about the integrity of the Irishmen, so we chose him to make this journey in case something went wrong. We didn’t want to risk losing any of our Mujahideen. We know someone is leaking information to the police. The car bombs that we sent to London and Edinburgh, last year were intercepted before they could be detonated. One of our Mujahidin was captured on M6 motorway with his wife in the vehicle just outside of Warrington. There were six police cars and a helicopter involved in the arrest, it was not a random incident. Someone had tipped them off. We were concerned that we could have an informer so we picked Usef to drive the car with the Irish man in it. We told no one about the van and its cargo. The only person outside of this room that knew of the Mercedes was Tariq.” The bearded old man spoke very quietly trying to keep the situation calm. He respected Yasser Ahmed but he also feared him.

      “I cannot believe Tariq would betray our plans to the police. I made the journey to Mecca last year with his father and his uncle before they were killed by the American Infidel, they are an honourable family.” The old man was justifying his decision as forcefully as he could without riling the violent young Caliph. 

      “The Irishmen that sold us the merchandise have assured me that only the driver of the Mercedes knew what was in the vehicle. They are adamant that the information did not come from their side of the business.”

      Tariq was a second-generation Pakistani immigrant. His father and grandfather had travelled to live in Britain during the partition of India in 1947. After years of being a part of the British Empire, India became as unstable as the Iraq we know today. The unrest was mainly caused by the large Muslim population that felt that they were both neglected and underrepresented politically. The British government decided to leave India to rule her own people however they also decided to partition the country religiously before they left it. The North East of India was separated into the independent Muslim state of Pakistan. All non-Muslims were forced to move to the new Indian state.

      During partition 15-million people were displaced from their homes forcibly. The resulting riots and ethnic cleansing caused the deaths of over 1-million people. It was little wonder that Tariq had little tolerance of the British government. The pain and death that their policies in India had caused left a lasting legacy of religious hatred. Tariq was angry at the West but he wanted no part in killing innocent people. Yasser thought about the Irishmen and their assurances. He did not trust them.

      “What happened to the weapons that we have bought from the Irishmen? They don’t appear to be on the list of goods that arrived in the van?” Yasser enquired. He had expected to receive two tons of weapons including Russian made AK-47`S, Rocket Propelled Grenades and Armalite rifles.

       “They were never sent to us by the IRA men Yasser. We are having a dispute with them over the price. Twice we have agreed a price, and twice they have reneged on the deal. Each time they increase the price and demand more money.” One of the younger Imams interrupted. The old man that had been answering Yasser`s earlier questions stared at the younger man to try and silence him but without success. The younger members of the group had wanted to take action against the double-crossing Irishmen but the old man knew that it would lead to further violence. Their Jihad was more important than petty squabbles over a business deal. The old man believed that half of the problem in modern Iraq was this culture of infighting between Muslim factions. He had seen the destruction that this had caused and he did not want sporadic violence erupting between the redundant Irish Republican Army and his Mujahideen. 

       “I have a plan for our Irish friends and they will learn a very harsh lesson. We have all the explosives that we need for the time being. Source some weapons from our contact within the Manchester Somali gangs.” Yasser instructed. The city of Manchester had a gun culture. Drug gangs in the city were always able to supply arms if the price was right. Large groups of Muslim Somali`s inhabited the city and could be a future source from which to buy firearms.

       “We will deal with our Irish foes with the force of Ismail’s Axe.” Yasser finished speaking to the young Imam and turned his attention back to the elder.        

       “What is the news about my brother Mustapha? When is he arriving?” Yasser asked sipping his Indian tea.

       “Your brother has been somewhat troublesome to say the least, but we are having him brought here today. Some of our most trusted men have been sent to collect him. They should have telephoned us by now, to say that they were on their way back here with Mustapha. He has chosen to live in a caravan on the cliffs at Porthdafarc beach, near Holyhead. He was very unsettled when he arrived here and we thought it best that he lived wherever he wanted to.”

        The old man’s telephone rang interrupting him as he tried to explain the awkward situation surrounding the Caliph`s brother. Yasser waved at the old man frustrated at him and told him to answer it.

        “Hello do you have Mustapha? What do you mean you can’t find him? Look again! Have you been inside? No, do not ask anyone, we do not want to attract any more attention to that boy! Wait nearby he can’t have gone far away. Don’t return without him.” The old man shook his head slowly and looked at Yasser.

            “I am afraid your brother has gone. He has disappeared from his caravan and taken some of his belongings with him. There is not a trace of him there. Our men will wait nearby to see if he turns up. It is a small town.” The old man was nervous because he had failed the young Caliph Yasser Ahmed and he could see the anger on his face. His piercing olive green eyes seemed to bore into his own. Yasser thought for a few moments. The room remained silent. No one dared to interrupt his deliberating.

            “Bring Tariq in. We must speak to him. My brother can wait for the moment; he will surface when he needs some money.”

            The younger Imam opened the door and returned with Tariq. Tariq stood, his shoulders hunched, in the middle of the room wearing a black hooded tracksuit and white training shoes. He was tall and slim, almost skinny, and his hooked nose made Yasser think that he was Pakistani of origin. Like Yasser his hair was kept long and he had tied it up into a neat ball on the back of his head. He looked nervous in the company of this gathering of his leaders. Yasser stood and walked around the desk toward Tariq and smiled.

            “Tariq I have a special gift for you that your Imams and Mullahs, think that you deserve. You will be rewarded for your actions both here and in heaven. You have helped us to get as far as we have today. I need to know if you told anyone about Usef driving from Ireland.”

        Yasser did not wait for an answer. He swiftly pulled out a thin box cutter blade from his sleeve and slashed Tariq across the throat. Tariq grabbed at his wound trying desperately to keep his lifeblood from leaving him. His eyes looked around the room pleading for help, but none came. Blood sprayed from his severed jugular vein splattering the beige office walls in sticky red arcs. Tariq made a gurgling sound as blood poured into his lungs down his windpipe. His legs buckled at the knees and he fell forward. His body stayed kneeling; his forehead was pressed on the carpet as if in a final prayer. A dark pool of blood widened around him.

      “Get rid of this pig and make sure the others know of his fate. This will be a lesson to them all, I will not tolerate treason. You will tell no one of our plans. I will tell you who needs to know the facts, and when they need to know it. Put the word out at the cold room, and through your contacts that I need more people for the next glorious attacks. I need more Mujahideen. Now move this body.” Yasser kicked the dying man as he spoke.

       “How is our acquisition of ice-cream vans progressing?” Yasser stepped over the prone body and continued to ask questions as if nothing had happened.