Chapter 10
"What was that?" Zainab cries.
"It's Kamil. He said he was going to watch the latest Bond film in the kitchen on his iPad, because the signal upstairs is too weak," Afia explains. "Kamil, turn that racket down, we're trying to have a conversation," she loudly calls out to him; adding another jolt to Zainab's already fragile nerves.
"He shouldn't be watching films about violence, he's too young," Masood decides, getting up to go and confiscate the iPad.
"All his friends have seen it ..."
"Will you both shut up," Zainab cries agitatedly. "I'm talking about the expl*osion."
"It's next door, they're knocking the shed at the back," Afia reminds her. "Remember, they put a note through the door."
"That was a massive explo*sion."
"It was a massive shed."
"Maybe, I suppose so. It's just ... it's all just too much, my nerves can't take any more," Zainab cries, running her hand distractedly through her hair. "My only wish is to have my precious boy back.
Why are we just sitting here?" she suddenly demands, directing angry, irritated looks at everyone. "We need to keep searching."
"After what happened in Manchester and Liverpool this morning, I'm thinking we should keep a low profile," Tamwar voices the opinion.
"It's all over the news." Christian remembers seeing some of the coverage.
"Yea, and we all know who'll get the blame," Masood grimly points out.
"If something ... bad had happened to Syed, we would have been notified, wouldn't we?" Afia dares to ask.
"Have you called round the hospitals yet today?" Zainab coldly demands, reminding her of her daily task.
"Yes," she dutifully confirms.
"We stay hopeful until someone ..." Christian begins to insist.
The doorbell chimes, and they are all jolted as one.
Tamwar is the first to react.
"Hello, my name is PC Kieran Conn, and this is my colleague PC Sharon O'Donnell," the uniformed officer greets, "we would like to speak to Mrs Zainab Khan."
"Of course, please come in," Tamwar invites, the words barely audible as he struggles to breathe through the tightness in his chest. He shows them into the sitting room.
"Have you found him, have you found my son?" Zainab cries eagerly.
"Mrs Khan, we regret to inform you ..."
"No," she cries, recoiling in horror; her arms go out, blindly reaching for support.
Christian puts his arms around her and they cling to each other."
"How ... what happened? How did he ... die?" Masood asks, his voice trembling.
"He was killed in a raid on a house in Devas Street."
"A raid?"
"Mrs Khan," the officer addresses Zainab, "your son was involved in a plot to remotely detonate a bo*mb in the middle of Albert Square at lunchtime today. Christmas Eve was deliberately chosen because it marks the beginning of the most important Christian festival, and it is also one of the busiest shopping days of the year." The police officer's tone is under control, but with a strong hint of suppressed anger. "If your son and his ... accomplices had succeeded with their plan, the expl*osion would have destroyed all the houses facing the square; killing every occupant in those houses, on the streets surrounding the square and everyone walking through it. This brutal assault was meant to be part of a wider, coordinated attack on communities in London, Manchester, Liverpool and Newcastle."
Everyone stares at him in stunned silence.
"But, why here? Why would they...?"
"According to our intel, there is a belief that people are getting blazee about attacks happening at a safe distance in some famous city or at a famous landmark. The new modus operandi is to have attacks, preferably coordinated for maximum impact, which could be carried out literally on anyone's doorstep. They want to press home the idea that no matter where you are, you are not safe. They don't like being ignored."
"The terr*orist attacks this morning in ... in Manchester and Liverpool ... that was them?" Masood asks faintly.
"Yes," he confirms. "We have teams in every city, but there are so many sleeper cells. We got lucky here in London and in Newcastle."
Tamwar finally finds his voice. "My brother would never do anything like that," he angrily insists. "He is not a violent person, and could never deliberately hurt anyone. He has never expressed any extremist views; and any time we have ever spoken about ter*orism, he has most particularly expressed his anger at the idea of any attack being carried out in the name of Isl*m."
The PC declines to comment. "We'll need Mrs Khan to come to the Morgue to identify Mr Yusuf's body," he requests, his tone firm.
"He's Mr Masood," Tamwar cries tearfully, "Syed Masood."
"He is known to the authorities as Mr Yusuf, Mr Nazir Yusuf."
"Nazir," they all cry in unison.
"The identification we found on the body also identified him as such."
"Actually, he was a Doctor," PC O'Donnell tentatively interrupts. "Dr Nazir Yusuf. Our investigation found him to be the son of the late Dr Yusuf Khan, whose last known address is here. Mrs Zainab Khan is identified a Dr Yusuf Khan's wife ... widow."
"It's not Syed?" Christian cries shakily.
"What?" Zainab whispers, looking to the police officer with a feverently hopeful gaze.
"We have a photo," PC O'Donnell offers, producing one from a folder.
"No, that's not my son," she cries joyfully, "that man is no relation to me. He is the son of my late husband, from a previous marriage. I've spoken to him once or twice in passing, but I could never warm to him. There was something distrustful ..."
"Did anyone else die in the raid?" Christian reluctantly asks, without really wanting to know the answer. "Do you have any information on this man?" He produces a photo of Syed, his hand shaking as he hands it over.
"No one survived," the police officer informs them, his tone unapologetic. With barely a glance at it, he passes the photo to his colleague. "What they were about to do ..."
"Sir," his colleague interrupts. "The man in this photo is the hostage. He was taken to The Lister Hospital in Chelsea."
"Is he badly hurt? Will he okay?" Tamwar anxiously demands.
"This man was drugged ..."
"His name is Syed, Syed Masood," Christian insists.
"Mr Masood was drugged to a point where he was disoriented and confused about everything," PC Adams reveals. "Mr Yusuf offered him his freedom in exchange for delivering a package to another man who was supposed to be waiting in the park. The plan was to wait until Mr Masood got as close to the centre as possible, and then remotely detonate the bo*b which would be in the package he would assume he was delivering."
"Oh my God," Zainab cries.
We've had this group under surveillance for over a year. Originally, there were only three. Our operative befriended one of the men through his Mos*que and was soon admitted to the house.
Mr Yusuf made an appearance for the first time a little over four months ago, and quickly took control. But it was not until Mr Masood arrived at the house that we knew for sure it was this group that was going to carry out the next attack on London. His arrival forced Mr Yusuf to explain to the other members the reason for his being there. Our informant alerted us to the fact that he was being held against his will, and why. If Mr Yusuf had not involved your son, we would not have been in a position to stop any of the planned attacks. Our net was spread too wide. We were aware of the possibility of a coordinated attack, but there are thousands of people on our list. Confirming the London group allowed us to trace Mr Yusuf's movements and work out who the other teams were going to be. This allowed us to prevent the Newcastle attack, and reduce the impact of those in Liverpool and Manchester to injuries rather than deaths. The common procedure for these groups is that every member of a cell is aware that they might one day be called on, and are in a constant state of readiness. However, only the leader, in this instance Mr Yusuf, gets any advance warning of an imminent operation. The other members usually get given the target address, final instructions and tools for the job no more than a couple of hours in advance."
"Why would they involve Syed?" Masood asks, his voice a mere croak. "Don't you have to be committed to the ... cause?"
"Though not officially tolerated, it has been known to happen that these people will manipulate a vulnerable person, basically trick them into losing his or her life so that they won't have to. Not every terror*st is eager for marty*rdom, despite what they would have you believei."
There is a long moment where no one speaks, as they try to grasp the enormity of the situation.
"Can we see him?" Christian finally asks huskily.
"Of course, if you'd like to come with us," PC Conn gestures towards the door and the police car outside.
Christian travels with the police officers; and Zainab, Masood, Tamwar and Afia follow in Ian's car.
As he enters the sparse hospital room, Christian draws a deep breath, preparing himself for whatever he might discover.
"Sy," he whispers, his heart wrenching to see him looking so pale and fragile.
Syed turns his head to look warily at him for a moment. He then returns his gaze to the comfort of the plain white ceiling. He is wearing a hospital gown and lying on a bed near a large window. He is the only patient in the room.
"I'm so glad you're okay," Christian says huskily, walking over to the bed. Pulling a chair closer, he sits down and takes Syed's hand. "Are you okay?" he asks anxiously, on noticing the drip attached to his arm
"I'm fine," Syed responds politely.
"Syed, my dearest boy," Zainab cries, rushing in and throwing herself on him. "Oh thank God we have you back."
Syed lets her hug him, but doesn't say anything.
"Are you okay? Did they hurt you?" she asks urgently. Syed, speak to me; tell me you're okay."
"I'm okay," he obediently tells her.
"It's good to see you, son," Masood emotionally greets, giving him a warm hug.
They become aware at once that he is, understandably, not quite as he should be.
"Can you tell us what happened?" Masood asks tentatively.
"I don't know," he says, his voice lacking any emotion.
"How can you not know?" Zainab cries anxiously, but Christian stops her.
"Don't push him; there's no rush. All that matters is that he's safe," he reminds her.
"Hello Mr Masood. How are you feeling this afternoon?" The doctor announces his arrival. He walks over to Syed's bed. Everyone moves back to give him space. He performs a routine examination.
"I'm fine," Syed answers, as the Doctor shines a light in his eyes.
"We've given you medication to help counteract the effects of the drugs," he advises, looking through his patient notes.
Syed nods.
"Is there anything you would like to ask me?"
"No."
The Doctor studies him for a moment. "You're going to be okay, you know. The worst is over."
"Yes," Syed nods.
"Will he be well enough to come home soon?" Christian asks.
Having seemingly forgotten their presence, the Doctor turns with a look of mild surprise at the question.
"I'm Syed's husband, Christian, and these are his parents Zainab and Masood and his brother Tamwar."
"I'm his sister-in-law," Afia adds a little defiantly.
"Hello, Doctor Isaac Mayfield, pleased to meet you all," the Doctor offers, his tone friendly.
"Will he be okay?" Zainab asks anxiously.
"Mr Masood has been given a large quantity of a sedative drug called diphenhydramine over a short period of time. He is severely dehydrated. The saline drip attached to his arm will replace the lost fluids. His liver and kidney function are normal; there should be no lasting damage. Physically, he should make a full recovery."
"He seems to be ... wary, on edge."
"According to our mental health expert, who has had a chat with Mr Masood, his mood is generally by turns anxious and withdrawn, which is perfectly understandable given his recent traumatic experience. You will need to be patient and provide a calm environment to aid his recovery. We will provide counselling sessions when Mr Masood is feeling strong enough to cope. Now, if you'll excuse me," he turns to Syed. "If there's anything you need, be sure to call one of the nurses, there is no need to suffer in silence," he gently scolds, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
Syed nods, looking anything but reassured.
They watch with uncharacteristic silence as Dr Mayfield walks away, and then turn as one to look at him.
Syed closes his eyes. "If I lie very still, maybe they'll go away," he thinks desperately.
"Syed, do you need anything; food, clothes?" Tamwar attempts.
"How long will it take Nazir to discover I'm here?" Syed wonders. "Will he send someone to kill me or will he do it himself?"
"You're not ready to talk, that's okay," Masood says, his voice choked with tears. "It's enough for now just to have you back."
In the face of his continuing silence, and not knowing what else to do, his family get chairs and sit around the bed. At first, no one says anything, and then they get comfortable. Realising that the nightmare of the past few days is over, the tension slips away and they start chatting. They try to include Syed, but he will not be drawn. After a bit, someone (probably Afia) is sent to get coffees.
Syed listens to them talk, without really taking any of it in. He begins to relax despite his best efforts to stay alert.
After a couple of hours, Tamwar remembers the restaurant, Masood remembers his taxi shift and the nurse arrives to remind them that visiting hours are coming to an end.
They start to get up to leave, and Syed starts to panic. As Christian let's go of his hand, he grips Christian's tightly; and, using his other hand, starts to push himself up into a sitting position.
"Hey, hey, it's okay," Christian cries in surprise. "It's okay, we'll be back in the morning, I promise," he urgently soothes, cupping Syed's cheek and wiping away his tears. He presses a gentle kiss against his other cheek.
"It'll be too late; I'll be dead by then," Syed urgently communicates his fears.
They stare at him in stunned silence for a split second.
"No, of course you won't, you're safe here," Zainab tried to reassure.
"Those men, the men who were keeping you prisoner, they're dead, they've been killed," Masood quickly adds, anxious to put his mind at rest.
"They'll find me, he said they would find me and kill me," Syed cries hoarsely, his grip like a vice. "His breathing becomes more laboured as his fear increases. He reaches out with his free hand to grip Tamwar's jacket. The drip begins to detach from his arm. Please don't leave me here all alone," he cries.
"Oh, my poor Syed," Zainab moans, rushing to his side.
"I'll stay with him," Christian decides.
"I'll bring you breakfast and a change of clothes in the morning," Masood agrees, his voice trembling with emotion, after witnessing the terror in his son's eyes. "I'll take the morning off work."
"I'll come for the afternoon," Tamwar quickly adds.
Afia has discreetly called for the nurse, who arrives at that moment.
"What have we here?" she asks mock sternly as she gently pries Syed's hands loose.
"They're leaving," he tells her tearfully.
"It's okay love," she gently assures, handing him a tissue. "They'll all be back tomorrow, won't you?" she throws a look over her shoulder.
"They all obediently agree that they will.
"And I'll be just down the hall for the whole night, so you won't be alone. You can call me any time, even if it's only for a chat." She reminds him of the buzzer next to his bed. "You know you're my favourite patient, right?"
Syed reluctantly gives her the smile she'd been angling for m.
"Good," she says, satisfied. Settling him back in bed, she reattaches the drip and adds fresh tape to hold it in place. "Now, get some sleep," she orders, brushing his hair back from his eyes with the gentlest of touches.
"You've definitely made a good impression there," Masood gently teases after the door closes behind the nurse.
"We'll look after you, we'll protect you," Zainab weakly insists.
#
After the others depart, Christian and Zainab sit, one on each side of Syed's bed. Once they are sure he is asleep, Christian persuades Zainab to go home to get some sleep for a few hours.
After she leaves, he does something he hasn't done for a long time, he watches Syed sleep. Apart from the dark shadows under his eyes, his face offers little clue to his recent suffering. "How did we get here?" Christian wonders sadly.
"Syed lies very still, waiting ...