‘You’d be taking too much of a risk. And Khalid is very unlikely to start revealing his plans al of a sudden; he’s only ever going to tel you what you need to know. He’l give you the mushroom treatment.’
Malik frowned. ‘Mushroom treatment? What’s that?’
Chaudhry laughed. ‘It’s when they keep you in the dark and feed you bul shit,’ he said. ‘And John’s right. That’s how terrorist cel s work: the upper echelons restrict the information that goes to the individual cel s. That way the damage is limited if a cel is blown.’ He nodded at Shepherd. ‘Right?’
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself, Raj,’ said Shepherd. ‘But even a tape of Khalid saying what he wants to do isn’t enough. He could claim to be a fantasist, he could say that he was joking, or that you were acting as an agent provocateur. We need him with weapons, or bombs – hard evidence that no jury can ignore. So we just carry on playing the waiting game.’
‘And you have him under surveil ance al the time, right?’ said Malik.
‘Best you don’t know about the operational details,’ said Shepherd.
‘Now who’s treating us like mushrooms?’ said Malik.
‘There’s a difference, Harvey,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m doing it because I’ve got your best interests at heart. I’m on your side. Khalid just wants to use you.’
Even as the words were leaving his lips, Shepherd wondered just how truthful he was being. Yes, he was looking out for the two men and didn’t want them in harm’s way, but he was also being very selective about what he was tel ing them and in that respect he wasn’t much different from the men planning to use them as terrorists.
‘You’re doing a great job, and I’m watching your backs every step of the way,’ he said, smiling confidently.
Chaudhry and Malik joined the queue of men, mainly Pakistani, waiting to enter the Musal aa An-noorthe mosque in Dynevor Road. It was close to where they lived and catered for mainly Pakistani Muslims, with room for about a hundred worshippers at any one time. They nodded to those that they recognised but didn’t talk to anyone. The man in front of them was in his seventies, wearing a grey dishdash and a crocheted skul cap. He flicked a cigarette butt into the street before heading through the door at the side of a run-down sportswear shop. Chaudhry and Malik went down the stairs after him, keeping their hands on the wal s either side for balance. At the bottom of the stairs they slipped off their shoes and put them in one of the wooden racks by the door. They were both dressed comfortably but respectful y in long-sleeved shirts and trousers and they were wearing ties. It had been drummed into Chaudhry as a child that the mosque was a place where men went to commune with Al ah and that it was important to dress accordingly. But as he looked around he could see that most of the Muslims who had come to pray had not had the same upbringing. There were men in grimy sweatshirts and loose tracksuit bottoms, loose shirts and baggy jeans, stained overal s; there were even two teenagers wearing footbal shirts and shorts who were obviously on their way to a match. They were both chewing gum, and Chaudhry considered going over to them and admonishing them but he knew that it wasn’t his place to do that. He was there to pray, not to get into arguments with Muslims who should know better.
At just after sunset it was time for the Maghrib prayers, the fourth of five formal daily prayers that every good Muslim carries out. The man standing directly in front of Chaudhry rol ed up his jeans to make it easier to kneel when praying, but he did it casual y, one leg rol ed right up to the knee, the other to mid-calf, and when he did kneel the jeans rode down and revealed his underwear. Chaudhry shook his head at the lack of respect.
He looked over at Malik and nodded at the uneven trousers of the man in front of them. Malik grinned. Like Chaudhry he had been born in
Malik frowned. ‘Mushroom treatment? What’s that?’
Chaudhry laughed. ‘It’s when they keep you in the dark and feed you bul shit,’ he said. ‘And John’s right. That’s how terrorist cel s work: the upper echelons restrict the information that goes to the individual cel s. That way the damage is limited if a cel is blown.’ He nodded at Shepherd. ‘Right?’
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself, Raj,’ said Shepherd. ‘But even a tape of Khalid saying what he wants to do isn’t enough. He could claim to be a fantasist, he could say that he was joking, or that you were acting as an agent provocateur. We need him with weapons, or bombs – hard evidence that no jury can ignore. So we just carry on playing the waiting game.’
‘And you have him under surveil ance al the time, right?’ said Malik.
‘Best you don’t know about the operational details,’ said Shepherd.
‘Now who’s treating us like mushrooms?’ said Malik.
‘There’s a difference, Harvey,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m doing it because I’ve got your best interests at heart. I’m on your side. Khalid just wants to use you.’
Even as the words were leaving his lips, Shepherd wondered just how truthful he was being. Yes, he was looking out for the two men and didn’t want them in harm’s way, but he was also being very selective about what he was tel ing them and in that respect he wasn’t much different from the men planning to use them as terrorists.
‘You’re doing a great job, and I’m watching your backs every step of the way,’ he said, smiling confidently.
Chaudhry and Malik joined the queue of men, mainly Pakistani, waiting to enter the Musal aa An-noorthe mosque in Dynevor Road. It was close to where they lived and catered for mainly Pakistani Muslims, with room for about a hundred worshippers at any one time. They nodded to those that they recognised but didn’t talk to anyone. The man in front of them was in his seventies, wearing a grey dishdash and a crocheted skul cap. He flicked a cigarette butt into the street before heading through the door at the side of a run-down sportswear shop. Chaudhry and Malik went down the stairs after him, keeping their hands on the wal s either side for balance. At the bottom of the stairs they slipped off their shoes and put them in one of the wooden racks by the door. They were both dressed comfortably but respectful y in long-sleeved shirts and trousers and they were wearing ties. It had been drummed into Chaudhry as a child that the mosque was a place where men went to commune with Al ah and that it was important to dress accordingly. But as he looked around he could see that most of the Muslims who had come to pray had not had the same upbringing. There were men in grimy sweatshirts and loose tracksuit bottoms, loose shirts and baggy jeans, stained overal s; there were even two teenagers wearing footbal shirts and shorts who were obviously on their way to a match. They were both chewing gum, and Chaudhry considered going over to them and admonishing them but he knew that it wasn’t his place to do that. He was there to pray, not to get into arguments with Muslims who should know better.
At just after sunset it was time for the Maghrib prayers, the fourth of five formal daily prayers that every good Muslim carries out. The man standing directly in front of Chaudhry rol ed up his jeans to make it easier to kneel when praying, but he did it casual y, one leg rol ed right up to the knee, the other to mid-calf, and when he did kneel the jeans rode down and revealed his underwear. Chaudhry shook his head at the lack of respect.
He looked over at Malik and nodded at the uneven trousers of the man in front of them. Malik grinned. Like Chaudhry he had been born in
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