Read Online Live Fire by Stephen Leather - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Leather
Tags: thriller
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unhappy or worried. People trusted smiling, clean-shaven men in smart clothes. They didn’t trust angry-looking men with beards, wearing long shirts.
The man he had come to see was over to his right. Bradshaw knew he was a regular worshipper at the Regent’s Park Mosque. He was almost fifty years old and had a ragged beard that almost reached his chest. He was barrel-chested and wore baggy cotton trousers that flapped above his ankles, a long-sleeved pinstripe shirt buttoned up to the neck, and a beaded skullcap. In his right hand he held a string of amber beads and ran them through his fingers as he prayed. His name was Hakeem and he was Palestinian. As Hakeem stood up and adjusted his shirt-sleeves, Bradshaw walked over to him. ‘Brother Hakeem,’ he said quietly. ‘It is an honour to meet you.’
Hakeem eyed him coldly. ‘You have not met me yet, brother,’ he said, his voice a guttural rasp.
Bradshaw did not avert his eyes. He stared back at Hakeem, even though his stomach was churning. There was no human warmth in Hakeem’s eyes: it was as if they had been carved from black marble. They bored into Bradshaw as if they could see into his very soul. ‘I was told you would be expecting me,’ said Bradshaw, fighting to keep his voice steady.
‘You are Bradshaw?’ The question was almost certainly rhetorical because Bradshaw doubted that Hakeem was regularly approached by Caucasians in the mosque.
‘I am,’ he said.
‘You are younger than I expected.’ He continued to finger the amber beads as he studied Bradshaw’s face. ‘I shall see you outside in the park,’ he said. ‘Wait for me there.’
Bradshaw finished and turned away hurriedly to hide his embarrassment. He was not used to being treated like a fool and his first instinct had been to curse the man and his rudeness, but Hakeem had what he wanted so he forced himself to conceal his anger and walked away, still smiling. He retrieved his shoes from the racks outside the prayer hall and left the mosque.
He walked across the grass, watching a group of middle-aged women exercise their dogs as they gossiped in upper-class voices about house prices and the difficulty of getting decent cleaners. Two Goths, dressed from head to foot in black, sauntered hand in hand towards Baker Street. They wore tight black jeans, black boots, leather jackets, and white makeup with black mascara. It was only the swelling breasts that marked them out as female. A businessman in a pinstripe suit with a briefcase in one hand and a mobile phone clamped to his ear walked purposefully across the grass, barking at his assistant on the other end of the line. Bradshaw hated them all – hated them so much he could almost taste it.
He turned to look at the mosque, its gleaming gold dome glinting in the sunlight. Hakeem was coming towards him, still holding his string of beads. He did not break his stride when he reached Bradshaw. ‘Walk with me,’ he said.
He kept up a brisk pace and Bradshaw, who was several inches shorter, struggled to match it. ‘I was told you can help us with funding,’ he said, but Hakeem silenced him with a curt wave.
‘I shall be deciding the flow of this conversation,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bradshaw. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘And I don’t need your apologies,’ said Hakeem.
Bradshaw opened his mouth to apologise again but just as quickly closed it. He waited for Hakeem to continue. His legs were burning and he could feel a stitch growing in his side.
‘Which mosque do you use, brother?’ asked Hakeem.
‘I used to go to Finsbury Park, but not any more,’ said Bradshaw. ‘There are too many spies there now. The Government has spies in all the mosques.’ He was panting, and his forehead was bathed in sweat.
Hakeem nodded. ‘So where do you pray?’
‘At home. With my brothers. Don’t worry, I pray five times a day. I am a good Muslim.’
‘I didn’t doubt that, brother,’ said Hakeem.
‘I have proved
The man he had come to see was over to his right. Bradshaw knew he was a regular worshipper at the Regent’s Park Mosque. He was almost fifty years old and had a ragged beard that almost reached his chest. He was barrel-chested and wore baggy cotton trousers that flapped above his ankles, a long-sleeved pinstripe shirt buttoned up to the neck, and a beaded skullcap. In his right hand he held a string of amber beads and ran them through his fingers as he prayed. His name was Hakeem and he was Palestinian. As Hakeem stood up and adjusted his shirt-sleeves, Bradshaw walked over to him. ‘Brother Hakeem,’ he said quietly. ‘It is an honour to meet you.’
Hakeem eyed him coldly. ‘You have not met me yet, brother,’ he said, his voice a guttural rasp.
Bradshaw did not avert his eyes. He stared back at Hakeem, even though his stomach was churning. There was no human warmth in Hakeem’s eyes: it was as if they had been carved from black marble. They bored into Bradshaw as if they could see into his very soul. ‘I was told you would be expecting me,’ said Bradshaw, fighting to keep his voice steady.
‘You are Bradshaw?’ The question was almost certainly rhetorical because Bradshaw doubted that Hakeem was regularly approached by Caucasians in the mosque.
‘I am,’ he said.
‘You are younger than I expected.’ He continued to finger the amber beads as he studied Bradshaw’s face. ‘I shall see you outside in the park,’ he said. ‘Wait for me there.’
Bradshaw finished and turned away hurriedly to hide his embarrassment. He was not used to being treated like a fool and his first instinct had been to curse the man and his rudeness, but Hakeem had what he wanted so he forced himself to conceal his anger and walked away, still smiling. He retrieved his shoes from the racks outside the prayer hall and left the mosque.
He walked across the grass, watching a group of middle-aged women exercise their dogs as they gossiped in upper-class voices about house prices and the difficulty of getting decent cleaners. Two Goths, dressed from head to foot in black, sauntered hand in hand towards Baker Street. They wore tight black jeans, black boots, leather jackets, and white makeup with black mascara. It was only the swelling breasts that marked them out as female. A businessman in a pinstripe suit with a briefcase in one hand and a mobile phone clamped to his ear walked purposefully across the grass, barking at his assistant on the other end of the line. Bradshaw hated them all – hated them so much he could almost taste it.
He turned to look at the mosque, its gleaming gold dome glinting in the sunlight. Hakeem was coming towards him, still holding his string of beads. He did not break his stride when he reached Bradshaw. ‘Walk with me,’ he said.
He kept up a brisk pace and Bradshaw, who was several inches shorter, struggled to match it. ‘I was told you can help us with funding,’ he said, but Hakeem silenced him with a curt wave.
‘I shall be deciding the flow of this conversation,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bradshaw. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘And I don’t need your apologies,’ said Hakeem.
Bradshaw opened his mouth to apologise again but just as quickly closed it. He waited for Hakeem to continue. His legs were burning and he could feel a stitch growing in his side.
‘Which mosque do you use, brother?’ asked Hakeem.
‘I used to go to Finsbury Park, but not any more,’ said Bradshaw. ‘There are too many spies there now. The Government has spies in all the mosques.’ He was panting, and his forehead was bathed in sweat.
Hakeem nodded. ‘So where do you pray?’
‘At home. With my brothers. Don’t worry, I pray five times a day. I am a good Muslim.’
‘I didn’t doubt that, brother,’ said Hakeem.
‘I have proved
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