The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

“You just what?” Rashid wiped a glob of secret sauce off his chin with the paper napkin and swallowed his mouthful.

“Well, your file states you’re a Muslim.”

“And I bet yours says simply, C of E. So, do you go to church every Sunday? Or just the Easter and Christmas stuff, when most white British get the calling.”

“No, I just thought your lot were strict on that sort of stuff.”

“My lot? What, British citizens who were born here?”

“You know what I meant.”

“Do I?”

“I wasn’t being obtuse,” Ramsay paused. “I thought it strange, that’s all.”

“I was born here. My parents were persecuted by Sikhs, who raided Pakistan from India, and they fled to England. My mother was pregnant. My father was so relieved that he and my mother made the journey over, were able to establish themselves and eventually granted citizenship, that he embraced his new country, and encouraged us all to as well. My sisters, my brothers; we were all westernised, I suppose you’d say. But we still practised Islam, in our own ways. We still went to the mosque, not because of God, the Divine, but because of the spiritual togetherness it brought us. I’m open-minded and intelligent enough to understand science, most people are. Religion is about more than that. I understand the big bang theory, the evidence of dinosaurs. But through Islam, we connected with people, our community. But we still took everything that western culture offered. My parents eat halal, but my dad likes sausages and kind of denies what may be inside them. My sisters do not wear the hajib, and they go to nightclubs to have a good time. One drinks, the other has chosen not to. But they both plan to marry Muslim men. Because they grew up with them and love them, not because it has been arranged. Both have had white boyfriends in the past. You see, we have embraced everything, and people like you see the colour of my skin, read a few statements on a file and have me down as a bad Muslim because I’m eating a burger. Some of my kind would call me kafir and would ridicule me for turning my back on my roots and my religion, and I can’t help that. Those people in the extreme are the same people I fought in Syria under the banner of ISIS,” Rashid shook his head, put the burger down and sipped from his cup of tea. “People see practising Muslims, their heads covered, or dressed traditionally and they scoff at their prayers, their strict dietary requirements, and they hate that they have not immersed themselves into western society, given up on their heritage and culture and become more relaxed. Then I eat a couple of Big Macs and you come in here and have a pop at me that I’m not adhering to Islam. You see? We can’t win. And it’s that attitude which is creating a divide and making disenfranchised young men do terrible things in the name of Islam.”

“Are you serious?” Ramsay stared at him incredulously.

“If you don’t think any of that is true, then you aren’t part of the solution,” he paused. “And as we know, people who are not part of the solution are part of the problem.” He shrugged. “Anyway, show me what you’ve got.”

Ramsay moved Rashid’s tray over and put down his briefcase. He opened it up and took out an array of papers. “I never thought about it like that,” he admitted.

“Don’t sweat it,” Rashid replied. “I’m used to it. But tell me, MI5 has how many Muslim, Sikh, Jewish or Hindu personnel in the upper echelons? People who represent a cross section of Britain. Sure, a few of every colour and culture the recruiters or admin can think of; researchers, field agents and the like. But how many suited and booted senior-level staff that you and Mereweather, or Amherst meet daily? None, I bet.”

Ramsay shrugged. “No. You’re right.” He passed Rashid the first paper and nodded. “It needs working on. Anyway, back to business…”

Rashid smiled. He doubted the issue would go any further than this table. He finished his last bite of the burger, which like all fast-food outlets, had now turned hard and tasteless as it had cooled. He chewed rapidly and picked up the sheet, leaving a thumbprint of secret sauce on the edge. He read quickly. It was a de-arrest form. He folded it and placed it in his pocket. The rest of the papers were recruitment contracts. In return, Rashid supplied his bank account and sort-code. Within ten minutes, he was an active and official member of the Security Service.

“What’s the plan, then?” he asked, sipping the last of his tepid tea.

Ramsay looked at his watch. “We’ll go back to Thames House and put in a few hours on the databases and see what we can get on the Russian’s killed down in Biarritz. I have a techy working on gathering intel on Helena Milankovitch, formerly, or I guess, even currently Helena Snell. Either way, he’s working the angles on that. We’ll meet with him, see what he has found. You’re booked into the Holiday Inn in Mayfair. Don’t get excited, it’s a standard double but breakfast is on us. I’ll meet you there in the morning, work out the time later.”

“Then?”

“Then, I think we had better get over to the continent and concentrate on finding King.”

“Caroline is the one who needs finding,” Rashid said. “King can handle himself.”

“We’re not worried about King handling himself. We don’t want him becoming a problem that comes back onto the service. He took down a Russian mafia brotherhood. Those hoodlums are connected to all sorts of prominent Russian figures, all the way to the bloody top. King could soon have Britain involved in an international incident.”

Rashid leaned forwards