The Walking Dead

On arrival at Schiphol in Amsterdam, he had been met and taken by train to a town thirty-five minutes away. He had been asked by his escort not to look at its name on, the station platform, and he had not. He did not register the name of the street to which he was driven. The whole of the previous day he had been alone in an upstairs room, with just two visits to the bathroom, and his food had been left on the rug outside the door. Late that evening a voice had called for him to leave his passport on the bed when he left. Early that morning he had been walked to the town's square where a taxi waited for him. He had sat in the back and the driver had not spoken to him. The only contact had been to point out an envelope of brown paper left on the seat he was to occupy. He had found a Canadian passport in the envelope, a rail ticket that listed a return journey in nine days, and a sheet of paper describing the life history of the young man named in the document. While they drove on the highway south he had memorized his new biography. The taxi had turned into the Belgian town of Lille and dropped him at the main railway station. There was no farewell from the driver, only fingers flicking persistently until he had lifted up the sketched-out biography and handed it forward. On the train, at departure, his passport had been examined by a policewoman and returned to him without comment.

He stepped on to the moving stabs.

It amazed him how many, already, had helped his journey, and the preparation that so far had been given to that journey. He did not know that, inside the organization, more care was given to the acquisition of reputable travel documentation than to the gaining of weapons, the forging of networks and the gathering of cash resources. He descended, and between the sheer sides of the escalator, there was no escape. Ibrahim Hussein had no wish to flee — but if he had there was no possibility of it. The escalator dragged him down towards the subterranean concourse. He saw policemen, huge, their bodyweight enhanced by armour, carrying automatic weapons, but if they saw him they did not notice him.

As he had been told to, he headed towards the sign and the cubicles for Commonwealth passports. A kaleidoscopq., of thoughts hit the young man, who was a second-year student at the university's school of medicine, and dazed him. He had entered, almost, the fortress of his enemy: had breached, almost, their walls with the same ease that he might have entered the Old Souk of Jizan or his father's shop behind the Corniche. He was surrounded by his enemy and their soldiers, but it was as if he was invisible to them. It was where he would strike against those who abused his Faith, and would avenge the martyrdoms of his brothers…A hand reached forward, a bored face gazed into his. 'Please, we don't have all day.. Your passport, sir.'

He offered it. The page of details was scanned into a machine, then the pages were flipped.

'The purpose of your visit, sir?' A tired question.

He said, as instructed, that it was tourism.

'Well, if the weather ever lifts, you'll enjoy your stay, sir. The place is empty so you won't have to queue for the Eye or the Tower. Don't let all the guns put you off. Actually, it's pretty safe here.'

His passport was given back to him. He found himself carried gently towards the last gates by the hurrying crowds from the train. A man, whose bag struck Ibrahim's heel, stopped to make profuse apologies, then dashed on. The last gates were open, and he took the final strides to enter the enemy's fortress.

'That's him.'

'I saw it.' A dry gravelled reply. 'The Threatened Swan has flown to us.'

'Not only flown, but landed.'

'What I say, this is a moment of danger.'

'There have been many moments of danger, but you are right to tell me of it and I recognize it.'

Below Muhammad Ajaq and the man standing beside him, the only one in the whole of his world to whom he entrusted his life, was the well of the Waterloo terminal where passengers came to board the Eurostar for a journey through the tunnel to Europe, or to leave it. They were at the top of wide steps, where their view would not be blocked. With Ajaq was the man he called, with honest respect, the Engineer. Because of the cold in the streets outside the station, and the rain glistening on the pavements, both could have their collars turned high, scarves at their throats and caps on their scalps. When they left the station they would expand their collapsed umbrellas. They knew of the cameras. Each would have been certain that his face was hidden from the lenses.

'It is good, The Threatened Swan, easy to see.'

'And good also because it has the look of a virgin's innocence, but it is defiant, which means it has determination.'

The Engineer chuckled, Ajaq took his arm and their laughter melded.

'I said to you that he walked well.'

'He has a good walk.'

'The rest were shit.'