anguage was the problem. The older monk only spoke a few
L words of English, but he smiled a great deal, and Cass decided Ajahn Lee’s letter had worked. He was invited to take a shower, and when he emerged in bare feet, a fresh tee shirt and a pair of sandals was waiting.
It was already getting dark when the monk reappeared carrying a phone. He pressed some numbers and handed it to Cass. It was Jon. “I have asked them to give you this phone to contact your friends, Cass.”
Cass immediately tried Kevin’s number but there was no answer. Frustrated almost to the point of anger, he remembered more words from Ajahn Lee. “No one will punish you for your anger. It is the anger itself that will punish you.”
He lay down on the hard floor and fell into a short, feverish sleep where all he could see was Mr. Khan.
“Your family is from Jalandhar.” Khan was saying
“But I am British, sir. I have never been.”
“I am from Jagrawan,” Khan continued. “You know it?”
“I have not been to Pakistan, sir.”
“You want to go?”
“But you have family there.”
“Yes sir. My grandmother speaks about family.”
It was true. He could now see his grandmother as she passed around faded old photos, pictures of strangers in a village somewhere.
Cass woke to find himself in total darkness. What had woken him was the memory of one of those old photos that his grandmother would often point at whilst muttering away in Punjabi.
Once, when Cass was about ten years old it was not the crowd of people in that photo that Cass remembered. It was the black tousle-haired girl of about ten, smiling and holding a young black and white goat in her lap. Goats, after all, were not seen around Shipley Street.
Perhaps the photo had been taken twenty years ago, but in it was his grandmother, younger then but still recognisable by the yellow shalwar kameez and a show of grey hair beneath the head covering. And his mother, sitting next to her, much younger, almost unrecognisable and surrounded by other women who might have been family or friends. And behind the women sat serious men, all but one with bushy black hair, beards, and moustaches. And he remembered his grandmother pointing at the beardless one with his intense-looking eyes and shirt undone to expose the neck of a white vest. And Cass remembered her saying something about him. He could no longer remember what she’d said, but it was as if this was why she was showing it to him. His grandmother had been proud of that man.
Perhaps it had been going through the photos on Mrs. Nong’s computer and once again seeing the faces of the countless
men for whom he had made passports, but something else suddenly struck Cass.
It was the man’s eyes, his hair, his nose, and the clean-shaven face. It was identical to the man he’d given the package to in the mountains in Syria - the man who’d shaken his hand, patted his back, and said something in Arabic or Punjabi that Cass didn’t understand. It was the man who’d glanced back at him with a smile as he reboarded the truck. It was the man who had then spoken to him in perfect English, as if he’d known him, “Ah, Qasim Saddiqi Welcome to the front line.
Qasim. A man. A handsome man.”
In the total darkness, something else struck Cass. The man in that old photo was so similar to one on the memory stick it could so easily have been the same man.
And then still more horror struck. Could Kett be his father?
Cass reached for the phone and called Kevin’s number again.
This time the phone was engaged. He tried again. It was still engaged. Once again, frustration took over. How could Kevin be talking to someone more important than him?
One of the monks brought a dish of bananas and mangoes and then he tried Kevin’s phone again. This time it was answered.
“Kev?”
“Yeh, man. I’ve got so much to tell you, Cass. We—”
“Listen, Kev. What’s happened about those photos?”
“I told you, Cass. They’re with the private investigator Colin Asher in London. They’re trying to identify them.”
“I think one of them is Kett, Kev.”
“Who’s Kett?”
“Kett, man. Do I have to explain everything? What do these friends of yours in London do? I thought they were professionals.” Cass, his head pounding. was losing patience.
“He’s one big-time terrorist, man. Don’t you understand?
He’s like Osama Bin Laden and Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi and Abu Ibrahim al-Hashimi al-Qurayshi and some others, and I think he’s the one trying to organise Southeast Asia terrorist groups in Malaysia and Indonesia. I think I was supposed to be part of it. He had plans for me. That’s why I got sent out here. You understand, Kev?”
There was a long silence from Kevin.
“Jeez,” Cass almost screamed. “If you don’t understand all this, Kev, then I need to talk to that guy Colin Asher or whoever he is and the guy Kurt’s with. It’s tough here, man.
You understand? My head feels ready to burst and…For all I know, the police or Kett’s team might already know where I am. If they suddenly arrive here, there’s only one way out for me and that’s to head back into the jungle in a pair of bloody flip-flops. I’ve got blisters bigger than you’ve ever seen, so I don’t expect to get very far . . . and this isn’t my phone. I don’t think these monks ever leave this place and . . .”
Kevin felt out of his depth.
Problems around Park Road suddenly seemed minor compared to Cass’s situation. He wanted to tell Cass about what they’d just found in Khan’s room, but it didn’t seem important right now. He’d heard of Osama Bin Laden and knew he was dead, but who the other guys were, he had no idea. “Stay cool,” he said for something to say.
“Cool, Kev? You got no idea how hot it is here. What’s this guy Colin Asher’s phone number? Can I trust him?
“Yeh. Definitely. He’s OK. His assistant is a black guy called Ritchie whose dad is….”
“Jeez, Kev. Just give me his number, will you? Stop wasting time.”