The Becket Approval by Falconer Duncan (interesting books to read TXT) 📕

furnishings were a metal hospital cot, a chair and a desk. Hanging from hooks on the door was his meagre wardrobe including a well-worn AK47 rifle and ammunition harness. A gnarled copy of the Koran rested on the desk in the top left corner, a stack of paper neatly piled beside it, a couple of pens. Spread over the rest of the desk was a frayed map of the City of London.

Saleem closed his eyes, reached for a piece of paper, placed it on the map to cover it, opened his eyes, took a pen and began to draw a long curving line. He drew another curve parallel with the first. A section of the River Thames. He drew a bridge. And another. Roads followed the course of the river, specifically the north bank. He was attempting to replicate major streets and landmarks between the Thames Barrier and Blackfriars. He drew a small circle and an underground train station symbol and wrote the words Temple beside it. A line from the station followed the river to Blackfriars Station.

There was a knock on the door. He quickly folded the map and placed it inside the desk drawer.

Another knock. ‘Saleem? It’s Araf.’

‘Yes,’ Saleem said.

The door opened and a young Arab stood in the doorway. It was the man who had saved Gunnymede’s life. ‘Alright, mate?’ he asked cheerily in a South London accent, a smile on his bearded face as he looked around the room. ‘Rajik wants to see you?’

‘What for?’

‘He didn’t say. Fat bastard doesn’t tell me anything.’

‘You shouldn’t talk about ’im that way,’ Saleem said, placing his chair tidily under his desk.

‘Why not? He’s a fat wanker.’

‘You should have respect for our superiors. Without respect, we’ll fall apart.’

‘We’re already falling apart.’

‘You think this is the only place we’re at war?’ Saleem was calm and preachy.

‘Well, I’d like to go somewhere we’re winning.’

‘Stay alive and maybe you will.’ Saleem walked out of the room and waited for Araf to exit.

‘You know we’re neighbours,’ Araf said, stepping into the corridor.

‘Neighbours?’ Saleem closed the door and walked on.

Araf followed him along a dilapidated corridor racked by the violence of bombardments. ‘I’m from Clapham. You’re from Wandsworth, right?’

‘Not a good idea to get nostalgic, mate.’

‘I ain’t. I don’t expect to see the place again. I just thought it was a coincidence, that’s all.’

They walked down a creaking, unlit staircase illuminated by daylight from below.

‘Is Rajik in his office?’ Saleem asked.

‘Where else would ’e be? Bomb-proof basement, next to the food store. Fat fucker.’

They reached the ground floor then continued along a short corridor and down a narrower, dingy stairwell lit by bulbs that dimmed rhythmically to the uneven purr of a generator beyond the walls.

Araf led the way along a narrow corridor to a door that was slightly ajar and knocked on it.

‘Come in,’ a man’s voice called out in Arabic.

The two men stepped inside Rajik’s office which was crammed with crates and boxes of equipment and foods. Rajik, a fat, sweaty man with a long black beard, greasy face and wearing a black turban sat behind a desk finishing off a tin of beans with a plastic spoon. Evidence of the beans and past meals was in his matted beard. He dumped the empty tin in a nearby bin, burped as politely as he could, licked the spoon clean and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, all in one swift action. ‘Ah. Saleem. Come in. Come in. Can I offer you something?’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Saleem said.

Rajik placed a slender bar of confectionary on the table in front of Saleem as if it was some kind of award. ‘That’s for you.’

‘Like I said, I’m fine,’ Saleem said dryly.

Rajik lost his smile, miffed by the rejection. Araf made eyes at him in an effort to convey that he’d happily accept the sweet. Rajik put it back in a box.

‘Sit down,’ Rajik ordered.

There was only one chair, the other side of Rajik’s desk. Saleem sat on it.

‘Well,’ Rajik said. ‘You are in much favour, it seems.’

‘I am?’ Saleem asked, looking hopeful.

‘Al-Baghdadi himself has sent you a message.’

Saleem controlled himself but deep down he was electrified.

‘I am annoyed with you for communicating with higher command without going through me,’ Rajik said, giving Saleem a scolding look. ‘But I cannot punish you now that you have the ear of our leader.’

‘It wasn’t my intention to offend you. But secrecy is of extreme importance.’

‘What’s the secret, Saleem? Come on. You can tell me. I am your commander, after all.’

Saleem’s eyes darkened at Rajik’s stupidity. ‘What is the message?’ he asked coldly.

‘You’re not going to answer my question first?’

Saleem did all he could to mask his distaste for the fool. ‘Will you refuse to pass me our leader’s message if I do not?’

Rajik smirked at the unsubtle threat. ‘Don’t you think I could be of assistance to you?’

‘Please give me the message,’ Saleem said, making an effort to be polite.

Rajik gave up and sat back. ‘Your request, whatever it was, has been granted. You are to be given all assistance.’

Saleem calmly exhaled, disguising his immense relief. ‘Anything about timings and travel?’

‘Won’t you miss your frequent trips into the desert to talk with your Russian friends?’ Rajik asked, slyly.

Saleem’s eyes pierced Rajik’s at the disclosure of one of his secrets. ‘Who told you that?’

Rajik grinned with satisfaction. ‘You have your secrets and I have mine. The Russians are our enemy and yet you talk with them. Frequently. And then they blow you up. What’s going on, Saleem? It’s a very curious situation.’

Saleem wanted to tell Rajik to go to hell but chose to exercise restraint.

‘And then there’s the map of London on your desk,’ Rajik added.

Saleem’s mouth opened, about