The Rift by Rachel Lynch (good book recommendations txt) 📕

door and checked that there was no one around before disappearing back into the throng of the bars and restaurants of Le Croix-Rousse and all its squares and hidden corners had to offer. He took out his mobile and made a call to an old Signaller pal of his. They were the guys who made everything work, from radios to satphones, and who, for the most part, stayed in the shadows doing their jobs and getting little praise for it. The British Army couldn’t function without them.

They caught up briefly about the usual topics: civvies and how much shit they didn’t know. Then Grant listed the kit that he’d discovered, both in the flat in Paris and there in Lyon.

‘What sort of shit does that make?’ Grant asked.

‘Anything. But my guess is drones.’

Chapter 30

Hakim lay on a concrete floor. Gone were the days of relative luxury in captivity when he was fed every day and the old man smiled at him. Gone were the longed-for moments of light through a window or the sweetness of cold water. He could taste his own blood, but at least that meant he was alive.

The past few days had been tense as he’d been moved from flat to flat. They almost got caught this morning, as they waited at a junction for the light to turn green, according to the men who were becoming more and more nervous,. Police Nationale and Gendarmerie had both screeched past them, in the direction from where they’d come. Hakim’s captors had stopped hooding him, and that was a sure sign that they were either very stupid or very scared; either that or he was going to die very soon. He was disorientated, thirsty and losing hope. His resolve, given to him by the training paid for by his father, was waning. All he could do, to keep sanity from slipping away, was to count his breaths. His body ached from the beatings.

He heard the voices of men. Like before, they were of North African descent, mixed with French, and he prayed that his father was closing in on him. The Dalmani family had few enemies that he knew of, but then he didn’t know his father’s business, and he tried to piece together the possibilities for the reasons for his capture. He surmised that the interest in him must have come from outside of Algiers, where his father was considered one of the most significant and influential philanthropists of his time. He listed all the motives for hostage taking – greed, jealousy and family secrets – and went over each one methodically. It calmed him.

So did prayer.

Up until this moment, he hadn’t scrutinised the words of the Quran or the meaning of his faith. That’s why he’d chosen Paris as his preferred city of study: the bohemian hub of hedonistic culture. Atheistic by nature, rebellious in spirit and free at its core, the city of love offered him an outlet by which he could explore who he was, who he’d been and who he might become. But now, isolated and afraid, it was the Prophet he turned to. The word ‘Islam’ itself meant ‘submission and surrender’; to ask God for approval that one’s heart was ready to do both was the core of Islamic belief. He felt shame for his sins and asked for forgiveness. Lying down with French girls topped the list, and he damned his lust in self-condemnation. Only by such submission could one hope for acceptance from God and thus the path to peace. His God was compassionate and merciful and only by renouncing ego could access to Him be gained. He held no form, but Hakim had to conjure an image in his head to find any kind of strength to carry on. For reasons unknown, he’d formed an image of a lamb. Its fleece was pure white and its face was benevolent and innocent, but its stature was large and powerful. The irony wasn’t something he dwelled on and the likeness grew in his mind until it took over every thought.

Hakim knew that the five daily prayers could be somewhat flexible under special circumstances, and he wasn’t sure if he’d prayed five times already today. He figured that his predicament allowed him some latitude on geographic knowledge as well as times of the day. He had no idea which direction Mecca was, and he had no idea if God would forgive him for not using a mat. Would his bare knees do? Or would God be offended? He knew that his father contributed millions of dollars every year in zakat (charity) for the poor and needy, surely this covered Hakim too?

His mouth formed around the verses of the Quran: the supreme act of worship. Though he couldn’t purify himself before each recital, he had to believe that God would forgive him.

‘Glory be to You, O God, along with Your praise, and blessed is Your name, and high is Your majesty, and there is no God other than You.’

His body felt broken and cold, but his mind was pure, and grew in strength when he prayed. It was as if his soul was feeding off his body in preparation for something. As the hours slipped by, he felt himself giving all his fibres, organs, consciousness and ego over to a higher purpose. His purpose. He saw that all matters of the flesh were secondary to the spirit, and thus any pain was peripheral to the health of the inner self. If he closed his eyes as he prayed, he found that his four other senses became more honed: his hearing, taste, touch and smell all worked together to form a picture of the outside world beyond the four walls of his new prison. But that was the point. He slumbered only in prison if his mind allowed him, and it did not. He saw the lamb beyond the wall and knew that he was safe. For if his physical body was to be