Cold East. Alex Shaw

I been here?’

      ‘Just over forty-eight hours. You have a concussion.’ The doctor touched his arm reassuringly. ‘You are lucky, Mr East, that it was not more serious.’

      ‘He must have a thick skull, eh, Doc?’ Casey was jovial.

      ‘Quite.’

      ‘Mr East, there are a few questions I would like answered.’

      The doctor frowned. ‘If I could have a moment, Mr Casey?’

      The doctor stepped outside and folded his arms. He waited for his visitor to join him. ‘While I am more than happy to assist with your investigations, I do not think the patient is medically fit enough to be interrogated.’

      Casey raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Doc, no one’s going to be interrogated. I just need to ask him a few questions.’

      ‘Not today, Mr Casey. He is not going anywhere. You may question Mr East when I deem him to be fit.’

      Casey’s expression hardened. ‘I need to question him in the interests of national security.’

      ‘You came to me because you thought the patient might be a Russian and, indeed, I heard a few words. However, when he regained consciousness, he spoke English, just like you and me.’ Litvin was an immigrant but didn’t let that cloud the issue. ‘I understand that Mr East is not a normal patient; however, he must be treated as one. Remember, it would be me in the firing line if he were to sue the hospital for any complications or malpractice.’

      ‘Thank you for your candour, Doc.’ Casey decided to push no further.

      *

      Scanning the room, East realised there was no TV in the corner, just an empty bracket. He tried to sit up again but felt as though a gigantic hand was squeezing his head.

      The door opened and Litvin appeared. He smiled as he neared. ‘Mr Casey is a government agent and wanted to interrogate you. I told him you were not well enough. You need to rest.’ Litvin sat in the chair next to East’s bed. ‘Can you remember what happened?’

      ‘I think so. How many did they kill?’

      ‘Nine dead, and seventeen others with gunshot injuries. It was a miracle more innocent shoppers didn’t die. Some people are calling you a hero. I, for one, agree with them.’

      ‘Thanks, I guess.’ Nine! Inwardly East cursed. Why hadn’t he been faster? Why couldn’t he have been by the entrance to stop them?

      Litvin seemed to read his mind. ‘I expect you are asking yourself why you couldn’t have saved more people, or shot the terrorists sooner?’ East nodded and Litvin continued. ‘You are suffering from survivor’s guilt, and everyone does. You wonder why you were chosen to live when others died, when others might have been more deserving of life. No one has answers to this, not down here at least. We are not party to the great plan. Tell me, are you a religious man?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I see. I am from Moscow… and you, Mr East?’

      ‘Boston.’

      ‘Originally?’ Litvin raised his eyebrows. East didn’t reply, so the doctor continued. ‘Where did you learn your Russian?’

      ‘I did a course at college. It was either that or Spanish.’

      ‘You spoke Russian several times while you were sedated.’ In actual fact, it was when the sedation had begun to wear off, but Litvin wasn’t going to admit the anaesthesiologist might have got the dose wrong.

      East changed the subject. ‘When can I leave, Doctor?’

      ‘In about a week or so. There was some swelling to your cerebellum, which is at the base and back of your brain, and is responsible for coordination and balance. The good news is that the scans did not show any obvious damage. Until you regained consciousness, however, we could not be certain. Now you are conscious, you need to undergo further tests.’

      East frowned. ‘Why was Mr Casey here?’

      ‘Mr East, there was a shooting; these things have to be investigated. I think it is best that you rest now. My colleague from the neurological team will be along to check up on you later.’ Litvin rose and left the room. His patient needed rest and, regardless of who the men in suits were, they must let him be.

      East closed his eyes. What Litvin had said was true; he wasn’t worthy to live because of the innocent lives he had taken in the past. Any of the nine murdered shoppers had more to offer society than him. He closed his eyes for a moment. Were the painkillers altering his mood, making him morose, or did he really feel this way? He sat in silence. He had no idea. What he did know, however, was that he had messed up, and now he had to work on his escape.

       Chapter 2

       Kabul, Afghanistan

      ‘Brothers, our Islamic Emirate is strong. The West cannot defeat us, for when we all shall die it will be with the grace of Allah, peace be upon Him! Those of us destined for martyrdom will die as Holy Warriors, leading the jihad against the infidel crusaders! On this sacred mission we shall be martyred on the infidel’s own soil. For us there shall be no fear. It is the infidels who shall fear us and the anger of Allah!’ The audience voiced their agreement. ‘My brothers, you will continue to fight without fear, knowing that we have the blessing of our faith! Brothers, it is time for our journey to begin!’ Mohammed Tariq stood and embraced in turn each of the men staying in Kabul, those who would continue to fight in their homeland while he and his five soldiers of Islam headed for the border.

      The group of Holy Warriors left the dimly lit room and walked towards the bus. Although almost one in the morning, the coach station south-west of the Afghani capital was busy. Twenty-four hours a day, buses and trucks poured out of Kabul, taking migrants on the first leg of what they believed was their journey to new lives abroad. The bus Tariq’s cell would take was known by locals as the ‘border bus’. It ran nightly, travelling the four hundred miles west to Herat, a town near the Iranian border. At Herat, Tariq’s men would be met by an Iranian contact, who would conceal them within his truck for the crossing into Iran at the Islam Qala border checkpoint. Once in Iran they would pass through Taybad and then on to Mashad, the resting place of the Imam Reza. It made no difference to Tariq that Mashad was one of the holiest cities in the Shia Muslim world, for in the name of Allah he had put aside all notions of Shia or Sunni. It was division that had held back Muslims and allowed the infidels to exploit them.

      Tariq stepped onto the bus, followed closely by his trusted men. A sea of mostly young, expectant, Afghan faces stared back. They yearned to leave the country; they craved the embrace of the infidel, longed to be prostituted by the West. Unlike Tariq and his team, each migrant before him had on average paid $10,000 to a smuggler to get them into Europe, and some much more. Many would perish en route, prey to the elements, border guards, malnutrition, and bandits. Tariq fought the urge to spit, to lash out; these travellers were turning their backs on their duty to their country, their obligation to the jihad and, most sickening of all, their obedience to the Muslim faith. In his mind they were apostate, traitors to Islam and worthy of the death sentence. Tariq fought to keep his face a mask of calm. He and his men were hiding among the sheep, but they were wolves. They were wolves with the most mighty weapon of all; the Lion Sheik, peace be upon Him, had called it the Hand of Allah. Yet what was in the small case had been ordered by Moscow and created in Ukraine. The Hand of Allah had been requisitioned from the infidels who had attempted to destroy the Muslim Caliphate. Tariq enjoyed the irony as his group squeezed into the last remaining seats; the infidel’s own weapon would be used to herald their ultimate destruction.

      Tariq bent down to stow the case beneath his feet.

      ‘Are you going to the West?’

      Tariq looked up. A boy, too young to grow a beard, yet old enough to sleep with the infidel, was