Lewis flicked back to the report. ‘And then the Mumbai attacks in 2008? The Taj Palace and so on.’
‘Same again,’ said Hilton. ‘She was in Berlin by then but knew all the numbers to call. The quotes she got from Lashkar-e-Taiba were pretty inflammatory. They’re just not the first call you make. If there’s an outrage here, is the first person you call someone who’ll justify that outrage? Or maybe you’d call the victims’ families, the police and the ambulance service. I know how I would run it. I think I know how you would run it too, Andrew. When you were in Chechnya you knew who to speak to. You knew how to balance the horror without giving a justification for it.’ She sat back, case made. Point proven.
‘Fraternizing with the enemy?’ said Lewis. ‘Is that what you’re suggesting?’
Hilton tipped her head one way then the other. Sifting the words. Panning for gold. ‘Your choice of words, Andrew. But no, I wouldn’t say that. She was on a story. Always on a story. Working her leads. That’s what she does. Or did. It’s just that her leads were always thugs.’
Lewis considered the point. ‘You debated this with her? When you were both in Pakistan?’
Hilton nodded. ‘Many times. But she was my senior back then, so … she carried on doing it her way.’
Lewis lowered his glasses, picked at the pages in front of him. Reread a few paragraphs. ‘And did these … thugs, these extreme groups, ever contact her?’ he said. ‘As far as you know.’ He studied her carefully. Hilton’s face was impassive. Her camera face.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they did,’ she said. ‘That’s often how it goes. But I don’t know that for certain.’
‘I see.’ He let the silence run. Hilton shifted in her seat. ‘And when she started dating Seth Hussain,’ Lewis said, ‘what was your reaction?’
She shrugged. ‘I didn’t have one really. He seemed a decent enough journalist. That’s it really. They both thought it was some big secret of course. Played it like they were undercover for some reason. And no one knew about Amal then, so … that’s it.’ She shrugged again, this time accompanying it with open palms.
‘And now you know about Amal,’ prompted Lewis, ‘that he is a wanted, known Islamist terrorist … what do you think?’
Hilton took a while to collect her thoughts. Eventually she said, ‘I don’t get surprised any more, Andrew. You said to be as blunt as I liked?’
Lewis gestured a ‘carry on’ to her.
‘Did she date Amal too? Do we know?’
Lewis frowned, deep grooves running between his eyebrows. ‘She never met him, apparently,’ he said.
Hilton did the head tilt again. ‘Oh. OK.’
Lewis recognized her tone. ‘I take that to mean why shag a moderate when there’s a guy with a gun you can shag instead,’ he said.
Hilton folded her arms. ‘I’m sure that isn’t the case,’ she said, her words weighted precisely to mean the opposite. ‘But it’s an interesting line of inquiry.’
Lewis took a mint, offered Hilton one. She shook her head.
21
6.10 p.m.
THE STUDENT LED that day’s interrogation. ‘Criticism and self-criticism’ was the official term used, CSC for short. The Weathermen had called it a weatherfry. The leader’s words were yelled endlessly, thrown in the face of a man who believed in them already.
Wade in filth. Embrace the butcher. Change the world.
There would, the student realized, be plenty of filth to wade in.
The main bedroom of the house was also the largest room in the house, so it doubled as a meeting room. Its windows and sagging, heavy curtains were closed, the temperature oppressive. Two spartan single beds had been pushed into a corner, four wooden kitchen chairs placed around a fifth, like a five of clubs. When the student entered, just behind the leader, a heavily perspiring man was already on a chair, sitting in the centre of the room. His shoulder-length sandy-brown hair was tied up in a messy ponytail, his small black eyes darting between them.
‘Can we, maybe, get this done?’ he said. ‘I’m sure we all have more important things to do here.’ He wore running shorts and a tired-looking yellow LA Lakers top with the number 23 stamped on it. One leg bounced nervously.
The student and the leader sat facing him.
‘We need to begin.’ The leader’s voice was light, almost reedy, heavily accented. He wore black browline glasses on a sallow, thin face. A fresh buzz cut, clean-shaven. He placed a small grey box about the size of a remote control on the floor in front of him. Two buttons, one small meter under a clear plastic cover. The leader’s own Geiger counter. To warn, he explained, of the inevitable security service attacks.
The man fidgeted some more. ‘You tell us that these sessions work, yes? You say you learnt their importance back in Turkey and that they’re in use in all citizen groups here.’ He scratched his scalp vigorously with both hands. Now he glanced between the student and the leader. ‘But aren’t we just talking to ourselves? Who cares what I’ve thought in the past. We all know this country is available to us. All of the pillars that prop it up are hollow. If there’s a war to be fought, let’s get on and start it!’
The student held up both hands. ‘We know, we agree. It’s why we’re here. But you know how we work.’
They all looked up as a woman entered the room, sliding into one of the remaining seats. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said. She was late twenties, tall, slightly stooped. A face of sharp features – pointed nose and chin, small ears. ‘How was the exam?’ she said to the student.
‘This isn’t a fucking social,’ interrupted the leader. ‘This is work. Hard work. The cell will only become stronger by purging itself. Begin.’
The student dragged his chair so he could sit facing the sweating man. Their knees were touching.
‘How long were you a fascist?’ asked the student.
The sweating man sighed. ‘This shit again? You know it.’ He took a breath. ‘When I was at school I joined the British Movement. There was this guy in the year above me and he seemed to know what was happening in the world. So I followed him for a while.’
‘Answer the question,’ said the student. ‘How long were you a fascist?’
‘About five years, give or take.’
‘That’s a long time to be working with criminals,’ said the student. ‘You must have made many good friends. Do they stay in touch?’ He leant closer. ‘Do you stay in touch?’
The sweating man shook his head. ‘Stay in touch? Is this a joke? The rules – your rules – say no computers, no phones, no website, no online presence at all. We’re off the grid. Invisible. Even if I wanted to stay in touch with the fash, I’d have to write them fucking letters!’
‘And do you?’ said the student, his tone still conversational.
The sweating man glanced around the room. ‘What is the point of all this? Honestly? You know I don’t. I spend all my fucking time here with you guys. We’re all just waiting to be useful, to link up, to cause some damage. To bring the war home. It’s what we’re training for, isn’t it?’