Sitting at the long side of the table are four men and one woman. Abraham and Sofia are made to stand opposite them against the wall and told not to look at anyone. Abraham glances up occasionally; why not, now? There are no more threats or terror in reserve. Sofia stands by him, in her niqab; he still hasn’t seen her face.
The big one is Borz, he’s seen the pictures. He’d know it anyway: he has the face of a man who’s taken pleasure in watching men die. White, translucent skin, damp-looking, hard and pudgy at once, like pig fat, and sticking out from it like bristles the red brown hairs of his too-big beard. Two muddy green eyes taking in everything as if all they need to know is how best to destroy it. Abraham has never met a man of this kind, the monsters who occupy the news, and he’s surprised to discover that he’s no longer particularly scared. Instead he feels disgust for the man, his new son-in-law, and pity for the daughter who married him.
Borz is in fatigues, desert camouflage. On his left is another large man, in black robes, a black scarf on his head. His eyes have a different strain of cruelty, born of some never acknowledged inadequacy; they watch carefully, assessing, calculating the personal risk in everything. To Borz’s right is an imam, and by him a woman in full niqab, her face covered. On the other flank is a compact, hard, dry man in his fifties, maybe, who might be a bureaucrat or a general but looks used to having command. Here, the man in black seems to have the power. When he talks, the others listen and are careful not to interrupt.
A council. A jury.
They talk as if their prisoners weren’t there, and Abraham wonders why he and Sofia have been called up from their confinement downstairs for this. There’s discussion of timing, and place, even before the trial begins. Trial – it’s their word and they pronounce it with great gravity, as if it truly means something. The trial is being conducted here because the matter is so unusually sensitive.
The man in black presides, and he starts with Abraham. The spy Ibrahim Mounir deceived the Islamic State twice, once by claiming he was an Egyptian and again by pretending to be a doctor. As they now knew he lived in London and worked as a pharmacist, he was no doctor at all. It was also clear that he had had contact with state espionage agencies in the UK before he came to Syria.
The charges go on. Mounir and his daughter were from the start engaged in a conspiracy to pass secrets back to their masters in London. What better spy than a seventeen-year-old girl? Who would come under less suspicion? They even devised a means of communicating with each other on Twitter, in plain sight, that allowed them to pass instructions one way and vital secrets the other. Before this was discovered the daughter was placed in positions of great trust, and her ascent through the administration of the State was steep. She was well trained to achieve this, evidently, and her access to sensitive information made her a valued asset of British intelligence.
This was a serious case. All spying is treason. But this is a commander’s wife, a prominent person, with the ability to inflict acute damage on the State and its reputation. An example must be made.
‘She is not my wife.’
‘You are married to her.’
The imam speaks. ‘The marriage can be cancelled.’
The man in black shakes his head. ‘It is known. The British know. They will use it.’
Borz shakes his in turn. ‘I will not cancel.’
At the end of the table the general or whatever he is leans forward and says he has a suggestion to make in this regard. Abraham is struck by how official the whole conversation is. This isn’t anarchy, and these are not mere thugs.
‘We will say that the moment we discovered the girl was a spy we brought her in close so we could investigate. We watched her, her communications, to make sure she was not operating in a ring. When we were satisfied she was acting alone we executed her and her handler, her father.’
Borz crosses his arms and sits back in his chair, shaking his head.
‘This is my name.’
‘This is your mistake.’ The man in black looks straight ahead as he says it. ‘Abu Selim’s solution is correct. Tomorrow morning, at eight. Make the arrangements. Until then lock them up, but not here.’