The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,73

him close.

“So here it is, lad. We meet tomorrow with Mr. Fellows and the team. Same meeting place you and I used last time, down in Brixton. You remember?”

“How could I forget? Sorry how that one went down.”

“Not our fault,” said Adrian. “Unlucky.”

Hakim winked at the SIS man.

“Are we cool, then?” said Adrian.

“Most chillful, sir. But you ain’t seen me bike show yet. Want to see your boy burn a little rubber, then?”

“Sure, mate. Just put it in your pants afterwards.”

Hakim went back into the garage, wheeled out the big bike, and started it up. The roar made Harry jump. The Pakistani put on a helmet decorated with a red crescent and the words “Allah’s Warriors,” and jumped into the saddle of the big bike.

“Impress me,” said Adrian.

Hakim smiled. He rolled the bike to the center of the road, waited for a car to pass in the other direction, and then took off. He hit sixty miles an hour a few seconds later, and a hundred miles an hour a few seconds after that. People in the neighborhood looked out the window and thought, What a crazy fucker this Hakim is.

The Pakistani turned around at the top of the road, near where it met the A406, and then drove back slowly to where Adrian and Harry were standing.

“Don’t you dare me, man,” Hakim said. “Because, you know, I will always do it. I am a dangerous boy, you know.”

“Yes,” said Adrian. “I am quite aware of that. See you tomorrow in Brixton.”

The next stop was in Barking, in the far East End, north of the sewage works. This was another dreary working-class neighborhood. Adrian made his way to a sports ground off Longbridge Road. Another muscular young man was waiting for them. This one appeared to be an Arab—his skin the light tan color of a paper bag. It being a Sunday, this gentleman was also getting some exercise in the old neighborhood with some of his mates. He had been lifting weights on an ancient bench whose padding was worn down to the nub. He excused himself from the lads when Adrian and Harry arrived. The young men stood back as he parted, black and brown faces, hooded eyes. You could tell that they worshipped the Arab. He was the neighborhood hero.

“Greetings, Marwan,” said Adrian. They shook hands, with the same routine he had used with the Pakistani. “Meet Bill Fellows. A friend from work.”

“Allah y’atik al affi,” said the Arab. Harry knew the words. May God grant you good health. The young man’s grip was tight as a vise.

“What are you bench-pressing these days?” asked Adrian.

“Two-fifty,” said Marwan. “Three hundred on a good day.”

“Well stop pumping, now. You’re too…noticeable. Where you’re going, you want to look like a coffee boy.”

“Got it,” said Marwan. “I have my baggy shirts. Nobody is going to make me. Not bloody likely.”

Adrian explained the drill. The group would meet the next morning in Brixton. After that, they were rolling. Settle up any outstanding matters, and be ready to move. Marwan was smiling from ear to ear. He still didn’t know where he was going, but it didn’t matter to him. It was action.

“He’s Yemeni,” explained Adrian as they were walking back to the car. “But he can mimic almost any Arabic dialect. Iraqi, Lebanese, even Moroccan, although that’s a stretch, I have to say. Incredible gift for languages. Pretty strong, too. A good man to have in a tight spot, I’ll tell you. One of the best.”

“The best what?” asked Harry.

“You’ll find out. All in good time.”

Adrian was showing off. He was demonstrating for Harry what the action arm of British secret intelligence looked like today. It wasn’t James Bond in a tuxedo drinking a martini, or some upper-class twit driving an Aston Martin and saying “Sorry, old boy” as he shot his adversary with a bespoke pistol. Instead it was these righteous Pakis and Arabs, ready to kick ass for Queen and country—blowing people away while they listened to Bob Marley on the iPod. “M” and “Q” and Miss Moneypenny and the rest of the doting, end-of-empire gang were gone. The Increment was Sex Pistols, Prince Nassim, and Hanif Kureishi all rolled into one. It was New Britain, with a vengeance.

There was an urgent message on Harry’s BlackBerry from Marcia Hill, his deputy back in Washington. She asked him to call in as soon as he could. He decided to ignore it. He didn’t want any electronic record of where he had