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were no longer young students playing at bringing about a change in society or attempting to bring their misguided co-religionists back into the folds of pure Islam. Suddenly there was something else riding with them, something grim and ominous.
    ‘What do you suggest, Mujib?’ Salafi’s words came out a strangled whisper, as though he was having trouble speaking. The sudden display of weakness in someone he admired so much shocked Asif more than he cared to admit and this unexpected betrayal caused a sudden rush of anger in him.
    ‘What does one do with the enemy?’ Mujib repeated softly, his tone neutral.
    He needs to know which side of the fence Salafi is on. The thought hit Asif immediately. And so do I. He found himself watching Salafi carefully.
    Talking the talk and walking the talk are two different things.
    Salafi seemed to be struggling with his thoughts, his inner turmoil evident. Both men watched him closely.
    ‘Fight those who believe not in Allah nor the Last Day, nor hold that forbidden which hath been forbidden by Allah and His Messenger, nor acknowledge the religion of Truth (even if they are) of the People of the Book, until they pay the Jizya with willing submission, and feel themselves subdued.’ Mujib chanted the sura in a low, flat tone, almost in a whisper. He was among those who had helped design the Al Qaeda recruitment and training manuals; he knew when the time was right to quote from the Scriptures.
    ‘But they are also believers, Mujib,’ Salafi protested weakly. ‘We must give them the chance to see...’
    ‘Are they? Then they will understand that the jihad takes supremacy. After all, battles are not won without martyrs.’ Mujib pulled over to the side of a deserted road; the shadow of a tree smothered what little light there had been inside the vehicle. ‘So what do we do with the enemy?’ he asked again, swivelling around in the driver’s seat to face Salafi.
    ‘We kill them.’ Salafi swallowed as he whispered the answer, his Adam’s apple bobbing comically in his throat. Asif suppressed a sudden, ridiculous urge to laugh.
    ‘And do you have it in you?’ Mujib continued in a low voice. Salafi’s goatee and his Adam’s apple did another rapid bob.
    ‘No!’ he finally replied in a strangled whisper. ‘I cannot ki...’ Even the word eluded him and his voice faded into the night.
    Salafi’s weak, whining voice was beginning to irritate Asif. He could not believe that this was the same man he had admired for being strong in his beliefs and clear in his call for action.
    Mujib did not remove his unwavering gaze from Salafi’s face. ‘You don’t have to dirty your hands, miyan.’ His voice was edged with contempt. ‘We’ll do that for you.’
    ‘Then what do you want me to do?’
    ‘Just get back in there and keep them talking. Keep them busy and use the nice, clean network the YPS is creating to build a strong nationwide network for us; a network that will provide support, finance and when required, media and legal support; a network which we can cull for the right kind of people from time to time.’ His tone hardened. ‘People who are not so squeamish... people who are ready to kill for Allah.’ He leaned forward, pushing his face closer to Salafi’s. ‘Are you ready to do that at least?’
    ‘Yes!’ Salafi’s breathing was ragged but he nodded his head vigorously. ‘Yes, yes, of course I am… I will… but…’
    ‘Good.’ Mujib pulled away from him slightly.
    ‘Always bear in mind that there are others out there who are going to put their lives on the line for the cause. They are the flag bearers of the jihad. Don’t ever let them down – ever.’ The last word hissed out with such shocking vehemence, it made Salafi flinch as though he had been slapped.
    ‘Never!’ he croaked back. ‘I swear by all that is holy, I will make sure they are never let down.’
    ‘For your sake, I hope so,’ Mujib replied, his tone almost conversational.