Chapter Five

"Tariq here."

Todd had called the number a friend of the editor's had given him on the international phone the magazine had loaned him for the trip to London. Tariq Afaz was a professor and author with knowledge of the more radical mosques and Islamic leaders, along with a willingness to talk to western media, or so he was explained to be.

"Hello, um, sir, I am a journalist looking to interview..."

"You were given my name by Quentin." It was a statement of fact, not a question. "I expected your call. My time this week is limited, but I can meet briefly today. Where are you staying?"

Explaining his location in Camden Town, Tariq cut him off in mid-description. "Meet me at 3:00 pm at Old St. Pancras. Anyone there can help you find it. Make sure you have re-set your watch. Good day."

The click went without saying. Todd thought that this could actually be the best possible outcome for him, since his options were few, but his first call had given him an interview subject who clearly understood that was what he would be asked to do. His interview subject also clearly planned to drive the conversation, and Todd was perfectly ready to let him do so.

At the front desk, the clerk nodded briskly at the question about Old St. Pancras' churchyard. It was about twenty minutes' walk, and Todd readily turned down the offer to call a cab. It was a bit over three hours until the interview, but wanting to get out of his room he just ran back for a notepad and the rest of his pockets' contents (pens, credit card and room key card, some change in Euros and British coinage).

On the way, he stopped to eat at an Indian restaurant, feeling like it would be the best balance between familiar and foreign for him. The nan was crisp and fresh tasting, and the chickpea and chicken dish he settled on was not too spicy. Perched on a counter seat along one wall, he flicked through New York Times foreign news headlines on his tablet, stabbing at mentions of Islam and London and protests. The weight of random violence and outbursts of terror around the world made him nervous and tired, and as he anticipated his coming interview, more than a little edgy.

Two more turns and ten more minutes, and the green swath opening before him was the beginning of the churchyard, memorials visible beyond the fence, and the tan stone of the church coming into view along one side.

Stepping through a gate, he strolled along trying to get his focus and energy back. There were vertical monuments and horizontal slabs, names with hints of familiarity and strange titles, obscured inscriptions and deep cuts into stone surfaces. At one end of the churchyard, a tree was encircled by concentric rings of tombstones piled side-by-side all the way around the trunk; this had been done long enough ago that there were a number of places where the bark was clutching around the slabs of stone, not easily to let go, if ever.

A train station towered over one side of the open area, and occasional clanks and thunderings echoed into the peaceful cemetery space. The sounds followed him as he walked a final loop up around to the aged tower in the trees of Old St. Pancras'.