Agent Storm: My Life Inside al-Qaeda by Morten Storm, Paul Cruickshank, Tim Lister Read Free Book Online Page A

during mybrief stay in Køge jail and we had talked about Islam. She even said that she was ready to become a Muslim.
    A job, somewhere to live, new horizons – and then I would call her. She had promised she would join me.
    My new home was in Milton Keynes in England. A town created on an architect’s master plan, it was a bland collection of housing estates surrounded by countryside. Suleiman’s in-laws helped me find accommodation and a warehouse job. For the first time in my life – guided by Islam – I saved a little money. I hoped Samar would see that I’d turned a corner and come to live with me.
    Every day Suleiman prodded me towards being a conscientious Muslim. I was a project; he was the proselytizer. He encouraged me to pray five times a day and wear an Islamic cap.
    ‘The companions of the Prophet Mohammed were never seen without their heads covered,’ he explained to me one day as we drove to one of the mosques that were popping up across the English Midlands.
    Soon I was praying on my own. I had the zeal of a convert, soaking up the customs and prescriptions of Islam. I felt a sense of stability I had never had before.
    Several weeks after arriving I plucked up the courage to call Samar and ask her to come over. I hoped I could sell my new setting, a fresh start.
    I was not normally given to nerves, but as I jammed pound coins into a public phone I realized my palms were sweating and my stomach turning.
    After a few tones she picked up.
    ‘Darling, it’s Murad, er, Morten. How are you?’
    She was subdued. I pressed on.
    ‘I have a good job. I’m making some money. And I’ve got a decent place to live. Milton Keynes isn’t very exciting, but it’s not far from London.’
    I sounded like a telemarketer. There was silence at the other end. I soldiered on.
    ‘I have enough to plan a good wedding for us, and a honeymoon. I know people here who can help organize a proper Muslim wedding ceremony.’
    She cut me off and poured pure venom down the line.
    ‘Fuck you and fuck Islam. I don’t want to live in England and I don’t want to live with you.’
    I reeled.
    ‘Samar …’
    ‘Don’t call me again.’ The line went dead.
    I stared through the grimy glass panes. Without any explanation the engagement was over – for good. I stumbled into the street. My first attempt to build something with someone had crumbled to dust. I was on my own.
    There was a call from across the street.
    ‘ As salaam aleikum .’
    A middle-aged Pakistani recognized me as a fellow Muslim, thanks to my cap. His name was G. M. Butt and he owned a kiosk near a cinema complex called The Point.
    We had exchanged greetings on my occasional visits to his little shop. He was a man of good intentions, who saw pleasing Allah as one of his duties on earth.
    I told him a bit about the phone call. He was sympathetic.
    ‘Brother! Come and help me and I will try to help you. I am not the young man I used to be – I need help with all the boxes and deliveries.’
    So my fianceé had rejected me because of my religion, but a man who scarcely knew me had embraced me for it.
    G.M. was a good man. Soon I told him how I cried at night, my longing for Samar. One day I asked him for a day off so that I could go to London and pray.
    London’s most famous mosque is on the edge of Regent’s Park, set among the rose gardens and graceful Edwardian terraces. Since its construction in the 1970s, largely with Saudi money, it has somehow blended into this leafy corner of London. The gold of its dome flickers through the plane trees; the call to prayer wafts across the traffic.
    I went to the mosque’s bookshop. Perhaps if I sent Samar some books about Islam she would understand better. The attendant directed me towards the office, or dawa , where a tall and venerable Saudi with dark skin and a long salt-and-pepper beard greeted me.
    ‘ Masha’Allah [God has willed it],’ he exclaimed, delighted that a European convert had come to his