Salim stepped towards him and stopped two paces away.
“Who are you?”
“Ged Quinn,” Harvey replied at once, keeping the same steady tone.
“Where do you come from?”
“I came from Woolwich Arsenal. I had a transit permit heading east. I was looking for work. Repairs, transport, whatever turned up. I belong to no one. I’ve got no people, no weapon. Just a passport.”
Salim studied him for a long moment. He did not seem interested in the answers. He was searching for something else.
“And you entered King’s Cross St. Pancras alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Without announcing yourself?”
“I came through the eastern routes and passed inspection before entering. They checked me and let me through. If you have doubts, ask the men at the checkpoint.”
Salim took a single step to the side.
“You can still be saved,” he said quietly. “You have not yet been chosen by those who will perish.”
He drew a book from the satchel on his back.
The Qur’an.
Its cover was black, worn at the corners, yet carefully preserved.
“You see, Ged, the Tube is sick. People hide in corners, trade loyalties for a bowl of food, and sell one another another day of life. Where there is faith, there is order. Law is not something to be negotiated.”
Harvey remained motionless.
“The Iron Legion will not wait for chaos to return,” Salim continued. “We will not remain trapped in stations ruled by drunkards, thieves, and men who mistake freedom for disorder.”
His voice dropped lower.
The room seemed smaller now.
“We will decide what remains.”
“Oxford Circus. A monument to fallen pride. They still believe they are the centre of the network.”
“Canada Water. A crossroads of smugglers and lawless traders.”
“Liverpool Street. A junction that survives on fear.”
“Stratford. They still dream of power.”
“Wapping. A refuge for fugitives and doubt.”
“Aldgate East. Too close to the centre and too far from order.”
“Green Park. A weary council clinging to the illusion of stability.”
Salim fell silent and looked at Harvey once more.
“All of them will fall. Not through fire. Through order.”
