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The older man rose and stepped forward. He said in a polished public-school voice, “Yes, we are Adara’s mates, Mr. Aziz, but understand, we share much more than that. We share more than an allegiance to, say, a soccer team or to drinking pints together at a pub. We share a common cause, a cause to which we are loyal.” He shot a look at Adara. “We are brothers and sisters, and we do not tolerate anyone who betrays that cause.”

One of the young men with eyes as dark as a starless night said, “Who are you, Mr. Aziz? Really?”

The older man said, “You said you’re searching for something meaningful.”

The men were silent. Khaled turned to Adara. “You said the imam has found nothing damning in my life. But he doesn’t know of my foray into gambling at the Balfour Club on Hanover Street?” He stopped, waited, a half-smile on his mouth. He hoped he hadn’t gone overboard.

Yusuf nodded to the two younger men and each gave Khaled his first name.

Yusuf seems to be in charge. He is by far the oldest of the four and smart, I think, very smart. I imagine he could have nodded and either of the young men would have stuck a knife in my gut. Or perhaps it is Adara who is in charge. She was treated with great respect, deferred to. The two young men were acolytes, men you would think would be talking of sports and their love of Guinness. I will await further contact, I hope from Adara Said.