Jihadi Bride, page 1
Jihadi Bride
Alastair Luft
© Copyright Alastair Luft 2019
Black Rose Writing | Texas
© 2019 by Alastair Luft
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.
First digital version
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-339-4
PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING
www.blackrosewriting.com
Print edition produced in the United States of America
Thank you so much for checking out one of our Crime Fiction novels.
If you enjoy this book, please check out our recommended title for your next great read!
Caught in a Web by Joseph Lewis
“This important, nail-biting crime thriller about MS-13 sets the bar very high. One of the year’s best thrillers.” –BEST THRILLERS
For Anna,
Your hand in mine.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Recommended Reading
Dedication
PROLOGUE - THE OPENING
CHAPTER ONE - THE HOUSE OF THE SPIDER
CHAPTER TWO - MIXED TIDINGS
CHAPTER THREE - SENT FORTH
CHAPTER FOUR - THE MOON IS SPLIT
CHAPTER FIVE - CAST OUT
CHAPTER SIX - CLEFT APART
CHAPTER SEVEN - ASCENSION’S DAWN
CHAPTER EIGHT - THE DARK OF THE NIGHT
CHAPTER NINE - SONG OF THE SIREN
CHAPTER TEN - THE LIGHT OF THE MORNING
CHAPTER ELEVEN - DRAGGED FORTH
CHAPTER TWELVE - SPLIT OPEN
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - THE SHIFTING SANDS
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - THE RECKONING
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - THE SUN AND THE MOON
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - DARKNESS FALLS
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - THE CROOKED PATH
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - JUDGEMENT
CHAPTER NINETEEN - THE CLEAR PATH
CHAPTER TWENTY - THE TRIUMPH
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Note from the Author
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BRW Info
PROLOGUE
THE OPENING
Raqqa, Syria
11 Apr 2015 – 1733 Local
Abu Noor al Kanadi stood near the center of Raqqa’s crowded main square, hands clenched at his sides. At least two thousand people stood with him in a circle that surged forward and back, anchored by gruff commands from men in black hoods with assault rifles. Two such men stood at al Kanadi’s side to protect a space of several feet around him. A perk of rank, although he would earn it today.
He always did.
Across the plaza, the crowd parted to let through a small procession. Two hooded men in tan camouflage half-led, half-dragged a third man dressed in orange coveralls, his emaciated limbs held together by chains. Behind these three strode a rotund, hooded man in the same desert camouflage, combat shirt stretched taut across his distended gut, the flip-flop sound of his cheap leather sandals echoing in the square. He might have been comical except for the wicked three-foot curved blade slung over his shoulder. Together, the group marched toward a plain metal chair in the center of the square.
Al Kanadi’s lips pressed together in a thin line. He thought of his former brothers-in-arms from 5th Special Forces Group, how they’d laugh to see how he’d fallen. If they only knew. He had no idea why the ragged-looking man was to be executed, perhaps spying or maybe for being an infidel. There were countless roads to the executioner’s blade, many of them unpredictable which, after all, was partly the point. It was far easier to reap terror where confusion had been sown.
The guards shoved the prisoner onto the chair and grabbed his hair to force his head down over his chest, the rest of his body slumped. With a shove, they indicated the prisoner should remain seated with his head down, then both men withdrew several feet. In turn, the fat man with the sword sauntered into the vacated spotlight at the center of the square.
Such savagery, but Ibn Tamiyya’s writings were explicit as to the need for these acts. A French philosopher, Guy Debord, had said that the masses could be distracted and pacified through entertainment, but Ibn Tamiyya understood that fear was as effective. The symbol was the important thing, in this case of a new power ascendant, and it was the reason that though his stomach revolted at the sight of the executions, al Kanadi would watch and be seen to watch. To look away would incur doubt in his faith, reinforce the belief that Westerners were inferior fighters, cannon-fodder. He would not have it. There was too much to accomplish and Protean-like, he would take any form to ensure success.
Beside him, one of his bodyguards stiffened and then stepped aside. Al Kanadi frowned – he’d made it clear he was to be left alone – and turned to see who presumed to disturb him. He found himself face-to-face with Mamdouh al Qassam, his second-in-command.
Mamdouh leaned close, his hand coming to al Kanadi’s back. “Another two girls are on their way,” he said in his gravelly voice.
He shrugged off Mamdouh’s hand. “It can wait.”
Mamdouh’s eyes narrowed. “They’re from Canada.”
Al Kanadi’s frown deepened. “When?”
“They’ve already begun to travel.” Mamdouh’s gaze flickered to the scene in the square, where the fat man was reading the prisoner’s sins from a piece of paper. “I thought you might want to oversee the preparations yourself. I can represent you here.”
“I’m sure you would.” Al Kanadi gestured for Mamdouh to stand beside him. The offer was attractive – he’d been awaiting this development for almost a year now. “My place is here.”
“My apologies,” Mamdouh said, almost licking his lips as he assumed his place beside al Kanadi. “I know how these…sights…bother you.”
“They have their place.” He made a mental note to reprimand his subordinate. Mamdouh’s ambition served him well, but it would get him into trouble sooner or later. “I prefer more subtle methods of instilling fear.”
“I would never have guessed.”
The corners of Abu Noor’s mouth spread up as he focused on the executioner, who stood with his blade extended above the prisoner’s neck. He willed himself to be silent, an image of stoic resolve, yet couldn’t resist another question. “When will they arrive?” He could feel Mamdouh’s smile grow wider. He didn’t care, he needed to know.
“Within a few days.”
His heart quickened. Insha’Allah, these recruits would be more suitable than the last ones. What was it the British said, fortune favors the bold? He smiled. His plan was nothing if not bold.
The executioner’s sword began its descent, and for the first time in ages, Abu Noor al Kanadi did not flinch as it fell.
CHAPTER ONE
THE HOUSE OF THE SPIDER
Ottawa, Ontario
11 Apr 2015 – 1210 Local
For the second time in his life, Erik Petersson was at war.
Perched on the pedals of his yellow hardtail bike, his butt inches above the saddle, he pushed the thought from his head. A rock garden was up ahead, and he needed to concentrate. Knees and elbows bent, he coasted past towering pine trees and scanned for the safest line through the obstacle, trying to ignore what would happen if he fell. As in war, it was easy to become paralyzed by analysis.
This war was different. There were no uniforms, nobody shooting at him. There was no dirt or sweat or blood or hours hunkered in a concrete bunker to escape wayward rockets and mortars. But the biggest difference was that although he was still a soldier, still bent on capturing or killing the enemy while starving them of resources, he wasn’t in the Army anymore.
Mud sprayed his legs as he splashed through a puddle and sideswiped a partially submerged rock. The handlebars wrenched in his grip and he tightened his hold. He should’ve missed that one, but it had been awhile. With his riding partner opening up distance, Erik might need the excuse for falling behind. He could still keep up with men half his age, but all the same, he could do with less time hunting people and more time in the saddle, yet another thing different about this war.
Indeed, this war made up for his first experience with a host of other features.
This war had Twitter, Facebook and YouTube, not to mention overtime, Starbucks, and trail riding, however rare that might be. In this war he never left home, never deployed to combat zones despite being on duty twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. At times, this second war was s
But war it was.
The crowded bush gave way to a field of bulrushes under a clear, spring sky. He rode onto a narrow wooden boardwalk, blinked to clear the sweat stinging his eyes and pedaled faster in pursuit. Competition, at least, was one thing that would always be the same.
This war remained a struggle between opposing forces. There were still people trying to kill each other, even if they used medieval methods like beheadings and crucifixion. Tactics and strategies adapted and evolved and because of that, combatants still needed to protect their vulnerabilities. It was a full-time job with this enemy, who were so innovative in their callous disregard for life. If the public knew what didn’t make the news, they’d be too scared to leave their homes. The plot to detonate pressure-cooker bombs during Ottawa’s Winterlude Festival, the plan to explode a train carrying crude oil in Winnipeg, and others, all prevented with help from Erik’s team.
Times like that made him feel like a neurosurgeon must feel after removing a brain tumor, it didn’t get much better. Sure, much of his work involved sifting through piles of reports, contradictory reports, false reports, reports overcome by events, and his personal favorite, circular reports. Yet it wouldn’t be war if the hours of boredom weren’t broken by bursts of intensity, and when he uncovered links that led to the neutralization of a threat, the sacrifice was worth it. He was a good soldier. He served his country and protected his loved ones.
Like Arielle.
The bike’s front wheel jerked and he pitched from side to side, put out his foot to steady himself and then his handlebar clipped a tree and he fell. A mix of mud and water sprayed where he hit, the muck ice-cold from the spring melt. He gasped and pushed into a squat, then looked up as his riding companion approached.
Jordan skidded to a stop. “You hurt?” he asked around swigs of water.
“Just my pride,” Erik said and stood up his bike.
“Maybe if you got out of the office a bit more…”
“About that…” Erik looked at his watch. “Mind if we head back?”
“Seriously? It’s Saturday. Tell me you’re not going to work.”
“Well, now that you mention it…”
“Give it a rest, man. You’re like a dog with a bone.”
“Then you’ll be happy to know I’m not going to work,” Erik said. He stood tall, although he still had to look up at the younger man. “I’ve got a date.”
“I don’t believe you.” Jordan flashed a smile that never failed to catch the attention of many women and some men. “I have dates because I have a life outside work. You don’t.” Jordan squinted in pretend suspicion. “Who’s this date with?”
Erik cleared his throat. “Arielle. We’re playing World of Warcraft.”
“I knew it. Your daughter doesn’t count,” Jordan said. “And you’re like fifty years old. That’s too old to play video games, you know that, right?”
“It’s something I do with Arielle,” he said and shrugged. “We’ve missed the last few weeks, so I want to make this one.”
“Why not go for coffee, like normal fathers and daughters?”
“She lives in Montreal,” he said and frowned. “Remember? And I’m forty-five, that’s a long way from fifty.”
“All right, all right,” Jordan said with a smirk. “Is your character at least cool?”
Erik grimaced. “No, not really. If I wasn’t in Arielle’s guild, I’d get my ass kicked by twelve-year-old kids every time I played.”
“Or fat dudes pretending to be chicks.” Jordan sighed. “At least you’re honest. Okay, old man, let’s go. You take the lead.”
Erik faced the bike in the opposite direction, leaned into the pedals and pushed back onto the boardwalk. His thoughts turned to Arielle. For all Jordan’s kidding, he had a point; Erik needed to get to Montreal more often. Hell, it was less than two hours door to door to Arielle’s university.
“You think Stephanie would play Warcraft?” Jordan called over the rattling of the wooden planks.
“Fuck you,” he said over his shoulder, his cheeks warm and not from the exertion.
“Think about it,” Jordan said. “You have lots in common, like being workaholics.”
“It’s unprofessional to date a colleague.”
“Plus, you’ll have to fight her off once you catch that asshole radicalizing people in Montreal. That shit’s like Spanish fly to the ladies.”
Laughter spurted from Erik’s mouth, and he wobbled on the bike. He dragged a foot on the ground and skidded to a stop, then smiled back at Jordan. “What’s wrong with you?” he said as Jordan stopped beside him.
“What? Why are we stopping?” Jordan said in mock exasperation. “I thought you had to nerd out?”
“I’m not asking Stephanie out,” he said. “And al Kanadi isn’t from Montreal, he went to school there. All I need –” Ringing came from the black bag on his handlebars. “You’ll see,” he said and dug for his phone. The number was familiar, although Arielle shouldn’t have been calling already. They weren’t supposed to be online for another ninety minutes.
He glanced at Jordan. “Gotta take this. I won’t be long.”
Jordan nodded up the trail. “I’ll go slow so you can catch up.”
“Right behind you,” he said and brought the phone to his ear.
“Stephanie. Warcraft. Genius,” Jordan called out as he rode off. “Start a blog.”
“Asshole.”
“Dad?” Arielle sounded confused.
“Not you, sweetie, sorry. I’m talking to Jordan.”
Silence, filled by the throaty rasp of crows in the trees overhead.
“Arielle?”
“I’m here.”
“Thought I lost you for a second,” he said. “What’s going on? Are we still on for two o’clock? I know how –”
“Dad…”
He stopped. “What is it?”
“I can’t make it.”
“What do you mean? We had a date.” More silence. The dense canopy of trees pressed in upon him, the air at once thick and dark. “Is everything okay? Talk to me.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not going to be able to see you for a while.”
“What are you talking about? Did something happen at school?”
“I’m not at school.”
“You’re not…” He switched the phone to his other ear. “Where are you?”
“Frankfurt.”
“Frankfurt, Germany?” Mud squelched underfoot as he shifted weight.
“I don’t have much time. My flight’s in a couple of minutes.”
“Wait, what? Flight to where? Why are you in Frankfurt?”
“I don’t disown you.” Her voice had a slight waver. “We’re supposed to – that’s part of it – supposed to erase our previous lives. But I still love you and I pray for you.”
She prayed for him? She may as well have said he’d sprouted horns from his forehead. He realized she’d kept talking and he forced himself to focus.
“– to Turkey,” she said.
“What? What about Turkey?”
“We’re going to Turkey,” she said. “We’re meeting someone there who’ll take us into Syria.”
His mouth opened and closed and no sound came out.
“Dad?”
“I’m here.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, had to remind himself he was on the phone with his daughter and not for one of his investigations. “Listen, there’s a civil war in Syria right now. It’s dangerous. Don’t do this. Whatever you –”
