Jihadi Bride, page 11
Erik pulled out his phone and called Jordan.
“Hello?”
“What’s the current situation with Omar Sahraoui?”
“I love you too, buddy. No small talk?”
Erik smiled. “Sorry. How are you? Is the family okay? And the girlfriend? Theresa, right? How’s she? Or is it Tara?”
“It’s Trista.”
“Ah, shit. I can never remember from week to week. They all seem to start with T.”
“Theresa was a month ago.”
“There was a Tiffany as well, wasn’t there?”
“She was the one – you know what? Forget it, you already ruined the moment,” Jordan said. “And I’ve never heard of Omar Sahraoui.”
“No? Teaches at Montreal University?”
“Nope.”
“Won a multi-million-dollar payout for wrongful detainment?”
“Still no.”
“I think he dated your mom.”
A snort of laughter came through the line. “Oh, you mean that Omar Sahraoui. Yeah, that guy’s a dick.”
“My mistake, I should have been more clear.” Erik scanned a walkway through the park, studied a young man who looked like someone he’d seen in Le Cabaret. “Anything to suggest he might be involved in recruitment?”
“Let me check, but I don’t think so.”
While he waited, Erik tracked the young man. They made eye contact and then the man glanced away and continued heading for the cluster of buildings around the Islamic Library.
“Aside from the security certificate stuff, there’s not much recent,” Jordan said. “A couple of students in the mosque he attends tried to go to the Middle East, but no links shown. He’s on record saying he disapproved of their actions and tried to convince them otherwise.”
“I’m sure.”
“Last thing is a note about the unusual frequency of students in the Islamic studies program who both attend his mosque and also have links to the drug trade. And that’s all I can access.”
“What constitutes unusual?”
“Looks like…two or three.”
“Think that could be linked to what we talked about earlier?”
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, I guess. But in this case, I don’t think it means much. A good number of young people in Montreal get involved in drugs, then stop their downward spiral by converting to Islam. Some of the youth detention centers even have programs.”
“I thought that was only in prisons,” Erik said.
“One of the teams would have access to more info.” The other side of the line went quiet. “Should I be wondering why you’re asking these questions?”
“I’m going to interrogate him.”
“That would be something I didn’t want to know.”
“Relax, I just have a couple of questions for him.”
“This is why I shouldn’t joke around with you because you’re no good at it.” Jordan’s voice sounded strained. “You should talk to Stephanie before you do that.”
“You think so?”
“She specifically told me to tell her if I talked to you, so yeah, I’m about as sure as it gets.”
“Then I’d better be proactive.” Erik smiled. “Thanks.” He hung up and thought about what Jordan had said and then dialed Stephanie. The line was busy, so he gave it a couple of minutes then redialed.
“Please tell me you’re not planning on talking to Sahraoui,” Stephanie was saying seconds later.
“Why?” Erik asked. “Is he under surveillance?”
“Not yet,” she said and her voice had a note of hesitation. “But he’ll file a complaint. He does that every time we talk to him.”
“How many times has he been questioned?”
“Enough to know how he’ll react. His position with the university is very tentative, so he fights hard if he feels threatened.”
“Good to know,” he said. “I got a tip that Naomi and Arielle went to his study group. I’ve got some questions for him and wanted to make sure I wouldn’t interfere with one of our teams.”
“Talking to him is a bad idea.”
“Aren’t you the one who suggested I dig around?” He paced in front of the stone wall.
“That didn’t include talking to Sahraoui,” she said.
“It’s not like I’m not going to rough him up,” he said. “I’m just a father asking about his missing daughter.”
Stephanie sighed. “Can you wait?”
“For what?”
“I’ll talk to Wiggins and see about getting him to support questioning Sahraoui.”
“I can handle myself.”
“It would be better if the interview was official.”
He ran a hand over his head and stared at the Islamic Library. Stephanie’s approach made sense, but it would take time, and it might not even be possible to convince Wiggins.
“Still there?” Stephanie asked.
“I don’t like it, even though you’re right. We’re wasting time.”
“I’ll put together a briefing for Wiggins right after this.”
“While you do that, I’ll see if I can find out more about his pattern of life. If it’s been awhile since he’s been under surveillance, he might have changed things up a bit.”
She sighed. “Whatever you do, do not make contact. Understood?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll call you later,” she said and hung up.
Erik tucked away his phone. Stephanie was a great boss, but her experience in field work was limited. Time spent on reconnaissance was seldom wasted, and while she worked on Wiggins, he’d find out what he could about Sahraoui. And if he happened to run into the good professor, well a few questions from a concerned dad wouldn’t hurt, right?
He smiled and headed in the direction of the library.
* * *
Kobane, Syria
05 May 15 – 1803 Local
Crack!
Mus’ab Saleh ducked as a bullet split the air nearby. Fractions of a second later, the thump of the rifle blast followed. Laughter erupted from behind.
“Getting closer, eh brother?” Ahmed’s face was marred by a sneer.
Mus’ab crawled deeper into the ruins of the abandoned building his section had been tasked to defend.
“You heard the delay between the crack and the thump? That means he’s far, maybe 500 meters,” Ahmed said from a makeshift table he’d erected from bricks. A sheen of sweat glistened on his dark, olive skin and a black bandanna on his head kept his dark, scraggly mane in check. “But don’t worry, there haven’t been any ricochets yet, so they have room for improvement.”
Mus’ab held his rifle and leaned against a wall. On his left was the remains of a window. He shuffled to the side of the window frame, got ready to take a shooting position.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Ahmed said between sips from an energy drink. “Those dogs may be terrible shots, but even they can’t miss someone who’s sky-lined. But go ahead if you want. I’ll keep that bride of yours satisfied when I get back to Raqqa.”
Mus’ab paused, then peeked through the window to get a glimpse of their surroundings. When he’d come to the Caliphate, it had been at the height of its military prowess. They’d pushed north to the Turkish border and east into Iraq, came within a hundred miles of Baghdad. Their success seemed divine. When Tikrit and Mosul had fallen, the Caliphate captured tanks, artillery, thousands of the American’s HMMVWs, enough to conquer the entire Levant.
Then the glorious advance had bogged down.
His section had been tasked to regain the momentum. They’d been assigned to a bunch of rubble near the Syrian / Turkish border, in what had been a vibrant village three short years ago. Here, they fought the Kurds, so they thought, although it was possible they were fighting one of the other rebel groups – al-Nusra, Ahrar al-Sham – since they all fought for control of the same ground. All Mus’ab wanted was to get out alive.
Mus’ab ducked beneath the window and searched for another, safer position. This situation was stupid. He was a student, not a soldier. He should have listened to his parents when they’d said the Caliphate was a sham, but his religious conviction had been so resolute. His beliefs, unassailable in the safety of London, had lasted until his first battle, when he’d pissed himself during a mortar barrage. Nothing had worked out as he’d hoped. Until Arielle. “You’ll never touch my wife.”
Ahmed snorted and took another sip of his energy drink. Ex-military, Ahmed Sallum had struggled between petty crime and half-hearted efforts to succeed as a rapper before he’d embraced the Caliphate. In Syria he had flourished, reveling in the lack of rules and savagery to become a rising commander.
Mus’ab wasn’t sure who he feared more, the Kurds or Ahmed. If there was one good thing, it was that the violence that made Ahmed a mockery of how Mus’ab understood Islam, also let the section flourish in battle. During Mus’ab’s first time on the front lines, he’d frozen in the face of three Kurdish fighters. He’d rounded a corner and stumbled across the men in an alleyway. They’d reacted first, brought their guns to bear, and then Ahmed had appeared on a flank and mowed down two of the three before they even knew he was there. As the third man oriented to the new threat, Ahmed had taken his fighting knife and stabbed it deep into the man’s neck, his face blank as dark blood spurted over his arm. No, in many ways Ahmed was the true embodiment of the Caliphate.
Another crack split the air. Bricks shattered on the wall opposite from where Mus’ab crouched and the shooting from outside increased. He cringed and hunched his shoulders, tried to make himself as small as possible.
“They’ll come soon.” Ahmed stood and shouldered his rifle. “Get ready.”
“Where are the others?” Mus’ab asked.
“On our flanks, where they’ve been for the last hour,” Ahmed said. “We’ll chew those dogs up if they ever come.”
From behind them came the sound of footsteps along ground-up bricks and they both turned. Ahmed raised the butt of his rifle to his shoulder and drifted to a corner where he could observe whoever approached. Mus’ab gripped his own rifle tighter, concerned that Ahmed seemed to think their lines of communication might have been breached.
The footsteps grew louder and then Bilal al Noury slunk into the room. Al Noury worked as a runner for the sector commander, and if he was here, it wouldn’t be good news.
Mus’ab caught al Noury’s attention and nodded at the open window. “Stay away from it.”
Al Noury contemplated the window, then crouched beside Ahmed, who’d dropped his rifle from his shoulder and held it by the pistol grip, the barrel almost dragging on the ground.
“What news?” Ahmed glowered at al Noury. Up until a few months ago, their force had communicated with hand-held radios. In the last few weeks, however, a no-radio policy had been implemented on suspicion that the enemy was intercepting their transmissions. Ahmed had argued to let them – all the better to feed them lies – but he’d been overruled. “Are we attacking?”
“Pull back,” al Noury said. “We’ll regroup at the previous line of defense.”
Mus’ab frowned. Things must be very bad indeed.
“Retreat?” Ahmed said. “Has Qassim lost his nerve?”
“Just pull back,” al Noury said. “Qassim wants to figure out another way to come at this. Move now.” Without waiting for a reply, al Noury spun and returned the way he’d come.
“Qassim al Shishani is a coward.” Ahmed stomped to the center of the room and smashed a fist into the makeshift table. “If I spit in his face, he’d say it was raining. We should attack.”
Mus’ab glanced up. “Isn’t it a good thing we’ll live to fight another day?” He wanted nothing more than to flee this room, this hateful existence. If it was up to him, he wouldn’t even stop at the next line of defense. He’d go all the way back to Raqqa, or across the border into Turkey or his native Lebanon. He shoved the thought away. He couldn’t abandon Arielle.
Ahmed stalked closer, his face red. “Our strength is our savagery,” he said. “If we pull back, the enemy gains hope. An attack where we all died would still be better than a retreat.”
The enemy fire intensified. Mus’ab crouched lower, stared up at Ahmed. “How is it better if we’re all dead?”
“We’d inspire countless others to take our places,” Ahmed said. “We’ve never retreated. Our reputation is worth more than a thousand tanks. I spit on Qassim and al Noury and the cowards.” With a yell, Ahmed thrust his rifle through the window frame and began to shoot.
“Watch –”
Ahmed’s head exploded.
Unable to look away, Mus’ab watched as Ahmed’s limp body crumpled to the ground. The enemy gunfire built up even more. Bullets smacked into the building in a rising crescendo and drove Mus’ab to cower on the ground.
“Merciful God, protect me.” Mus’ab crawled to the exit, in the direction al Noury had gone. Bullets filled the air, struck the walls and showered him with fragments of plaster and dust. It was hard to see, and he repeated his prayer as he groped along the floor. He sensed a wall to his front and by touch, he hand-railed along until he tumbled into the hallway.
This was madness.
He rolled onto his back amid the rubble, eyes clenched shut, hands over his ears. Ahmed the Indestructible was dead. He’d barely finished the thought when the air seemed to split, the explosion so close he felt the shock wave more than he heard it. The walls shook, and the blast wind tore his breath from him. He opened his mouth to scream and was flung against the far wall of the hallway and his open mouth filled with dust and dirt. Parts of the ceiling tumbled to the floor and covered him, and sunlight streamed through newly formed holes and cut laser-like beams through the dust-filled air.
Mus’ab groaned, the sound loud inside his head. A coalition jet must have scored a hit. It occurred to him that Ahmed would have said an attack would soon follow and sure enough, the gunfire escalated even more, this time mixed with the shouts of men.
Get out, get out, get out. He went to stand and felt himself trapped. Panic blasted through his brain. He flailed, freed himself from a pile of rubble that covered his legs. He regained his feet, careened headlong into the ruined building and into the street beyond.
He reached an intersection and leaned against a wall to catch his breath. The other section members had been to his right. He raced down the alleyway until he came to a corner where he was confronted by a rubbled wall of bricks and mortar. Shit. The entire section must be dead. He stumbled back to the intersection, slowed to a stop. Yells and shouts came from behind him. Or was it to his front? It was difficult to tell, difficult to keep his bearings.
He was alone. Al Noury and Qassim would assume that they had all died. Nobody would come for him. He had to move, had to escape.
He peered over his shoulder, back to the building where Ahmed’s body lay. The sun had begun to set, and it occurred to him that Ahmed’s body would not be buried before the end of the day, maybe not at all. Ahmed’s spirit would be left to suffer until the end of days, and this would be what waited if Mus’ab continued this fight.
Coughs racked his body, and he bit his hand to muffle the sound. When the fit subsided, scarlet flecks had intermingled with the dirt on his hand. Wild thoughts raced through his head. He could flee, head back to London. No, he would surrender to the Kurds. They’d give him medical treatment at the very least.
He shook his head, willed himself to think. The Kurds might kill him as easily as accept his surrender. Even if he lived, he’d be imprisoned, tortured. Worse, if he was wrong, if the enemy was a competing rebel group, beheading would be the most likely reward.
An explosion came from behind, and he cringed, clutched his ears as smoke and dust poured into the alleyway. Whoever the enemy was, they’d blown into the building he’d just fled. If he was going to surrender, he needed to decide now, or he’d get shot as he retreated. And then he knew. Above all else, he had to live, for one reason.
Arielle.
Ears ringing, he pictured her face, their few nights together. Like him, she had learned the truth of the Caliphate, and he knew that truth would be hard for her. She would need him, and he’d taken a vow. If he surrendered, he would have abandoned his family not once, but twice. Men’s voices rose in sharp commands from inside the building, and Mus’ab took one last look and then ran.
* * *
Montreal, Quebec
05 May 15 – 1420 Local
Erik walked through what had been the nave of a Catholic church, now part of the main library of the Center for Islamic Studies. On the far side, in an old tower that housed the journal section, Dr. Sahraoui would be in a tutorial session, at least according to the schedule outside his office. Erik’s gaze roamed the rows of books, the multitude of Islamic decorations on the walls. He wondered if he’d find a copy of Salman Rushdie’s Satanic Verses tucked away on a shelf.
