Jihadi Bride, page 32
Erik moved into a cross-legged position, braced his back against a wall and brought his hands up. Martel grabbed him by the shoulders, twisted him to face the wall, then mashed his hands together on top of his head, fingers interlaced.
“Like this. Stay.” Martel shoved Erik’s hands again, then stood back. He stood for a moment and then walked off, his footsteps crossing to the other side of the room.
Erik peeked sideways at Arielle, who hadn’t moved, then tried to check out his surroundings. The room was small, a bit larger than an average hotel room, with a grey concrete floor and white, cinder-block walls. A metal counter stood in the middle of the room and beyond that was an alcove where the end of a conveyor belt was visible. There were perhaps another fifteen or so people sat on the floor like him, facing the wall, hands up. Some wore blindfolds. If a person’s hands dropped from their head, or they slouched, Martel would walk over, brace his knee against their spine and pull back on their elbows.
“Get a blindfold on him.”
Erik glanced to the other man, who stood at the counter in the middle of the room. The man’s dark, shark-like gaze stared straight at Erik. While Martel grabbed a piece of clothing from a suitcase, the man reached into a messenger bag on the counter and pulled out a tablet.
Martel knelt at Erik’s back and bound the cloth over his eyes. Erik scrunched up his face while Martel struggled to tie a knot in the too-small piece of clothing. When the blindfold was on, Martel grabbed Erik’s wrists and repositioned his hands on top of his head, and Erik grunted as pain shot through his shoulder.
“Don’t drop those hands,” Martel said into his ear and with a final shove, he moved away.
“Take this,” the other man said. “Access the internet.”
Erik worked his nose and eyes and felt the blindfold shift a little and found a tiny gap through which he could see. He faced the wall at right angles to where Martel and the other man stood at the counter, and if he risked it, he could make out what they were doing.
“Okay, we’re on,” Martel said.
“Stream a video of me,” the other man said.
“Give me a minute.”
Erik’s breath was loud in his ears.
“And…we’re…on,” Martel said.
The man stood straight. “In the name of Allah, the merciful, I bring the people of the Crusader West a message from the Caliphate, which has been re-established through Allah’s will,” the man said. “I am Mamdouh al Qassam, and I swear before Allah, the just, that your reckoning is at hand. Your armies desecrate and defile the holy lands of al-Sham, but instead of defeating us, we grow stronger. Ignorance of the murders your armies commit can continue no longer. Against all your designs, the soldiers of God have brought jihad to your shores. It is time you discovered what it is like to be under attack.”
Mamdouh al Qassam? Erik wracked his brain to remember the name while he canted his head farther to get a better look. Martel stood by the metal counter, the tablet held out like a camera.
“Any attempt to prevent this attack will result in the death of these people, none of whom are innocent,” Mamdouh said. “You are all complicit in the global atrocities of your infidel governments.”
A woman gasped, and Erik twisted to see Mamdouh with the muzzle of his pistol against a woman’s head. She shivered, and her shoulders trembled as Mamdouh dragged her upward by the hair.
“If you want to avert this attack, you will let me speak to the Canadian Prime Minister. Failure to do so will result in the execution of these infidels,” Mamdouh said. “You have one hour.” He flung the woman to the ground and looked back to Martel.
“Got it,” Martel panted, as if out of breath.
“Spread these kafir out,” Mamdouh said. “Place some near the rear doors.”
Martel set the tablet on the counter, then grabbed a man by the scruff of his neck. “Get up.” The man stood, and Martel marched him deeper into the room. As Martel worked, Mamdouh returned to the counter and picked up the iPad.
Erik glanced at Arielle, tucked at the base of the metal counter. She remained seated, fingers at her temples. He coughed, and she glanced up, stared at him, her face pale, eyes bloodshot and red.
“It’ll be okay.” He mouthed the words. “I love you.”
Her bottom lip quivered, then she clutched her arms tight to her chest, clenched her eyes shut and leaned back into the corner of the wall and the counter.
Erik faced the wall and considered what he knew. They’d been moved into the oversized baggage area, and from the sounds of things, the police already had a cordon up, which meant nobody was going anywhere for the time being.
Riding things out wasn’t an option. He didn’t know Mamdouh’s current plan, but he’d bet a year’s salary it didn’t involve the safe release of the hostages. At a certain point – like when the first hostage was executed – the police would be forced to enter the room, and there would be a blood bath. And the longer Mamdouh was left alone, the more time he’d have to prepare that outcome.
That left precious little for Erik to do, except try to keep Mamdouh off balance and maybe force him to make a mistake. A poor option, but now that Erik had been reunited with Arielle, he had to try.
He spoke over his shoulder. “Excuse me,” he said, and the words came out as a croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Excuse me. Can we talk? It doesn’t have to be like this.”
“Go on,” Mamdouh said without emotion.
“We don’t have to die here.”
“We all must die. Some sooner than others.”
“The police cordon is already in place. They can’t let you walk out of here. They’ll negotiate for a bit, but once they have a good option, they’re going to take you down.” He willed the man to see common sense. “Why not talk to them? Whatever reason you’re doing this, you can’t speak to that if you’re dead.”
“Be quiet,” said a woman from the other side of the room. “You’ll get us all killed.”
“He will answer.” Mamdouh’s footsteps moved from the center of the room toward the speaker, followed by the muffled thunk of metal striking something soft. “Talk.”
Erik said a silent apology to whoever had been struck, then kept going. “I work with the police,” he said. “I’ve seen these situations play out before. I’m sure you have, too.”
“Not like this, you haven’t.”
“Mamdouh al Qassam?” a mechanical voice said from outside the room, the main concourse if Erik had his bearings straight. “This is Staff Sergeant Andrew Johnson from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I’d like to talk.”
Footsteps approached Erik, stopped behind him. “Let me tell you something,” Mamdouh said, his voice calm as if he hadn’t just been hailed by the police in the middle of an armed standoff. “Everything happening here today, including your death, is as Allah wills it. You can do nothing to change that.” Mamdouh’s footsteps headed back to the center of the room.
Erik risked another peek through his blindfold and saw Mamdouh bent over the blonde woman he’d threatened before. Pistol in one hand, he wrapped his other hand in her hair and dragged her to her feet. “You’ve done well,” he said and pushed her to stand in front of the door that leads to the concourse. “Now do so again.”
“Don’t hurt me.” Snot hung from the woman’s lips, and tears streamed down her face.
Mamdouh jammed the pistol into the small of her back. “Open the door.”
There was a silence, broken by the woman’s sobs, and then a creaking sound as the door opened. Erik twisted to the other side, spied the main baggage area through the tiny crack in the door and then Mamdouh jammed the woman into the crack.
“Have you met my demands?” Mamdouh called out.
“This is Staff Sergeant Andrew Johnson of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police,” a man replied. “Are you Mamdouh al Qassam?”
Mamdouh jammed the muzzle of the pistol into the back of the woman’s head, his own head tight behind hers and yelled through the door. “Unless the Prime Minister is out there, you’re wasting your time,” he said. “I want media coverage. You have thirty more minutes. Then I start killing people.”
“We need more time,” Johnson said in return, but Mamdouh had already leaned into the door with his shoulder. It slammed shut, and he shoved the woman back to her place on the ground and went back to the counter.
Erik kept watch through the corner of his eye as Martel appeared.
“What was the point of that?” Martel asked.
“I want their attention.” Mamdouh bowed over the tablet.
“Then what?”
“Check on the kafir.”
“But –”
“I said check on the kafir.”
There was a pause, then Martel’s footsteps wandered off. Grunts came from deeper in the room, along with the sound of Martel swearing.
The silence grated and Erik’s shoulder continued to throb. He waited in silence and the seconds became minutes, and his skin began to crawl from waiting.
“How long do you think you can hold this position?” Erik spoke to the center of the room, got silence in return. “What is it you really want?”
Footsteps stalked in his direction, stopped over top of him. Lightning shot through the top of his head and stars sparkled in his darkened vision. Fingers dug into the flesh beneath his jaw, dragged his head upward.
“Do I have your attention?” Mamdouh’s breath was hot on Erik’s face.
Erik nodded, struggled not to pass out.
“Do not talk again.” Mamdouh drove Erik to the ground, then stomped on the bullet wound in his shoulder. Erik’s head lifted off the ground as he yelled and Mamdouh kicked him back down. His footsteps led away as Erik dangled at the edge of awareness.
He forced himself back to a sitting position, made it. The wound in his shoulder throbbed and his shirt clung to him, sticky with fresh blood. He didn’t know how much he’d bled out, but if he didn’t stop the bleeding soon, he wouldn’t be conscious much longer.
“It’s time.” Mamdouh’s voice pierced the fog in Erik’s head.
“For what?” Martel asked.
“Every media outlet is now covering this event. Now we tell the rest of our story.”
“But the police haven’t come back yet.”
“Nor will they. Hold this.”
Erik risked a glance at the center of the room and saw that Martel had again pointed the iPad at Mamdouh.
“In the name of Allah, the most just, I bring a message to the people of the West,” Mamdouh said.
Both men were focused on the video and Erik realized this might be his chance. He inhaled, willed the room to come back into focus, and got ready to move.
“You think we are weak, that we have only rifles and bombs to strike you,” Mamdouh said, “but you are wrong. Your traditions talk of four horsemen, and yet you’re unaware that these forces are moving even now to unseat your morally corrupt nations.”
Keep talking. Erik slowly moved from a seated position to his knees. He just needed Mamdouh to talk for a few more seconds.
“We in the Caliphate have proven adept at using the instruments of war against you. Despite Western aid, we overthrew the apostate regimes in al Sham and recreated the Caliphate,” Mamdouh continued. “You, yourself have sown the seeds of your destruction through the oppression and evils of capitalism. So it is fitting that we help you fulfill your destiny. I bring you Pestilence.” Mamdouh reached down and dragged Arielle to her feet beside him.
Erik froze.
“This woman carries a new, airborne strain of the Ebola virus,” Mamdouh said. “She was infected a week ago.”
In the room, the other hostages scrambled to tuck themselves as far from Arielle as possible, voices raised in panic. Erik hardly noticed. Mamdouh talked – at least his mouth moved – but the words were soundless against the blood rushing through his ears. He stared at Arielle, met her gaze, the abyss in her eyes and the fact she did not flinch or move.
No.
Sounds crept back into his awareness as time fought to resume its normal flow.
No, not her. He would not let this happen.
“– are more.” Mamdouh sounded strong, triumphant. “Even now, other shahid enter your countries via every flight imaginable.”
He had to save her.
There wasn’t much time. The police were no doubt monitoring this feed, and if not, soon would be. They could not let the broadcast continue. The panic that had already gripped the small room was a foreshadow of what would take the entire country. His head was clear now, and every detail in the room stood out in painful detail, Martel’s slack-jaw mouth open in a perfect circle, the other hostages crawling over each other to get away, even Mamdouh’s monotonous drone. In seconds, he knew, a SWAT team would blow into the room. They would kill Arielle. He had to stop it.
The room’s obvious entry point was the metal door where Mamdouh had spoken to the police. The entry team would use explosives to breach the door – there was no time for stealth – which would be bad news for anyone in front of it, whether they were hostages or terrorists. If there was a door in the rear of the room, an entry team would be en route there as well. He might have forty-five seconds.
Mamdouh nodded to Arielle. “Take off your hijab, sister. Show the world.”
Arielle raised her arms, a pinched look frozen on her face. Her movement was jerky, like a time-lapse video.
Erik tensed. He’d have one shot.
Eyes closed, Arielle began to unwrap her hijab and then there was a muffled thunk from the door that led to the main concourse. Both Mamdouh and Martel’s heads turned.
Erik sprang to his feet and launched himself at Mamdouh. Arielle fell to one side as Erik knocked the larger man back into the counter. Martel stood rooted to the floor and followed the battle through the tablet. Erik fell to the concrete on top of Mamdouh and they wrestled on the floor, wormed their way toward the door. Mamdouh rolled on top and grabbed the collar of Erik’s shirt, then smashed his forehead down into Erik’s nose. Blood spattered, and red filled Erik’s vision, but he held on, a death grip around Mamdouh’s torso. The terrorist reached for the pistol tucked into the waistband of his pants, struggled to free himself and bring the weapon to bear.
How much time had passed? With one eye to the door, Erik felt the muzzle of the pistol work its way into his ribs. He released his bear-hug on Mamdouh to push the gun away, then felt Mamdouh’s knee in his gut. The knee dug in, drove Erik to the ground, broke his hold. Erik gasped for breath, even as he fell to the floor and watched Mamdouh regain his feet.
“Look at me!” Mamdouh yelled.
Erik glanced up.
Mamdouh stood in front of the door and smiled, the pistol pointed square in Erik’s face. “See you in –”
With a deafening roar of white light and smoke, the top of the door exploded inward. Still connected to the frame by the lowest hinge, the door rotated, crushed into the right side of Mamdouh’s head. The man crumpled under the blow.
Fatigue washed over Erik, and he fought the urge to stay on the floor. The entry team would be right behind. He rolled to his knees and found Arielle near the counter. Flecks of red covered her face. Beside her, Martel held one hand to his ears and was reaching for his pistol with the other, the iPad in mid-air as it tumbled for the ground.
Move! Erik stumbled to his feet and lurched at Arielle. Martel’s attention shifted from Erik to the door, but Erik ignored it. He had one thing left to do.
Arielle backed away from him, her head shaking, one hand on the metal counter to hold herself up. She met his gaze, silently spoke to him. “No.”
But he had no choice.
He threw himself toward her, his arms spread to envelop her, to cover every inch of her. Behind him came the sounds of gunfire and stabs of pain lit up his shoulder and his back. He clung to Arielle and fell with her to the floor. Used the last of his energy to spread himself on top of her, his legs on hers, his arms clutching her arms under his chest. Blackness crowded his vision, and he looked in her eyes, the eyes of his daughter, Audray’s eyes. The same eyes of the little girl who’d asked him to tell stories as they walked to the bus stop, or in the bath, stories that had to have a fairy, a mermaid, and an elf or some other combination she’d dreamed up. Too often he’d been in a rush. Too often he’d said he didn’t have a story and then one day, she’d stopped asking. How he wished those stories had never ended, how he’d taken more time. He tried to get his mouth to work. I’m sorry.
He closed his eyes, felt lips brush his ear. “I love you, Dad.”
He smiled and sank into the darkness.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE CLEAR PATH
Ottawa General Hospital, Ottawa, Ontario
05 June 2015 – 1023 Local
“Where am…”
“Shh.”
“What’s…” Two figures took shape, both clad head to toe in white. “Am I dead?”
One of the figures reached out for him. “You are not.” Its voice was metallic, toneless.
“My daughter…” he said from across a chasm. “Arielle…”
“She’s resting.” The figure reached for a knob above Erik’s head. “You should rest, too.”
