Jihadi Bride, page 6
Arielle half stood. “Naomi –”
The man slapped Naomi across the face, and she fell into a heap onto the floor. She struggled to her hands and knees, and the man stood over her and blood dripped from her nose and onto the man’s boot. Under his large, simian brow, the man’s wide spaced-eyes were expressionless, and he reached down to take Naomi by the neck and dragged her to her feet. Held her like a rag doll with his right hand while he rained blows on her face with his left.
Arielle’s mouth went dry, and she was almost to her feet when a tug drew her up short. She turned to the woman beside her, who’d taken ahold of Arielle’s chador. Arielle shrugged, tried to dislodge the woman’s grasp.
“Sit down,” the woman said in a hiss. “You can’t help her.”
“Let go,” Arielle said, then froze as she caught a glimpse of her friend. Naomi’s arms hung limp at her sides and the man continued to hit her, his face as impassive as if he was chopping wood. He struck her one last time and a spray of blood flew through the air, and then he let go. She crumpled to the floor and her head thunked against the dirty ceramic tiles.
The woman beside Arielle released her grip and Arielle stumbled against her chair. The clatter drew the man’s attention, and he looked at her and then stepped over Naomi’s body. Icy sweat broke out over Arielle’s body as the man stormed closer and then he stood before her. She had time to see the flecks of red on his knuckles and then he grabbed her by the throat and dragged her to her tiptoes.
“Who told you to stand?”
“Let me help her,” she said. “Please.”
She stared into his eyes, and the man’s dead gaze was worse than his hand around her throat. He leaned closer and breathed in through his nose. “You will make a good wife.”
She grimaced at the garlicky stench of his breath and twisted in his grip.
“Tariq.” Deeba’s voice cut through the room.
The man’s heavy brow lowered over his eyes.
“That is enough, Tariq.”
Tariq chuckled and released Arielle. Stepped aside to allow an unbroken sight path to Naomi’s body.
Arielle clutched her throat, her gaze torn between Tariq and Deeba, unable to move.
“Go!” Spittle flew from Tariq’s mouth.
Arielle crawled on hands and knees to Naomi’s side and cradled her friend’s head in her lap. Naomi’s niqab had come loose, and blood from a deep cut over her right eye flowed down her face to mix with snot from her smashed nose. Tears welled in Arielle’s eyes, and she rocked back and forth.
“Oh, Naomi,” Arielle whispered. Her throat burned and she swallowed back the tears and wiped her friend’s forehead with the back of her hand.
“She is Abdia now,” Deeba said and then raised her voice, spoke to the women still seated at the edge of the room. “Let this be a lesson. You are here to serve, not make demands.”
Then the tears came and Arielle no longer cared if anyone thought she was weak. She put her mouth to Naomi’s ear and whispered, “Ssh, you’ll be all right.”
She wished she believed those words herself.
CHAPTER THREE
SENT FORTH
Ottawa, Ontario
20 Apr 2015 – 2030 Local
Erik circled his opponent. Sweat trickled down his cheeks and he wanted to wipe it away and instead threw a jab. Except his hand didn’t connect, and he was upside down in the air and then slammed onto the blue mats that covered the wooden floor of the dance studio. A knee jabbed into his solar plexus, forced out what air he’d been able to hold onto, and then his opponent had twisted Erik’s arm like a chicken wing. Erik tapped a furious rhythm on the floor with his free hand until the knee lifted and the pressure on his wrist eased.
“You okay?” Jordan’s hand appeared in front of his face.
Erik nodded, tried not to wheeze too much as he fought to regain his breath.
“All right,” Jordan said. “Can we try the other side now?”
Erik wiped his brow with the sleeve of his keikogi, then readopted a fighting stance and threw a left punch. Moments later, he was back on the mats.
“Your turn,” Jordan said.
Erik nodded and took up a relaxed stance, inches out of Jordan’s reach. He willed himself to ignore the other students, to empty his mind, but his thoughts strayed. To Arielle, to work, the lone thing that had quieted his mind these past days. He should be at headquarters now, not this jujitsu class –
Erik blinked, realized Jordan’s punch was on its way and stumbled out of the way. “My fault,” he said, thankful he’d missed getting smashed in the face, never mind practicing the throw the instructor had shown.
“It’s okay,” Jordan said. “Let’s go at your speed.”
“That might be pretty slow.”
“Hey man, you’ve got other things on your mind.”
“I think it’s the drugs.”
“That, also, would explain your slowness,” Jordan said. “Though I’m kind of surprised you’d take something.”
“What?” Erik frowned. “Not me, I mean the connection you were talking about between extremists, radicalization, and crime. I think drugs could be the connection.”
“I dragged you here so you’d leave work behind.”
“Think about it,” Erik said, “the Taliban has raised money through heroin for years, so why not other groups?”
“The Taliban aren’t exactly hard-core God freaks,” Jordan said. “They have convenient ideals.”
“So do many other extreme groups, including the Caliphate or whatever we’re calling them these days.”
“So what? It’s a money-raising thing, their version of getting seed capital. How does it tie to radicalization?”
“I wish I knew,” he said. “But there are lots of reports of terrorist groups linked to cartels, and it goes beyond money. Their methods are merging, even their goals. It’s not just about financing, it’s about recruitment, propaganda, everything.”
“You’re saying they’re learning from each other. Makes sense, they’re operating in similar spaces.”
“But I think it’s more than that,” Erik said. “People turn to drugs when they’re stressed or unstable, and one of the biggest stressors these days is terrorism. What if there’s some sort of strategy or link behind that? What if they’re creating new users?”
“More users, more money, I like it,” Jordan said.
“All right,” the sensei called out, “we’ll finish with limb destruction. Remember, put your knuckles into the back of your opponent’s hands, like knocking on a door.”
Shit. This was a brutal exercise, one that had no value when the gloves were on but worked on unprotected hands. Soon enough, Erik’s hands stung and every other thought had been driven from his head except the drill, and at that point, the instructor spoke again.
“That’s it, everybody, let’s bow out.”
Erik straightened and dipped his head to Jordan, then joined a line of students and bowed out with the instructor. The ritual done, he shrugged out of his heavy cotton uniform in silence, then helped stack the mats and return the dance studio to how they’d found it. His hands ached, but not enough to stop his thoughts drifting once more to Arielle. The cleanup went by in a blur, and then he’d collected his gym bag and said his good-byes and moved outside to wait for Jordan in the parking lot. The cool, night air cleared his head, and he breathed deep, stared up at the stars and savored the stillness. Arielle was under those same stars, wherever she was.
The dance studio door squeaked open. “Did that help?” Jordan asked.
“It always does,” Erik said. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” Jordan said. “Got time for a beer?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m up at five.”
“Boo. You know, you’re not a soldier anymore. You don’t need to get up at dawn.”
Erik smiled. “Hah-hah. I thought my army experience was a good thing.”
“It’s good because you were basically a ninja.”
“Hardly. You would definitely not say that if you’d seen the other HUMINT operators.”
“Like MDK?”
“Really? Did you really just go there?”
Jordan’s laughter filled the parking lot as they walked. “Easy fella, settle down.”
“It’s been almost ten years since I worked with Matt de Kalb. It’s not like I’m in business with him.”
“Partnered with a mercenary, that’s what I’m talking about. What would Wiggins say then?”
“Shit.” Erik shook his head in disgust. “You know Wiggins brings up de Kalb at least once a week? ‘MDK’s mercenaries are not helping. MDK makes us all look bad.’”
Jordan stifled his laughter. “Who, Mr. I-Get-Upset-When-People-Color-Outside-The-Lines? Why am I not surprised? But I’m not talking about MDK, I’m talking about you. A spy and a martial artist? Yup, your military occupation was ninja.”
He chuckled. “I wasn’t even training then. I picked it back up after I got out, after…” His face grew hot.
Jordan cleared his throat. “So, tell me more about this terrorism link to drugs.”
He blinked. “You think there’s something there?”
“Maybe. I’ve been working with JIATF-South for years now. Most of the action is routine drug runs, but every now and then there’s an indicator of bigger things beneath the surface. It’s not outside the realm of the possible that terrorists are taking a more active role in the drug trade. So yeah, you should look into it.”
“I’ll think about it.”
He was almost at his car. He fished out his key fob, pressed a button, and the car’s lights blinked.
“You heard anything from the team?” Jordan asked.
He shook his head.
“Have you asked?”
“A few times. The official answer is I’m off the case, and they’ll let me know when there’s something significant.”
“Sorry, brother.” Jordan shook his head. “Want me to poke around for you?”
Erik smiled at the gesture. “Thanks, but no. I don’t want to put you in an awkward spot.”
“Well, the offer stands. Let me know if you change your mind.” He held out his hand. “You should just use your ninja skills to find out what’s going on.”
“Did you forget? I’m off the case.”
“No shit,” Jordan said, “but it’s not like they changed the codes to the team room. This is why Wiggins likes that you were a soldier, you’d never consider going against the rules.”
“Rules are there so we all know what each other are doing.”
“Boring.” Jordan moved away. “Study your Koran a little more. ‘The deed is sound if the intention is sound.’ There’s no harm trying to find out what’s going on.”
“I think that might be crossing a line of some sort.”
“No way. Your security clearance hasn’t changed. Besides, you’re a ninja, remember?” Jordan smiled as he walked backward. “‘Night.”
Erik raised a hand and then got into his car. It was stupid, but Jordan’s suggestion stuck with him. There was no question he had the skill to make it happen, which meant that all he had to worry about was whether it was the right thing to do. He stuck the key in the ignition and turned on the car, and as he drove, he began to nod. The right thing was to get Arielle back and to do that, he needed information. If the task force wouldn’t share, he’d have to be proactive.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE MOON IS SPLIT
Raqqa, Syria
22 Apr 2015 – 1923 Local
The wedding was held in the shadow of a building used for executions, a ten-story office tower where gay men and spies were pitched to their deaths. The day before, a crowd had been forced to watch a man thrown from the top and the image of him in mid-air, hands bound while his legs kicked in silence, seemed etched inside Arielle’s eyelids. Led by her new husband, she walked past where the body had landed, dark-red stains still visible on the pavement. The memory gripped her, how the crowd had been ordered to stone the body, how it had twitched with every rock, not a person anymore, but a thing. She reflexively gripped her husband’s elbow tighter, then remembered she was being taken to consummate her marriage. She shivered.
Her husband’s name was Mus’ab Saleh. He had a light tan and a hardness around his eyes, offset by a soft downturn at the corners of his mouth. Unlike many of the other men, his hair was short and spiky. Had she met him a year ago, she might have thought he was good looking, maybe a model. As it was, her skin crawled at his touch.
The apartment building was a block or so ahead, and every step closer made her stomach churn. She hadn’t been with a man since – no, what happened in Montreal was not being with a man. A lump formed in her throat and she called to mind a prayer and repeated it over and over in silence. This was part of her duty.
Too soon, they reached the dust-covered glass doors that led into the six-story building. Mus’ab Saleh held open the door and gestured for her to enter. He placed a hand on the small of her back as she passed and she tensed, then forced herself to let his hand guide her to the elevator. Was it her imagination or did his hand tremble? Ridiculous, she thought. He was a killer. A savage who’d been at the front a few days before.
The elevator ride was short, and before she knew it, he’d led her into a tiled hallway, tiny rivulets of dust along the base of the walls. Electric lights flickered on and off from periodic sconces, a good sign compared to the other buildings she’d been in.
“Here we are.” He stopped to open a door. “After you.”
His spoke with a soft, British accent, not what she’d expected. Then again, nothing in this country was what it seemed. She willed her gaze to the front and walked past him, through the door. Her personal feelings didn’t matter. This was a test and but one price for her service to God. If this is what it took to lead a meaningful life helping people, then it was a price she’d pay.
The apartment was small, but tidy, the main room dominated by a large, embroidered red carpet. A small kitchen and dining room table took up one side of the room, while on the other side was a short hallway that led to a bedroom. A clatter caused her to jump, and she whirled to find Mus’ab Saleh standing beside a small table.
“Just the keys,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I’m sorry,” she said and dipped her gaze. “I’m nervous.”
He exhaled as he scanned the room. “I think we both are.”
“Please excuse me,” she said and backed toward the bathroom. “I need to –”
“Wait,” he said and stepped forward. “May I see you?”
She froze and then nodded, and he began to raise her veil, his body so close his heat penetrated her robes. Shoulders rigid, she clenched her eyes shut, cringed at blurred images of other men who’d reached for her face, pulled her hair, pinned her down. The veil lifted, delicately, as if she was a stack of bricks that might tumble at the slightest disturbance. When she sensed his hands leave her face, Arielle opened her eyes, her heart fit to burst from her chest.
Mus’ab stood before her, head cocked, his serious features expressionless.
Heat flushed her cheeks, and she looked down. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have –”
“You’re very beautiful,” he said. He raised an arm, paused when she flinched, then caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “How have you come to such a place?”
“By Allah’s will.”
He smiled, a small tightening of the lips that did not reach his eyes. “Of course.” He dropped his arm and took her hand, drew her into the hallway. “Come.”
She prayed for courage and followed. Be strong.
He led her into the bedroom and to a small, simple bed. A blend of cardamom and chai tickled her senses as he held her shoulders and pushed her onto the mattress.
She reached for his hands and slowly pulled them off. “Let me change,” she said and stood. The weight of his gaze followed her into the bathroom until she closed the door, leaned back against the flimsy wood frame with her hands clasped to her chest. She had to make it through this, she had no other choice. To fight her fate would lead to far worse things, as had happened with Naomi, who had disappeared. She took a breath and then her body seemed to move on its own as she stepped out of the protective embrace of her niqab and robes. Beneath the clothes, the flimsy silk negligee Umm Fatima had given her was damp with sweat. Arielle shivered, her skin like gooseflesh at the memory of the woman’s knobby hands as she’d helped Arielle get ready, the clothing passed along with words of advice.
“This will set you free,” she’d said. “It is your permission to enjoy your wedding night.”
Even now, the words were pathetic, an excuse of the worst kind. Umm Fatima’s words were filled not with joy, but resignation, submission, a perversion of Arielle’s childhood fantasy to have her mother help her prepare to be wed. Arielle pinched the bare ring finger of her left hand, where her wedding ring should be, her mother’s ring that she’d carried halfway around the world. She’d longed to wear it, but it was haram, a Western tradition forbidden in the Caliphate. She wanted to put the niqab back on, to pretend its enveloping grip was her mother’s comforting arms, but instead closed her eyes. Mother, help me be strong. She hadn’t talked to her mother since she was a teenager and now, like then, she received no response. With a last, hard look in the mirror, she exited the bathroom.
