Jihadi Bride, page 7
Mus’ab Saleh, barefoot and shirtless, looked up from where he sat. He stood and gestured for her to take his place.
She walked to the bed and sat gingerly in the indentation made by his weight. He moved in front of her and placed his hands on her knees, then lowered himself to the floor, ran his fingertips along her calves to her ankles. When he cupped the heel of one foot, she closed her eyes and inhaled, tried to picture her tension easing under his touch, but the electricity of his skin on hers instead caused her body to stiffen, her hands to clench the bedsheets.
Moistness dripped onto her foot, and she gasped, opened her eyes and pulled back her foot. “What are you doing?”
“It’s all right.” He raised his free hand to calm her. “I’m washing your feet.”
“Why?”
He held her foot over a small bowl filled with water, then scooped a handful of cool liquid and trickled it over the bridge of her foot so that drops ran down to drip back into the bowl. He scooped more water and massaged her toes, then her ankles.
Her body warred against the tingles of pleasure in her leg, and it took conscious effort to relax her hands, release the bed cover she’d grasped tight in her fists.
When both feet were washed, Mus’ab Saleh stood and picked up the bowl and moved to a corner of the room. He dipped his fingers into the water and then flicked his fingers to send a sprinkle of fine mist onto the walls where they met.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What are you doing?”
“You didn’t study your wedding night traditions,” he said and moved to the second corner, where he repeated the motion. “I’m consecrating our wedding room.”
Her face grew hot. “I don’t remember that one.”
“I’m not surprised.” He moved to the next corner.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. I shouldn’t have said that.” He finished and set the bowl on the bedside table. Then he took one of her hands and sat beside her.
“I –” she said.
“Don’t be frightened.” He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“I can’t help it,” she said. “I’m not ready for this.”
“It’s all right. I understand.”
She breathed easier. “None of this is happening how I thought it would.”
He lowered his gaze to stare at her hand in his own, his thumb stroking hers. “I know,” he said, his voice soft. “Like so much that happens here.”
“Won’t the other mujahideen harass you?”
“What happens on our wedding night is none of their business.”
“But Umm Fatima said the duty of a lioness –”
“I can imagine what she said,” he said. “But when the time comes to consecrate our marriage, I hope it’s because we love each other, not because we’re forced to. I refuse to believe our faith would force people to do things against their wills, including in this, the sanctity of marriage.” He stood and turned down the sheets. “You must be tired. Why don’t you get into bed?”
She slid between the sheets, stopped halfway into the bed. “Shouldn’t we pray?”
“We should,” he said, without enthusiasm. “But I think we can do it quietly ourselves.” He turned out the lights and then lay beside her, his hands folded across his chest.
In the darkness, her thoughts kept her awake. Such a strange place, so many contradictions. Amid all the horrors since she’d arrived, when she’d resigned herself to marriage with a beast, she’d met this man. Maybe that had been her test.
She reached over and grasped Mus’ab Saleh’s hand, thankful when he returned the squeeze. But long after he’d begun to snore, she remained awake beside him.
* * *
Ottawa, Ontario
22 Apr 2015 – 2120 Local
Erik had every reason to be outside his old team room, even if it was in a separate wing of the building from his new office. He rehearsed his line, what his tradecraft called cover for status, his reason to be somewhere he had no business being. He hadn’t paid attention, and out of habit, he’d taken the route he’d used for the past three years. Maybe not plausible, but at least possible. It was better than his cover for action, which explained what he was doing. I left some things here when I cleaned out my desk. Sure, and those things necessitated a private search of the room late at night. It was weak all right, but chances were slim he’d have to put it into action.
The team room’s door was about ten meters down a glass walled corridor, one of many rooms locked behind frosted windows that obscured their contents yet maintained the illusion of openness. Unlike the ops center, which ran around the clock, these rooms were mainly used in the daytime. If his door code still worked – which it should since his tasking was temporary – he’d be able to scan the planning materials on Arielle’s case and get out with no one the wiser. Unless someone was at work late.
He pushed the thought from his head and headed down the hall. His shoes squeaked on the floor and his heartbeat thumped in his ears, like on his first meet with an informer in Afghanistan. Which was silly considering the differences and that the team room would no doubt be empty.
The problem with the frosted glass was that it made it impossible to tell if anyone was inside the room. The lights were on, but they were on all the time. Ironic that a world-class modern building hadn’t incorporated basic energy-saving principles, but this was the government after all. He knocked on the door, waited almost a minute, then held his swipe card to the security reader on the wall and punched in his access code. A green light came on.
He grabbed the door knob, then paused. Wiggins had removed him from the team and yet here he was, about to disobey that order. He could lose his job, even be criminally charged for breaking multiple security agreements. More than that, he’d never disobeyed an order, either in uniform or since joining the Task Force. Then he thought of Arielle. If he found one thing that helped get her out of Syria, it would be worth it. He entered the room and closed the door.
The rectangular room looked like it always had, a large conference table in the center, work stations on the outside walls, and several big whiteboards on the walls. His gaze drifted to his old workspace, where he’d kept his picture of Arielle, then he walked to the conference table and spread out the poster size papers that had been left out.
Most of the papers were link analysis charts covered in tiny icons and pictures of people connected to other tiny icons in a spider’s web of associations. He was familiar with the first chart, which showed links between significant worldwide attacks that had been inspired by the caliphate. His fingers lingered on the tiny Canadian flag, which had two spokes that branched out to represent the two incidents in Canada.
They’d been lucky so far.
Another chart showed the organizational diagram for the Caliphate as a whole, a black flag in the center with a myriad of protruding dark lines, like a mini-black hole. A red circle drawn over one of the first-level branches drew his attention. Abu Noor al Kanadi. The circle hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen this chart. He shuffled through the remaining charts, strewed them about the table to get a better look. There was a chart depicting affiliates of the Caliphate, and several more for other terrorist organizations, including Boko Haram, al-Shabab, and Ansar al-Sharia. Al Kanadi’s icon had been circled on all of them. Why?
Al Kanadi’s connections to other terrorist groups wasn’t new. The intelligence community believed he led planning for Caliphate attacks outside Syria and Iraq, concentrating on Europe with a secondary focus on North America, and networking with peer organizations would be what an effective planner would do. So far, al Kanadi had proven to be one of the best. Erik left the charts and moved to the whiteboards.
The scribblings on the whiteboard seemed to be derivative of the link analysis charts, except Arielle’s name was front and center in one, along with Naomi’s name and one other, Dominique Boudreau. Erik pored over the lines and nodes.
From Arielle’s name in the center, he traced a short line to an icon for Montreal, where two additional names were listed. He didn’t recognize the first, Sayyid el-Kateb, but the second name was well known.
Omar Sahraoui.
After 9/11, Sahraoui had been detained by the RCMP under a security certificate, an expedited process to detain and deport foreigners deemed to be threats to national security. But he’d been released in 2004. Although police surveillance had continued, in 2008 Sahraoui challenged his status as a terrorist sympathizer through a human rights tribunal and won. He now worked as a professor, although given the payout he’d received from the government, he worked because he wanted to, not because he ever had to work again.
From Montreal, a long line led across the board to connect with an icon for Ansar al-Sharia, a terrorist group based in Tunisia. Erik’s thoughts raced as his gaze skipped to the next line, one that linked Ansar al-Sharia with the Caliphate, where al Kanadi’s name was written. Goosebumps rose on his arms. Al Kanadi was three degrees of separations from –
The muffled beep of the security reader outside the room grabbed his attention, and he whirled to face the door. There was nowhere for him to go and as the door opened, he moved toward his desk.
“Hi Stephanie,” he said.
“Erik?” Stephanie frowned. “What are you doing here?”
“I forgot some of my things.”
“You should have come by during the day.”
“I guess I lost track of time.” He tried to smile. “And you? Burning the midnight oil?”
“We’re working on a briefing for the deputy minister. Wiggins needs it by tomorrow.” She shook her head. “You can’t be in here.” She glanced at the uncovered whiteboards. “Did you look at anything?”
“I did.” No point pretending. “I see there’s a connection between al Kanadi and Arielle. What is it?”
“I can’t tell you,” she said, and redness colored her cheeks. “You should leave, Wiggins could come in.”
“Stephanie, please,” he said. “Where she is? Who she’s linked to?” He pointed to the whiteboard. “What does this show?”
“It’s not clear,” she said and moved to her desk where she flipped through some papers. “There’s a report al Kanadi is specifically recruiting girls from North America, but we don’t know how or why.”
“How is that connected to Ansar al-Sharia?”
“Counterfeit travel documents. It’s a single source, uncorroborated.” She held a hand to her temple. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“Then how is –”
“You need to go.” She pointed at the door.
“Do you know where she is?”
“If I tell you, will you leave?”
“Yes.”
“Raqqa, we think.”
“You’re sure?”
“You said you would go.”
“I did,” he said and fought the thirst, the thirst for more knowledge that had replaced the thirst for the bottle, the one that had ruled his life before he’d met Audray. He glanced once more at the whiteboard and then headed for the door.
As he walked past Stephanie, she took his arm. “I know this is tough for you –”
“You do, eh?” he said, unable to hide his frustration. “I wasn’t sure the team even remembered I existed, so at least there’s that.”
“You think it’s my choice to keep you in the dark? We could use your help.” Her voice softened, and the citron notes of her perfume filled his nose. “I’m sorry.”
“She’s all I have,” he said. “I told her I’d be there for her.”
All those months after Audray had died and it was just the two of them, the mornings it took everything he had to beat his hangover and get out of bed. Arielle had been eleven, and she’d been his rock instead of the other way around. “Daddy,” she’d said one morning. “I need you to come back.” Her hand had gripped his. “Please come back.”
He’d squeezed her hand in return, so hard his wedding band had dug into his fingers. “I’m sorry, Sweetie. It won’t happen again. I promise.” Now she was in a place where women were sold as sex slaves and prisoners were burned alive, and he was powerless to help.
“Look,” Stephanie said, “our best guess is that the connection to Ansar al-Sharia is a recruitment chain.”
“Through Africa?” He frowned. “I thought the most common route was through Europe and Turkey.”
“That doesn’t mean there aren’t others.”
“And Sahraoui?”
“On the surface, he’s clean, but his name keeps coming up. It’s not clear why, or even if there’s any connection to Ansar al-Sharia.” She put a hand on his chest. “Now you have to go.”
“Who’s Dominque?” The name was familiar.
“Her roommate, now go.”
“No, it’s not,” he said. “It’s Mary-Beth.”
Stephanie raised her eyebrows. “She also goes by Dominique.”
“I don’t understand.” He opened the door and stepped into the hallway, followed by Stephanie. “She has an –”
“Petersson, what are you doing here?”
Erik looked down the hallway to where Wiggins stood. “Boss,” he said. “I was just –”
“Erik forgot some things here,” Stephanie said.
“It’s okay, Stephanie,” Erik said. “I came by to check up on Arielle’s case. Stephanie caught me and was kicking me out.”
Wiggins looked at Stephanie, who nodded, her cheeks flushed.
“Go home,” Wiggins said to Erik. “See me tomorrow. Stephanie, my office. Now.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. He paused long enough to mouth an apology at Stephanie, then swallowed and walked in the other direction. He’d seen the look on Wiggins’ face before, and he knew the man wouldn’t back down. The main effort now would be to keep this mess from getting on Stephanie. Still, as he walked, his stride grew stronger.
Now he had a start point.
* * *
Raqqa, Syria
23 Apr 2015 – 0440 Local
Arielle bolted upright in bed, frantic to find whatever had woken her. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of the bearded face beside her. Not again. She threw off the covers and leapt from the bed. Her breath came in ragged pulls as she cast about for a way out and then shivered in her black, lace negligee. Halfway out the door she paused, frowned down at the clingy garment as if unsure how it got there, then crossed her arms over her chest.
She changed direction and tiptoed into the bathroom, and then closed the door behind her. Stood on the soft, black fabric of her abaya and then the memories flooded back like water into an empty hollow, the wedding, the apartment, Mus’ab Saleh’s hands on her feet. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she snatched the abaya from the floor, wrapped it around herself and returned to the bedroom.
Mus’ab Saleh had rolled over and lay facing her. She studied him, his aquiline nose and proud jaw. Asleep, his face was more peaceful, and the thought returned that he might have been a model in a different life. But this was Raqqa. She clutched her robes tighter and backed out of the room.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She was friendless, wary of every word, every action. For the fighters she’d met, or even women like Deeba, the name of God wasn’t compassion or mercy, it was an excuse to kill and inflict pain, on their enemies as much as on their brothers and sisters. What had Naomi done to deserve the beating she’d received? At most, she was guilty of being silly, naïve.
Like Arielle had been.
A bitter lump formed in Arielle’s stomach. She had no idea what had happened to Naomi. She’d asked Umm Fatima and received no answer. She would have searched for her had she been able to leave the maqar, but it was impossible to even step foot outside without an escort. In truth, for the last week Arielle had been little more than a prisoner. She’d been so stupid.
She passed through the living room, her face clouded. She’d come to begin anew, to escape how she’d been treated, like a piece of meat. Naomi and her cousin, Reyad, had talked about the cherished role women had in a true Islamic society. Yes, they wore veils, a prudent tradeoff to enable them to be the directors, the protectors of society through behind-the-scenes organizing. Some, like Umm Fatima, did exactly that. And yet, Arielle had been married off with no more consideration than she’d been targeted that night in September. All she’d done was trade one hell for another.
An assault rifle propped in the corner of the living room drew her gaze. She recognized it as the vaunted AK-47, worshipped in the streets. It drew her near, the real bedrock on which her new society stood, faith from the edge of a saw-toothed knife. She knelt beside the weapon and brushed a finger along the metal. Her touch slow and gentle, as if it might bite her. It was cold, greasy and she drew her hand back. Sniffed her fingers and recoiled at the mechanical stench of gun oil. It smelled of the violence she’d seen on every corner in al-Raqqa, the sawed-off heads and screams of people burned alive.
The room pressed in on her until, like a caged animal, she clawed open the door and tumbled headlong into the hallway. Into the stairwell and up to the top of the building where, in the chill dark, she moved onto the roof and stared out over the city. The city was almost pitch black, a city of thousands of people who’d stayed to eke out an existence under the Caliphate’s thumb, unable to use electricity lest they be bombed into the Stone Age. They were the true heroes, the ones who’d been under attack for years and still had the will to survive. She’d seen them, the merchants, the mothers, they’d crash into each other in the market with their eyes fixed on the sky for coalition aircraft. No jets flew overhead now, only stars, the sky an ocean of glittering white lights. She stared at them until the stairwell door pushed open.
