Jihadi Bride, page 9
“Thank you,” she said. They walked in silence, then she chuckled. “It’s hard to picture you as the video game type.”
He grinned. “I’m not. Arielle was into some online fantasy game for a bit, so I played with her as something to do together. She humored me.”
“Not World of Warcraft?” Stephanie’s face was a picture of incredulity.
“I think that was it. You’ve heard about it?”
“I have. I would never have guessed.”
“I know, pretty embarrassing.” They’d reached his car. “This is me.” He shifted the box to one arm. “Listen, I’m glad it’s you running the investigation. If anyone can find Arielle, it’s you.”
“Thank-you.”
“I’d tell you not to work too hard, but in this case, I don’t mean it.”
“It would also be the pan mocking the cauldron.”
“What?”
“You know, la poêle qui se moque du chaudron. Something that you do also.”
“Oh, the pot calling the kettle black,” he said. He smiled once more as he dug for his car keys. “There’s not much you need to work on, but English expressions are definitely one of them.”
Stephanie’s cheeks flushed and she took a deep breath. “You’re right about the link to Sahraoui. There’s something there.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe drugs, maybe recruitment. Sahraoui’s name comes up in both contexts.”
“Why don’t we run him in?”
“The intel’s too weak,” she said. “After the shambles with his security certificate, we need something ironclad. Wiggins won’t even put surveillance on him.”
“Speaking of Wiggins, he was pretty clear I should stay out. Why tell me this?”
She sighed. “I remember the look on your face when I caught you in the team room. It’s the same one you have now. You’re going to keep looking for her no matter what you’re told, so you might as well be pointed in the right direction.”
He snorted, then recalled the team room, a connection on the whiteboard that hadn’t made sense. “What about Arielle’s room-mate? What’s the link there?”
“Mostly suspicion. She was evasive during her police interview.”
“Are we following up?”
“There are other priorities right now,” she said, and her face grew serious. “We don’t have enough resources to look into every lead.”
“Wiggins decided that?”
Stephanie didn’t react, but nor did she need to. He shook his head. “Do you think she knows something?”
“I think we should investigate every lead,” she said. “I’m just surprised nobody wanted to get in touch with her.” She held out what looked like a playing card.
“What’s this?” He took the card and almost dropped it when he spied a curvy blond woman in a one-piece bathing suit that left little to the imagination. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Dominique,” Stephanie said. “Or as you know her, Mary-Beth.”
“Islamic girls don’t normally parade around in their birthday suits. How is she linked to a professor of Islam?”
“She may not be, but something doesn’t add up,” Stephanie said, then placed a hand on his chest. “It might be nothing, but those leads are there, waiting to be followed up.”
He had an urge to reach up and place his own hand on hers but now was hardly the time. “I’d need someone to bounce ideas off.”
“I’m sure Jordan would help.”
He laughed, in spite of himself. “Jordan’s a techie, he’d tell you that himself,” he said. “What about you?”
“We’ll see,” she said. “There are risks. If Wiggins catches you –”
“I know,” he said. “I want so much to listen to him, believe me, but I’m not sure I can. Arielle’s out there, in danger.”
“Take some time and think about it.” She gazed into his eyes. “I think what you’re doing is very noble. I admire you, I wish…” She paused, took a short breath. “I wish all fathers thought as much of their daughters.”
“Thank you,” he said, conscious of the warmth of her body near his.
Stephanie patted his chest, seemed about to say more, then reached into a pocket and pulled out a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper. “Here. I got this for you.”
“What is it?” he asked as he took the parcel.
“Just a little something.” She backed away. “Whatever you decide, be careful. And call me before you do something stupid.” With a final smile, she turned.
“How will I know it’s stupid?”
“You’ll know,” she called over her shoulder, then carried on toward the building.
He watched her disappear up the stairs and thought about what she’d said. There were leads all right, slim ones and there was every chance he’d find no more than what the police investigators had found. Plus, he had to admit that as much as he hated his current suspension, it was lenient. If he blew this, Wiggins would have no choice but to hang him out to dry, and Stephanie might go down as well.
The safe bet would be to not rock the boat, although it would be the hardest to get through the days. He might have to play the loyal soldier for years, and after all that time, there was no guarantee he’d be any closer to finding Arielle. A difficult choice.
He exhaled and peered at the parcel Stephanie had given him. Peeled off the tissue paper to reveal a black, silicon bracelet with engraved words on both sides. He’d seen these Missing-in-Action bracelets before, symbols that represented the hope that lost or captured soldiers would one day come home. Had never expected to get one himself and he held the bracelet up, traced the words with his fingers.
Arielle Rose Petersson. 01-May-2015. You Are Not Forgotten.
It was no choice at all.
CHAPTER SIX
CLEFT APART
Raqqa, Syria
01 May 15 – 1329
Arielle followed Mus’ab Saleh through the market, her hand in the crook of his elbow. It was Friday, the first day of the weekend, and the handful of people in the square scurried among the distressed buildings that hunkered like mausoleums around the open space.
Mus’ab offered a tight-lipped smile and gestured to an empty stall. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought at least something would be open.”
“We can come back,” Arielle said in a hushed tone.
“When I first arrived, Fridays were the highlight of the week. People were everywhere, talking, enjoying each other’s company. Now…” he nodded around the deserted square. “Friday’s are only busy if there’s an execution.”
“I need to rest, anyways.” It was true. She had blisters on both feet, and her shoulders ached.
They’d walked all over the city, Mus’ab the ever-attentive guide for what attractions remained. They’d walked along the Euphrates and trekked to the Baghdad Gate, always conscious of the threat of bombardment, although the biggest obstacle proved to be the Hisbah, or religious police. Mus’ab had been stopped twice because his beard was not long enough. He’d trimmed it for the wedding, but the excuse did not save him from being fined. So far, the best sightseeing had been during a daytime airstrike, when fighters and police had fled for cover. The newlyweds had crept onto their apartment’s balcony and savored the fresh air and the chance to view the city free from the judging eyes of Caliphate enforcers.
“My parents visited sometimes, drove up from Beirut before they had enough of that war and left for the UK. My father spoke fondly of the Crac des Chevaliers in Homs, of Palmyra,” Mus’ab had said as they’d gazed over the haze-covered city. “I would like to see those things with them.”
“Maybe one day,” she’d said.
“In my worst dreams,” he’d said, a far-off look in his eyes. “Besides, at the rate everything’s being destroyed, there won’t be anything left.”
Now, as Mus’ab led them through the twisting streets, potholes, and collapsed buildings, his words seemed prophetic. He nodded to a pile of rubble that had once been an office building. “This is Assad’s work.”
“How do you know?”
“Western planes strike targets on the edge of the city, outposts, and checkpoints,” he said, his face a mask. “Assad attacks the people instead.”
Ahead, a man and two boys struggled to push a car off the street, a woman to one side. As Arielle and Mus’ab approached, the man gathered the others on the far side of the vehicle, the kids tucked to his sides, his body a shield to hide the woman from view. A frown creased the man’s face and although he was careful not to look at them, distaste radiated from him, more palpable the closer they got. Arielle stepped closer to Mus’ab, who steered her past the car. They hurried along in silence.
Outside their apartment building, Mus’ab caught sight of a man and stiffened. “Ahmed,” he said under his breath. It seemed like Mus’ab would turn around, but then the man saw them and waved them over. When they neared, Mus’ab placed a hand over his heart and bent his head. “Salaam Alaikum.”
“Walaikum Salaam,” Ahmed said and bent his own head. His eyelids covered half of his eyes as if he was half asleep, but Arielle got the sense there was more going on behind those eyes than could be seen. She was glad he didn’t talk to her.
“I hope things are well,” Mus’ab said, then held a hand out to Arielle. “This is my –”
“Tomorrow we leave for the front,” Ahmed said.
A tremor passed across Mus’ab face. “It’s barely been a week,” he said. “It’s supposed to be two weeks for a honeymoon.”
“Ten days,” Ahmed’s gaze lingered on Arielle.
“Then we have three days left.”
“We leave tomorrow,” Ahmed said. “Make sure you’re with us.” He hitched his rifle on his shoulder and shoved between them, breaking Arielle’s hold on Mus’ab’s arm.
Arielle watched Mus’ab stare after Ahmed. Every few seconds his face twitched, and he would dip his head as if struggling to swallow something. When Ahmed was out of sight, Mus’ab faced her, his face ashen. “I must get ready.” He led her into the building.
They did not talk. Arielle was surprised to find she didn’t want her time with Mus’ab to end. In their short week together, threatened with physical and moral harm, it seemed they’d lived a lifetime. They’d both followed their hearts to find higher meaning in a shallow world and instead, they’d found each other, and while God had brought them together, it had been Mus’ab Saleh who’d whispered poetry to her at night. It had been Mus’ab Saleh who’d let her lean on him when she’d needed to rest, and given her water when she was thirsty.
They entered the apartment, and she shut the door, then loosened her niqab as Mus’ab collected his rifle. “I could come with you.”
“The front lines are no place for a woman.”
An image of Naomi’s face appeared, ghostly in her mind, already faded. She shoved the image aside. “Our place is together.”
“Not at the front,” he said and clutched the rifle to his chest as if it were a shield.
She stepped closer. “Can you talk to Ahmed’s commander? Get a few more days?”
“To not obey is to die,” he said as he stared at the gun. “The only way out is to flee.”
She reached out and raised his chin, got him to look away from the rifle. He returned her gaze with hollow eyes. “I would come with you.” The words did not seem like hers, the thought unimaginable even a few days ago. But they were true nonetheless. She’d found her polestar and would not give it up without a fight.
“I can’t ask that,” he said. “I have no plan, and there’s no time.” He turned his head and a frown creased his face. “It was a mistake to come here.”
She placed a hand on the rifle, forced the weapon down until it hung by his side. With her other hand, she cupped his chin, brought his face back to her.
His eye twitched as his gaze darted between her and the rifle. His face seemed thin, his body gaunt beneath his loose t-shirt. “I’m scared.”
She took his face in her hands. “So am I. And I was mistaken as well, foolish. But I don’t feel that way with you.”
“I’d given up hope,” he said, “but now I want to live.” He looked away. “I don’t think I’ll come back.”
“You must,” she said. In the maelstrom of politics, violence, and religion, he was a kindred spirit. He had to be strong, and so must she. She put her hands on his shoulders, pulled him close and rose on her tiptoes to press her lips against his.
He tensed, pulled his face away. “You don’t have to –”
She put a finger over his lips. “I want to. This is my choice.” She guided his free arm to the small of her back. Kissed him again, harder, pressed into him until at last, he pushed back. He took her in his arms, and the rifle clattered to the floor. She jumped and her heart raced and her breath caught in her throat and then he pulled her closer, his arms around her, the touch of his lips electric against her own, against her neck. She pushed him toward the bedroom and he followed, wordless, his gaze locked on her.
“You must be strong,” she said, her steps resolute. Her breath quickened as they entered the bedroom and goosebumps rose along her arms at the sight of the bed, but she exerted her will, chased the sights and smells that had lurked beneath the surface of her consciousness for so long. No more. She was the strong one now. She was in control.
She tilted her head upward and kissed her husband, then pulled him down onto the bed.
* * *
Montreal, Quebec
02 May 15 – 2005 Local
Erik glanced at the wallet-sized glossy Stephanie had given him. In the picture, Mary-Beth, or Dominique as the name on the card read, was spread-eagled against a graffiti-covered wall. Two strips of thin fabric straddled her shoulders and struggled to cover the nipples of her large breasts and then came together at her crotch to form an electric-green ‘V’ shape on the front of her body. On the back of the card was the address for Le Cabaret, where he now stood.
A passerby tsked, and he jammed the photo into a pocket, his cheeks warm, and studied the club. The entrance was dominated by a blinking, neon sign, twenty feet high and decorated with flying women in bikinis and capes. He hesitated on the sidewalk and realized he didn’t want to go in, didn’t want to face what had once been familiar territory. In another life, he’d been no stranger to night clubs and strip joints. Or to bar-clearing brawls and nights lost in an alcohol-fueled black-out. The Army had been ‘work hard, play hard,’ and he’d taken that philosophy to heart.
Until Audray.
He didn’t know what she’d seen in him. He’d been rough around the edges, a new intelligence officer who hadn’t left behind the hard-partying ways of being an infantry sergeant. She’d been a government translator, and they’d met at work when he’d needed to get a set of documents translated. The rest was happily ever after, at least for a while. He left the bottle behind, they got married and created perfection, Arielle.
Then the war had come, Afghanistan, a new kind of war, but with the same lure of glory that had drawn him to the army in the first place. There was always one more mission, one more task. Too late, he realized it would never be enough and by that time, Audray was dead. Even then, after he’d quit the army for the stability of a desk job with the police, his biggest mistake had been to think he’d beaten the odds. Old dogs, as everyone knew, didn’t learn new tricks.
Except this time he would, for Arielle’s sake. He set his jaw and entered the club.
A bouncer in a black polo-shirt stood inside the entrance. Erik walked past him and went into a large, dim room with two oversized island stages surrounded by chairs. A bar lined the near wall and on the far wall were booths and doorways to other areas. Another polo-shirt clad bouncer stood by one of the doors and Erik crossed the half-filled room toward him, tried not to stare at a naked woman perched frog-like midway up a pole to his left. When he neared the door, the bouncer held up a hand.
“This area’s off limits,” the bouncer said.
“I’m here to see Dominique.” She’d said to use her stage name. “She’s expecting me.”
“Sure, bud, same as half the guys here,” the bouncer said. “She’s not on for another hour, so you’ll have to wait.”
“I’m not here to watch,” he said. “I just want to talk to her about my daughter. They were roommates.”
The bouncer stuck out his chest. “Are you deaf? I don’t care if you’re her sugar daddy, take a seat.”
“Listen, can you just let her know that I’m here?”
The bouncer stalked nearer. “What part of no don’t you –”
Erik side-stepped and gave the bouncer a tiny shove, enough so he could get past, then darted through the door. “Mary-Beth?” He strode down a short hallway lit in red neon. Along the hallway were several changing rooms and he poked his head into the first one. “Mary-Beth?”
A brunette girl seated inside shook her head. “Non.”
“Excuse me.” Erik hurried to the next room, one eye tuned to the angry bouncer behind him. “Mary-Beth? It’s Erik Petersson.”
“All right, cockjaws, I’ve had enough of you.” A large hand fell on Erik’s shoulder.
“It’s okay, Mo. Let him in,” a woman said from farther down the hall.
