Professor K- The Final Quest, page 41
part #4 of Jack Rogan Mystery Series
‘How? Layman’s speak, please.’
‘Through food. A specific diet.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely. Specific foods could be the answer here. Professor K certainly thought so. One of Osman’s case notes describes the chronic bowel inflammation in surprisingly accurate detail and claims that it can be cured through diet. That’s what made Professor K so interested in all this because he, too, was thinking along similar lines. I don’t believe that a stem cell transfer would correct His Holiness’s LRBA deficiency in the lining of his intestines, where LRBA may have additional functions to suppress autoimmunity. But, like Professor K, I do believe this could be achieved through diet: food based on a specific recipe outlining exact ingredients to be used. A recipe that was known to, and successfully used by, Osman.’
‘Haven’t we reached a dead-end here?’
‘How come?’ asked Alexandra.
‘Father Connor just told us there were no recipes in Osman’s book because they were all in his head. Osman’s long gone ...’
‘True,’ said Father Connor, ‘but we found the same symbols shown in the trial transcript, noted in the margins of Osman’s copy of the book, right next to the case histories.’
‘So?’
‘We believe – and it was Jack who first came up with this,’ said Alexandra, ‘that the symbols refer to actual ancient recipes that do in fact exist.’
‘Come on,’ said the cardinal. ‘How can he possibly know this?’
‘Because he has actually seen them, quite recently.’
‘Where?’
‘In the Palazzo da Baggio in Venice.’ Alexandra paused to let this sink in. ‘But that’s where the good news ends.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the original recipes are no longer available.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s a long story ...’
‘I have time.’
65
Dabiq, Syria: 24 June
Haddad sat next to the fax machine with the built-in colour printer in Dr Rosen’s surgery, waiting. It was the only colour printer in the camp and used mainly for medical business. Jana and Alexandra had called Haddad earlier on his satellite phone to tell him that the face reconstruction based on Bahadir’s genome had been successful. The only issue was how to get an accurate image of the face to Haddad in the remote camp with its poor reception.
Haddad sat up as the printer clicked into life again. He had spent several hours hovering over the fax machine during the night, trying desperately to make it work. The first two attempts had been unsuccessful, with images too blurred to make sense. This time, however, the image appeared to be a lot clearer. Haddad held his breath as the facial features began to take shape and the page emerged slowly out of the slot and then fell to the floor.
For a while, Haddad just stared at the piece of paper at his feet. He knew the moment of reckoning had finally arrived. Taking a deep breath, he bent down, picked up the paper and held it up, his stomach churning.
‘It’s him,’ he whispered, staring at the face in front of him. ‘Unbelievable!’ The clear colour image removed any doubt that may have lingered that Bahadir was in fact el-Masri, as the face on the page merged with Haddad’s memory of it, to create a perfect fit.
Dr Rosen had been watching Haddad for a while. Realising the importance of the moment, she had kept away, working instead at her desk.
‘Success at last?’ she called out from the other side of the room.
Haddad nodded, his face ashen.
Dr Rosen walked over to him and looked at the image. ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, no doubt about it. I really don’t know how they did this, but it’s an uncanny likeness.’
‘So, what now?’
‘I’m going to Dabiq to meet Al-Gharib, “the Stranger”. It’s all arranged.’
‘When?’
‘At first light.’
‘Then I may not see you before you leave. I really must get some sleep before surgery starts again in the morning.’
Haddad turned around and looked at Dr Rosen. ‘You are an extraordinary woman, Bettany. It’s been a privilege to know you.’
‘And you, Naguib, have been a true friend. I know what Marcus and Jack think of you. Thanks for everything ...’
‘Let’s hope I won’t disappoint them with this.’ Haddad pointed to the image on the table.
‘I doubt it.’
‘Tell Marcus ...’ Haddad paused, an unsettled look on his face. ‘No, don’t tell him anything,’ he continued. ‘If I succeed, circumstances will speak for themselves.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If I manage to see Al-Gharib and persuade him that Bahadir and el-Masri are one and the same, then ...’
‘Then what?’
‘The whole world will know that I’ve succeeded, inshallah.’
It was a strange answer, but Dr Rosen knew better than to ask for clarification. Instead, she embraced Haddad and for a moment held him tight, realising they were saying goodbye.
‘Good luck, Naguib,’ she said and let go, tears in her eyes.
‘God be with you,’ whispered Haddad.
‘And with you.’
Since his arrival at the camp three days before, Haddad had used his time wisely. Using his old IS contacts, he had established a line of communication with Al-Gharib. This hadn’t been easy, and his approach was viewed with obvious suspicion. It was only after he had provided some compelling information about el-Masri and the time he had spent with him in Camp Bucca, hinting that he may have intelligence about el-Masri’s present whereabouts that Al-Gharib agreed to a meeting. But with strict conditions. Haddad was to cross the border into Syria on foot and wait at a designated intersection some five kilometres from the border.
Haddad set off at sunrise with only his phone, wallet and a bottle of water in his backpack. It took him just over an hour to reach the intersection, already choking with refugees heading for the Turkish border. He didn’t have to wait long. A battered Toyota pickup – the type popular with IS fighters – appeared out of a cloud of dust and stopped in front of Haddad.
‘Naguib Haddad?’ asked one of the armed men sitting in the back.
Haddad nodded.
‘Put down your pack and empty your pockets.’
Haddad did as he was told.
The man climbed down and carefully frisked Haddad, before examining his backpack. Obviously satisfied, he handed it back to Haddad but kept his phone, which he switched off. Then he told him to get into the car.
It didn’t take them long to reach Dabiq, which was close to the border. As they approached the village, without saying anything the man sitting next to Haddad pulled a black hood over Haddad’s head. Instead of driving into the village, the car turned off the dirt road and headed away from the border.
A cautious man, Al-Gharib didn’t stay in the same location for more than a few days. On that occasion, he and five of his men were camping in a small cave just outside Dabiq. Still wearing the hood, Haddad was led into the cave by one of the men. ‘Wait here,’ said the man and left.
For a while, Haddad stood in silence and listened. He could smell smoke, but couldn’t hear anything.
‘You can take it off now, Chief Inspector,’ said a voice, sounding quite close. Haddad pulled off the hood and looked around. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he could see someone sitting, legs crossed, on the ground by a small fire.
‘Come, sit,’ said the man and pointed to a frayed carpet on the rough stone floor in front of him. Haddad walked over to the man and sat down. ‘Tea?’
Haddad nodded and looked at the small, bearded man sitting opposite. Wearing a turban and dressed in baggy trousers, a loose shirt with no collar, and a vest, the man looked like any one of the many IS fighters roaming the country, only older. The grey streaks in his beard suggested a man of about fifty and his accent told Haddad he was most likely Egyptian, like himself. However, his most striking feature was his glasses: very thick and perfectly round, they gave him an almost comical look, like a storyteller sitting in the bazaar entertaining the children. But Haddad, an experienced man when it came to sizing up notorious characters, realised he was looking at one of the most dangerous, clever and ruthless men still alive in the IS leadership.
Al-Gharib, “the Stranger”, was at the very top of the US’s most-wanted list.
Al-Gharib poured some tea into a small glass, leaned forward and handed it to Haddad. ‘Egypt, Ethiopia, Yemen, Iran, Syria, Turkey, and now Dabiq. You’ve certainly been around, Chief Inspector. You are a survivor, just like me.’
A clever opening remark, thought Haddad. He’s telling me he’s done his homework and knows a lot about me. Good.
‘Have you come here for the final showdown and to join the many others waiting for the Big Battle to begin?’ continued Al-Gharib. ‘Do you believe in the Dabiq Prophesy, Chief Inspector?’
‘I am not a pious man like you,’ replied Haddad, sidestepping the question and choosing his words carefully, ‘but a practical one. My battles are more about justice. I am sure both of us believe in justice.’ Haddad realised that to patronise or deceive an obviously well-educated man like
Al-Gharib would be a huge mistake.
Al-Gharib nodded, but it was impossible to tell from his expression or body language if he liked the answer, or not.
‘And is that what brings you here?’
‘It is.’
‘I am always interested in justice. Please tell me why you’ve come all this way to see me.’
Collecting his thoughts, Haddad took another sip of tea and looked at his host. ‘It’s all about one man: Ibrahim el-Masri, going under the name of Kemal Bahadir. I understand you’ve had a long association with him?’
‘With Bahadir, yes, but el-Masri ...’ Al-Gharib didn’t complete his sentence. Instead he kept looking at Haddad through his thick glasses, like a curious fish in a glass bowl staring at freedom. ‘What’s your interest in this man?’
‘Justice, and a promise.’
‘A promise, you say? How intriguing.’
‘El-Masri was one of the men responsible for the violent death of many in my care, especially the family of a friend. That was years ago. I made a promise at the time to bring him to justice and have been trying to do that ever since.’
Al-Gharib nodded. ‘And you believe you’ve now found him and the time has come for justice? You believe that Kemal Bahadir is Ibrahim el-Masri?’
‘I do.’
‘Chief Inspector, you of all men will understand that I cannot just take your word for this extraordinary assertion. But I’m sure you didn’t come here empty-handed. Can you offer some proof?’
Haddad had, of course, been expecting something like this and was ready. ‘I can,’ he said and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Al-Gharib was watching Haddad with interest as he pulled a few papers out of his pocket and carefully spread them out on the carpet in front of him.
‘As you would no doubt be aware, the Americans took el-Masri back to the US after Camp Bucca was closed. Why? Because he supplied them with important information about IS.’
Al-Gharib nodded.
Haddad leaned forward and picked up a photograph in front of him, held it up and then handed it to Al-Gharib.
‘This was taken a few years ago in a clinic in Washington,’ said Haddad quietly. ‘The date is here in the corner. It shows el-Masri on the operating table before his face operation—’
‘What face operation?’ interrupted Al-Gharib, raising his voice ever so slightly.
‘The Americans didn’t just give el-Masri sanctuary, a new identity and a new home – obviously in return for valuable information – but they reinvented him altogether and even gave him a new face … this one.’
Haddad held up another photograph and then passed it across to
Al- Gharib. It was a close-up showing a face a few days after the operation. Facial scars were still visible and so was some swelling, but the new features were unmistakable.
‘Enter Kemal Bahadir,’ said Haddad. ‘As you know, I work for the Gendarmerie in Turkey at the moment. When I came across this information quite recently, all became clear,’ continued Haddad. ‘Kemal Bahadir is a double agent working for the Americans. I know he appears to be working for IS, but in fact he is working for the Americans, who share some of their intelligence with Turkey. That’s how I found out about all this.’
For a while there was complete silence in the cave, as both men gazed into the flames, each reflecting on what had just been said. If Al-Gharib was in any way shocked or surprised by what he had just heard, he certainly didn’t show it.
‘But I still wasn’t convinced that Bahadir was in fact el-Masri, the man I spent several months with in Camp Bucca and have been trying to track down ever since,’ continued Haddad, breaking the silence. ‘I needed more.
‘What finally convinced me beyond any doubt was this: it arrived yesterday from Australia and is the main reason I’m here.’ Haddad handed Al-Gharib the fax he had received from the Gordon the night before, and then gave a brief account of the DNA-based, facial reconstruction procedure and how it had been done, but kept his fingers crossed that Al-Gharib would understand what he was telling him and not dismiss it as contrived nonsense and fantasy.
For the first time, a hint of a smile began to spread across Al-Gharib’s face.
‘You are a very lucky man,’ he said after Haddad had finished. ‘In my previous life I was a surgeon in Cairo. I have heard about this latest forensic tool; I just didn’t know it had progressed so far.’
Haddad looked at Al-Gharib, relieved. The most difficult hurdle had been overcome. Al-Gharib had understood and appreciated the significance of what he had been telling him. There should now be little doubt left in his mind that Bahadir was in fact el-Masri – the traitor responsible for so many lives lost – the man IS had been desperately trying to hunt down for years. And rubbing salt into that festering wound, it had now become clear that el-Masri had returned to continue his treachery under the guise of Kemal Bahadir, the successful restaurateur and masterchef in Istanbul.
However, Haddad had one more piece of evidence up his sleeve that he was certain would shock Al-Gharib even more: irrefutable proof that Bahadir was working for the Americans.
‘For years now, as we both know, Bahadir has been assisting IS to smuggle operatives into Turkey through Kilis Oncupinar by providing them with safe shelter and employment in his restaurant in Istanbul before they are moved on to carry out their missions in various parts of Europe.’
Al-Gharib nodded and took a sip of tea, wondering where Haddad was going with this.
‘The line of communication is simple and effective: a phone number. This one.’ Haddad held up a piece of paper. ‘All IS operatives have to do is ring this number on their satellite phone, provide their identification code, and signal the arrival of IS fighters in Kilis Oncupinar. Bahadir and his agents then take care of the rest; no questions asked – right?’
‘Correct.’
‘But at the same time, Bahadir has another, quite different arrangement in place ...’
Haddad paused, looked at his host and took another sip of tea to let the tension grow.
‘Paid informers on the ground working for Bahadir call in with information about potential targets: troop movements, whereabouts of wanted IS men, and other items of interest to the US military.’
Haddad took his time before delivering the punchline.
‘And the number these informers call, is this one here.’
Haddad held up another slip of paper and then handed both pieces to Al-Gharib.
‘As you will see,’ said Haddad, savouring the moment, ‘the two numbers are the same.’
Al-Gharib stared at the papers in his hand. ‘Your point?’ he asked, sounding hoarse.
‘Obvious, isn’t it? Bahadir is playing both sides. The information provided on this number is recorded and immediately passed on to his handlers in the States, processed, and then passed on again for action. Air strikes mainly. Usually deadly and quite accurate as you know.’
Al-Gharib took off his glasses and began to polish them with a handkerchief. ‘Something puzzles me, Chief Inspector,’ he said, squinting in Haddad’s direction.
‘Oh?’
Al-Gharib finished polishing and put his glasses back on, as if to take a fresh look at what he had just been told. ‘Why are you telling me all this? If everything is as you say, then why don’t you just—’
‘Kill him? Because I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because my hands are tied.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘As you know, I am working for the Turkish Gendarmerie. Bahadir is not to be touched under any circumstances. As soon as your suicide bombers for the Paris attack arrive in Istanbul and—’
‘You know about Paris?’ interrupted Al-Gharib, obviously surprised.
‘Yes, and so do the Americans and the French. As soon as the bombers arrive and have been arrested, Bahadir’s operation will be closed down and he will be taken back to the US. Turkey will allow him to leave, no questions asked.’
‘To hell with the Gendarmerie and Turkey!’ Al-Gharib almost shouted. ‘If this is as important to you as you say, then why not just ...?’
‘Can’t you see? Because just executing the man wouldn’t be enough,’ replied Haddad, raising his voice for the first time. ‘His punishment demands more – much more. He has to be exposed and his monstrous treachery made public, and I can’t do that. If I walk up to the man and shoot him, I would be silenced at once and most likely disappear, and the whole matter would be covered up by the authorities as if it never happened. What is at play here is politics, not justice.’
Al-Gharib nodded as he began to understand what Haddad was telling him. He looked at Haddad with new respect. What Haddad was doing was very clever. He wanted IS to do what he couldn’t and the evidence he had just presented, if true, would make sure it happened.
