The Caliphate Read online

  Since everyone was ignoring him, Steve extracted the glass from the fallen officer’s neck, grabbed a Moroccan flag from the wall, gave it to him to stop the bleeding, and walked out, suspecting damage but uncertain just how bad it would be.

  Despite his expectation, the sight of the wreckage stopped him in his tracks. A half dozen people had reached the site of the explosion. Some had started to help the wounded. He walked the spot where his car had been, through still-falling small debris and dirt.

  He put his handkerchief to his nose. It was abnormally quiet, as if the noise from the blast had stopped everything and everyone in the city. The only sound came from the several people on the sidewalk; the injured were moaning. He could see a deep hole in the street where the car had been parked. The twisted metal remains of the car were scattered over the street and the sidewalk. The chassis, on its side about twenty feet from the hole, burned fiercely at the base of a tall plume of black smoke.

  He turned away from the heat of the burning fuel. His eyes scanned the bodies of the victims to try to find the driver. Drawn by dark trousers at the bottom of a garden wall adjacent to the ministry building, he walked around the bodies of the victims. He reached the dark trousers. The lower half of his driver's body was at his feet. A white hip bone contrasted with the intestines partially spilled on the ground in a widening pool of blood. The blast had pulverized the driver’s head and upper body. One shoe was missing. Steve’s insides tightened. He doubled over and vomited violently.

  The constriction of his abdomen closed his eyes but he still saw the legs with the missing shoe. Suddenly it overlaid with a memory from Moldova several years before. He was looking at the body of his friend and Russian translator Misha, his head oozing blood from two small holes, his legs outstretched, one shoe missing.

  ***

  Assigned by NATO to open an office in Chisinau, capital of Moldova, Steve had been driving with Misha to go meet with leaders of the breakaway Transnistria Republic on the Eastern side of the Dniester River. At Misha’s initiative, after driving for two hours they had stopped at a village for coffee. A waiter came to take their order.

  Misha had said, “You need to taste mamaliga. It’s a local dish. I ordered it for you.”

  After the waiter left, Misha picked up the menu and laughed. Reading from the back, he said, “Romanians have odd proverbs. Listen to this one. Muncat bine, baut bine, dimineatsa sculat mort. It means, ‘He ate well, he drank well, in the morning he was found dead.”

  He laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

  The waiter brought their coffee and their orders. Steve tasted his mamaliga and said, “This tastes no better than it looks. It’s cornmeal mush, right?”

  Misha finished his coffee first and said, “I’ll meet you by the car. Take your time. Have the last gogosh.”

  He got up and headed for the men’s room, and Steve reached for the donut that Misha had put on his plate. The waiter was not in sight and Steve waited for the bill. Eventually, he went to a heavy-set and heavily made up woman sitting behind a small counter near the door and paid. As he turned toward the door, he heard two popping noises followed by the sound of a car accelerating out of the dirt and gravel parking lot. When Steve reached his car, Misha was dead.

  The next few hours had been a blur. The police had questioned him extensively about Misha: his background, his friends. Steve knew Misha had been in Afghanistan serving with a Soviet Spetsnatz unit, the Soviet Special Forces. Misha had talked about it openly. He had even given Steve his former uniform, at the time a souvenir of the Cold War.

  A police inspector had said, “Your translator was a KGB officer. How could you not know that?” Another had said, “This Misha was just another Russian trying to get rich by running guns to the secessionists.”

  His NATO boss had brought him back to Brussels twenty-four hours after the killing. Steve had forever been sorry that he had not stayed and seen the investigation through. He felt strongly Misha would not have betrayed him. But Steve would not have been surprised if Misha had been involved in the arms trade.

  Steve came to believe that the Moldovan Government had killed Misha and had orchestrated the subsequent character assassination campaign. He was convinced he could have done something for his friend had he stayed.

  ***

  He shook off the memory and stood up. People continued to spill out of the ministry. Sirens wailed in the distance. With all the resolve in his body, he pledged to avenge this mindless act of terror. At the same time, he looked around with new apprehension. Who were these people? Why was he of such interest? He busied himself trying to help the wounded until ambulances arrived.

  ***

  Hussein had driven from Casablanca to Rabat in record time and was soon in Lahlou’s apartment in Rabat’s New Medina. He was halfway up the stairs when the scratchy recorded voice of the muezzin called the faithful to prayer from overstressed loudspeakers at the top of the nearby mosque. He joined Lahlou in prayer as soon as he entered the one room apartment.

  Hussein held his anger in check until the end of prayers.

  “You are an incompetent idiot! You told me you had it planned to the minute. Now, not only is this American still alive, you’ve made us look like fools.”

  Lahlou, shoulders sagging, said, “It was fate. The American returned to Rabat. He got out of the car.”

  “All you did was kill a Moroccan government employee, wound a few others, and demolish one of the king’s cars. May Allah have mercy on you!” Hussein said, unable to keep his voice and anger down.

  “We used a timed charge. It was set with a ten-hour delay at one o’clock this morning. Ribb knew that the American had an appointment and would be in the car for about forty-five minutes on the way to the military camp where he had an appointment at 11:15—very precise timing. Not my fault. It was Allah’s will.”

  Lahlou was sweating.

  “A timed charge? Are you crazy? A timed charge robs you of control over the time of the explosion. Why didn’t you set off the explosion remotely? Further, why did you involve the Ministry? You could have killed the American in his room, on the street, anywhere. Why in a government car? Now Military Security is going to take this as an attack on them and put all of our people under great pressure!”

  Lahlou shook his head. “Security doesn’t know anything about the identity of our militants. We’re underground.” He wiped his face with a handkerchief. The pitch of Lahlou’s voice went up as he continued his bluster. “They’ll huff and puff for a couple of weeks and then everything will be back to normal. Besides, we have our own informants in Military Security.”

  “I want you, Ribb, and your so-called explosives expert, and anyone else who knows about me, to get out of town and go into hiding. I’m leaving the country first thing tomorrow, while I still can,” Hussein said.

  11. Marin County, California

  Steve’s father, Marshall Church, just back from the gym, prepared for a TV interview. He looked at his red-walled office and didn’t even try to organize the papers and books on and around his desk. What might appear as confusion to an outsider made perfect sense to him.

  Since the CIA had approved Marshall’s request to drop his cover, the San Francisco media had discovered him and regularly contacted him any time there was terrorist-related news. Marshall initially found the sudden attention gratifying. But he became less available when he saw how the media cherry-picked sound bites to fit the anchor’s agenda.

  The phone rang. “Marshall, how are you?”

  It was Abdelhaq al Fassi. Marshall had recruited Abdelhaq for the CIA during the 1978-79 Islamic revolution that overthrew the Shah when both Marshall and Abdelhaq, a Moroccan intelligence officer, were posted to Tehran. They had contacted each other following their respective retirements, and their friendship had grown, transcending the typical case officer-agent relationship.

  “Abdelhaq, we’re all fine. In fact, my son Steve is in Morocco on business. I was going to call you mys
elf to tell you.”

  “Well, it’s Steve I’m calling about. I haven’t spoken to him yet. But something has happened. Military Security is talking to him and that’s why he hasn’t had a chance to call you himself.”

  “What in the world does security want with Steve?”

  “An IED blew up a Ministry of Defense car he was using. Steve wasn’t in it at the time. He’s okay. We think it was a Salafist operation. It just happened so we don’t know much more than what I’ve just told you.”

  Marshall’s grip tightened around the phone.

  “Don’t keep anything from me.”

  “Well, I’ve been away and just came back to town. But security heard from one source that there was Islamist interest in an American who was supposed to be a recent arrival and a CIA officer. I’m not connecting this with Steve right now, but who knows?”

  “I assume you’ll see him soon?”

  “Consider it done. His company must think well of him to send him on such an important business-mission by himself.”

  “To tell you the truth, Abdelhaq, I sometimes don’t recognize him. He always tested and interviewed very well but school bored him. Too many rules, he said. He was stronger on the people side.”

  A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. Through the window Marshall saw the TV crew. He first straightened a small frame. It read:

  WE FACE A HOSTILE IDEOLOGY, GLOBAL IN SCOPE RUTHLESS IN PURPOSE AND INSIDIOUS IN METHOD. UNHAPPILY THE DANGER IT POSES PROMISES TO BE OF INDEFINITE DURATION.

  —Farewell Radio and Television Address to the American People by President Dwight D. Eisenhower, January 17, 1961.

  Marshall put on his blazer before realizing it was the one with the Knights of Malta crest on the pocket. He quickly changed his jacket and then put his tennis racquet in a closet out of sight next to a German Heckler and Koch G3 rifle that had hung in his office until recently. His wife had finally persuaded him that it made their home look too martial. He opened the door.

  Bruce, the Channel 32 producer, and his cameraman came in. Their white van with the dish antennae was parked in his driveway. Marshall brought them upstairs to his office. He knew they preferred his office for these interviews because of the large framed 1676 map of the world, decorated with likenesses of the rulers of the time, and a large globe on a wooden stand.

  “Thanks for letting us come out,” Bruce said.

  He was in his early forties, with short dark hair, just under six feet and fairly trim. With the long sleeves of his checkered blue and white shirt rolled up, Bruce was all business but in a smooth, non-confrontational style.

  “We’d like to talk to you today about the latest terrorist video that Al Jazeera aired last night.”

  The cameraman set up his equipment and aimed his lens on the globe with a close-up of the Middle East. Marshall sat with his back to his desk and to the map.

  Bruce asked, “Last night, Zawahiri again mentioned their goal to recapture Andalusia. That’s been a theme in al Qaeda’s public statements over the years and one that we have not explored. What is that all about?”

  Looking into the camera, Marshall said, “Until a Frankish army stopped it in the eighth century, Islam expanded by force of arms into the vacuum left by the virtual disappearance of the Roman Empire. For several hundred years afterward it continued to rule over Spain, which they called Andalusia. The Islamists now claim all of the countries in their former Caliphate—from Spain to Bokhara, Tashkent, the Philippines and Burma.”

  “Of course, they can’t be serious,” Bruce said. “The world has changed.”

  “In his last statement,” Marshall replied, “the Prophet Muhammad declared that Allah had ordered him to spread the faith to all corners of the earth, to bring Islam to all unbelievers. This is taken literally by the radical Muslims.”

  Marshall pointed to the portraits on the map.

  “This fellow on horseback, Muhammad the Fourth, between Louis XIV of France and Pope Innocent XI here at the top, was the Ottoman Caliph. After conquering Baghdad in the thirteenth century, the Turks established the Muslim capital in Istanbul and, until Kemal Ataturk shut down the concept of the caliphate in 1924, the Arab lands were basically Turkish provinces. Then, in World War I, the Turks were on the wrong side, after which the British carved up the Ottoman Empire into new countries. The fundamentalists have never accepted the partitions. But that’s a topic for another time.”

  After the interview, Marshall called Steve, who picked up on the second ring.

  “Steve, what’s going on?”

  “Hi Dad. Moroccan Security wanted to know anything I could tell them about the explosion, which was nothing. I did tell them that I thought I might have been followed.”

  He recounted details of the men who’d followed him.

  “Keep in mind that there are a lot of criminals out there looking for rich Americans,” Marshall said. “They’re usually focused on tourist sites. But if they meet the time and distance test—if you see the same people in separate locations over time—then they’re probably professionals and have interests other than just stealing your wallet.”

  “One of the security guys debriefing me, Driss Benjelloun, looked uncomfortable. He squirmed when I told them about the surveillance. I got the feeling that he knew more than he was letting on. Security offered to give me a bodyguard if I wanted one. I said no. But I have the feeling that they’ll keep an eye on me anyway.”

  “You should just get the hell out of Morocco,” Marshall told him. “In the meantime, get in touch with Abdelhaq right away. I just spoke with him by telephone. With his background and his contacts, he should be able to help you out and find out what’s really going on.”

  “What should I do if I’m under surveillance again? Tell me how to lose them.”

  “In your case, go to the nearest authority—the police or the embassy. Usually, if the surveillance is official, it’s best to ignore them and lull them to sleep—convince them you’re not a threat. If the surveillance is official, you really can’t escape them except for brief periods. They’ll simply bring more resources to bear. But these guys tried to kill you, Steve. This is serious. I want you to get on an early plane.”

  He said he would think about it.

  After hanging up, Marshall reflected on what he knew from both Abdelhaq and Steve. Should he go to Morocco? Was Steve safe by himself? There was no hard indication that the attack was against Steve. The car could have been a target of opportunity based on the hope it would kill an important general. If the Salafists were targeting Steve, what was the reason? It didn’t make sense that it was just because he was an American. There were plenty of Americans in Morocco. Maybe they thought he was selling weapons.

  Could Steve, untrained in basic intelligence tradecraft, handle this situation? He knew his son was not averse to physical risk. But this was clearly different. Marshall recalled that Steve’s Myers Briggs test results had painted him as extraverted, sensing, thinking, perceiving, and the “ultimate realist.” He was also objective and analytic, yet spontaneous and action-oriented—a good formula to assess the danger and act accordingly. Marshall understood the frailty of psychological assessments but, in this case, he felt confident Steve would make the right decisions.

  Morocco was Abdelhaq’s turf. He and Abdelhaq had faced danger together and he knew the man to be cool and decisive when necessary. Marshall figured he would probably get an ulcer worrying, but he decided to stay put.

  12. Tour Hassan Hotel

  When Steve opened his room door, he was face-to-face with a smiling man about his own height. A tonsure of gray-white hair circled the bald top of the man’s head. He had a bushy gray mustache, and wore tan slacks, a lightweight dark blue jacket and a loose checkered tie that exposed the open top button of his dark-blue shirt.

  Steve took some clothes from the easy chair and motioned for Abdelhaq to sit down while he sat on the bed.

  Abdelhaq glanced around the room and his eyes came to rest on St
eve.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you as a young man. I first met you about thirty years ago in Tehran. I spoke to your father yesterday.”

  “My father told me to be sure and get in touch with you while I’m here. Although he wants me to leave on the next plane,” Steve smiled. “He spoke highly of you. You know about the explosion?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I’m in charge of the investigation. I need your help. Please tell me everything you told security. This is looking more and more like the work of the Salafists.”

  Steve gave him every detail he could remember, and then said, “Salafists, Salafists! That’s become a mantra. A couple of weeks ago, I had barely heard the term.”

  “Do you know about this article? Do you know that Doctor Coogan is dead?” Abdelhaq asked as he handed Steve a copy of the article naming him Dr. Coogan’s assistant.

  “Dead?” Steve exclaimed. “What happened? He was slightly wounded by some nut who attacked him with a knife in Berlin but I didn’t think it was serious.”

  “This was a hit-and-run later claimed as an execution by a Salafist cell. Since you’re identified as Coogan’s assistant, you were probably the target yesterday. What’s your role in this Quranic document affair?”

  Steve recounted what Coogan had told him and added, “But I was never his assistant. I was just visiting him for a couple of days.”

  He took a deep breath and stood up. He went to the window and looked outside with a slight frown. He turned around and said, “I want to help catch whoever did this. The IED killed people, innocent people, just people walking by. These were senseless murders. I want to help send those guys away for a long time.”

  Steve looked Abdelhaq in the eyes to make certain he understood his commitment.

  “What you can do is to stay here and finish your business. Right now you’re our only connection to those who blew up the car—until the interrogations that are going on now shed some light on all this.”

  Steve mulled that for a moment.