The Caliphate Read online

  “I lived in Northern Mali as a little girl, around Timbuktu. Our people rebelled. Tuaregs have never gotten used to the restrictions of borders. Maybe it was like when fences went up in the American West.”

  “You’ve come a long way, from Timbuktu to receptions at the Ambassador’s Residence in Paris! How did you do that?”

  “During the fighting, the Malian Army killed many civilians, including my parents. The Hastings adopted me from an orphanage run by Catholic nuns in Timbuktu. Jack was posted to Mali during the rebellion.”

  “I’m sorry about your parents. Are you legally French, American or Malian?”

  “My adoptive mother is French, her maiden name was Joulet. Her father is…” she hesitated, “with the French Government. I’m a dual national. Actually I’m probably a triple national,” she laughed. “I spent a couple of years in the States. My stepfather insists that I am an American and that my English should be as good as my French.”

  After another hour, Kella sat back in her chair and said, “You’re on vacation but I have an eight o’clock seminar on the administration of the DOM-TOMs. In French that’s the Departements d’Outre Mer-Territoires d’Outre Mer. In English, the Overseas Departments and Territories. I think I had better go.”

  She paused and added, “But only if you’ve finished all your questions.”

  Steve acted as if he hadn’t caught the slight sarcasm in Kella’s tone.

  “Just the name of that seminar is giving me a headache. Wait, I do have one last question. What about the markings on the back of your hand?”

  He gestured to four small black dots arranged in a diamond pattern on the back of Kella’s right hand.

  “Okay, but this is the end of the interrogation. It’s the Southern Cross, a small constellation between Centaurus and Musca. In the Southern Hemisphere, it will help you locate the South Pole. I’ve had this tattoo since I was very young. My mother had the same one. It also has something to do with high authority and status in the tribe and a symbol of the Tuaregs’ mastery of navigation in the desert.”

  “In my tribe, we have the same thing.”

  Pointing to the watch on his right wrist, he said, “It’s called a Suunto X-Lander. I got it at the PX in South Korea.”

  Kella giggled. “It has so many dials and buttons—can you actually use it to tell time? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one like it.”

  “It has an altimeter, a thermometer, and a compass. Now you could get one with a GPS.”

  He raised his right wrist and glanced at his watch.

  “Directly north of you there is a tall American named Steve with whom you’re going to have lunch tomorrow.”

  Kella’s laugh was brief.

  “Well, I’m not sure. I have a lot to do tomorrow.”

  “Oh-oh, a boyfriend on the horizon,” he said in mock alarm, surprised at his own words. He hadn’t had that concern about anyone for a long time.

  “Nothing like that,” she smiled at his concern. “I have classes in the morning and I promised to meet a friend in the afternoon. She lives in St. Denis. Troubles with her father. I’m not sure that I’m doing the right thing but I want to try to help her. Her father is super-conservative, super-Islamist. He sounds like he wants to go back to another century. Although Faridah lives in Paris in the twenty-first century, he expects her to behave as if she lived in eighth century Mecca. In Algeria, where female genital mutilation is not widely practiced, her father had her cut before she was five years old.”

  Female genital mutilation was the last thing Steve wanted, or could, talk about.

  “St. Denis, the Basilica, where all of the French kings were buried. It’s on my list of things to do in Paris. We could meet there after you visit your friend. But first, we’ll have lunch. You have to eat lunch somewhere, right?”

  “I don’t think that’s going to work. If you want, we could go to St. Denis together. Then, while you go to the Basilica, I’ll go with Faridah. And we can meet at the Basilica later.”

  Before she got in a cab and disappeared into the swirling night traffic of the Place de la Concorde, they had agreed to take the Metro to St. Denis together the next day and see if their schedules meshed on the way.

  On her way home, Kella thought about Steve. She was intrigued but wary. She guessed that he was several years older than her twenty-seven years. He had mentioned having lived in Korea, Hawaii, Morocco, and West Africa, which appealed to her. He had more than held his own with the diplomats at the reception. At first, she had been a bit put off by his directness. She smiled; he was so American, so different from the French students at ENA, many of whom came from families that would gladly have a monarch rather than a republic. She felt that they had made a connection. He would leave Paris soon. But he was fun and pleasant to be with. She herself felt more confident when she was with him.

  Her last thought about Steve that night—and she knew he would get a good laugh if he knew—compared him to a World War II figure whom she had recently studied, General George Patton, forceful, often did the opposite of what was expected, and who didn’t mind the limelight.

  Steve’s thoughts about Kella were conflicted. He had almost been engaged a year before but he hadn’t dated since the sudden death of his fiancée. Vera also had been tall and intelligent. He had loved her spontaneity, something he didn’t detect much of in Kella. He often wondered whether Vera might still be alive―he knew she would be―if he hadn’t been so selfishly focused on high-altitude skiing during their few days in Canada. She had gone off with another group that day and he had not seen her again. An avalanche had killed them all.

  The evening with Kella had started to unshackle his emotions. His hand went up to his neck and he felt the necklace Vera had found at the hotel gift shop the day before she died. He had worn it ever since.

  As he neared the Coogan house, his mind went back to the robbery. Where was Coogan and what were the thieves looking for?

  Two policemen approached Steve as soon as he got out of the taxi. They recognized him after shining their lights on his face and, politely but firmly, asked him to hold his arms up. They frisked him before they allowed him to go in the house.

  The phone rang as he walked upstairs. He took the call in the kitchen. It was Ted Coogan.

  “Steve, I’m calling from Berlin. I had an accident. Well, not exactly an accident. I’m calling from the Benjamin Franklin Hospital. Someone attacked me with a knife. But he found out that I’m not entirely defenseless,” Coogan chuckled. “Anyway, I have to ask you a favor. Take my car, it’s in the garage, and pick me up at the airport tomorrow morning. I’ll be on Lufthansa flight 4212, landing at 10 a.m.”

  “Wait a minute. Do you know about the break-in at your house?”

  “Yes. I got a call from the French police. Benjamin must have given them my number. But I’m not surprised. It’s all related to my trip to Berlin, I’m sure. I’ll tell you more tomorrow. Thanks for doing this. I appreciate it. By the way, I’m five-eleven with white hair, and glasses. Oh, and I’ll be the guy with the cane.”

  He was barely off the phone when Benjamin came running up the stairs.

  “I didn’t hear you come in. The phone woke me up.”

  He wore sweats and a t-shirt. He frowned and spoke in a loud voice.

  “A couple of hours ago a policeman came to the door. He said not to worry. Ha!”

  He looked up and threw his arms open as if imploring God to be his witness.

  “Ne vous en faites pas, Monsieur,” Benjamin said in a deep voice mimicking the policeman. “We have an unconfirmed report that a terrorist group is planning something soon. Something soon! Are you kidding? What the hell does that mean? He thought we should know because of the break-in. As if that explained everything!”

  “Well, did you ask him what it meant?”

  “Yes, of course. I asked him several times and he finally said that the terrorists might use a suicide bomber!”

  His voice had become shrill.

/>   “What else?”

  “That it was almost certainly a false report, that it had nothing to do with us and that we should not worry because there had never been a suicide bomber in Paris. But he was just following orders. In the meantime, they would reinforce the police in the front.”

  Steve was weary from the long day but his mind was racing. The knowledge that the break-in and the attack on Coogan in Berlin were related was interesting, but it didn’t suggest a line of action.

  Now, a suicide bomber threat the police don’t believe because there has never been a suicide bomber in Paris?

  Then there was Tariq al Khalil’s appearance at the museum. He remembered that al Khalil had also gone to school in Cairo and that he came from an Egyptian family, although born in Belgium. So al Khalil’s presence at the museum should not have surprised him. He recalled that al Khalil was supposed to be an expert on Islam. Maybe he should talk to him. But he immediately dismissed that thought. Coogan should be able to connect the dots. And then there was Kella. The next day promised to be just as full.

  ***

  The next morning, after relishing Benjamin’s Eggs Benedict, he drove to the airport. It took Steve a few minutes to get comfortable in Coogan’s blue MINI Cooper S. The top of his head was only an inch from the small vehicle’s roof. He reached Charles de Gaulle, parked, and made his way through what once had been Europe’s most modern airport but now was beginning to show wear. As the crowds walked out toward public transportation, Steve felt he was swimming upstream.

  He realized why Coogan had asked to be met at the airport—he walked with a cane to alleviate his limp when he came out of the customs check point. Steve waved and made his way through the crowd.

  Coogan grinned and said, “Those thugs sent a boy to do a man’s job.”

  His grin was replaced by a grimace of pain and a sudden intake of breath as they started to walk toward the covered parking lot. Steve carried Coogan’s overnight bag and laptop.

  “I was leaving my hotel and he came at me in broad daylight. I was lucky because he showed his knife too early. He gave me a chance to…”

  A light flashed on their left. A news photographer said, “Thank you Dr. Coogan. Mind if I take another?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he took two more shots. The reporter who was with the photographer stepped forward, put a microphone in front of Coogan’s face and asked, “How did you feel when you were attacked in Berlin?”

  Coogan tried to walk past but his limp, the gathering crowd and the large reporter planted in front of him made a civilized escape impossible.

  Steve wedged himself in front of Coogan.

  “This is not a good time,” he said “Please excuse us.”

  The reporter scowled and leaned forward aggressively.

  “Who are you? Don’t interfere with the press.”

  His face inches from the public’s right to know, Steve stepped forcefully on the reporter’s foot.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  With the reporter now slightly off-balance, Steve lowered a shoulder and walked straight through him with Coogan in his wake.

  The reporter called out, “Crétin! Dr. Coogan, is it true that the attack in Berlin was related to your work on the Quran?”

  Coogan kept walking behind Steve and said over his shoulder, “Thank you. Contact Berlin.”

  Once in the passenger seat of his MINI Cooper, Coogan sighed and rubbed his leg.

  “Thanks for picking me up. That thug did stick me in the leg,” he pointed to his right leg. “No big deal. The hospital bandaged it and let me go. But the effect of the painkiller has worn out. Could you reach my bag for me? There’s an envelope in the side pocket.”

  Steve gave him the envelope and Coogan took two pills that he immediately swallowed. As Steve drove out of the airport, he asked, “What was that reporter talking about? The Quran project?”

  “Right, but first things first. Tell me how I can help you. I understand you’re on your way to Morocco. Great country! It was anyway. Things are changing. What do you hope to do there?”

  “My company, West Gate Scientific International, does a lot of consulting for the Pentagon. You know, almost everything is outsourced these days. I’ve been involved in counter proliferation in Korea and in helping the new North American Command for its first Congressional hearings. Now I’ll be trying to sell our services to the Moroccan defense establishment.”

  Coogan shifted in his seat, winced, and grabbed his leg as he tried to get in a more comfortable position.

  “It’s okay, I’m fine. The painkiller should kick in soon. Go on. Sounds like your company hired the Renaissance Man.”

  “You sure you don’t want to stop? After the 2004 terrorist attack on Madrid that had killed one hundred ninety-one people, I learned that the Army’s European command was starting to provide counterterrorist training and equipment to North African countries. Anyway, I put the two together and made a pitch to my boss that this was a business opportunity to win contracts either with EUCOM or with the countries receiving the assistance. Long story short, the idea found traction. Before I knew it, I was packing. Anyway, my father said you were the expert I needed to talk to before I went to Morocco. But this Quran project sounds interesting.”

  “It’s certainly bringing out the nut cases, isn’t it? The German Order of the Knights Hospitallers recovered very old, and very different,” he looked at Steve for emphasis, “versions of the Quran. They might have had them since the Crusades. These pre-date the official version started under the third caliph, Othman. They were lost during the Second World War, or hidden. The Hospitallers donated the manuscripts to a German research institute. I have been invited to join the research team.”

  “And why would anyone try to kill you for that? And you said that the break-in was related? How?”

  “The Quran is supposed to be the word of God, immutable, eternal, unique—in other words, unchallengeable. A group of infidels claiming that they have different versions of God’s word is upsetting to certain Muslim groups, to say the least. And the most extreme, the Salafists, are more than ready to eliminate those other versions as well as anyone who claims they exist. As for the break-in, they must have assumed that I had copies of the manuscripts at home. In fact, I had received one page by email to allow me to decide whether I could handle the skeletal Arabic. But, I brought my laptop with me.”

  He pointed in back of him toward his computer.

  “Speaking of which,” Steve asked, “have you ever heard of a Tariq al Khalil? I went to graduate school with him in Brussels. We weren’t exactly close friends but I saw him today, at the Institut Arabe.”

  Coogan nodded thoughtfully.

  “Al Khalil lectures and writes extensively. From a Muslim Brotherhood family as I recall. His pitch depends on his audience. He tries to be moderate with European audiences but, in front of a Muslim audience, he’s a take-no-prisoners kind of guy. Gaining in influence, too. I hope my former employers are keeping an eye on him. He has become a leader in Salafist circles.”

  Coogan smiled, looked at Steve and added, “Your father thought I could give you some useful background before you go to Morocco, so let me fast-forward for you. We are witnessing the renaissance of a religion, no, of an authoritarian ideology. Its proponents—jihadists, Salafists, whatever you choose to call them—honestly believe everyone must fall in line, that it is God’s will that we all submit. In the short term they are skillful at perception management, using the internet, killings, whatever works. In the long term, the only constituency they care about is God, Allah. Those who liked the Taliban will love the new Caliphate, the idea that they’re going to recreate the Middle East as a borderless Muslim empire, but only as a first step. My generation struggled against one global ‘ism.’ Your generation is faced with another. That can be your first lesson on contemporary Islam.”

  “Are you saying that I’m going to have to deal with these guys in Morocco?”

  “Dep
ends. Just keep in mind that the true believers are deadly. They are a small minority of the Muslim world to be sure. Some say, what, only one-to-five percent are extremists? That’s between fifteen-million and seventy-five-million people. Some of them are in Morocco. That’s where the terrorists who bombed the Spanish trains came from.”

  When they reached Coogan’s house, Benjamin met them in the hallway.

  “Welcome back boss. What do you think of your Arab neighbors?”

  Seeing Coogan’s expression he continued, “Oh, you don’t know? I thought the police called you. Well, it turns out that the robbers came over the wall in the back, from the Saudi residence. Their footsteps are still there. The gang that couldn’t shoot straight,” he said, with more bravado than Steve had seen yet.

  Coogan and Benjamin went to go have a look. Steve was anxious to leave to go meet Kella.

  “I’m off to the Metro. I promised to meet someone. But could the thief have come from the Saudi residence? What do you think?”

  “We’ll talk about the theft later,” Coogan told him. “You look in a hurry. Forget the Metro. Take my car if you want. I won’t need it for the rest of the day. I’m going to be busy right here.” He turned to Benjamin and said, “I’ll be here tonight for dinner but not tomorrow. So just prepare your usual fine cuisine tonight, and Steve can tell you what he would like tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. The car will be useful since I’m late.”

  As Steve turned to go, Benjamin said, “By the way, a reporter called you this morning Steve. But he didn’t leave a message.”

  “A reporter?” He looked at Coogan. “What did he want?”

  “He asked for the person who met Mr. Coogan at the airport. He said that you had given him your name but that he hadn’t had a chance to get the spelling right for the article. So I gave it to him.”

  Steve and Ted looked at each other. Steve smiled at the reporter’s ingenuity but Coogan frowned. Steve hurried to the MINI Cooper to go meet Kella wondering what Coogan looked worried about.

  3. Tel Aviv

  On consultation from his assignment in Brussels at Mossad’s European headquarters, David Ben Tov had been summoned by Mossad Director Nahum Ben Gal to his top floor office. Mindful that Mossad’s American desk chief often lunched with the CIA chief of station at the Asia House near the Mossad building, David Ben Tov parked two blocks away from the Hadar Dafna Building on King Saul Boulevard in Tel Aviv. Seemingly a business office building, the Hadar Dafna was the headquarters of the Ha Mossad, le Modiyn ve le Takfidim Mayuhadim, the Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, Israel’s external Israeli intelligence service.