The Caliphate Read online

  Ben Tov was in his late forties, with blondish receding hair, light skin, in reasonable shape for his age, and dressed in loafers, cargo pants, a sport jacket and white shirt. He wore no tie, a style established early by the David Ben Gurion tie-less generation of pioneers.

  The sky was cloudy, threatening rain. Ben Tov quickened his step.

  In the elevator on his way to the director’s top floor office, Ben Tov reviewed his operations in Europe to be ready for whatever Ben Gal wanted to take up with him. He ran several agents: a Libyan and an Ethiopian diplomat, a Belgian businessman who did business in Saudi Arabia. The Turkish Ambassador was his very good friend, although not yet an agent. He was cultivating the manager of a five star hotel in Brussels where many Arab plenipotentiaries stayed when visiting Brussels to lobby the European Union.

  Ben Tov hoped to be able to plant microphones and cameras in several of the suites. He also had a number of other lesser contacts including a promising young Palestinian with intriguing family connections. By the time he stepped out of the elevator, he hadn’t dredged up any problems that would reach Ben Gal’s level.

  Ben Gal, tall, still dark-haired although ten years older than David, was dressed in slacks and a shirt with sleeves rolled up. He walked to greet him from behind his desk and extended his hand.

  Good signs, thought Ben Tov. He had been in Ben Gal’s modest office only once before, when Ben Gal’s predecessor had told him that Mossad would pay for his last two years of university studies at the University of California, Berkeley, assuming he was accepted. He had met his future wife Rachel there, also a Sabra, and picked up American-accented English and expressions.

  Ben Gal moved back to his chair. “I understand that we sent you to Berkeley a few years ago. It’s time to amortize our investment, to use your American background for the country. Here is a file I want you to read.” He handed him a thick green colored file. David held it sideways to read the title, “Muslim Brotherhood. Western Europe.”

  David, wanting to show he was knowledgeable, said, “I believe that the Ikhwan moved to Europe from Egypt, first to Germany to take advantage of the Muslim émigrés from Russia left over from the war.”

  “Your target is Salim Salaheldin, the brotherhood’s senior official in Europe. He lives in Brussels. Actually, the real focus of the operation will be Tariq al Khalil. Salaheldin is his uncle and mentor. He has a great deal of influence on al Khalil. And it’s al Khalil I’m concerned about. He’s young, charismatic, has a following through his academic activities, lecturing and so on, but he’s also an activist. Both Salim Salaheldin and al Khalil are related to the Brotherhood’s founder. That gives them automatic credentials.

  “The radical Muslims right now are leaderless. Al Khalil badly wants the job. We’re going to help him. I think that we can control him, well at least influence him, if we can recruit Salim. Nature and politics abhor a vacuum. If al Khalil doesn’t take over the movement, someone else will. At least, if we, that is if you, can recruit Salim, we’re in the game. Al Khalil wants to recreate the old Caliphate. I want you to keep him as far away from Israel as possible. Have him recreate his Caliphate in the Sahara. Let him get a tan while he’s doing Allah’s work.”

  Ben Gal smiled sardonically.

  Recalling Ben Gal’s reference to Berkeley, David said, “Are you saying you want me to put my American hat on to do this? To pretend I’m CIA?”

  Ben Gal smiled again.

  “Exactly, this will be a false-flag recruitment. I will establish a ‘bigot’ list of the people who will be cleared for this operation. Until then, you are to discuss it with no one other than me.”

  “And do we have reason to believe that Salim can be recruited?”

  “It’s all in the file.”

  Ben Gal’s tone turned abrupt. He looked out his window at the dark clouds for a second and, in a more measured tone, continued, “We have reason to believe that Salim’s predecessor, also with family connections to the Brotherhood, met with a CIA officer, Joe DiPietro from New Jersey.”

  “What did they have in common, I wonder?”

  “Well, it was the Cold War. The CIA wanted access to the Muslim émigrés from Russia to send them back as sources. The Brotherhood needed cash and approved the contact. The Brotherhood also established sympathy in the CIA by providing occasional snippets of counterterrorist information through their own penetrations of Fatah, Force 17 and other groups.”

  “Was Salim aware that his predecessor was in touch with the CIA?”

  “That’s not clear. You’ll have to read the file for yourself.”

  Ben Gal looked at his watch and Ben Tov took the hint.

  “One more thing,” Ben Gal said as Ben Tov got up, “Al Khalil has a wife and daughter in Brussels. Find out where and establish their living patterns, school, shopping, friends, you know. Could be useful later.”

  Ben Tov gathered the green file. He glanced out the window before going out the door. The dark clouds were no longer threatening, they had burst and the wind was whipping the water against Ben Gal’s window.

  ***

  The Boeing 767-300 descended over the Mediterranean as it neared the coast of North Africa toward Algiers. Tariq al Khalil looked out his window and could understand why the French traditionally referred to the city as Alger la Blanche. On the northern edge of the green coastal plain, the whitewashed buildings of the Casbah nestled in an arc overlooking the port and the bay, reflected the morning sun. Several container ships were unloading and two were leaving. Al Khalil noted the absence of cruise ships with satisfaction.

  During the flight, al Khalil had been thinking of his last conversation with his wife Malika. He wanted their daughter Jamila to grow up in a Muslim environment. Malika did not, could not, oppose him. But he still seethed at the deception in her comment, “She will be better off here. She can grow up Muslim, attend the madrasa right here in Brussels.”

  In his absence, she had been invited to a meeting of the International Women’s Club by the wife of the Egyptian ambassador, a woman who liked to play bridge with her international friends. Al Khalil suspected that Malika was telling him what he wanted to hear but secretly pined for the life of her Egyptian friend. He decided that he would send them to live in Cairo or Riyadh as soon as he had time to plan the move.

  His thoughts wandered when he found a map of North Africa in an Air France brochure in the pocket in front of him. The outlined borders reminded him of the interference of the Christian powers and his frustration stayed high. He took a deep breath. In North Africa, it had been France. In other regions of the former Caliphate, it had been Great Britain. The Christians had created the borders to divide the Caliphate into separate countries to divide and conquer. But, knowing that he soon would be able to reclaim the populations on the ground below for Islam, he felt empowered. He knew that he could harness the humiliation and the anger of the people to his advantage and fill the current power vacuum in the leadership of the radical Muslim movement. He felt energized.

  Al Khalil turned to his Syrian deputy and chief of operations Hussein al Kaylani.

  “Petrol and alcohol in those ships. During bad years, the difference between the production and the export of Bordeaux wines from France comes from Algerian wines. Hypocrisy and corruption are the West’s capstone principles. A Muslim country in the alcohol business is unacceptable, an insult to Allah, May he favor our actions.”

  “Yes, that will come, Hussein replied. “There are more important things … I mean, you’re right. But don’t you think that petrol is where the power is?”

  Al Khalil didn’t reply. He thought Hussein’s common sense sometimes made up for his lack of true religious fervor.

  ***

  They landed at Houari Boumedienne International Airport. Mediterranean sunlight flowed through large and high windows. Architecturally clean lines offered uncluttered and expansive spaces. Large posters from the Ministry of Tourism greeted tourists in several languages. However, al Kh
alil immediately felt the embattled atmosphere. The presence of countless military patrols—soldiers walking in pairs with leveled semi-automatic machine guns hanging from their shoulders—sent a clear warning not to abuse the welcome.

  Al Khalil chuckled. He turned to Hussein and said, “Our Salafist friends obviously have convinced these apostate rulers that their days are limited.”

  Hussein took his cell phone out of pocket.

  “Yes. When the Algerian Salafists became al Qaeda in the Maghreb, they became more aggressive, more deadly. It was a good idea to plan a meeting with them on our way south.”

  Following a two-hour wait, the Land Rover representative met them on the street side of the airport explaining the delay as the will of God, Insha’llah. Hussein took title to the car after another hour of haggling over the final price and a sizable bribe, or bakchich.

  Al Khalil saw the boxy-looking green car with outsize Michelin desert tires but was only interested in the brand name. As he got in the car, he asked, “Why a British car, Hussein? The British have troops in Iraq; their damn SAS commandos are fighting the Taliban in Afghanistan.”

  Hussein’s shrewd eyes didn’t move from his maps as he replied flippantly, “I’m more concerned about being able to traverse the Sahara than who made the car.” He looked up at al Khali. “It’s a good car.”

  Al Khalil gave his deputy a sharp look but said nothing.

  They followed signs to Avenue Franklin Roosevelt, which became National Road #1 and proceeded south. The sign informed them that the distance to Blida was twenty-eight miles. As they neared the entrance to the town, they were stopped at a roadblock. They were let though after a check of their passports. However, off to the side, two soldiers had ordered the driver and passenger of the previous car to get out. There was yelling and one soldier, holding his weapon parallel to the ground, hit the passenger with the stock of his rifle, stepping forward with one foot for more force.

  Just like in training, al Khalil thought.

  The passenger fell, his head bleeding.

  Hussein, who drove, asked, “How well do you know the AQIM chief, El Maghrebi?”

  “Ibrahim El Maghrebi is more of a survivor than a fox. He was a sergeant in the Algerian army when he tried to enlist fellow officers to his Salafist beliefs. He was jailed, later released in an amnesty, and went underground. I agree with him on many things. The execution of uncooperative village officials, as the North Vietnamese practiced, is an effective path to control the population. Since 1991 when they started to fight, they have killed over two-hundred thousand. No wonder they convinced al Qaeda central to incorporate them.”

  “But will he help us?” Hussein asked. “And does he have the purity of spirit that you seek?”

  Al Khalil glanced at Hussein; his only response was a thoughtful nod. He knew that Hussein was still trying to convince him of his Muslim motivation.

  They found the small grocery store with the safety signal—a Coca-Cola sign in Arabic in its window, which signified to al Khalil and Hussein that the site was secure, and that the Algerian police was neither in control of the location nor surveilling it. Immediately inside the door, a bearded guard holding his AK-47 casually let them into the smoky and narrow room where a young boy swept the floor.

  After an exchange of greetings, the guard said, “He’s up there,” and looked toward the ceiling. He shouted, “They’re here!” toward stairs in the back of the store. Between coughs, a voice replied, “Bring them up.” They walked past shelves lined with bottles of Evian and cans of Petits Pois de Clamart to reach the stairs.

  Ibrahim el-Maghrebi sported an unruly mustache hiding his upper lip but not his tobacco-stained teeth. His dusty brown jellaba, the hooded garment that covered the body from the head to the ankles, couldn’t completely hide a sturdy physique. Al Khalil could feel El Maghrebi’s familiarity with command and easily imagined him in uniform.

  “Salaam Alaikum. We are honored by your visit. Your reputation precedes you. Your family is the royalty of our Muslim Brotherhood. We honor your grandfather, a man with the Quran in one hand and a gun in the other. He promoted the renaissance of a pure brand of Islam to reverse the perversions of Western ideology: Christianity, imperialism and nationalism.”

  Al Khalil waved a fly away from his face. “You are kind.”

  El Maghrebi continued, “I’m sorry I have to receive you in this unworthy place. Please understand that we are at war. The next time we meet will be in my palace in Algiers.”

  They both chuckled.

  Asked to sit next to his host on a banquette against the wall, Al Khalil accepted. A blade of sun cut through half-closed curtains and lit part of the room.

  El Maghrebi reached for a pack of cigarettes from a pocket in the folds of his jellaba and held it in his hand.

  “AQIM is on the verge of victory,” he said. “A few days ago, we attacked a Coast Guard installation a hundred kilometers east of Algiers. We killed almost a hundred soldiers. We act in the name of Allah. The time for talk is past. But what can we do for you?”

  He opened the pack of cigarettes and offered it to al Khalil, who declined, and then to Hussein, who took one. The ashtray next to El Maghrebi was full.

  Hussein mentioned the roadblock they had encountered in Boufarik, but El Maghrebi didn’t seem worried.

  ***

  After the required tea and courtesies demanded by Muslim hospitality, al Khalil was soon up and pacing in the small room, his shadow appearing on the far wall when he crossed the narrow beam of sunlight. Al Khalil was not physically imposing but his coal black beard, aquiline nose and penetrating gray eyes gave him the air of a prophet.

  Stroking his beard, he said, “We are conscious of your actions. With the help of Allah, the Merciful, the Omnipotent, my Salafist brothers and I will reconquer all the lands of the ancient Caliphate. AQIM will play a key role in North Africa. We will work together. I will bring all of the countries bordering on the Sahara to our cause. You will help us. Acting and preaching must go together.”

  An hour into the meeting, Al Khalil said, “You have been right in not destroying the country’s oil industry. We will need it when we take over. But you must do something about the wine…”

  The phone rang downstairs and the tone of the guard’s short imperative questions cut him off. The guard ran up the stairs.

  “A mobile patrol is heading this way—one squad with a sergeant. They are now searching the house where Abdullah stayed last month. We must move.”

  As though anticipating the warning, El Maghrebi said, “Come, my brothers. Follow us. We will go to another safe house.”

  Out in the street, El Maghrebi, two guards and the boy got into a brown pick-up truck. Hussein and al Khalil followed in a Land Rover. A third vehicle followed with four other men. Using back streets, the small convoy circled around the patrol to the northern edge of town and parked on a side street. They walked at a brisk pace for two blocks until they reached a three-storey building with a café downstairs where they went in by a side door and found themselves in an apartment behind the café.

  El Maghrebi pulled curtains shut.

  “I apologize but this is the life we lead. The military has been searching for us with more vigor since our raid on the coast. Abdullah, the man they are looking for, hasn’t been here for a while. They’ve working from dated intelligence.”

  El Maghrebi gave his men orders and they started to file out again with purpose but not before checking the weapons they carried under their jellabas. Al Khalil felt El Maghrebi’s eyes on him as men pulled the bolts of their AK-47s back and let them slide forward to chamber a round. Al Khalil knew that El Maghrebi respected his intellect and passion and wanted to project his composure under stress.

  “We are safe here,” El Maghrebi said, “but these patrols never come in single squads. We may have to move again. You will be safer if you get on the road. No need to rush but today is better than tomorrow. I will send another car with you. My men know th
e desert. And it’s always safer to travel with two cars. But first, I have something for you in honor of your visit.”

  El Maghrebi gave his two guests, who had arrived from Paris wearing rumpled European suits and tie-less white shirts, two jellabas for desert travel. They both changed immediately. He then gave each al Khalil and al Kaylani a highly polished teak box.

  “You did us the honor of asking for our hospitality and help. We are blessed by Allah to join you. Please accept these gifts as symbols of AQIM’s unalloyed allegiance. We are as true to Islam as the blades of these two knives.”

  Al Khalil opened his box and pulled out a Damascus Amourette knife with a contoured gunstock handle. Al Kaylani received a Combat Trident Gerber knife with a double serrated blade. Al Khalil’s five-inch blade closed into the light horn handle but Hussein’s gift, with a blade slightly over six inches and a hilt, was clearly a hunting or fighting knife. Each was nestled in a gift box with the same care as an expensive watch.

  As they left, Al Khalil said, “I’m happy to have had this discussion. We will work well together. Your gifts will be put to the service of the Prophet, the All Powerful, the Compassionate.”

  El Maghrebi’s men led the way out of town and into the desert evening. On the left of the small convoy, the lengthening shadows of the vehicles brushed against the buildings of the town before caressing the sands of the Sahara. Al Khalil soon appreciated that only experienced drivers wary of the perpetual attempts of the sand to cover the road could have driven them safely in the dark. He thought ahead to their next stop on their way to Timbuktu, the oasis town of Ghardaia, the center of the first fundamentalists, the Kharijites.