The Caliphate Page 6

  She looked around the monument and was terrified to see Hamad inside the Basilica. Kella grabbed Steve’s arm and pulled him away from the tour group but still behind the monument. In a low, breathless voice she said, “Steve, something terrible has happened. That’s Hamad, Faridah’s father. He just killed her. I saw it.”

  A sob escaped, and she put a hand to her mouth.

  “Killed her? Is that what you said? No!”

  He put his arms around her for an instant until she stepped back, having regained control.

  Hamad had stopped very close to the spot where Kella first paused to look at her surroundings. He seemed hesitant to go further into what to him must have seemed a strange but sacred place.

  “I was there. It was awful. I ran. Now, he’s after me,” Kella said.

  “That guy over there?” he said looking in Hamad’s direction, “Show me.”

  She pointed from behind the monument. Hamad was moving forward, getting closer to the railing. Kella and Steve stayed with the tourists and their guide as they moved. The tour guide was speaking about Anne de Bretagne’s marriage.

  Then Hamad, with stains on his clothes, stepped over the railing and came toward them. Steve stepped in front of Kella. A woman who came out of the souvenir shop said in a raspy, vernacular accent that told Kella volumes about the owner’s view of Arab immigrants, “Alors, look at you! Where are we going―and without a ticket?”

  Hamad looked back and spotted the source of the voice, a red-faced female walking toward him, an infidel not fit to clean up behind him. But he felt intimidated.

  The woman continued, the superior acoustics of the church lending her words additional authority.

  “Have you no respect for the house of God?”

  Kella watched Hamad’s anger turn first to puzzlement then fear as he looked to the far end of the church toward the altar and the cross. Then Kella’s and Hamad’s eyes locked for an instant. She saw him turn away in extreme frustration. With fists tightly clenched and the muscles of his jaw bulging he strode out of the church.

  Steve whispered, “You stay with the tour, I’m going to take a breath of fresh air.”

  Before Kella could reply, he left the group, walked past the woman in the souvenir shop telling her, “You’re right, Madame. I’m going to make sure he doesn’t hang around the front.”

  When Steve stepped outside, he saw Hamad standing on the steps that led to the Basilica’s main entrance, motioning to another man coming in their direction about fifty yards away on the sidewalk. He went up to Hamad, who appeared surprised.

  “I don’t ever want to see you again,” he said, “and neither does the woman you followed here. If either you or your friend…” he pointed toward Hamad’s friend who was now running toward them, “are still here when we come out of the church, your days in sunny France are over, unless you want to spend them in a prison cell.”

  Hamad reacted instantly with a wild swinging right fist. Expecting it, Steve stepped forward under Hamad fist and he caught him under the chin with an open palm. The force of the blow was multiplied by Hamad’s forward motion. His head jerked back and he fell backward on the stone surface of the parvis. When the other man reached them, Hamad seemed unconscious. Hamad’s friend looked down at Hamad, undecided, but reached in his pocket and produced a knife.

  “Don’t make it any worse,” Steve said. “Take care of your friend. Maybe he’ll live.”

  He turned around and went back into the church.

  When he rejoined the tour, Steve whispered, “Let’s stay with the tour to give Hamad a bit longer.”

  They went downstairs to the crypt. Kella was in a daze. She stayed close to Steve, trying to keep out images of Hamad’s knife thrusts into Faridah’s body. When the guide explained that Saint Denis had been beheaded in Montmartre in the third century and had carried his head in his hands for several kilometers to this spot, where the church had been built to honor him two centuries later, Kella gasped at the grisly image that reinforced her painful memory.

  She asked Steve, “What about her body? What is he going to do with Faridah’s body? Steve, I ran away. Instead of helping her, I ran away.”

  Quiet tears ran down her face.

  “I want to get out of here.”

  Steve took her back up to street level and toward the exit. Kella stopped him.

  “Wait. Before leaving, I want a couple of minutes to myself.”

  She glanced around and walked to a side chapel, knelt, and prayed for Faridah. After a few minutes, she stood up. She looked up at a statue of the Virgin Mary in whites and blues with arms out in a welcoming gesture and murmured, “Please care for the soul of my friend who meant no harm.”

  Kella met Steve by the front entrance.

  “You have to tell the police. Let’s go to the local police station,” he said.

  She hesitated a second, wiped her tears, blew her nose and regained her composure.

  “No. I just want to get away from here. I’ll call my father and he’ll make arrangements for me to talk to the police later.”

  Seeing the surprise on Steve’s face, she added, “As the dependent of an American Foreign Service officer with diplomatic status, I’m not supposed to be in touch with the French police without either a consular officer or the regional security officer. My double nationality status makes things more complicated. It’s better if someone from the embassy is with me when I talk to the police.”

  They went out, looking left and right for any signs that Hamad was near. With Kella clutching Steve’s arm tightly, they walked quickly to the parking lot, climbed into the MINI Cooper and left St. Denis behind.

  5. Basilique de Saint-Denis

  “Steve, I don’t want to go home. Let’s go somewhere else. Or let’s just drive,” Kella said.

  It was evening, but the French capital’s northern latitude provided natural light late in the day. At first they drove in silence. Then little by little, at times sobbing, at times almost incoherent, Kella relived the horrible memory of her friend’s murder. She imitated Hamad’s killing motion with her hand, repeating as he had, “Allahu Akbar.” The retelling was at once traumatic and cathartic for her.

  “Steve,” she said, “you know that I was initially raised Muslim. But I’m confused. The God to whom Hamad sacrificed Faridah is not the same God I thought I knew.”

  The intensity of his glance surprised her as he said, “Radical Islamists pray to a different Allah. I should have gone with you―I should have gone. Your friend might still be alive.”

  Kella shook her head.

  “He stabbed her again and again. There was so much blood. There was a point when Faridah looked for me, I think. She expected me to help her. I tried…”

  She sobbed again.

  Stopping at a light, Steve said, “Killing your daughter in the name of Allah! What kind of religion is that?”

  “I had heard stories, but I didn’t really pay much attention before,” Kella said, shaking her head. “I thought these ‘honor killings,’ as they’re called, only took place in the uncontrolled areas, in the mountains of Afghanistan.”

  They had reached the Place Charles de Gaulle and Steve turned onto the Avenue des Champs Élysées. Taking his cue from the bright lights and lively rhythm of the wide boulevard, he tried to change the mood.

  “Listen, you know that I have to leave for Morocco in a couple days. I’m going to drive you home now. But, before I get on a plane, I’m going to try to help you forget today’s nightmare. I’m going to treat you to the greatest meal you’ve ever had. Tomorrow night, come to my house in Neuilly and I’ll surprise you.”

  Kella forced a smile.

  He continued, “It’s a difficult time. I’m sorry about your friend. This is the kind of thing one never forgets. But I want to put you on a good path before I leave.”

  “I know, and I’m grateful. But I don’t know if…”

  She looked over at him and put her hand on his.

  “I wa
nt you to hold me.”

  Steve turned onto a lateral street and stopped. They held each other for a moment.

  “Thanks. That was good. Until you lose someone, it’s impossible to know, to understand, how it feels.”

  “I know that. I know exactly how you feel. And that’s why I’m driving you home right now.”

  Later, they parked in front of her apartment building off the Rue de la Tour.

  “A year ago,” Steve told her, “I took my girlfriend Vera skiing in Canada, in British Colombia’s Purcell Mountains. On the last day, she joined a small ski-mobiling group so I could go heli-skiing for the day.”

  He gestured with his right arm, palm out, and looked in the middle distance.

  “‘Ski on the Untouched Powder of the Backcountry Slopes,’ the ad said. My plan was to propose that evening. An avalanche … I never saw her again. There was an investigation … the guide was inexperienced, according to the report. He should never have taken the group to that area.”

  After a few seconds of silence, he added, “There was someone on the flight the other night who looked like her.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kella said. “What you’re saying, I think, is that grief strikes many people. But they go on, like you. And I will too.”

  Neither said anything for a few minutes.

  “But what can be done about the Hamads of the world? Is your country doing anything? Is France? To stop these barbarian acts?”

  “Good question. People like Hamad don’t feel controlled by the laws of the state. He gets his justification from Allah. The only interested organizations are the intelligence agencies. But, in the U.S. anyway, their main responsibility is to gather information.”

  Kella got out in front of an apartment building in the sixteenth arrondissement off the Rue de la Tour. Before getting out of the car, she kissed Steve on the cheek.

  “Thanks. Food is the last thing on my mind, but I’ll probably change my mind. See you tomorrow night.”

  She buzzed herself in and disappeared behind a wrought-iron and glass door.

  ***

  Steve savored driving back to Neuilly. He loved the surprising turbocharged power of the small engine―a kiddy car on steroids. He was glad that Coogan had chosen manual transmission and the six-gear system was smooth, quick, and responsive. Although left-handed, he had long ago adjusted to a right-handed world and the center console mounted shifting lever offered no problems for him. Feeling the machine respond to his commands restored a good measure of the control he felt he had lost during the day’s events—a good antidote to the high emotions of the previous hours.

  ***

  In the morning, Steve and his host had breakfast together. French café au lait, croissants, toasted buttered slices of crusty French bread, juice, and a jar of peanut butter.

  “Peanut butter? In France?”

  “It’s the only thing I miss about American food,” Coogan laughed. “It looks like I need to buy another jar. It’s only available at Fauchon’s, an exclusive shop near the Madeleine. It’s right next to the caviar, and almost as expensive.”

  After Steve described Kella’s experience, Coogan said, “Honor killings are not all that rare. They just don’t get reported. So if there is a hint or a rumor that a female is promiscuous, it becomes the duty, the obligation, of the senior male to either kill her himself or assign one of his sons to do it.”

  Steve’s voice went up a notch.

  “You don’t sound surprised. It’s incredible to me that these killings, these dishonor killings, are accepted as part of the landscape. I’ve even read that in a rape case, the female is usually the one who is punished. I assume, I hope, that the French police will hunt this guy down.”

  He could see that Coogan was letting him blow off steam. He took a breath, had a sip of the strong French coffee and changed the subject.

  “What about the break-in? Anything new?”

  “The advice from the police and from the U.S. Embassy is to wait for the investigation to take place. As far as I know, the police haven’t even contacted the Saudis yet. So I’m going to raise the wall or make it somehow more difficult to get over.”

  “I don’t think you can make that wall high enough.”

  “You’re right. Then I’ll just have to mine the flower beds.”

  He chuckled at the idea.” Actually, I’m going to pay call on my neighbor.”

  “Why would a Saudi want to break in here?” Steve asked.

  Coogan studied his toast before replying.

  “It’s not surprising that the intruder came from the Saudi residence, assuming that the reason for it was to find the Quranic documents. I can’t believe that this was an officially sanctioned attempt; it was pretty sloppy. It was probably an overzealous servant. The House of Saud tries to keep everyone happy through hand-outs. They need the American military but are also dependent on the fundamentalist Wahhabi clerics with whom they have had a Faustian agreement since the 1800s. The Saudis finance the spread of Wahhabism globally, to include madrasas in the United States. But they’re also attacked by al Qaeda for being apostates, for being too close to the American ‘Jews and crusaders.’”

  Steve reached for the coffee pot and said, “Looks as if, by trying to please everyone, they please no one.”

  “By the way, you probably haven’t seen this yet.”

  Coogan handed him a French newspaper that was folded to a story about the discovery of the documents, complete with pictures of Coogan and Steve at the airport.

  “They spelled your name right.”

  “Yes, thanks to Benjamin. With everything that’s going on, I don’t like having my picture in the paper.”

  “You’re right, and I’m sorry I got you involved.”

  6. Neuilly-sur Seine

  That evening, after the police frisked her, Kella rang the bell of the Coogan house under the unwavering gaze of the French policemen.

  Steve opened the door and, in answer to her curious nod toward the armed security guards, explained, “The Saudi ambassador lives next door. And the Moroccan ambassador is on the other side. I don’t know if I should feel safe or if I’m in the middle of a shooting gallery.”

  “I can’t believe it. They actually searched me.”

  “Yes. Me, too. I’m sorry; I should have warned you.”

  He led her up the stairs to the den. Coogan had stacked the books and photos in piles since his return.

  “There was a break-in the other day. Nothing is missing but they took the place apart.”

  She sat on one of two leather sofas as Steve opened a bottle of Veuve-Cliquot champagne that had been chilling in a silver ice bucket.

  “A break-in?” she asked. “I saw your picture in the paper this morning. You’re famous. Is the break-in connected?”

  He handed her a glass of champagne.

  “That article is trouble. But, there is no fatwa on me yet,” he grinned. “But I’m starting to believe that these people are serious. Now they’re going to associate me with this Quran research.”

  “Plus, Hamad, Faridah’s father, saw you. I doubt that he reads the French newspapers, but if he does, he now knows who you are. I don’t know if he has my name.”

  They moved to the dining room carrying their champagne glasses. The table was set for two with baccarat wine glasses, a formal setting of silverware and dishes in rich gold and red design. She sat down puzzled by the absence of food smells. Steve went to the kitchen and soon Kella heard the noise of a dumbwaiter. Steve came in carrying two plates, each with six oysters on the half shell set on shaved ice. He put them down and plates and took a paper from his pocket, which he folded in half and placed in front of Kella. It was the menu: Belons Mignonettes, Duck a la Bigarade with potatoes Parisiennes, Salade Frisee, Plateau de Fromage, and Mousse au Chocolat.

  Kella looked at Steve, dumbfounded.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “I have a confession to make. No, I’m not a world-class chef. A student at the Cordon Bleu school
works here in return for a place to stay. I’m doing my best to give him some practice.”

  He smiled at his own humor. He poured the Vouvray to accompany the belons, and later there would be a six-year-old Gevrey-Chambertin for the duck course, and a twelve-year-old Chateau Potensac with the cheese. He knew he would have to dig deep into his pocket to replace the wines he was borrowing from his host’s wine cellar.

  Steve had a sip of his wine and said, “You don’t have to talk about yesterday if you don’t want to, okay? You look worried. We’re surrounded by Paris’s finest. You met them at the door. Let’s just enjoy the dinner. This is the best wine I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Okay, but I just want to tell you one thing.”

  She got up from the table to get her purse on the sofa and came back, digging around in her purse.

  “This afternoon I found my notes from a seminar I attended a couple of months ago on Sharia Law in the twenty-first century. I read them over because I want to make sense of Faridah’s murder, I guess. I know I’ll never really understand, or accept it, but maybe I can get some insight into the thinking that provoked it. The speaker was a Salafist born and raised in Belgium.”

  Steve was surprised.

  “Belgium? I bet I know him, Tariq al Khalil, right?”

  “You’re right! Wow, that’s an amazing coincidence.”

  She fiddled around in her purse, as though distracted.

  “But go ahead. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Later, I also have an al Khalil story.”

  At last she retrieved a notebook.

  “Let’s see. Al Khalil, al Azar University in Cairo and the Université Libre de Bruxelles, where you must have known him. He was, in my memory, supremely self-confident to the point of arrogance—not a hint of uncertainty about him.”

  She looked up.

  “I remember the way he looked at his audience; it was almost mesmerizing―like a snake hypnotizing its prey.”

  “Well then, it’s definitely the same man I knew!”

  “He stressed a couple of key points.”

  She tapped her page where words were dramatically underlined.