The Caliphate Page 8

  The French spokesman said, “That’s right. That’s why we’re going back to the hotel. My room is the only bar in this damn town. Do you know of any place that’s open where we can have some fun? If you know what I mean?”

  Al Khalil smiled conspiratorially at the Frenchmen, and nodded at Hussein, who couldn’t understand French. “We know of a place where you’ll have the best time of your lives.”

  “Well, tell us. I guess you want money,” the drunker one grumbled. He reached for his back pocket.

  Tariq held up his hand. “Keep your money. We’ll take you there because otherwise you won’t get in. Besides, that’s where we’re going.”

  Once off the main street and into an alley, Hussein and Tariq looked around, and seeing no one, on cue, drew the knives Ibrahim El Maghrebi had given them in Blida. Hussein quickly took advantage of the element of surprise. Holding his knife with the point up, he stepped forward and immediately used a killing thrust just below the rib cage and to his right, hoping to drive the knife up under the ribs to the heart. Tariq slashed at his opponent.

  The two Frenchmen stumbled back, looking for a way to escape. Hussein drew blood but wasn’t close enough for the decisive blow. The Frenchmen turned to run but Tariq and Hussein were quicker and soon had them on the ground. To defend themselves, the Frenchmen turned over to try to grab their attackers’ hands or arms or knives. The Frenchmen were strong and they put up a fight. They yelled for help, but if anyone heard or saw them, they didn’t come to their aid. They were, however at a disadvantage, being drunk and without weapons.

  Soon enough their loss of blood weakened them. Tariq’s fury made him relentless. The drunker Frenchman was on the ground trying to stop Tariq’s knife thrusts and was able to get both hands on Tariq’s knife hand. With strength born of desperation he began to push the knife away. But suddenly Hussein kneeled over both and, with one swift and muscular motion he slit the Frenchman’s throat. Blood spurted on Tariq hands and face. They dragged the bodies behind steps that led up to a front door so that the bodies would be hidden at least from one side. Then, quickly, they retreated.

  Afterward, Tariq felt immensely satisfied and exhilarated. This was the first time he had felt relieved of the straitjacket he had been forced to wear while living and working in a non-Muslim environment. He was thinking, for the first time, that the advice of his uncle Said was more than just logically sound. He felt purified.

  Al Khalil had a mixed reaction to Hussein’s performance. He had dispatched his Frenchman in a very workmanlike way. But the lack of emotion puzzled Tariq. The killing of an infidel was one of the greatest acts one could perform in the service of Allah. It had greatly aroused him while at the same time released the pent-up desire for revenge against the infidels and anger at the European world.

  Al Khalil ran his fingers lightly over his cheek and saw blood on his hand. He took a handkerchief and wiped his face and his hands. Their hotel, The Rostemides, although small, was the best hotel in Ghardaia. Built in the M’zab style with arches, columns and minarets, it nevertheless had air conditioning, a pool and a TV.

  Back in his room, Tariq put on the TV news on while he undressed to wash. Right after the soccer news—Oran 2, Annaba 1—a photo from a French paper appeared as the announcer read, “In Paris, an American working for the CIA died in a hit-and-run accident as he was crossing the street in front of the restaurant that he had just left. This photo of Dr. Coogan and of his assistant Steve Church appeared in the French paper L’Humanité two days ago when they came back from Germany where they participated in a slander against the holy Quran. We take you live to our Paris correspondent Lachine al Masri.”

  The image changed to a middle-aged man in front of a restaurant named Chez André.

  “Dr. Coogan and his dinner companion Sandrine Légier had just left Chez André, a favorite of writers, and were crossing the street right here...”

  The camera panned to a crosswalk.

  “When a car came out of nowhere and hit both at considerable speed. The car, described as either a dark blue Renault or a black Peugeot, did not stop. They were both taken to the hospital but Dr. Coogan died on the way. Wait…”

  The correspondent pressed his left hand to the earphone from which he was apparently receiving information.

  “I have just learned that this may not have been an accident. A message from the Global Islamic Front Against Jews and Crusaders now claims responsibility, in revenge for Dr. Coogan’s role.”

  He pressed a finger against the earphone.

  “Sorry, alleged role, in the forged CIA documents claiming to be original versions of the Quran. Dr. Coogan’s maid was arrested yesterday for attempting to kill him by exploding a bomb tied to her waist. Coogan’s assistant Mr. Church has apparently fled the country.”

  Al Khalil watched in rapt attention. He had ordered Coogan’s execution. However, he had had to leave before the operation was carried out. He was startled by the second person in the photograph identified as Steve Church. He had a vague recollection of the American but couldn’t place him. He made a mental note that Church had to be found and sent to join Coogan.

  Al Khalil wanted to stay another day in Ghardaia to meet with other potential backers for his vision. However, El Maghrebi’s men were on a schedule and explained that they needed to get back to Blida as soon as they got al Khalil to Timbuktu. And, with the killing of the Frenchmen, they needed to move on.

  ***

  The next morning, Tariq, Hussein and the two men on loan from the AQIM had breakfast at the hotel. The dining room was bright with the morning light from large windows facing south. The air conditioning was on full blast causing Hussein to sneeze repeatedly. He got up to ask the reception to shut it off and came back to the table. The four men sat at a table on which were dates, oranges, flat bread, jam, a pot of coffee, and a can of Nestlé’s condensed milk with two holes punched in the top.

  They were alone in the small dining room until an elderly French couple came in and occupied another table, to Tariq’s great annoyance. It seemed to Tariq from the Frenchman’s conversation that he had been a young officer in the French Army fighting the Algerian rebels before Algerian independence.

  In a lowered voice Tariq announced, “I’ve decided that I have to stop to meet with potential backers in Adrar…”

  One of the AQIM men interrupted to say, “That’s almost a thousand kilometers south, on the edge of the Erg of Chech.”

  Tariq continued, “In Adrar, I want you, Hussein, to take the Land Rover with one of you,” and he pointed at the two AQIM men, “to go on to Timbuktu as fast as you can. You’re right, Hussein, nothing is happening in Morocco. Fly there as soon as you can. We need action. I’ll continue on with the other car on schedule. I need to gather supporters along the way.”

  Hussein sneezed. The air conditioning was still on.

  On their way to the cars, Tariq pulled Hussein aside.

  “Coogan, the American involved in the Quran documents, is dead, al hamdu Allah. It was on TV last night. And I recognized the guy working with him from a newspaper photo. I remember him from the university—from Brussels—another American. He was the son of a diplomat. I assume that our friends will have enough initiative to take care of him also.”

  8. Rabat, Morocco

  Steve was having lunch at the Marine House, home for the small Marine detachment assigned to guard the American Embassy. The U.S. Defense Attaché had chosen the venue.

  Air Force Colonel Dan Spaceck was in his late forties, tall and tanned, carefully groomed, although without a military haircut, and with remarkably white teeth. His double handshake—left hand on his opponent’s right elbow—was firm. Spaceck gave off a cloying scent that Steve guessed must be cologne—it was too late in the day for after-shave. Spaceck’s elegant appearance, Steve thought, was in contrast to the rather Spartan surroundings. A dour Moroccan cook had prepared and served their hamburgers and French fries from a menu geared to the taste of the young M
arines who lived there. Steve detected the smell of stale grease when the door to the kitchen opened. He wondered why Spaceck had wanted to meet at the Marine House when there were so many more attractive restaurants in Rabat.

  Spaceck took a French fry in his fingers, looked at Steve, and said, “Tell me a little bit about yourself—how did you wind up in Morocco? If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem a little young to be talking to the Moroccans about such a major project.”

  Spaceck smiled to show no implied criticism.

  Steve hesitated a moment and said, also with a smile, “I guess West Gate thought I was right for the job. And the project is my idea. It seems to me that the Moroccans have a problem here with the radical Muslims. West Gate has considerable experience in counter-insurgency and counterterrorism. How long have you been in Morocco?”

  “Two years. I have another year, probably. I applied to the National War College at Fort McNair in D.C., and I’m waiting for a decision. Where else have you worked for West Gate?” Spaceck asked.

  “You’ll like the War College. My father did. I worked for West Gate in South Korea, Osan Air Force Base…”

  “Osan! Did you know General Adams? Bruce Adams? He was in my class at the Air Force Academy,” Spaceck said, animated.

  Steve nodded vigorously.

  “I worked for him! West Gate ran a major counter-proliferation exercise for him. I worked on it for six months just to get it set up and organized and, afterward, another month to analyze outcomes and make recommendations.”

  Steve didn’t mention that what probably had won him the job offer from West Gate was that he had opened a NATO office in Moldova and run it for eighteen months. Nor did he mention the reason for his sudden departure.

  Two young Americans walked in, wearing shorts. With their heads shaved on the sides, they could only be off-duty marines. They nodded to Spaceck.

  “Hi Colonel. We ran twelve miles this morning, on the road toward Kenitra. When are you going to join us?”

  They looked at each other and grinned in a way that told Steve that Spaceck was the last man on earth they expected to take the offer seriously.

  Spaceck waved a greeting, “Hi Mike,” without replying to what was obviously a rhetorical question. Turning back to Steve, he said, “Well, I’m impressed. Adams told me the exercise was a big success. What did you do after Korea?”

  “I was assigned to Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii, working for Pacific Command. And now I’m working out of the Tysons Corner office in Virginia.”

  Steve guessed from Spaceck’s questions that the man wanted to befriend him. Spaceck was of the age and rank when he would naturally be thinking of retirement, and West Gate employed a good number of retired military. Steve wondered if Spaceck was trying to use him as a conduit toward a retirement job, which gave him pause.

  “What can you tell me about the Moroccan brass I’ll be meeting?”

  “The first thing you need to understand is that, to the extent the Moroccans think about the type of management consultants you’re talking about, those guys come from France. Except for the senior staff, the officer corps is now more oriented toward Arab countries. They speak less French and more English. And speaking of the younger officers, some are much more fundamentalist in their religious beliefs than the generals. But don’t worry about it. They’re more interested in stuffing their pockets than in the five pillars of Islam,” Spaceck said with a grin.

  Steve wondered at that analysis. He doubted that true Muslim radicals, young or old, could be bought. Besides, bribes were out of the question. Spaceck was becoming less solid by the second.

  “Trust me; I know how this place works. Since I know all of these people, I can go to your meetings with you and help you establish that essential personal trust that is so important here. I can open doors for you, and, after you leave, I can carry the ball for your company.”

  Steve didn’t want or need the colonel to carry the ball but he did want to avoid a confrontation.

  “Thanks. Let me see how the initial meetings go first.”

  They both finished their coffee and Spaceck pressed two of his business cards into Steve hands.

  “Call me anytime. And how about giving my card to your boss back in the States? Maybe I’ll give your company a call next time I’m in Washington.”

  They got up to leave. On their way toward the door, Colonel Spaceck asked, “So your father is in the military? You said he was at the National War College.”

  “Yes, but he was a civilian. He was with the Agency, the CIA, but he’s semi-retired and no longer under cover. Rabat was one of his assignments. I was very young. In fact, he’s writing about radical Islam and terrorism, and he wants me to scoop up anything I can find in the book stores on the topic.”

  “It’s still dangerous for people in this country to be writing about the terrorist side of Islam,” Spaceck said. “There are Salafists here for sure, but I can’t tell you more than that.”

  “Well, thanks for spending the time with me. Appreciated it.”

  Spaceck favored him with another patented handshake then, seeming like an afterthought, he said, “If you hear anything at all about a Tariq al Khalil while you’re here, please let me know. He’s a Salafist leader with North African aspirations.”

  “Tariq al Khalil a terrorist?”

  He had no desire to prolong the conversation any longer and he restrained himself from sharing what he knew about al Khalil.

  “Why do you think he’s here?”

  “I don’t know if he is or not. We know that there are Salafists around who look to him for leadership. We just don’t know where they’re going to strike next.”

  Steve stepped outside and was half blinded by the sun’s glare. He put on his sunglasses. As he left, he noticed a small pick-up truck park in front of the Marine House next to a brash American car with “arrest-me” red metallic paint and a mean-looking grill. Steve guessed that the only person he had seen in the Marine House who could afford the car was Spaceck. He found the choice of car strange for an intelligence collector.

  The driver of the truck hoisted a gas cylinder on his shoulder and walked around the side of the building toward the kitchen. The sight reminded Steve that, in Morocco, all gas stoves worked off individual butane tanks, For safety reasons, the tanks were normally outside and grounded to prevent an explosion of the pressurized gas through a buildup of electrostatic charges.

  He walked away feeling that Spaceck didn’t fit into a complex North African environment that required cultural awareness and sensitivity. The man was as out of place in Morocco as al Khalil had been in Brussels. His thoughts turned to al Khalil and he wondered how successful he was at grafting his radical views onto a society with a fairly relaxed view of Islam. And, if he was indeed active in the region, what he was doing.

  The red car, with Spaceck at the wheel, pulled up as Steve walked back toward his hotel.

  “Can I drop you somewhere? I should have offered earlier.”

  “No thanks,” Steve answered. “It’s not far, and I need the walk.”

  9. Casablanca, Morocco

  Following the evening prayers at the Hassan II Mosque, Hussein followed Mohammed Lahlou, the Salafist cell leader, from the blue, white, and yellow geometric tile designs of the mosque through an archway that led to several study rooms. Lahlou was a grizzled and sad-looking man who’d spent eighteen years in Moroccan prisons. He looked older than his forty-eight years, the toll of a terrorist life without the inner flame of a fanatic. For both Hussein and Lahlou, their individual trials and lives in the field, in prison, or on the run, were taking their toll.

  Lahlou knew Hussein as a tough fighter, as ruthless in combat as with those in the movement who failed out of personal weakness or commitment.

  “Hussein my brother, your visit honors us. Thanks to Allah for sending you. You are not Moroccan. Do I detect a Syrian accent?”

  “Yes, I was born in Aleppo but my family moved to Hama. My father
was with the Brotherhood. Hama was an important political center for the Ikhwan.”

  “Were you in Hama during the massacre?”

  “I was young, but yes, I was there. Those Syrian dogs felt threatened by the Brothers.”

  “And for cause, as I recall.”

  “Old man Assad was so scared for his life that he sent his brother Rifaat to kill us all—first with artillery, then with tanks. After the fighting stopped, they killed all of our fighters and their families hiding in the damaged buildings with cyanide gas. And only then did Rifaat’s Mukhabarat butchers arrive to eliminate those who were still alive.”

  “How many brothers were lost?”

  Hussein felt patronized. But he also never missed an opportunity to contribute to the Assad family dishonor.

  “Thirty-eight thousand! May Allah receive them in his house.”

  “But you survived, Al Hamdu‘llah.”

  “The soldiers caught me. I was fourteen. They put me to work with other prisoners to clean the streets of rubble and corpses. That’s how I found my father’s body, May Allah favor him. That’s when I made a covenant with Allah to revenge my father’s execution.”

  Lahlou shook his head.

  “May you achieve your revenge,” he said softly.

  Hussein stopped walking and held Lahlou by the arm.

  “Al Khalil is not happy with you. You have put me in a bad situation. I would be sorry to lose you.”

  In giving Lahlou his performance review, Hussein’s voice was sad, as if killing Lahlou was an undesirable but unavoidable event. Hussein knew his reputation.

  “Al Khalil doesn’t understand what’s going on here,” Lahlou said. “The Moroccan police are all over. Security has spies everywhere. But I have not been asleep. I have my own spies and we are getting ready. You will see.”

  They resumed walking and entered the back room of the mosque, normally used by pre-teen students to memorize the Quran. Light green tiles with arabesques covered the lower half of the otherwise white-washed walls. Worn rugs were strewn across the floors. The only furniture was a small desk and a chair in one corner. Two men in their twenties sat cross-legged on the rugs, waiting for Lahlou and Hussein. They got up when the two older men came in. They exchanged the traditional greeting, “Salaam alaikum,” and bowed slightly, their right hands brushing their foreheads and ending on their hearts.