by Gavin Reese
Abdel had devoted several days to the tedious soldering and wiring work required to assemble his improvised explosive devices. Having created their design and produced the triacetone-triperoxide explosive himself, Abdel held a satisfaction and pride unattainable with purchased components. Even though common household goods may generate a lesser, impure version, I prefer to manufacture the much more lethal version derived from pharmaceutical-grade precursors.
Inside a walled courtyard that stood just to the north of his building, a group of school children emerged from a screen door. They ran, laughed, and played, unaware of his presence. Sadness overwhelmed his heart, and he turned away from the scene. I wish for another way, but the path and the mandates are clear. I will put the backpacks aside for today and pray for the obedience of Abraham. There is still much to be done.
Despite the miniscule possibility he was under surveillance, Abdel left the windowpanes ajar and pulled the curtains closed, which let them occasionally sway in the light morning breeze. He assessed his preparedness for whatever the day might bring, and first focused on his defensive posture. His dark green two-cushion couch sat to his left and faced the door at the opposite corner of the apartment. A few square-meters of open space stood behind the couch, and he stepped over there to ensure the AK-47 smuggled into France from his Syrian homeland remained in place and ready. Abdel rapped his knuckles on two steel plates hidden behind the couch cushions that would defend him from inbound rifle fire and then turned toward the opposing doorway. Except for the writing desk at the far-right corner and the undersized kitchen appliances just inside the doorway, the living area offered an unobstructed battle space. I can repel anyone, no matter how they try to enter my home.
Abdel moved into the small bedroom where he hid the bulk of his offensive efforts. He retrieved his reading glasses from a makeshift nightstand, and his wife’s adjacent blue scarf caught his eye. Picking up his cherished memento, Abdel deeply inhaled its aroma. Even though eight years had passed since Assad’s goons had murdered his family, he deeply missed Sarah and their daughters every day. Every hour of every day. The garment no longer smelled of her musk, it hadn’t for years. Sometimes, he caught a momentary, fleeting whiff of her scent. Sadly, this was not among them. Long accustomed to the recurring sadness, Abdel reverently folded the scarf, replaced it, and scooped up the reading glasses he’d first sought. I will see them soon enough, once I have completed everything that Allah demands of me to join them in Paradise.
merht merht merht
The antipersonnel alarm sounded from the computer on his writing desk and Abdel rushed toward it. As he swiped his finger across the mousepad to wake up the device, a second alarm sounded.
beebeebeep beebeebeep
The first alarm activated several times each day, but the second was much more infrequent. Abdel hurried to type his password and bring up the surveillance monitors.
wwwwhhhhrrrRRRRRRRRRR
A klaxon air-raid siren sounded from the computer. Even without the ability to see what approached his door, Abdel stood upright, retrieved a black semiautomatic pistol from the desk’s belly drawer, and pointed it at the door to his left. He backed up to the north wall, which placed him near that corner of the apartment. If they are now coming for me, I’m trapped here, but I can kill the first few, no matter how they enter!
Dozens of rapid footfalls grew louder and echoed up from the stairwell behind the door, and Abdel imagined black-clad anti-terror police running up to storm into the apartment. Without conscious thought, Abdel repeatedly murmured Allah Akbar under his breath while the barrel and front sight shook under the strain of his tight, panicked death-grip. The steps only grew faster, louder, and more determined as they closed in on him. A familiar series of thuds announced they’d arrived at the landing just outside his threshold.
Laughter echoed from the hallway outside his door.
“I won again,” a young girl shouted in Arabic.
“You always cheat,” came a smaller response.
Abdel loosened his grip, lowered the gun, and sat back against the wall where he’d stood. Whether true or not, the girls’ voices sounded so similar to his own lost daughters. Tears welled in his eyes while his elderly neighbors ushered their grandchildren inside their humble dwelling. It’s not long now, my angels, and your sweet voices will fall on my ears again.
Distraught, Abdel set the pistol on the floor next to the desk and struggled to resume the day’s work. I must stay consumed in the work, on the tasks set before me, and the divine path they compel me to walk. After several cycles of deep, restorative breathing, Abdel had steeled his resolve. Before the day is out, I’ll have assembled three devices to prevent entry into the apartment, and the first of the I-E-Ds will be ready. Once complete, the French authorities will have no way to stop my retribution. Not even my murder could prevent what is to come.
May 8, 09:12am
17 Rue du Corbillon. Saint-Denis. France.
After devoting more than two hours to his surveillance detection route, Michael ended the SDR by hiding in plain sight. He sat at a small table near the window of a Turkish coffee shop across Rue du Corbillon and just north of the target building. Three window seats allowed a better view through the large plate glass panes, but their location would have also highlighted his presence. Too obvious, and too easy for anyone outside to take an interest in me.
Michael kept to himself, skimmed the newspaper, checked his phone, and sipped dark, rich coffee. As one of the few patrons, he’d initially drawn inquisitive looks from both employees, but they forgot about him after he spread the paper out on the corner table. This day-night Ramadan switch is no bullshit, there’s only a few people moving around the neighborhood.
Growing concerned that he couldn’t risk staying in one place for very long without drawing unwanted attention, Michael retrieved his cell from the tabletop, opened its encrypted messaging app, and returned to his dialogue with John. Not sure the old man’s still up. Hell, I don’t even know where he is now, just that the Wyoming facility is closed. This much uncertainty can’t be normal in espionage work, can it?
Michael briefly shook his head at all the unknowns in his life and texted his boss: I’m static for the moment. Any updates on the intel requests?
A blue cursor blinked on the screen when John began typing.
Some. More to follow tomorrow. No income or employment records under name ABRINI. No income or employment recs for ANY known resident of building; could be many reasons for that, most are benign. No suspicious returns from utility records. No hazmat/suspicious calls to police for the building.
The blinking cursor announced John’s continued typing while Michael considered the lack of income and employment records for all the known tenants. Resident lists could be wrong, and people are paid in cash all the time. The database might not include public aid, or refugees and foreign nationals. I need more info before the absence of documented income means anything. The next message populated on his screen.
No vehs reg to ABRINI, that building address, or the known tenants. Two private POB services in the area, neither have digital records we can hack into. No help there on renters or shipping-receiving records. We might have two possible apartments for ABRINI though...
The blinking cursor returned, and Michael scanned the small shop and the immediate exterior. No vehicle records, that’s not a surprise. Only the dumbest bad guy uses a car registered to him or his address. John’s text appeared in his lower peripheral.
Two apartments are leased to a female that’s supposed to live alone. Very unlikely in that culture and neighbhd. #105, 213. Remember those are 2 and 3 floor numbers in Europe.
Michael grimaced at the incomplete intel and typed his response: Did the analysts check the utility usage in 105 and 213 to estimate their actual occupancy?
No, I’ll get that back to you.
Also ask them to ID males associated with those two women, especially family or anyone who entered France with t
hem.
Good idea. I’ll make the requests. Waiting for public asst recs and postal recs for the known tenants. Emailing the data and intel to you now...
Michael sat up, took another sip of coffee, and glanced around again while he waited for the blinking cursor to turn into another message.
How are you gonna confirm the apartment?
Michael leaned forward to protect the screen. Not sure, need to enter the building first. Have a relief worker ID package now. Inbound tech and cams will help. Need another day or two for entry, I think.
The blinking cursor briefly returned.
Is Jacques working out for you?
Yes. Very helpful, good & quick access to resources. Michael considered himself fortunate that the only rejected item on his list was a functional audio translation device. I can use just Google Translate as an intermediary, but I hoped for something less overt. The cursor returned as John typed.
I asked Jacques to drop a book called ‘Inside Islam’ to you. You need to understand ABRINI’s mindset if you want a real chance to save his soul, as you say.
A moment of optimism washed over Michael that this might not be a kill mission, after all. Michael checked his watch and then prepared to leave. The cursor blinked while he nonchalantly folded up his paper and gathered the few items from the tabletop. He glanced down at the phone when John’s message appeared.
Brush up on the basic IED render-safe protocols. It ain’t as simple as that old red-wire, blue-wire BS. 1 chance and 1/1000th of a second to get it right. Good news: if you screw up, you’ll never know it. The explosion is faster than your nerves register heat and pain. Your brain will never realize your death.
May 8, 09:34am
13 Rue du Corbillon. Saint-Denis, France.
Gerard sat on the cedar steamer trunk at the foot of his daughter’s bed, just as he’d done for years whenever they had a private conversation. With his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped together in front of his face, he prayed for her to realize his sincerity and desperation. Marie, true to her current teenage priorities, sat a few feet away at her corner desk and pretended to ignore him.
“Marie, please, this is really important. I need you to understand, and I want your advice.”
His daughter sat up straighter, tilted her head a bit, and slowly swiveled her chair around to face him. “It’s about time, I’ve been trying to get you two assholes to listen to me for years.”
“I am in trouble, Marie, real trouble, and I need your help.”
Shock registered on her face at the idea that her father, an antiterror cop and former army sniper might have done something wrong. Gerard put his hands out to emphasize his words. “It’s not like that, sweetheart, I’ve not done anything wrong, not against the law, at least, but I still might be in trouble.”
“Papa, what’s happening?”
His heart swelled. Gerard brought his hands back up and clasped them in front of his mouth but stopped himself from hiding his emotions. She hasn't called me ‘papa’ since grade school, before she joined the in-crowd and became too cool for me. Keep it together. “There’s something going on at work, and--”
“Something dangerous?!”
“Maybe, sweetie, I don’t know yet, but probably. Not yet.”
“Well, what? Are we moving again, or…” Her eyes suddenly widened, and she inhaled a fearful breath. “Are you leaving us, like, for real?! Please, papa, tell me what’s wrong!!”
Gerard swallowed hard. There is so much that I wish were true at this moment, but my hopes are not my reality. “I have to make a very difficult decision, and I fear the outcome will change life for all of us.”
“Papa! Please--”
“Marie.” Steeling his resolve to see this through, Gerard made empathetic eye contact with his only daughter and adopted a calm tone to quell her fears, just as he’d long done with people in all manner of crisis. Her world has been falling apart for months, I can’t be surprised, especially while I’m half of the problem. “Please. Let me finish, there is much to explain, and I need you to hear all of it before giving me your decision.”
“…okay...” The sixteen-year-old grabbed a stuffed bear from the desk, the one that had always comforted her as a child, and she clutched it against her chest.
“What I’m about to tell you, you cannot repeat to anyone, and I mean that, not a single person. Not even your mother knows everything I’m about to tell you.”
Marie’s eyes narrowed and revealed her apprehension. “...o-kay...”
“I have been investigating a man for several weeks now who might be a terrorist. I can’t give you details, but I’ve worked very hard to prove he is guilty or innocent, and I will be happy with either result. I have a new supervisor, Lieutenant--”
“Algeri. The weasel.”
“Yes, that is what I’ve said, perhaps too many times. But, yes, him. He closed the investigation and ordered me to abandon it. He believes, right or wrong, that we have no reason to move forward.”
“I don’t understand. How does he know the man’s innocent, but it’s your case and you don’t even know?”
Gerard shifted his weight on the trunk and searched for an answer that didn’t reveal confidential aspects of the case. “That’s the exact position I’m in, and, because of that question, I’ve disobeyed his order to stop.”
Silence enveloped them for several moments. When Marie spoke, fear had crept into her voice. “What does that mean? Are you going to, jail, or some--”
“No, no, nothing like that. But I have kept on with the case, and I’m at a fork in the road, if you will. I have to make a choice, and I can’t undo whatever action I take today. I must either continue the investigation and face whatever consequence comes of it, or I follow the lieutenant’s orders and abandon it.”
“And, whatever consequence comes of it,” Marie parroted.
As he often did during interrogations, Gerard let the heavy silence grind on both of them.
“Where is the investigation, I mean, where does he live?”
Gerard inhaled and held his breath. I feared she would ask. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It’s in Seine-Saint-Denis again, isn't it?”
Gerard wanted to lie and save Marie from the memories of her narrow escape from the 2015 attacks and his disappearance for the four days required to hunt and kill those responsible. However, he feared violating her trust even more. “Yes.”
Tears welled in her eyes and her grip on the bear would have choked a living animal. “What choice do you have? You can’t abandon it, papa, you can’t! If you can stop the next attack, you must do it!”
“Marie, the problem is this.” Gerard cleared his throat and pushed his own emotions back down into their box. I can’t ask this of her, but I can’t lose her too, knowing I’m about to throw everything else away. “If I continue, and this man turns out to be innocent, I’ll probably lose my job. If that happens, I’ll never work as a cop again. No one will ever hire me after I’ve disobeyed a direct order, especially one that proved to be justified.”
The realization gave her pause. “Do you think you’re wrong?”
No. The reflexive answer nearly leapt out. “I don’t think so.”
“Why can’t you just get another job, if it comes to that?”
“I can, of course, if I must, but in the meantime, that might mean some very tough times for the three of us, whether I’m living with you and mama, or not. You mother cannot afford to stay here if I lose my income, and your school--”
“But, papa, none of that matters! I will live in our car and eat, I dunno, donated scraps if I must, I’ll get a job, but, if you do nothing, people might die! My comfort, our things! I can’t ever be happy knowing that people lost their lives, their families, for me to keep having nice things!” Marie’s eyes plead with him, and tears finally fell onto her cheeks. “I trust you, papa, and I couldn’t live with myself knowing that people might die so you could keep an income. Even if you�
��re wrong, it’s still the right thing to do. I know you couldn’t live with yourself, either, just walking away--”
brrtbrrtbrrt
The imaginary scene disappeared. Gerard’s cellphone skittered across the wood desk in the covert parking garage office he’d rented and brought him back to reality. He blinked hard, several times, and scanned the locked room. The monitor array still displayed live images from the ten covert cameras he’d placed around the target apartment. Nothing in the feeds immediately concerned him.
brrtbrrtbrrt
Picking up the phone, he saw Claudette had sent two text messages.
The rent is due.
Marie needs money for her drama classes.
Gerard locked the phone and set it down without responding. He rubbed his hands across his face and thought about the daydream. Marie’s sixteen. The conversation would never go like that, not until she knows something of sacrifice about a decade from now. Maybe then she will forgive me for whatever comes of this.
He pushed aside a stack of tickets Sergeant Le’roux had demanded he write that day. None of the driver, vehicle, or license plate information on the tickets were accurate, but Le’roux could only extend him so much help. Although the detective sergeant had agreed to leave him alone for a few days, he’d demanded in return that Gerard give him something each day he could use to prove they’d both followed orders. I need to hand these forged citations to Le’roux in person, and that means leaving the monitors. I can’t trust him like I have Lucas and his techs, so having him come here is out of the question, even if another white face could go unnoticed in the neighborhood.
Gerard exhaled and accepted his need to trust the suspect not to deviate from his established patterns. Desperate and cornered, Gerard closed his eyes, bowed his head, and prayed for guidance. He breathed through four slow, calming cycles, but heard and felt no response. Not that he actually expected to, despite his hopes. No answer is, in fact, an answer.
