by Gavin Reese
Not unlike the mechanical principle behind crucifixions, any effort Abrini put into extending one limb collapsed another. Additionally, he could only maneuver smaller, weak muscle groups to prevent circulation loss to his extremities. Abrini could not sit up, roll to one side, or make use of any large movement to escape or resist.
Unlike with his last absolution in Vienna, Michael needed to prevent Abrini from shouting for help which likely stood as close as the next apartment. Now that he began regaining consciousness and easily breathed on his own, Michael stuffed a thick wool sock in Abrini’s mouth and pulled a tight balaclava on backwards over his head. He returned to the writing desk and checked on the computer’s progress. Now we just wait until he’s coherent.
Michael had completed everything he thought possible to help Abrini ascend to judgement with a clear conscience. With most of the building’s occupants asleep, little noise invaded the apartment beyond the light traffic from Boulevard Carnot to the north. Left idle in the quiet with his thoughts, especially his fear and dread at what Abrini’s expected reaction meant for his soul, Michael again pondered his purpose. Am I here to save men from themselves, or to confirm the choice that God already believes they’ve made about where to spend their eternity?
Despite his rational understanding that God may have known he couldn’t save either of his previous targets from damnation, Michael considered a darker paradigm: a vengeful God who denied His own children the potential to live at his side. No, that isn’t possible. Only Abrini can save himself, and I wouldn’t ever be sent on a kill mission. I have to believe that. With no ability to collect further evidence, Michael bowed his head and prayed his morning liturgy recitation.
A half-hour passed before Abrini’s muffled voice and attempted movements became continuous and indicated his coherence. Michael stood up from the desk chair and paused. Did John or the intel say anything about him speaking English? This might be more difficult and desperate than I’ve even imagined. He took in a deep breath and reminded himself of Saint Francis of Assisi’s long-ago advice to his friars. Preach the Gospel with all your might. If necessary, use words.
Michael retrieved and donned a pair of medical exam gloves from the desktop and walked back over to Abrini. He knelt beside him, and the man struggled against the restraints. Michael carefully removed the balaclava and sock, which had been Abrini’s only clothing.
Abrini blinked hard several times at the sudden light, and he stared at Michael with an even mix of fear and rage. “Min 'ant?”
Michael could only infer the context of his question. “I’m Father Andrew. Do you speak English?”
Abrini’s eyes shifted to Michael's garb for several long seconds before returning to his face. “Of course. Who are you?”
“I’m here because God sent me to absolve your soul of its sins. I understand that you wish to ascend to heaven, and I intend to help you do that.”
His eyes narrowed with anger. “Release me, and I’ll do it myself. I can even make you the same offer, priest.”
Michael smirked at the man’s dark rhetoric. “No, thank you, our methods might be too different. Do you believe in fate, Abdel?”
Abrini’s eyes widened at his first name, but only for a moment. “If you know anything of Islam, you know fate is a core foundation of my faith and obedience. Why are you here? What do you want?”
Michael ignored the questions for a moment. “I, too, believe in something akin to fate, but tempered with free will. Catholicism and Islam have much in common, and the Catechism of my religion specifically acknowledges the importance of Muslims. The Qur’an acknowledges the importance of Jesus Christ as a prophet of God, and that his return to earth is a vital and assured eventuality.
“I am here, Abdel, because our fates and free will are entwined. We depend on one another for salvation. You cannot ascend to heaven without my help to absolve your sins, and I will likely not ascend there myself if I do not secure your absolution. What I mean is that your body will die today, but not of your own direct hand. I offer to help you save your soul from the same fate.”
“You are here to murder me.”
Michael shook his head and smiled pleasantly. “No, I am here to save you. If you want to be saved. That choice is yours alone, however, and no one else can make it for you. Your physical death is imminent, therefore, so is your judgement. Do you wish me to take your confession and deliver Reconciliation and Last Rites, or do you wish to make this spiritual transition without my help?”
Abrini looked past Michael and stared at the ceiling. Several long minutes silently passed between them before the subject spoke. “I fear you are right. God must have willed this. There is no other reason you, a nonbeliever, could have bested and humiliated me in such a manner. For Allah to allow you to do so, it can only be that I have done wrong, and am no longer in His graces. What is your intent, priest?”
Michael consciously closed his mouth and shook off his surprise. “I, uh, intend to lead you through the Reconciliation ritual, hear your confession, absolve your soul, and send you on to your judgement while your spirit remains free and clear of its mortal sins.”
“‘Nothing shall ever happen to us except what Allah has ordained. He is our Maula. And in Allah let the believers put their trust.’ If He’s presented you and your rituals in this manner, then I must acknowledge this, too, is God’s will for me to comply. Or, perhaps,” Abrini paused and nodded, “it could be a final test of my dedication.
“It is His divine right to be inconsistent,” Abrini continued, “for absolute consistency limits His divine and limitless power and authority over us, his devoted and loyal subjects. Even without known cause or reason, he can say or do the complete opposite of anything else He’s done or decreed. Allah explained this himself, by the gift of allowing us to understand his nullifications.”
Michael sat by and watched Abrini work through his intrinsic philosophical debate.
“The qadar dictated by the Qur’an, the destiny that Allah has laid before each of us, my faith in that flawless, divine fate compels me to accept that this moment, our interaction, and even our relative positions of power and leverage are meant to be.”
Michael couldn't allow Abrini’s rigid understanding of fate to stand unchallenged, as it negated free will and the responsibility or rejoicing that followed mankind’s actions and decisions. This isn’t the time for a theological debate, but there’s no point if Abrini feels compelled to go along with the rituals. “You do understand, Abdel, that your fate isn’t predetermined, and you do have a choice in absolving your soul of its sins?”
“History shows that Mohammed, peace be upon him, initially feared the revelations Allah sent him through the angel Gabriel, and that his first wife’s cousin, named Waraqa, a Christian, confirmed the authenticity of his prophecies. Without that Christian, Mohammed might never have fulfilled his divine purpose. Likewise, I must then concede the irony that Allah chose you and your faith to help me fulfill mine.” A wide smile spread across Abrini’s face. “It is most pleasing to consider that I will have direct commonality with Allah’s last prophet.”
Michael responded by reciting section 841 of the Catechism of the Catholic Church from memory. “The plan of salvation also includes those who acknowledge the Creator, in the first place among them are the Muslims, who profess to hold the faith of Abraham; together with us they adore the one, merciful God, mankind’s judge on the last day.’
“As such,” Michael continued, “I want to be very clear. I’m not asking you to denounce your faith. We both believe in the one, merciful, and loving God.”
Abrini wryly smiled and nodded toward the nylon restraints. “The death sentence demanded for abandoning my faith does not concern me at this moment, Father Andrew. I am concerned only with assuring my salvation. The pleasures of heaven await me, and it’s imperative I accept this opportunity to avoid the horrific, torturous dungeon that is hell.”
Michael nodded at the man’s gallows humor. “
I appreciate your candor.”
“I choose to believe God does not doubt my dedication and faith, so, it must be that my mind has gone astray of where my heart would have led it. Proceed with your absolution, Father Andrew. Help restore me to my righteous place in God’s kingdom.”
Despite his elation at the man’s potential salvation, Michael had to confirm his genuine intent. “What’s in the bedroom, Abdel?”
“You must know.”
“I know you acquired the precursors for T-A-T-P. Is that the final product, there in the bedroom?”
“Yes.”
“Is that everything you produced?”
A curious grin crossed his lips for a moment. “Yes. All the explosive I made is now in the bedroom, that is true.”
Tremendous relief washed over Michael and calmed his fears. I worried so much about absolving this man, and wrongly assumed that guiding him through Reconciliation would be pointless and, ironically, fated to fail. Michael bowed his head and closed his eyes to begin the ritual of hearing Abrini’s confession and reconciling his sins.
“How different are we, you and I,” Abrini interrupted, “both of us willing to kill for our faith, for our beliefs, and for the God we serve? You’re here to punish me for the way I’ve lived my life, and I came here to punish hundreds and influence millions for the same end. Please, proceed, Father, but take your time. This is our only chance to get this right.”
Michael crossed himself as he again bowed his head, grateful to have the man’s unexpected compliance. This should be the most impossible sell I’ve ever made, but his acceptance and paradigm guide him to absolve himself of his wrongs. An unsettling question appeared before him. What if Abdel submits to Reconciliation, converts, and expresses his heart’s desire to live a peaceful life as a disciple of Christ? How can I then possibly deny him the rebirth assured us through baptism?
May 11, 10:14am
Jamaeat min Al-khadam Mosque. Paris, France.
Imam Abdul Siddiqi had spent the last week preparing his humble re-purposed mosque to welcome today’s guests. Although he always strove to make sure the small former halal market pleasantly welcomed all who entered, guest and flock alike, Abdul had devoted much of his recent time and effort to that purpose. Today was that important, not just to him and his neighborhood, but to the whole of Muslims throughout France, and, really, all of Europe. The flyer I sent the neighborhood drew quite a crowd. I am blessed and humbled to lead such a devoted and faithful congregation.
Abdul and his local elders greeted their guests, which included another twenty-nine imams from across France. The call to dhuhr, the second mandated prayer of the day, sounded through the tinny loudspeaker above the mosque’s entrance. With only five minutes left, Abdul merged in with his flock, ritualistically washed himself, and entered his tiny prayer hall as the projected recitation ended. Today’s short prayer and unusual Saturday sermon were intended to begin the great and difficult work that lay ahead of everyone.
After reaching the pulpit, Abdul turned to face his audience, which now spilled well outside the prayer space, into the narrow hall, and beyond the entrance. Where dozens normally stood, even for Friday prayers, hundreds now squeezed together. Their quiet energy and optimism electrified Abdul, and he prayed for words to explain the moment before them.
“My brothers and sisters,” he announced in Arabic. “I cannot possibly overstate the significance of why we’ve gathered here today, and what we wish God to accomplish through us.” Abdul stopped every few sentences and repeated his words in French.
“Today, through our collective and individual efforts, we will publicly, loudly, and adamantly proclaim for all to hear that our faith, the beauty and tolerance of Islam, has been hijacked. We denounce the violent few who degrade our faith to advance terror and the subjugation of other peoples and cultures. We pray for the global reformation of God’s word and our faith and service to Him.
“The imams gathered among us today have all signed an open letter that I delivered yesterday to our national newspaper, Le Monde. It bore thirty signatures, and we invite anyone else to add theirs, regardless of your position in our community. We pray to establish secularism alongside Islam in France, and throughout Europe with the rest of our faithful. No longer will we sit idle while barbarians murder under the guise of our faith. No longer will we ignore the necessary reformation of the early suras of the Qur’an.”
Abdul paused and stretched his arms out toward his audience. “First, let us pray together.”
May 11, 10:14am
Cluny La Sorbonne Metro Station. Paris, France.
Asad Mah’moud Ali had stopped pacing. His comrades leaned against the handrailing just outside the Metro subway station stairs and waited. Unlike most everyone their age, none of them held smartphones. In fact, none of them had a phone, identification, or personal effects of any kind.
Just as Imam Abrini had ordered, the five men wore soccer jerseys to impersonate supporters of the Paris-Saint-Germain Football Club, a team scheduled to compete against another Liga 1 rival, FC Toulouse, at 3:00pm. Asad pointlessly rechecked his watch. Their group should have arrived at the Porte d’Auteuil station and mingled among the crowds walking to the nearby soccer stadium hours before the game began.
The blessed attacks in November 2015 had included the Stade de France, and their particular target today was the 45,000-capacity crowd at Parc de Princes and the surrounding crowds, vendors, and the footie-loving public. Each of the aspiring martyrs had grown up with soccer, some in their home countries in the Middle East, and two of them in Paris enclaves. To a man, they all regretted that Allah had chosen to target their sport and its fans, but theirs was not to question the all-knowing and merciful God. They asked only to have fulfilled their duties to enter Paradise and live out eternity among the pleasures and indulgences denied throughout their lifetime on earth.
“He will be here, do not concern yourself,” Omar counseled with a weak, nervous smile. “There is still time. Just ten more minutes. Anything could have delayed him, and we have no means to contact him.”
“He wrote the security protocols,” Mohammed objected, “and we agreed to follow them, regardless of whatever happened. We should have separated and fled by now.”
Asad rechecked his watch. “Five minutes. I will give him no longer.”
“Asad. He’s not coming,” Mohammed whispered, even though he was sure no one around them spoke Arabic. “You know the protocol. We were to leave by 10 o’clock. He’s caught or dead, and we can no longer risk staying here.”
“You’re right.” Asad looked around once more and then stepped in close to his men, his soldiers. “We are to go our separate ways, flee this nation, and live to fight another day. Stay prepared and vigilant, the fight may still come to us this day. Escape so that God may again use us to His purpose. Peace be with you.”
May 11, 10:14am
La Courneuve Aubervilliers Metro Station. La Courneuve, France.
Kareem Mustafa was irate. His simmering rage at this missed opportunity threatened to boil over. He scanned the slow single-file line of cars approaching the Metro station, none of which matched the sedan he so needed to see. The imam was to have driven there in a dark blue Renault coupe to pass off Kareem's backpack, and had been due no later than 10am. Kareem had been ordered to flee by 10:15 if the imam didn’t arrive but refused to believe they’d failed.
Rechecking his watch only further elevated Kareem’s anger. Imam Abrini has never been late! How could he have been betrayed when our path has been so plain and well-lit! God ordained this to be, and now it’s been stopped!
Kareem searched the crowds ebbing and flowing around the station and the surrounding neighborhood. The imam must be dead. The police will question me if I remain here much longer. He no longer had any communication with the imam or other members of his group, all of whom had spread out to various locations around the city.
Frustrated, Kareem glared at the skyline to his south and the
spires of the Saint-Denis Cathedral rising in defiance against his very soul. He eyed those pieces of his intended target, just visible over the few kilometers of rooflines that stood between them. In one obliterating moment, he could have struck a terrifying blow to the French nation and Rome and denigrated the insidious history of both blasphemous institutions. First, their beloved Notre Dame burns only weeks ago, and then ten centuries of French and Christian arrogance suffer the violent end they deserve.
A single realization calmed Kareem’s stewing animosity. I could follow the protocols, or I could take matters into my own hands. Opportunity remains for me to enter Paradise today with the fresh blood of Allah’s enemies on my hands.
May 11, 10:14am
8 Rue du Corbillon #415. Seine-Saint-Denis, France.
rrrrrrrrrr tck
Michael’s head snapped up, and he stared at the apartment’s only door, the source of the unknown mechanical noise. He glanced back at the man who called himself Abdel Abrini. Despite still being restrained on the apartment floor in a modified crab position by Michael’s soft nylon straps, he wore a terrifying, Cheshire-cat smile.
“Time’s up, priest.” The call to dhuhr, the second mandated prayer of the day, sounded outside over a tinny loudspeaker from the mosque four floors below. “The door is permanently locked, and its shell conceals enough explosive to kill everything on this floor if anyone tries to force it open. God inspired me to guarantee the success of His plan regardless of what the world might do to stop me, so we are now held captive inside with my devices while the police and military bomb crews are locked out.”
“Abdel, you can’t be serious!” Michael hurried over to the door and realized for the first time that both it and the surrounding doorframe were metal. It opens in, so I can’t kick it open, and that much force might set off the I-E-Ds. Goddammit!
