by David Nees
Jabbar watched intently as the announcers went over the events. To his frustration, he learned that only one of the bombers had successfully detonated his vest causing an estimated twenty or more casualties. The machine gun attacks were even less successful. The police mentioned an unknown shooter who had initially engaged the terrorists, stopping them from advancing and allowing precious time for the polizei to arrive. No one knew who the person was. It seemed that he had commandeered a car and fled the scene. Jabbar’s less-than-successful rocket attack was also talked about. He sat with hands clenched. His attacks had failed on all fronts.
The apartment’s owner offered Jabbar some tea. Later there was a meal which was eaten in silence. The owner, seeing Jabbar’s anger and frustration, asked no questions and Jabbar offered no information. It was better that way.
After eating, Jabbar called Rashid. They did not talk directly about the events. Rashid indicated he knew what had happened from the news feeds.
“There were only two people involved in countering our efforts,” Jabbar said.
“You’re sure of this?”
“Na’am sayyid. I am sure.”
“There must have been some support behind them. They were just the front end of the effort. I told you that our banker has been compromised along with his assistant, the spineless Italian.”
“Who could do such a thing?”
“They must have been from the U.S. The European nations do not have the spine or interest in working so hard against us. They hope to appease and we will take advantage of that. Now it seems the United States has made it their mission to intervene, even in our work on the continent.”
“That will make our work harder.”
“Never fear, my soldier. It may be harder, but we will succeed, both in taking down the Europeans and in taking our fight to the Americans.” Rashid paused. “But for now we must get you out of the city. Wait until the tensions have died down and then go to Marseille. You will wait there and I will arrange passage on a freighter going to the Lebanon.”
“Yes, sayyid. I will go there and await further instructions.”
“In the meantime, I will try to find the identity of these two men. Maybe you can remove them for us.”
The argument was energetic and went late into the night. Roland insisted that he go with Dan to Marseille. NSA phone intercepts, now cued to Jabbar’s and Rashid’s names had produced some evidence that Jabbar Khalid had gone to that city to await transportation back to Lebanon. The information was passed on to the CIA. Dan declared he had unfinished business and would go there to kill Jabbar.
“You need someone to back you up,” Roland kept insisting.
“I work alone on this one. I needed more people to deal with the assault but this is better with just me,” Dan replied. “I’ll get into disguise and work the neighborhoods until I locate Jabbar. Then I can take him down. It’s what I’m trained to do. You’ll just stick out too much.”
“Hell, I can get into disguise as well.”
Dan shook his head. “No offense, but you’ll still stand out too much. I’m glad you were with me in Frankfurt,” he turned to Marcus and added, “And I’m glad you were with me in Zürich, but neither of you would blend in, even in disguise. You’d still look too Delta Force.”
“And that disqualifies me?” Roland said. As a warrior, he was angry at being left behind and he was insulted that his military presence, a deep part of who he was, disqualified him for a clandestine operation.
“You’re a fighter. I’d want you by my side anytime there’s a firefight. No question. But this is more undercover. I have to try to find this man in a closed community that doesn’t speak to outsiders much. I’m going to have to craft a persona and become that person. It’s more than just putting on a physical disguise.” Dan leaned over at Roland. “I have to become a mid-Eastern immigrant, looking to join the jihad.” He sat back. “That’s a whole different challenge.”
At this point, Jane could see both Roland and Dan digging in their heels.
“I have to agree with Dan here,” she said.
Roland turned to her, his eyes flashing, still angry. “You think I can’t do this?”
Jane returned Roland’s aggressive stare. She wouldn’t back down. “No, not this part. Leave it to Dan.”
Roland looked away, still angry.
“Look, after Dan identifies his target, if he needs help, you’ll be the one I send. But this is what Dan is trained for. I have to let him do this.”
“So that he doesn’t feel he failed. He gets to try this on his own.”
Jane hardened her voice. “Dan gets to try this on his own because he’s the best we have to do this successfully. End of story. Now I don’t want to hear any more grousing about this. We each have a roll on this team and yours is not the same as Dan’s in all situations.”
Marcus talked to Roland later but he couldn’t get Roland to see the situation from Jane’s point of view.
“He’s going to be pissed for a while, but he’ll get over it,” Marcus said.
Two days later, Dan had a new identity. He was now Abdullah ben-Wassal, related to a minor Bedouin tribe in the Sinai that held a small territory. It was not a prominent tribe. It would be disastrous for Dan to run into someone from the same tribe. He would never get through the flurry of family connections that would surely result from such a meeting.
He dyed his hair black and worked a darkening agent into his skin, all over his body. He grew a short beard, mostly untrimmed. The look, when finished was unkempt and down and out.
His story was that he was born in Italy of immigrant parents. He rebelled against their strict upbringing and rejected their old ways. He never learned to speak Arabic properly beyond the few words Dan knew. He was westernized but marginalized and ready to do battle against the oppressive Europeans who he now saw as his enemy and the reason for his lack of success in the world.
He would be looked at as cannon fodder by someone like Jabbar. Dan hoped the man would be interested enough to recruit him and assign him to the cell in Marseille. Dan just needed to connect with Jabbar; the rest would then play out to its deadly conclusion.
Chapter 54
___________________________________
D an checked into a seedy hotel in the quartiers nords area of Marseille. It was the low-income area of the city and filled with drugs and associated crime. The landmarks consisted of block-long high-rise apartment buildings. They looked like the ghetto apartment structures all over major cities in the west. Dan wondered why anyone would plan and build such structures for the poor. They always seemed to collect crime and violence. They were stark, unattractive and inhuman in scale, cramming too many people into their dreary spaces.
The city was a simulating mix of cultures with a large Corsican population who didn’t think of themselves as very French, a large contingent of North African immigrants of Muslim background and the continental French who prided themselves on being the keepers of the culture in the city. The gangs were run by all three groups, each vying for dominance in the city.
The quartiers nords neighborhood was also not far from the port area. Part of Dan’s cover would be he was looking for work on the docks, not wanting to get involved in the more dangerous drug trade. He spent the first week looking for work being careful not to create too positive an impression since he didn’t want to get hired, just to be seen trying.
Dan spent his nights in various bars working his way through the network of patrons dropping hints that he wanted to get involved with some sort of militancy. Most times he was rebuffed. Much of the poor were looking to just get by using foul means or fair.
The neighborhoods near the high-rise tenements were run by the local mafia crime syndicates. The police were mostly ornamental and didn’t intrude much beyond the main thoroughfares. Dan knew he was on his own.
He had finished nursing a beer in a rundown bar. It was late. His inquiries with the bartender resulted in stony looks and a sta
tement of ignorance, feigned or otherwise. Dan got up; there was nothing more to accomplish this evening. He stepped outside and started down the side street. On this road, like many others in the poor districts, the street lamps were far apart and some did not work.
It was dark. The night was heavy with the smell of the sea. The air was cool indicating the coming of fall. Dan shrugged inside his jacket and trudged down the sidewalk. He was soon aware of two men who came out of the shadows and started following him. A third man appeared in front and started walking towards him. Were they together? Dan tensed.
The man approaching from the front stopped and spoke to Dan.
“Can you help me out? I need some money for the bus.”
Dan stopped and eyed the stranger. He could hear the two from behind approaching. Dan stepped to the side so he could see the men coming from behind. In a moment the three were in a semi-circle standing around Dan.
“Your money and phone and you won’t get hurt,” the first man said.
“Just move on and you won’t get hurt,” Dan replied.
“Smartass,” said one of the others in a thick, northern African accented French. “Maybe we teach you a lesson.”
With that he pulled out a club. It was wooden and looked heavy. He swung it at Dan’s head. Dan leaned back, the blow went past him. He grabbed the striker’s arm and pulled him through the arc of his swing. The man’s momentum helped to carry him along. Dan threw him into the first man and stepped forward towards the third attacker who was just processing what had happened. Dan brought up his leg in a powerful kick to the man’s groin. The man cried out and bent over. As he did, Dan scissored his left leg and kicked the man in the face, sending him to the concrete with a broken jaw.
At that moment the other two had disentangled themselves and both squared away at Dan.
“You bastard!” The man with the club shouted and stepped forward again. As he raised his arm to strike again, Dan spun counter clock-wise and lashed out his left foot as he completed his turn, striking the man at the side of his left knee. He could hear the crack as the knee joint buckled from the side impact. The man went down like a felled tree, dropping his club and grabbing at his leg.
Only a few seconds had passed and now the last man standing, the one who had approached from the front, pulled out a knife.
“I’ll cut you to pieces,” he said in a low guttural voice.
Dan said nothing but slipped off his jacket and wrapped it around his left arm. It would serve as a shield from the knife until he could close on his attacker. He waited, centered, ready to counter strike. The man shuffled around making sham thrusts that didn’t come close to connecting, hoping Dan would commit. Dan waited.
Suddenly the man rotated the blade with the sharp edge facing upright in his hand and lunged forward, looking to stab him in the gut and slice upward. Dan stepped to the left and the blade thrust found only air. The man’s momentum carried him forward. Dan grabbed the attacker’s knife arm and looped it under his own and behind the man’s back with a violent wrench that dislocated the attacker’s shoulder.
The knife dropped to the ground. Dan completed the move with a strike to the man’s neck and he went down, writhing in pain, semi-conscious. It was all over in less than thirty seconds. Dan stepped back. The attackers were not going anywhere soon. The only one who could pose a threat was the first man, now recovering from the kick to his groin. His jaw was broken, but his limbs were intact.
Dan kicked the knife away and stepped over to the attacker. He bent down close to the man’s face. The attacker looked at him with fear in his eyes.
“Do you want to live?” Dan asked in a low voice.
The man just looked at him and then slowly nodded a yes.
“If you don’t want to get killed or maimed, do not try to follow me, understand?”
The man nodded.
“And don’t ever come near me again. Next time I’ll kill you.”
Dan stood up. The man just watched from the sidewalk where he lay as Dan turned and walked away.
Two nights later, Dan was in another bar, asking the same questions with similar results. It was beginning to look like the community was too closed to penetrate, or the local criminals didn’t know much about the Islamist element. He was at the bar when two large men sat down on either side. One of them leaned toward Dan and spoke.
“There is someone who wants to speak to you. Come with us.”
“And where would we be going?” Dan asked.
“To meet this person.”
“Who is he?”
“He’ll tell you if he wants you to know.”
“Why should I go with the two of you?”
“You don’t want to say no.”
“I’m looking for work, can this person help me?”
“Maybe. He’s the one to help, if he decides to.”
Dan thought for a moment. These men were large. They were calm, matter-of-fact in their manners, acting confident in their ability to handle trouble. Quite unlike the three street thugs that had tried to rob him. They would not go down easily. Still there was one less to deal with. Dan liked his chances.
“Okay, but if this is a setup, one or both of you will get hurt.”
“Just come with us. It’s for real,” the man replied. He stood up indicating they should leave.
They walked out of the bar with one in front and one behind. Not the best position tactically, but what he expected. They walked for three blocks in silence before entering an apartment building. It was smaller than the block-long monstrosities that scarred the neighborhood; much more on a human scale.
The trio climbed three flights of stairs and knocked on a door. It was opened and Dan was shuffled inside between the two men. The living room opened at the rear to the kitchen and dining area. There were three other men in the room, all armed with automatic weapons, MP5s. Sitting at the dining table, farther into the apartment, was a large, fat man. He was eating from a platter of pasta and thick sausages. There was a large glass of red wine next to the platter.
He didn’t look up. He kept busy wielding his knife and fork on the sausage. Dan stood at the entrance to the dining area, between the two men who had brought him. Everyone waited for the fat man to acknowledge them. Finally the man looked up after washing down a huge mouthful of food with a large swallow of wine.
“I’m French,” he said in a thick, raspy voice, “But I love Italian food. It’s a shame we didn’t invent Parmigiano cheese. We created so many other cheeses, but we missed it with that one.” His French was heavily accented. Dan guessed he might be from Corsica. His hair was black and combed straight back. He had puffy cheeks in keeping with his corpulent physique. The eyes were black and set deep in his fleshy face. “And olive oil. But we use it so much we may as well have invented it.”
His expression grew serious as he focused a sharp stare at Dan. “You’re the man who took out three punks on the street two nights ago, are you not?”
Dan returned the man’s stare. “That’s me. Did they belong to you?”
The man shook his head. “Amateurs. Mostly a bother to me, but not important.”
“Why am I here if it’s not about that?”
The man studied Dan for a moment. He pushed his plate away, wiped his face with a large napkin, and took another sip of wine. “We still make the best wine.” He wiped his face with a large cloth napkin. “I have been informed that you are asking around for work. Plus, you say you want to be a soldier, maybe a jihadist? How you handled those punks the other night indicates you can take care of yourself and could be useful to the right person. Stand over there,” he pointed to a ceiling light that spilled a large pool of illumination on the floor. The men moved Dan into the brighter light.
The fat man stood up. He approached Dan who tensed himself, ready to strike if attacked although he didn’t think he had much of a chance with all the armed men around.
The man studied Dan closely. “You’re not an Arab,” he sa
id with finality. Stepping back from his examination, he continued, “You look like one. And you could pass for one ninety-five percent of the time, but you’re not. I’ve been around middle-Easterners most of my life, living here in Marseille. I’ve fought with them and worked with them. You have something usually missing from them. You have a presence about you, they way you carry yourself. Now, here, in what might be considered a dangerous situation, you aren’t panicked. The middle-Easterners I’ve been around would also not panic but they would show much more suspicion and tension…you don’t. You’re quite calm in fact.” He paused for a moment. “Plus your eyes are not quite the right color.”
The man turned and walked back to his seat.
“Sit down.” He gestured to a chair on the side of the table. Dan went to it and sat down.
“I’m Gaspard. What is your name?”
“Abdullah,” Dan replied.
The fat man produced a smile which quickly faded. “Don’t waste my time. You are not an ‘Abdullah’. What is your real name?”
“That is not really important, is it? What do you want of me? Or more importantly, what can you do for me?”
“A bold answer. No, I don’t need to know your name. I’ll lay my cards on the table. This neighborhood is mine. I’m in charge. Nothing happens here unless I authorize it. I answer to higher ups, but here my word is law. Business is done with my approval. Actions are taken only with my approval. So what you do comes under my authority. As you can imagine, I need strong men to carry out my orders. You, my mysterious friend, could be helpful to me.” He pointed to Dan with his finger. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Non, merci,” Dan responded.
“So, if you are not a middle-Easterner, who are you and what are you after? You’re not the type who wants to go on a jihad. I don’t see any ‘true believer’ in you. Tell me what you’re after.”
