Still, he had to find the mosque the jihadis preferred. He wouldn’t do anything as obvious as offering to head to Raqqa. He would simply show his face and hope they let him hang out until he could put together an answer that fit the clues Hani had given him. Wells believed that Hani had told the truth. Why lie to another jihadi, especially one who had saved him from a vicious beating?
Of course if Wells was wrong, he’d blown the last two months. He’d find out soon enough.
He worked out for two hours in the hotel gym, covering himself in honest sweat, reminding himself he could justify all he’d done if he found the commander and the mole. Survive and advance.
Back in the room, he shaved and washed his face but didn’t shower. He put on the same clothes he’d worn the day before. They, and he, smelled funky, almost ripe, right for this cover. At a drugstore a block from the hotel, he bought a pair of knock-off Ray-Bans. They made him look younger, and slightly sleazy, like so many European jihadis.
He carried neither pistol nor knife. If he needed either for this trip, he had already failed.
Paris had good public transportation, including a commuter rail system called the RER. Line B ran northeast through the city, ending at the airport. Along the way, it served the city’s most notorious banlieues. These suburbs had once been industrial and Communist. Now they had lost their factories and belonged mainly to Muslim immigrants.
Wells wondered who he would be in Sevran. He didn’t need an elaborate cover story. But he would have to know his identity well enough to handle a few minutes of conversation. He had left his Bulgarian passport in his hotel room. It would raise questions he couldn’t answer.
As he stood on the platform of the airport station awaiting the train, he decided to remain Samir Khalili. This version of Samir had fought in Afghanistan long before, come home in the winter after September 11. Ever since, he’d wondered if he was a coward for leaving. Now he had come from Canada to France to find a way into this new war.
A train rolled up and Wells stepped on. Ten minutes later, it slid into a tunnel and eased to a halt. “Sevran-Beaudottes,” a recorded voice announced. The station was cold, high-ceilinged, concrete. Wells slouched up the steps to a dismal gray plaza. A dozen Arab men clumped near an abandoned movie theater. He wandered past them into the maze of apartment buildings west of the station.
The French government had built housing projects called cités for the immigrants who crossed the Mediterranean beginning in the 1960s. Instead of the ugly high-rise brick towers that marked American public housing, these buildings were mostly mid-rise and white, accented with shaded balconies and brightly colored panels. Yet the cités would not have been out of place in the South Bronx. Even if Wells hadn’t already known this one was public housing, he would have recognized it instantly. Its buildings were neglected equally by the government that owned them and the tenants who lived in them. Cheap clothes dangled from balconies. Unwatered trees drooped sadly. Wells picked up a faint odor of marijuana, the sweeter scent of hashish. Most tellingly, the residents projected an effortless unfriendliness. Chattering women went silent as Wells walked by. Men stared. Wells understood. Outsiders rarely came to these places, except for the occasional social worker or cop.
As Wells walked the concrete paths, the scope of the complex became clear. A dozen buildings, ten floors each, say twelve or thirteen apartments per floor. Fifteen hundred apartments, averaging four or five residents each, most stuffed into one or two bedrooms. Six or eight thousand people in this cité alone, and Wells saw another across a six-lane road to the west. And Sevran was one banlieue of dozens. No wonder the French security services had so much trouble. Without whispered help from the locals, they faced a near-impossible task. But in the banlieues, as in American inner cities, snitches were despised.
Wells turned in to the middle of the complex. The buildings here were more cocooned, even less welcoming. An Arab man in a black T-shirt and mirrored sunglasses stood outside the building at the very center, arms folded, staring at everyone who passed. Like the doorman of the hottest club in Paris. Wells walked toward him. The man pretended not to notice.
“As-salaam alaikum.”
“Alaikum salaam.”
“Nice sunglasses,” Wells said in Arabic. He raised his. The man didn’t follow. “I’m Samir.”
“Are you lost?”
“I’m exactly where I want to be.”
“Are you French?”
“Does it matter?”
“Nam.”
“Then, no. I’m not.”
Now the man raised his shades. “What are you, then? German?”
“No one’s ever called me German before. I’m Lebanese but live in Canada.”
“And what are you doing in Sevran?”
“I came to pray.”
“For peace? One of those?”
“For strength. Strength for the believers.”
The man’s eyebrows narrowed. “No offense, brother. You look a little old for that kind of prayer.”
“Experienced.”
“Where?”
“Afghanistan. And Grozny.” The capital of Chechnya. The man looked at Wells with new respect. No surprise. Even more than Afghanistan, Chechnya was the cradle of modern jihad. The homegrown Muslim insurgency there during the late 1990s had presaged the Islamic State’s horrors right down to the execution videos.
“This isn’t something to joke about.”
“I’m not joking. Many years ago. Even before Putin.”
The man opened the door of the lobby, nodded Wells inside.
The ceiling lights were out, and yellow tape covered an elevator. “Hands against the wall.” The man patted Wells down quickly and efficiently. “If you’re serious about praying, I’ll give you a mosque to visit. Tell them Hamoud sent you. But I warn you, if you’re not who you say, best to turn around and walk away.”
—
WELLS CROSSED the boulevard he’d seen before, walked through another cité, uglier than the first, more like American projects. Boarded windows were scattered across tall beige buildings. Trash overflowed garbage bins. Wells wondered why Hamoud had opened up so quickly. Maybe Wells had sold himself perfectly. Maybe he’d had some luck to make up for the kidnappers in Kabul and the rest of the trouble he’d found this mission. Years in the field had taught him the bounces usually evened out.
Or maybe Hamoud had decided he was lying, an informant for the French, and was setting him up. No matter. Wells wasn’t trying to infiltrate just to see the mosque. For his purposes, he would win this round even if the men here told him nothing at all.
A big hospital complex rose just east of the cité. The dismal streets were named for France’s greatest medical researchers. The mosque was at 85 Rue du Docteur Fleming, Hamoud had said. The building was another project, the most run-down yet, loose concrete hanging from its balconies. Its ground-floor apartments had doors that opened to the street. At its north end, two North African men stood outside an apartment whose windows were curtained tightly.
Wells’s pulse quickened, his journey near an end one way or another. “Brothers.”
They regarded him without much love.
“I’ve come to pray.”
“Then you’re confused. The mosque is that way”—the man pointed down the street Wells had just taken.
“Hamoud sent me.”
“What’s your name?”
“Samir.”
“Wait here.” The man disappeared inside the apartment.
A minute later, the door opened. “Come.”
Inside, Wells found that the curtains hid a white-painted wall. It blocked the windows and made the apartment’s living room into a single enclosed space, a reasonable facsimile of a mosque. Fifteen or so men stood facing southeast toward Mecca. Behind Wells, a deadbolt snapped in place. The men looked him over, the
ir faces hard. They were in their twenties and early thirties. Two wore long Salafi beards while the others had tightly trimmed goatees.
Even after Hamoud’s warning, their open menace surprised Wells. He had expected that, at worst, they’d kick him out, maybe rough him up. But they seemed riled. Maybe the chatter was right. Maybe an attack was imminent.
A slim North African wearing dark blue jeans nodded at him. “Samir, yes?”
“Nam.”
“We were just starting. Pray with us.”
Wells slipped off his shoes and lay them with the rest, washed his face, hands, and feet, and took a place in the back row.
Prayer was always a performance of sorts, for Allah if no one else. Today, Wells had a more corporeal audience. He knew that even if he prayed with a believer’s fervor and precision, these men might not trust him. But if he failed, they surely wouldn’t.
Still, he ignored the pressure, found himself in the rhythm of the Arabic. By the time he and the rest of the men finished, the tension in the room had faded. Wells knew he had passed this first test. He turned to the man beside him. “Peace be upon you, brother.”
“And you.”
The leader walked over. “You’re English?”
“From Canada.” Wells unrolled his cover. He didn’t mention Syria or the Islamic State. Neither did anyone else. The only glitch came when the leader asked for his mobile number.
“Don’t have one.” Like a Bulgarian passport, a phone with a Bulgarian country code would raise too many questions. Then Wells saw how to spin its absence. “Left it in Toronto. I wanted to make a fresh start.”
“No one with you, then?”
“No.”
“Where do you sleep?”
He’d planned for this question. “A hostel near the Gare du Nord. Called the Peace and Love Hostel. If you can believe it.”
“How’d you end up there?”
“It’s cheap. Filled with backpackers. Unpleasant place.”
“Too many kaffirs drinking and smoking?”
“I’m used to kaffirs. But I hate feeling old. I’ll find somewhere else.”
“You plan to stay in Paris a while?”
“At least a couple of weeks.”
The leader glanced at his watch. “Come back next week, pray with us again, Samir. We can talk more then. True brothers are always welcome.”
“Thanks be to Allah.” Wells turned to pick up his shoes . . .
And saw. Mixed among generic leather sandals were four pairs of sneakers that would have made a Brooklyn hipster proud. Old-school Air Jordans, their leather worn but clean. Blue Chuck Taylor All-Stars. Vintage black Adidases with shiny white stripes. And the capper, a set of low brown suede sneakers, PUMA etched on their sides in gold capital letters.
Not a lion, not a rhinoceros. A calling card, subtle and obvious at once. If Wells hadn’t happened to see them lined up near one another, he wouldn’t have noticed.
Happy gibberish filled his head. It’s gotta be the shoes . . . Be Like Mike . . . And Bruno Mars, strutting, and warbling his uptown funk: Got Chucks on with Saint Laurent / Gotta kiss myself I’m so pretty . . .
“Nice shoes.”
“My friend owns a store.”
Bet he’s got a daughter named Najma, too. Wells wondered how Shafer had missed her. “You get discounts?”
The leader shook his head in irritation. These Arabs might be alienated from every other part of French culture, but not its distrust of cheap retail.
“Anyway, I’ll come by Monday?”
The man shook his head. “Say, Friday. Ma’a salama, Samir.”
“Ma’a salama.”
On the way back to the RER station, Wells stopped to pick up a bottle of water and a halal chicken sandwich. And check for surveillance. He didn’t think anyone was following him, but he planned to proof his cover by going into Paris before doubling back to the Comfort Hotel.
No mistakes now. He’d worked too hard, come too far. He was so very close.
22
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
WALTER CROMPOND hadn’t expected to see the sheikh again. Much less standing outside his front door on a bright Saturday morning. Yet when Crompond opened it, there was Aziz Murak, large as life, hands crossed over his Santa Claus belly.
“Sheikh.”
“Mr. Crompond.” Murak offered a formal nod. “Is anyone watching us?”
Crompond found his eyes tilting to the sky, looking for black helicopters or God. “Don’t think so.” Not even his wife, who had left a few minutes earlier for soccer practice with the kids.
“Won’t you invite me in? Just a moment or two?”
Inside Crompond’s front door, Murak reached into his shirt pocket for a black key fob, squarish, with lock and unlock buttons. “This arrived yesterday. From Paris. I’m told either button will work.”
Crompond held it in his palm, an unlucky charm. If the jihadis had sent the trigger, then they must have placed the sarin. And the attack must be imminent.
“It’s ready? The church?”
“Suitable. That was the word my friend used. And one final piece of advice. Make sure you’re inside early. We’re not going to wait for the service to start, and you’ll want to push that button exactly two minutes after you hear the first bombs.”
“You’re expecting me to set them off from inside.”
“Of course, habibi. I thought that was understood.”
There was understanding, and then there was understanding. With this little black box in his hand, Crompond could no longer escape the reality that in days, a week or two at most, he would die.
“It’s all right to be afraid. Even believers sometimes have a hard time at this moment.”
How would you know? Don’t see you wearing an XXL bomb belt.
Murak seemed to read his mind. “If you can’t do it, let me know. We’ll find another way.” Murak leaned in close. “But it will happen, Walter, and you know better than I what comes after.”
“I thought I was headed for witness protection. Put me in a burqa, send me to a harem in Raqqa.”
Murak didn’t smile. Crompond wouldn’t miss his humorlessness. Time to split his life into stuff he’d miss and stuff he wouldn’t. Anyway, Murak was right. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
“Don’t you worry about me, Imam. I crossed the river a long time ago. So, okay, I get inside early—”
“Yes. And wait for the attack.”
“You’ve never told me why you’re doing this, Walter.”
Crompond thought of Jane O’Connor’s long white neck. Suddenly he wanted Murak gone. “If there’s a God, He knows.”
“There’s a God—”
“If there isn’t, I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’ll miss you, Imam.” A lie, but it did the trick. Murak squeezed his shoulder, walked out.
Crompond leaned against his front door like he was trying to keep monsters out and held the key fob an inch or two from his face. A black box blurred to infinity. Strange. He couldn’t hide the truth from himself. What he was about to do was wrong. Immoral. Pick a word. Unthinkable. He wanted to walk away. Better yet, ask for forgiveness. Mercy.
But he knew he wouldn’t. He had pledged himself to his hate. He couldn’t forsake that now.
He closed his eyes, dug his thumb into the button. Soon enough, he’d know the secret his government had taught Jane and the Iraqis and Vietnamese and Afghanis and all those Japanese in Hiroshima and everyone else in the world who had the bad luck to stand in the way of the United States.
“See?” he whispered to the walls. “Doesn’t hurt a bit.”
23
PARIS
WELLS left the RER at the Gare du Nord, wandered until he was sure beyond sure that no one was on him, hailed a cab. Back at the hotel around 3 p.m., he dug his phone out
of the room safe.
“Mao had it backward, Ellis. A journey of a thousand miles ends with a single step,” Wells explained.
“You looked for local stores yet?”
“Not yet. But it’s right, Ellis, I know it . . .” Though Wells wished he’d looked before this call. If the shoes were a coincidence, if the Puma had earned his nickname some other way, Shafer would never let him forget.
“Not saying it isn’t. Smells like Teen Spirit to me. Next question. Say you’re right. What now?”
“DGSE, yes?”
“And tell them you saw some sneakers? They’ve got ten thousand guys to track.”
“Least ask them if the guy who owns the store is on their radar.”
“Once we have his name, we can check that ourselves. And I’m guessing he won’t be, not in any meaningful way. That’s what Hani told you, right?”
Wells felt his elation fade. Shafer was right. The pieces might fit for him and Shafer, but they weren’t going to convince the French.
“You’re going to have to pay this guy a visit all by your lonesome,” Shafer said.
“Just show up at his store, then, you’re thinking? Ask if he’s the famous Puma?”
Shafer went quiet.
“What do we know about him?” he said eventually.
“Not much.”
“I mean, psychologically?”
“In that case, nothing.”
“Wrong again, honey. Lots. He’s proud of his store. Proud of his shoes. He nicknamed himself after them. Probably a control freak, a micromanager. How else did he keep this network secret? And he likes operating right under the noses of the French. Gets off on it.”
The guesses made sense. “I’ll buy it.”
“Guy like that, whatever he’s planning, he’s going to keep his stuff close.”
“At the store.”
“Maybe not that close. I’ll bet he’s got a little storage place close by. Where he keeps his shoes. And his guns and everything else, too.”
The Prisoner Page 30
