by Isaac Hooke
Ethan turned to go, then paused, remembering something she had said. "This brother of yours. What day does he visit?"
"Wednesdays."
That was tomorrow. "I'd like to meet him," Ethan said, never one to miss an opportunity to acquire another asset.
She took a step back. "No. We should... we should leave him out of this." The fear was thick in her voice.
Ethan was beginning to suspect her brother was a rebel of some kind. Even better.
"I insist," Ethan said. "Tomorrow, tell him you wish to be chaperoned on a date."
"And what do I say to explain how we met?"
"Tell him a mujahid knocked on the wrong door. Tell him I was enamored when I saw you."
"How do you know I'm not ugly behind this veil?" she asked, a hint of challenge in her tone.
"Maybe you are. Tell him I was enamored anyway. How often do we mujahadeen get the chance to see a woman's face these days, after all? You could look like a donkey and I'd be in love."
"But I never answer my door without the veil," she said.
"Just say you washed all your niqabs and only had a hijab handy. It's not a crime to answer your door without a veil."
"Isn't it?"
"Not if you don't let the visitor in. Tell him the mujahid insisted, and you were afraid so you opened it, just a crack, keeping your door chain latched."
She hesitated. "This is a bad idea."
"I'm the father of bad ideas. Tomorrow at eight. Al Rashid restaurant. Just in front of Swan Garden beside the Municipal Stadium."
"I know the place," she said.
Ethan grinned. "They serve amazing fatteh."
"I don't like fatteh."
"Well you'll like the fatteh they serve. Eight o'clock. What was your name again?"
She hesitated. "Alzena."
He wasn't sure he believed her. Alzena was a generic name that literally meant "the woman."
Ethan smiled and said: "And I am Alrajil." The man.
AT THE CHECKPOINT Abdullah and the others gave him shit for taking so long to bring the bread. "We thought you ran off to join the infidels!" Zarar joked, though his accusation wasn't so far from the truth.
That night Ethan left Mufid an encrypted message, sending the address of the target's apartment and the time the motorcade arrived. He asked if Mufid, his son or one of their associates could covertly tail the motorcade and relay the eventual destination to him. A photo of the final building would be good, too, but not required.
The next evening Ethan left the compound after prayers and jogged to the restaurant where he was to meet Alzena. By the time he arrived he was covered in sweat.
Though he'd cased the spot earlier, at night the area was a completely different beast, and at first he wasn't even sure he had the correct location, as the unpowered street lamps provided no light to read the sign, nor were there any windows on the otherwise nondescript building.
When he stepped inside, he found himself in a dining room of burnt-brick walls decorated with abstract paintings. Cylindrical light casings hung from the ceiling; lightbulbs shone dimly from within, indicating that somewhere a diesel generator was operating. Small candles inside glass bowls provided additional ambiance at each table.
The eyes of the male patrons turned toward him, and his gaze was met with either nonchalance or fear, and sometimes contempt. He wore a traditional white robe and checkered keffiyeh, but what made it obvious he was a militant was the Dragunov he sported over one shoulder. He had considered leaving the sniper rifle behind but in the end decided to bring it. The pros of being readily identifiable as a mujahid far outweighed the cons.
The two women present had raised their niqabs to eat, and while their faces were readily exposed, their hijabs still hid their hair. Both women appeared middle-aged and relatively plain, and didn't allow their eyes to stray from their chaperones, who sat across from them. Neither of them could have been Alzena, because their tables had seating for two alone.
The elderly proprietor immediately rushed forward to greet him. "Salaam, salaam. Welcome to Al Rashid!" He shook Ethan's hand enthusiastically.
"Salaam," Ethan said, smiling lightly.
"We welcome the fighters of our great Caliphate!" the proprietor said. "Welcome with open arms!"
"Wonderful," Ethan said.
The man led him to a table for four and Ethan took a seat in one of the wooden chairs. The red tablecloth had the words "Coca-Cola" on it.
The elderly proprietor hurried to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a cool towelette. Ethan used it to wipe away the sweat on his forehead and neck.
When the man had gone, Ethan watched the doorway for a minute, then glanced at the menu. Each Arabic entry had the English equivalent written beside it: Sorcki Salad (dry cheese with thyme, tomato, onion, parsley, olive oil), Kibeh Niye (raw lamb meat mixed with bulgur wheat and spices), Makdous (tangy eggplants stuffed with walnuts, olive oil and red peppers). The latest prices were printed on paper cutouts glued to the menu—the cost of each item had increased so many times that the cutouts formed small lumps.
Ethan's attention was drawn back to the door as a woman and man entered. The woman's niqab was still down, so he couldn't see her face. It must have been difficult for her to navigate the dark streets outside with that on, though apparently in the low light of the restaurant she could see readily enough, because she gestured toward Ethan immediately.
Upon seeing the man who accompanied her, he understood in that moment why Alzena hadn't wanted to have the meeting.
Fool, he thought.
The pair reached the table and Ethan stood.
"As salaamu alaykum," the chaperon said in a cool voice.
"Wa alaykuma salaam," Ethan returned with a calm he did not feel. He shook the man's hand.
Her brother was not a rebel at all, but rather, judging from the radio harness worn over his white thawb, and the AK-47 slung over his shoulder, he was a young, strapping member of the Hisbah.
He sat to Ethan's left, while the veiled woman took the seat across the table, also to his left so that she wouldn't reside directly across from him.
Ethan was about to initiate small talk when the black ghost lifted her veil and his breath caught in his throat.
A woman of her spectacular beauty was a rare, rare thing. She had it all. Perfectly symmetrical features. Prominent cheek bones. Strong, sharp nose. Flawless olive skin. Luscious, sensual lips. Almond-shaped eyes. He only wished he could see her hair, hidden as it was beneath the folds of her hijab.
Alzena's head was lowered, but she glanced upward for a moment and when her gaze met his, Ethan felt his heart quicken. Those eyes were like two blue, brilliant sapphires, of an azure different from anything he had ever seen. They seemed fathomless, and he felt they could swallow him up if he stared for too long. And yet for all their depth, there was a sadness about them.
The moment lasted maybe half a second before she lowered her gaze once more, her cheeks reddening slightly.
"I am Raafe," her brother announced coldly, breaking Ethan's trance. "Alzena's brother. You are Alrajil?"
Ethan glanced at Raafe. The Hisbah regarded him with open disdain.
"Yes," Ethan said.
The proprietor came over and lavished Raafe with praise. "What great works the Hisbah are doing for this city! What great changes have taken place. Allahu ahkbar!"
"Allahu ahkbar," Raafe agreed.
"Allahu ahkbar," Ethan echoed.
The proprietor gave the new arrivals cool towelettes, then took the drink requests. Water for Ethan and Alzena, a coke for Raafe. Ethan also ordered the mains: chicken fatteh, kebab khashkhash, and a side of flatbread.
"So you want to marry my sister?" Raafe said into the uncomfortable silence that followed the proprietor's departure.
Ethan had almost forgotten: going on a date in a strictly Muslim country was tantamount to asking for a woman's hand in marriage.
"I am considering this, yes," Ethan said. It wasn't
even a lie. He couldn't resist glancing at her, though she refused to meet his gaze that time.
"It is very unusual how you met," Raafe said.
"It is," Ethan agreed, not exactly sure what Alzena had told her brother.
"The Khansa'a Brigade typically arranges weddings for foreign fighters," Raafe said. "Making chaperoned meetings such as these unnecessary."
"The women's brigade?" Ethan said. "I thought they were just sharia enforcers?"
"They are." Raafe seemed slightly insulted, as if he thought Ethan hadn't shown the proper respect due the Khansa'a by calling them just sharia enforcers. "But they also hunt down eligible women."
Ethan thought that was an interesting choice of words. Hunt down. "I didn't know."
"We need to better educate the new fighters. It would avoid uncomfortable situations such as this." Raafe tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Speaking of the Khansa'a, I will have to have a talk with them. My sister's iddah ended weeks ago." That was the prescribed period of mourning a woman must observe after the death of a spouse: four lunar months and ten days. "I'm sure they will find someone perfect for her." Raafe spoke as if it were a foregone conclusion she would not marry Ethan. Which she wouldn't, of course.
He studied Ethan for a moment. "There is something I would like to clarify. My sister says you knocked on her door. That you were at the wrong apartment."
"That's right," Ethan said.
"You did not go inside her apartment at any point?"
Ethan didn't bat an eye. "No, I did not."
"She did not unlatch the inner security chain?"
"No she did not."
Raafe tapped his lips skeptically. "You are one of the mujahadeen responsible for the Chinaman?"
"No."
"But you claimed to have knocked on the wrong door... or so my sister says. If you were not there to collect the Chinaman, then who were you visiting?"
"A cousin."
"Really. During the middle of the day? You are working for the Caliphate, aren't you?" He eyed Ethan's Dragunov.
"I was in the neighborhood with my unit. I wanted to say hello."
"In which room does this cousin of yours reside? 2D?"
"That is none of your concern."
"May I see your barrack papers?"
"Again, that is none of your concern."
Raafe smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. "Careful where you tread, Alrajil. You are balanced on a tightrope above the abyss. One misstep and you will fall. Very far."
Thankfully the proprietor arrived right then with the non-alcoholic drinks.
"So," Ethan said to Alzena when the proprietor had gone; he hoped to take control of the conversation and avoid any further uncomfortable questioning. "You are from Shaam?"
Raafe was the one who answered. "Yes. She was born in Aleppo, like me. Our family moved to Raqqa when she was six."
Ethan turned toward Alzena, trying to loop her into the discussion. "Tell me about your dearly departed husband."
Raafe again spoke for her. "He was a mujahid from Jordan. My sister married him seven months ago. He was martyred two months later. A good man. A great one. He was the one who led me down the path of the Hisbah."
"It must be hard for her," Ethan said.
Raafe tilted his head, then glanced at Alzena. "Sister," Raafe prodded her. "Tell him what it is like to be the wife of a martyr. Go on."
She looked at Raafe, then shyly transferred her gaze to Ethan. She couldn't hold his eyes for very long. "The wives of martyrs, we are admired by the other women. Respected." Her tone was neutral, her words guarded.
Ethan waited, but she had nothing more to say.
Thankfully the food arrived.
"They are quick here," Raafe remarked.
"When a Hisbah and his mujahid friend visit," Ethan muttered. "Of course they're going to be quick."
"And what does that mean?" Raafe said.
"Nothing. Only that they honor us." By then Ethan only wanted the awkward evening to end.
He grabbed the tip of a lamb kebab and lifted the skewer from the khashkhash container; he bit off a chunk, tasting the parsley and pine nuts, though the flavor was almost overwhelmed by garlic and chili peppers.
Raafe took a kebab for himself. Alzena meanwhile stared at her hands, which were folded in her lap.
"Sister," Raafe said between bites. "Eat. Be polite."
She looked up at Raafe, her gaze distant, blank.
"Eat," her brother urged.
A fire kindled in those sapphire eyes and for a moment Ethan thought she was going to defy her brother, but then she ripped away some flatbread and nibbled at the edge. Ethan realized she had been slouching forward the entire time, avoiding any contact with the backrest of her seat.
"Which country did you say you made your hegira from again?" Raafe asked.
"Saudi Arabia," Using the provided ladle, Ethan served himself a dollop of the fatteh. He made sure to scoop up several pieces of chicken along with the yogurt and chickpea mix, though he only took a small portion of the soggy bread at the bottom of the bowl.
"And how did you originally contact the brothers in Shaam?"
"Social media."
Raafe smiled knowingly. "This is the first war that has been fought mainly over the social networks of the world. And so far, we are winning." He finished his kebab and then abruptly sat back, wiping his hands on the napkin. Ethan was expecting more grilling on his background, but instead Raafe turned toward Alzena and said, "So what do you say, sister? Will you marry him?"
Ethan had finished his serving of fatteh and was in the process of chewing a spicy khashkhash meatball, but those words made him freeze on the spot. A part of him wanted her to say yes, though he knew it was a very bad idea.
Alzena didn't look up. "I will ask Allah for guidance," she said emotionlessly. "But I believe my answer will be no."
"There you have it," Raafe said smugly. "This meeting is over."
He and his sister arose. Alzena seemed just as relieved as Ethan that the evening was finished. She lowered her veil and Raafe led her away without a word of goodbye. Ethan hadn't noticed earlier, but her walk seemed a little stiff.
Raafe paused beside the two tables where the couples sat and asked for proof of relations. When he was satisfied that no immoral meetings were taking place, he reminded the women to lower their veils before leaving. "It is far better for women to eat at home," he told the couples. "Remember that, in the future."
When Raafe was gone, Ethan stared at the uneaten food before him, not all that hungry anymore.
17
Ethan stopped by an Internet cafe on the way back to the compound. The owner told him no USB sticks or other adapters were allowed, but Ethan managed to connect his device unnoticed while another customer paid.
He checked his three gmail accounts and found a message from Alzena waiting in one of the draft folders, dated earlier that day, before the ill-fated supper. He decrypted it.
I have approached Shi's wife and we have had tea. We are on good terms.
Shi's wife. Ethan hadn't told her the scientist's name. That meant she was telling the truth. Good girl. It also meant the scientist wasn't using an alias.
In his response, Ethan laid out what Alzena was to do next. Hopefully the incident at supper hadn't affected her willingness to help him.
Before he left the cafe, he executed the Regin payload. Nothing like installing a little self-replicating cyberespionage malware to boost one's mood.
When he met with William and Aaron in the cafeteria later that night, at nine-thirty, his fellow operatives revealed that both of their units were headed to Kobane the next day. Apparently more holy warriors were needed to wage jihad against the city, as the Kurds were responding with heavier than expected resistance.
"You have two options," Ethan said. "You can disappear, and deliver what intel you can from the shadows of Raqqa. Or—"
"Or we can go to Kobane," William said. "And strike at the enemy from th
e heart of their front lines."
"I like the disappear option, myself," Aaron said. "Seems to me, we're more useful alive than dead."
"I don't plan on being a martyr," William said quickly. "I think I've laid down a good foundation here in Raqqa. Intel will trickle in from the assets I've farmed over the next six months. Some of it will be actionable, some not. If I go to Kobane, I'll have an opportunity to obtain immediate actionable intel, firsthand. Sam has already sent word, Doug is on his way to embed with the defending Kurds. I can help him with eyes behind enemy lines."
"Sounds like you've already made up your mind."
"I have," William agreed.
Ethan glanced at Aaron. "You don't have to go."
Aaron sighed. "Shit. If William's going, guess I will, too. If only to keep his ego in check."
"But you're not even on the same unit," Ethan said.
"I know. But when Doug hears I stayed behind while William went to the front, I'll never hear the end of it. From the both of them."
William glanced at Ethan. "You think you can hold down the fort while we're away?"
"Too much work," Ethan replied in mock resignation. "I'll never manage without you guys."
"Are you planning any operations we should know about?"
"Not really," Ethan replied. Which was true. There wasn't anything the two of them could do to help him, not when they were leaving the city. Ethan was on his own.
"Don't start too many fires while we're gone," Aaron said, patting him on the back.
William and Aaron left for Kobane the next morning.
That same evening, when he checked his account in the computer room, he found a reply waiting from Alzena. She confirmed his plans, mentioning a possible date and location. He agreed to both, thanking her. He was just glad she was still a solid asset after what had happened.
A few evenings later he found himself seated in a restaurant called Al Jamal Qawiyya, literally The Camel Is Strong. He was playing a Jordanian named Samuel that night. Dressed in his thawb, he wore a white keffiyeh held in place by a black headband. He'd purchased the latter two items earlier that day specifically for the alias. In the washroom of a nearby cafe he'd changed, then snipped off a small portion of his beard and glued the extra hair to his eyebrows, thickening them. It was a poor man's disguise, but it was good enough for what he intended.
