by Kenneth Eade
Some people would have thanked God for getting out of the situation she had placed herself in, but not Ayisha. She had shed the veil and adopted an agnostic view of things, bordering on the side of atheism, after all she had seen and experienced in the Islamic State. But she knew all the mourning rituals by heart, and performed them out of love and respect for her sister. That included wearing a hijab to the service. If her sister’s death could stand for anything, it was that tolerance was a divine trait, and if humans hoped to be close to their God at all, they should respect all people, regardless of their differences.
Ayisha stood, with her father, in the first line of the prayer room of the courtyard of the mosque, facing Mecca, and the imam led them in prayer.
“Allahu Akbar.”
The group repeated the phrase which had been hijacked by the jihad, which meant, “God is great,” then recited the Salat al-Janazah for Zia. Ayisha looked around the room. There were strangers there, which she knew was common, so their presence didn’t make her nervous, even though she was always questioning her safety these days. Every unknown person was a potential threat. That was something she and Robert had in common. She was the only woman present. The imam said a few closing prayers, and Ayisha bowed her head and whispered to herself.
“Good-bye my dear sister.”
For three days after the service, friends and neighbors brought baskets of food to her father’s house and paid their respects to him and Ayisha. Nobody knew the mysterious circumstances of Zia’s death and nobody asked. Ayisha would always live with the dangerous consequences of what she had done, which made it impossible to tell her sister’s story. She had not even related the details to her father, only that Zia had died while in captivity in the Islamic State.
She’d tried to reach out to Robert several times, but she never could find him. She didn’t have his PGP address and her attempts to communicate with him by finding Lyosha turned out to be impossible as well. After she had been evacuated to Damascus, where she had spent a few days in the hospital recovering from her wounds, she had tried to get in touch with him through the Russian military, but his was a spetsnaz unit on a secret mission and all doors were closed on her.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
News of terrorist attacks in Europe had led to fear of attacks in the United States which, in turn, fueled an increase in donations to the John Williamson Foundation to Fight Terrorism, already well-funded by the estate of Blake Williamson, whose son had been the victim of a domestic terrorist attack. Rahbi Moghadam felt he was at the helm of a foundation impotent to accomplish its mission statement, to eliminate the threat of terrorism. The foundation used its funds to lobby lawmakers for legislation to prevent terrorist attacks, as well as awareness and education programs to solve the problems of the secondary victims of terrorism – the peace-loving and innocent Muslims living in the States who were blamed for the acts of the extremists. It also provided relief for refugees displaced by the western nations’ bombing campaigns and for those who had been driven out by the Islamic State’s militants. But his favorite program the foundation had run was a clandestine one – one of which he never spoke, and one for which the foundation could never claim credit – Paladine – a terrorist killer who eliminated the threats of terrorism by eliminating the terrorists themselves. Moghadam dreamed of reviving that program, and he couldn’t think of a better man to run it than the original Paladine – Robert Garcia.
Robert had made it very clear to Moghadam he was not interested in future employment opportunities, but this didn’t prevent him from asking. He had been sending encrypted messages to Robert ever since the last mission ended that had gone unanswered. Finally, he received his answer, which was the equivalent of “when hell freezes over.”
Moghadam was not a religious person. After his daughter had committed suicide, he had hardened himself to the world and was convinced there was no God. Nevertheless, having grown up Muslim, he knew the traditions and decided to pay his respects to Ayisha, whom he knew would still be in town during at least the three traditional days of mourning. He had a local green grocer put together a sympathy basket filled with fruit, sweet halvah, and baklava, and brought it to her father’s home. Ayisha answered the door.
“Rahbi, thank you for coming. Please, come in.”
“Thank you.”
She took the food basket and stepped aside as Moghadam entered.
“Have a seat. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, thank you, that would be nice.”
Moghadam sat on the couch in the living room. After a few minutes, Ayisha returned with a service of sweet tea and halvah. As they sipped the tea, Moghadam made his pitch.
“Can we speak privately here?”
Ayisha instinctively looked over her shoulder and back.
“Yes, yes. My father is upstairs, taking a nap. Ever since he found out what happened to Zia, it’s taken a toll on him.”
“Of course.”
“I think he always held out hope, you know, that she would be found someday.”
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. We have an opening in a top secret project at the foundation that I thought might catch your interest.”
“Really? I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”
“We call it the Paladine Project.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Small fishing boats rocked gently in the crystal clear waters of the Aegean, each tied by their bowline to a tiny concrete pier in a mushroom-shaped cove off the picturesque whitewashed village of Batsi. Andros was the perfect island for Robert. Only 10,000 residents and he had selected one of the smallest villages to hang his hat for a while. He had just dressed and came out on the deck to find the dog on the fore-end, wagging his tail like a helicopter.
“Hey, boy, you that excited about your morning walk?”
Then he saw the object of the dog’s attention. Standing on the pier was a tall lady with round dark glasses, holding on to her pastel yellow hat with one hand as she examined the boat and waved at the dog.
“I wouldn’t have ever pegged you for a chick magnet, Butthead. You’re too big and too ugly.”
Robert scrambled up front to meet the curious lady, doing it with caution because his paranoia could not let him be otherwise. Before he had the chance to open his mouth to ask her how he could help her, she smiled as if she knew him.
“It’s me, Robert! Joelle!”
She took off her glasses and he recognized her instantly. He pulled at the line, drawing the boat to the dock, smiling.
“Joelle! Well, come aboard!”
She nodded and he offered her his hand and lifted her onto the deck with one sweep, as if she was a dancer in a ballet. She hugged him and kissed him on the mouth.
“How did you find me?”
“It wasn’t easy. I’ve been all over these little Greek islands looking for a man who lives on a sailboat with a dog. I couldn’t see the name of the boat, but I thought this must be your dog.”
Together, they walked the dog along the Batsi shore, and paused for a coffee on the terrace of the Oti Kalo restaurant.
“I like this place because I can see my boat from here.”
“How long will you stay?”
“That depends on which direction the wind blows. And if there is any wind.”
Joelle took a sip of her coffee.
“You never thought of settling down in one place?”
Robert paused a second on that thought. He had considered it before, and had even tried it. It was just not possible for him.
Joelle put down her coffee cup and her look turned serious.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. You probably are wondering why I went through the effort of finding you.”
“I’m actually glad you did.”
Robert was happy about it for two reasons. One, if she could find him then others could, which was a warning to him that he needed to move on. His days on the Greek Isles were over. Two, he had
always thought he would never see her again, and this was a pleasant surprise.
She reached across the table and took his hand.
“I came here to thank you.”
Robert made a surprised face. “Thank me? For what?”
She looked down, then back up, and their eyes met.
“I owe you my life.”
“Really, Joelle, just because I was kind to you doesn’t mean…”
“You know what I mean. I would never, ever say or do anything to jeopardize your safety, but I just wanted you to know how grateful I am. Because of you, I’m alive today. And in a fairly normal life as well.”
“I’m very happy to hear it.”
He hesitated, but his curiosity would had to be satisfied. Do you have anyone in your life? Special, I mean.”
She looked at him with sparkling, hopeful eyes.
“I was hoping that might be you. Would you like to find out?”
For a second, Robert almost left the reality of his own life, slipping into a dream of sailing the world with Joelle at his side.
“Joelle, as much as I’d love to imagine that, I…”
She looked down in shame. Her hand went limp.
“You know that I’m damaged goods.”
He squeezed her hand, reassuringly.
“No! It’s not that at all!”
Her eyes welled with tears.
“You don’t have to say anything. I’ll understand.”
In a way their lives were similar. Each had been tarnished by their own destinies, but that’s what made them both different from anyone else.
“There are things about me you’ll never know.”
“Me, too.”
“And I have to tell you that just being around me puts you in the possibility of great danger.”
“I’ve already been in great danger. Thanks to you, I’m out of it.”
“My life is a life cut off from the outside world. If you have friends, family, anyone you’re regularly in touch with, on my boat, that won’t be possible, at least not in the conventional way.”
“That’s fine with me.”
“No cell phones, no social media.”
She shook her head.
“No promises.”
“No promises.”
Robert thought about the danger to himself. In every other “relationship” he had attempted, there was always a complicated screening process that he went through first. But he felt a connection with Joelle. The kind that made him say to himself, “screw it.” Sometimes you just ignore the danger signs and jump over the cliff just for the excitement.
“And any way the wind blows, that’s where we go.”
“Any way the wind blows.”
AFTERWORD
The crisis of human trafficking has existed long before ISIS. The United Nations reports that, as of 2012, there were 2.4 million victims of trafficking at any given moment in time as part of a $32 billion industry in which over 80% of victims are being exploited as human slaves, and two out of three victims are women.[1] Each year, an estimated 800,000 women and girls are trafficked across international borders, and additional numbers are trafficked within their own countries. Many such victims remain unseen, as sex traffickers often operate out of a variety of private and public locations, such as massage parlors, spas and strip clubs.[2]
Although kidnapping, rape, prostitution and physical abuse is illegal in nearly every country, local governments and police forces may participate in sex trafficking rings, which are very lucrative for the organized crime elements that operate them.[3]
The demand for human trafficking makes it an easy element for financing terrorism. ISIS needs money to finance its terrorism operations, house operatives, wage its guerrilla wars against the governments within the territories in which it operates, and provide social services to the residents of its conquered territories. Drug and human trafficking provide lucrative financial opportunities for the finance of such operations. “Human trafficking serves three main purposes for terrorist organizations: generating revenue, providing fighting power and vanquishing the enemy…Trafficking and smuggling are part of the business of terrorism, and constitute one activity in the product mix of terrorist groups. Terrorists smuggle drugs, arms and people.”[4] And this is not limited to ISIS. There are documented cases of other terrorist groups, such as Boko Haram, LTTE, the PKK and the Ansar al-Islam terrorist network, engaged in such trafficking activities.[5]
As ISIS terrorizes populations in Syria and Northern Iraq, it has kidnapped many young women and children, and sold them through the use of social media in the Middle East as sex slaves and for forced labor.[6] They have even codified it as law, so that it is legal to buy, sell and trade sex slaves. Since sex slaves are either Shiite or non-Muslims (non-believers), they are officially considered not human, and are kept like cattle.[7] [8] The Islamic State has kidnapped thousands of Yazidi women whom they have sold at auction as slaves or given to their soldiers as part of their compensation.[9]
ISIS promises each of its soldiers a job, a house, a wife (sometimes more than one as polygamy is legal), and a family. For Muslim men, this is very attractive, as premarital sex is not allowed and marriage can be expensive. Because of this, most men don’t get married until their thirties.[10]
Jihadist recruiters are active in most western countries. Jihadist recruiters for the Islamic State, Al-Qaeda, Hamas and Nusra use social media to connect with potential jihadists for financing and soldiering right here in the United States.[11]
What is alarming is that most of the recruits are young people, many of them teenagers. There are documented cases of teenage girls being lured through social media by the “fantasy” of providing humanitarian aid in Syria who end up as sex slaves for ISIS soldiers. [12] But many of the human slavery victims are also “kafir,” non-Muslim women, such as Yazidis and even westerners, who are in demand because of their fair skin and hair.[13]
“With the influence of ISIS spreading throughout western Iraq, systematic sexual violence is increasingly used as a tool of terror, coercion and control. Multiple sources report ISIS’s demand for forced marriages, coerced child sex and various forms of sex trafficking. Furthermore, as ISIS seeks to recruit girls and women online, some political analysts warn that ISIS is creating a human trafficking pipeline streaming females from the West into Syria for forced marriage to militant groups. It is important to note that most media favors reporting on sex trafficking, kidnappings, forced marriages and sexual assaults. As these egregious violations of human dignity continue, forced child begging, organ trafficking and the continuation of migrant labor exploitation are often overlooked.”[14]
Human trafficking was a problem long before the rise of ISIS, but its exploitation by terrorist groups has grown it to endemic proportions. Local governments and law enforcement agencies must be taken to task to confront this problem instead of being a part of it.
One more thing…
I hope you have enjoyed this book, and I am thankful you have spent the time to get to this point, meaning you must have received something from reading it. I would be honored if you would post your thoughts, and also leave a review on Amazon. The easy way to do it is to flip through to the last page of this book on your Kindle and Amazon will give you an easy way to rate the book, give a review if you like, and share with your social networks. If this feature is not working on your device, go to the landing page of the book and leave a review by clicking here. Please also feel free to share your thoughts about the book or any of my series by sending an email to: [email protected]. I love to hear from readers, whether it is bad or good.
Best regards,
Kenneth Eade
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CONTINUE THE ADVENTURES OF PALADINE IN
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UNWANTED
ISIS is making a business out of refugees, but not for long.
Paladine, terrorism's worst enemy, is back in this sequel to the hit political thriller.
Excerpt
No one really belongs; at least not in this world. If there were a heaven, maybe there, but, even if there were, in it would be the souls who would bear witness to the undeniable cruelty of life, the poverty of the unwanted. Whether or not you belonged was defined by others; the same others who would make such judgments about how you would live and how you would die.
Robert Garcia didn’t belong anywhere, except maybe when he was in the military, and he knew it. He’d tried to make it in the world of man, but dropping out seemed the better option. He was a loner, but not lonely, a drifter who defined his own purpose of existence, which now consisted of floating.
This type of life really suited Robert. Born John Richards, to a black military father and white Lebanese mother, Robert and his family moved around from army base to army base and he never really found a place to fit in or anyone to fit in with until he joined the army himself. By the time he did, having moved so many times as a child, he had already become an accomplished fighter, who had beat his way through every conflict growing up until his schools wised up, and placed him in their wrestling and football teams, in order to create a socially acceptable “steam valve” for his aggression.
Drifting around in his little boat in the sea with only the horizon in the background. That was Robert’s world now; a contrast from the horrors of the life he had left behind. Robert himself had been one of those horrors, but now he was just a fisherman, living off the sea, a threat to nobody.
