Presence of Mine Enemies

by Stephen England

  By the time the army rallied, she had received thirteen wounds and was fainting from loss of blood. And truly Allah loves those who fight in His Cause in battle array. . .

  “This is my jihad,” she said softly, sensing his hesitation, his weakness. Her hand, almost touching his. “I know what the French have done—what they did to me, what they did to Ghaniyah and her family in Algérie. And they are not my people anymore.”

  She had chosen her course, he realized, his head low, not meeting her eyes. That was all there was to it. And he would have to kill her for it. Just like all the rest.

  If he was capable of it.

  “You and I,” Nora went on, as if still somehow seeking to persuade him, “are so very alike.”

  He doubted that very much, but he could hear the earnestness in her voice. The tenderness. And she wasn’t done. “Neither one of us was born for this fight. We could have walked away from it, continued to drown ourselves in the meaningless existence of the West. We could have, and didn’t, we chose the truth. . .and that’s what makes our sacrifice important. It will finally force them—all of them—to look at what they have done. At what they have allowed to be done, in their name.”

  “It isn’t, though,” he responded quietly, finally looking her in the eye.

  “Quoi?”

  “Our sacrifice. It isn’t any more important than that of anyone else—all of us, the same in the sight of Allah.” He turned away, then, moving to the door. “Remember that, sister. And be ready.”

  12:03 P.M.

  Saint-Marguerite

  Marseille, France

  “He was my only son,” the older woman spat, more anger than sorrow in her voice as she glared daggers at Césaire. A natural reaction. Shock.

  “He was a good man,” he replied, a heavy sigh escaping his lips as he looked across at her, his hands folded helplessly in his lap.

  They were about the same age, Daniel’s mother and himself, driving home the realization as never before. . .that Daniel could have been his son. They had both seen the same France, if through different eyes. All it had done, all it could have been.

  And yet here they both were, testament to a world changed so very much less than anyone might have wished.

  “It was my honor to call him a friend,” he went on, searching for words. He had never been any good at this. He was only here because of his promise.

  “You were no friend of Daniel’s,” his mother responded, the words coming out in a low, venomous hiss, her hands distractedly smoothing the folds of her abaya. He began to reply, but stopped himself—knowing that there was no way to counter the accusation. That she was right, more than not.

  A friend would have told him the truth.

  “How did he die?” Hania asked, wiping the tears away from her bare cheek, clearly struggling to maintain her composure, to stave off the anger consuming her mother-in-law. Daniel’s wife couldn’t have been more than twenty-six—twenty-seven?—a dark-haired, slightly-built woman, more plain than pretty. But the way Daniel had glowed when speaking of her. . .

  “The terrorist cell he had been tasked with infiltrating. . .” he began, choosing his words carefully, questioning how much detail to go into. What to say.

  The little boy—Saphir, she had called him—had been packed off to the neighbor’s house within minutes of his arrival, fear in his little face. A premonition of evil.

  “They executed him,” he said finally, unable to find a better way to say it. Ignoring the pulse of the phone in his pocket, an unnecessary distraction. Not now. “We believe they found out who he was. . .somehow, we don’t know how.”

  “How did he die?” she repeated, her voice brittle—running her hands nervously along the legs of her jeans, one leg crossed over the other at the knee. Visually, the two women couldn’t have been more different, but there was something of the desert in them both, an edge of resilience, bearing up under the pain.

  “Quoi?” he asked, now unsure he had understood her question.

  “How did they kill him?” There was pain in her eyes, shining through the tears, but there was no mistaking her resolve to know the truth. No matter how brutal.

  “He was beheaded.” He heard a deep, soul-rending groan escape the mother’s lips, saw Hania tremble, controlling herself with an effort.

  No doubt asking herself how she was going to break any of this to their son.

  “Then. . .there is no body?”

  “Non. Not that we have found, yet, at least. It has been several days,” he admitted, feeling the phone pulse once again. Ignoring it further would be imprudent, he realized, retrieving it from the inner pocket of his jacket and glancing briefly at its screen—recognizing Godard’s prefix.

  “Pardon,” he said, glancing between the women—embarrassed by the interruption. “I am afraid I must take this. It is—”

  “Just leave us,” Hania said, her voice nearly breaking as she rose to show him out. “Si’l vous plait.”

  “He was a good man,” he repeated as she ushered him to the door of the small home, seeming at a loss for words of comfort, “and he always spoke fondly of you, and of Saphir. He loved you both, very much. I promise you that we—that I—will not rest until his death is avenged.”

  Césaire saw from her eyes that she did not believe him—could not allow herself to believe him. Cold comfort, in any case. Not another word passing between them as she showed him out onto the stairs, closing the door behind him.

  An anguished cry breaking from somewhere within the house as he made his way down the first flight of stairs, a dam bursting beneath the weight of sorrow.

  It felt as if his mission here had been a failure, but there could have been no other outcome. And he had kept his word.

  Making his way out onto the street, he answered the phone as it began to ring once more. “Quoi?” he demanded angrily, his own pent-up emotions now flowing free.

  “Vous êtes où?” Godard’s voice, as he had expected. Where are you?

  “With the Mahrez family, as ordered. In Marseille. I was with them when you called.”

  “We need you back in Paris,” his supervisor replied, a strange tension in the man’s voice. “As soon as possible—a police helicopter will pick you up at the aéroport. LYSANDER’s laptop has been found. . .”

  Chapter 36

  1:47 P.M.

  The safehouse

  Coulommiers, France

  Loose hair fell away from Harry’s face as he guided the clippers across his cheek, trimming his beard down to a half-inch, removing the scraggly excess which had built up over the last few weeks.

  Purifying himself. Preparing his own body for death, in accordance with the teachings of the sunnah. Some of the younger men were going the whole way and shaving their faces clean, but that wasn’t a step he was prepared to take. Even this. . .was dangerously close to how he might have looked in whatever jacket photos the French would have on hand.

  It wouldn’t matter, he told himself, once he was dead. Nothing would.

  He turned off the clippers, placing them to one side of the sink as he turned the faucet on hot, water splashing into his cupped hands. Harry raised them up, smoothing them over his cheeks—droplets of water dripping down from what remained of his beard as he stared into the mirror, barely recognizing the man who stared back at him.

  A stranger. In far more ways than one.

  How long he had stood there when the knock came at the bathroom, Aryn’s voice demanding, “Ibrahim?” he didn’t know, but the sound jarred him back to the present. The realities of what remained for him to do.

  “Your turn, habibi,” he smiled as he opened the door, clapping Aryn on the back as he pushed past him into the hall.

  “Mash’allah,” Yassin exclaimed, humor twinkling in his dark eyes as Harry joined the rest of the group in the main room of the residence. “So beautiful.”

  Harry laughed, cuffing the younger man as he ran a hand over the remains of his beard. “Control yourself, bro
ther.”

  The laughter sounded false, at least to his own ears—a mockery of the betrayal to come.

  “Here, take these,” he heard Faouzi say, nudging him in the arm with an elbow. He looked down into the Algerian’s outstretched hand, seeing a dozen or more small, off-white pills.

  “Are these what I. . .”

  “Captagon,” Belkaïd announced from across the room, nodding. “You no doubt remember them from Sham.”

  Harry nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the older man’s face. Fenethylline. A compound of amphetamine and theophylline, it had long been a drug of choice among jihadists—a powerful stimulant that kept a man alert, sent him into battle riding a euphoric high, fear stripped away.

  Youth, adrenaline, religion, and drugs—a potent cocktail for belief in one’s own immortality. Power.

  “It’s important that you all take them before tonight’s attack,” Belkaïd continued, glancing around at the men assembled before him—a smile touching his lips as his eyes settled on Nora, standing off to one side. “They will calm you, keep you alert. Ensure that you do not hesitate, in those final moments before death.”

  No second thoughts. Harry saw Yassin nod, popping one of the tablets into his own mouth and chewing. He’d no doubt take a couple more over the course of the next few hours, smothering any pain from the still-healing wound he had received from Lahcen’s men back there on the Outremeuse.

  “Non,” Harry responded, pushing away Faouzi’s hand. “Not for me.”

  The movement caught Belkaïd’s attention. “Pour quoi?”

  “When I was an unbeliever—far from the light of God—I did drugs,” he replied, his eyes hard, unyielding. “That was something I left behind me in Germany. . .I will never go back.”

  10:03 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time

  The apartment

  Washington, D.C.

  “. . .sources within the White House have confirmed to Fox News that DNI Lawrence Bell has formally tendered his resignation, after accepting responsibility for June’s drone strike in the Sinai, which failed to kill its target, Umar ibn Hassan.”

  Sources. Bernard Kranemeyer snorted, leaning against the counter in his boxer shorts and a light t-shirt, a cup of coffee in his hand. With Fox the administration’s outlet of choice for any and all “leaks” which furthered their own narratives, the “source” for that information was like as not Norton himself. Or his chief of staff. They’d want to put it out themselves, ensure their spin was placed on it.

  And it was done, at least for now. The hearings would continue, into the next week, but the scapegoat had been chosen—was already being led out into the wilderness.

  It was a strangely empty feeling, the inevitability of it all. The feeling of defeat, even though he and Bell had executed their plan without difficulty. No one should have been sacrificed.

  But that wasn’t their reality. And this wasn’t about victory—or what was right. This was about surviving, another day.

  Might not be much more than a day, at that—even with Bell’s seppuku, the rumblings of a reintroduction of the Intelligence Bill hadn’t stopped swirling. The administration, flailing in the throes of self-inflicted wounds, still struggling to find a way to turn events to the service of their own agenda.

  This fight. . .far from over. But this battle, at least, had been won—for this moment. Thanks to one man’s sacrifice.

  His expression lost in his coal-black eyes, Kranemeyer raised the cup of coffee in a toast as an image of Lawrence Bell appeared on-screen, accompanying the talking heads’ ongoing prattle.

  To a brave American.

  10:34 A.M.

  Fort Washington Park

  Fort Washington, MD

  He knew she was there before she spoke—something of her footsteps against the brick giving her away, a familiar cadence.

  “You pick the strangest places for us to meet.”

  “I pick places neither your colleagues nor mine are ever likely to frequent,” Ian Cahill replied, resting his elbows easily on the brick parapet, his eyes scanning out over the descending slope toward the waters of the Potomac, sparkling bright in the early morning sun. “It’s the safest that way, for the both of us.”

  The former White House chief of staff looked back to see Coftey’s secretary step over the large concrete semi-circle which once served as a swivel rail, enabling the fort’s massive Rodman guns to be traversed back and forth—commanding the river below.

  Melody’s low heel caught on the concrete, and she let out a low curse, regaining her balance with an effort before joining him at the parapet. “It’s a beautiful view. . .I had no idea this place was here.”

  “Most people in D.C. don’t,” he observed, the irony in his voice going unnoticed. This fort had stood in protection of the capital for two hundred years, and most of the people whom it had protected were never even aware of its existence.

  Would never have known, unless one day the ships of an enemy had sailed up the Potomac. . .and this fort was all that stood in their way.

  “The message you sent me,” he went on after a long moment, turning to face her, his left arm still resting on the wall, “you’re certain?”

  She swallowed hard, nodding. If she hadn’t understood the stakes before—and he was somehow sure she hadn’t—she was beginning to. And she was frightened.

  For good reason.

  “It’s him,” she replied, “the voice, the face. . .I’m sure of it. Bernard Kranemeyer is the man who was at Coftey’s ranch on the night of the Fourth. I’m certain.”

  “Good,” Cahill responded, his eyes grave as he looked at her, “because we can’t be making any mistakes about that sort of thing. Not now.”

  Another nod.

  “It would explain everything,” he relented, turning his gaze back to the river. “Those who were willing to talk, but knew nothing. Those who wouldn’t, but did. The Director of the Clandestine Service is a formidable man, as is Senator Coftey. Together, they’re a force to be reckoned with. But now they’re vulnerable, and don’t yet know it. Which only leaves the question: just how far are you prepared to go?”

  5:39 P.M. Central European Summer Time

  DGSE Headquarters

  Paris, France

  “Have you tried his wife’s birthday?” Césaire asked, running dark fingers through his curly silver hair. He had only arrived at the headquarters building on the Boulevard Mortier twenty minutes before, after an extremely long flight from the southern coast of France.

  A flight full of regret and self-recrimination. Surely there had been a better way to handle things with Daniel’s family, a way which could have left them less. . .devastated. Non. That was absurd. There was nothing he could have said or done that could have made it better. Only done his job in the first place, protected the younger officer as he should have.

  “Certainement,” the young technical officer replied, with a backward glance over his shoulder which implied Césaire took him for a fool. “It was one of the first passcodes we tried after receiving the laptop four hours ago. We may have to brute-force it.”

  “How long will that take?” Albert Godard asked, leaning against the door of the room.

  The younger man shrugged expansively. “C’est difficile à dire

  . . .for an alphanumeric passcode like this one, could be eighteen-twenty hours, perhaps more. We will get in, though—you have my word.”

  Godard and Césaire exchanged glances before the supervisor shook his head. “We may not have that kind of time.”

  The older intelligence officer swore softly, kneading his brow with the fingers of his right hand. His mind racing, straining to come up with a solution. There had to be an answer here. . .something obvious, he was missing.

  The training centre. . .naturellement!

  “He often spoke proudly of the day he finished training,” Césaire exclaimed, his face suddenly animated, his eyes flashing as he looked across at Godard, “and officially became a member of the sec
ret service. Do we know what date that would have been?”

  “I’m not sure. . .”

  “It would have been three years ago,” Césaire went on, not waiting for an answer, “a spring course, I believe. . .sometime in April.”

  Godard nodded quickly, turning to the workstation computer in front of the technical officer. “Excusez-moi.”

  A handful of keystrokes later, and he looked up. “Oui. The 25th of April.”

  “Do it,” Césaire ordered, finding his pulse beating quicker as he rested a hand on the back of the technical officer’s chair. Was it possible that they would learn what he had been trying to tell them? What had gotten him killed?

  Another moment, and the officer shook his head. Nothing. Come on.

  “He was trained at the centre in Perpignan—add that to the date.”

  Again, the sound of the technical officer’s fingers clattering against the keys, the keystrokes sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness of the room. And again, the shake of the head.

  “Non.”

  6:15 P.M.

  Saint-Denis, Seine-Saint-Denis,

  Paris, France

  The game wouldn’t begin for the better part of another couple hours, but the crowds were already streaming into the stadium—men and women elbowing and jostling their way past Grigoriy Stepanovich Kolesnikov as he stood there at the corner of the Rue de Brennus and the Avenue Jules Rimet.

  It went against all protocol for him to be here, visiting the scene in advance of the attack, but he’d had to see it, for himself. And he had seen few surveillance cameras covering the streets of Saint-Denis on his way in, though he felt certain that the entrances to the stadium itself were blanketed.

  Would need to be, for security teams to even begin to screen the volume. So many people.