The call to prayer would be reverberating around Raqqa in half an hour. He walked out of the bathroom and inspected a pile of fresh clothes that had been left for him. Khaki fatigues, black shirts, army boots and a large black scarf. He put on his new uniform quickly and walked out onto the terrace of his room. Wasim was stretched out on the lounger. He had returned from his tearoom expedition unsuccessful, too many people were asking too many questions.
“Hey, no time to explain but The Treasurer is sending a car.”
Wasim stopped reading the ISIL magazine he had picked up in the lobby. “That’s it … they need to test you on your own…”
“Another job interview, nothing to worry about… right?”
Wasim shook his head with a broad smile. “Remember what I said… You’re ready.”
Henry shook his head in return. “And if I’m not you’d better get the hell out of here as soon as you can.”
* * *
The fighters had left in the afternoon, jumping into trucks old and new… the jihad awaited. Ali was one of them and Henry could not shake off the feeling of sadness at knowing he might never see the young man again. His phone buzzed. He took it out from his army fatigues pocket expecting a text telling him that the car was approaching.
All mobile and other devices are to be switched off now or remain open in aeroplane mode. No exception will be tolerated.
Not the text he was expecting.
“And so it begins…” Henry thought about turning back to speak to Wasim, but there was no point. He would not attempt to return to the tearoom today.
A brand new Hummer pulled into the driveway. The mark of the American flag had been removed, but it was otherwise impossible to detect which army faction was using it. Together with the use of Red Cross vehicles and humanitarian food trucks, these provided an excellent way of getting around undetected.
Henry stepped into it. He was alone in the armed vehicle. The driver did not acknowledge him. Henry looked around the inside of the car. It was organised not for warfare but transport.
The drive took less than 30 minutes. The men who belonged to al-Baghdadi’s inner circle had moved into the luxury quarter of Raqqa. It was wise to live at a distance from the stadium, which might quickly become the target of airstrikes.
The car slowed down, stopping in front of a large gate; heavy metal sheeting had been added to the cast iron frame. The guards barely looked inside the vehicle as the driver lowered the window. The gate opened and it took another few minutes to reach a large mansion. The sun had almost disappeared, and the fading light made the white structure look almost ghostly. There was a light on the ground floor, but the rest of the house was plunged into darkness.
Henry stepped out of the vehicle as soon as it stopped. Two guards waited for him to arrive at the door. They radioed in on their walkie talkie, speaking to someone inside the house. The Finance Council was waiting for him. He was frisked by another guard inside the property. Whoever Henry was meeting, it was not meant to be a pleasant experience.
The room he entered must have been a glorious display of luxury once upon a time. Today only deep woollen rugs sank underfoot, and large leather sofas overburdened with cushions provided seating. The low table at their centre was laden with food. Henry felt his mouth water. The Treasurer was sitting on one of the sofas, at his right al-Haddawi had chosen a comfortable armchair. Two other men sat on the remaining couches. Henry understood the pecking order… al-Haddawi was no longer the main man. Another armchair had been left empty on the left of The Treasurer.
There were no introductions. The other two men eyed Henry up and down, doubt in their eyes. The Treasurer had adopted the formal black robe that ISIL seemed to promote for its most senior members. His black turban with a long piece of cloth dropping at the back made him look more like some fifth-century sultan than a modern statesman. But this was precisely the idea… to go back to the time when men thought the earth was flat.
Al-Haddawi was the only man still sporting a pair of camouflage trousers. A statement of his status as a Commander of God’s army? Al-Qaeda were mere lambs in comparison to them.
“It has started.” The Treasurer said to Henry when he sat down in the seat designated to him. The exchange of opinion on strategy that followed eluded Henry. Arabic was being spoken at speed. He was not meant to understand, it seemed, and Henry wondered why he had been asked to come in the first place.
The smaller of the two unknown men stopped running his prayer beads through his fingers. “You have ideas about how to use Mosul’s assets.”
“Certainly, it will depend what your strategy is around the purchase of weapons and other goods. Cash and gold can be laundered easily. A number of countries such as the UAE, Qatar, Malta or Cyprus, I know how to use well.”
“You’ve done this before, I understand.”
“For the IRA, yes I have. Different locations, same principles and I was operating from locations that looked a lot more suspicious such as Panama.”
Henry was interrupted by a call that al-Haddawi took. He had not yet said a word, but his nostrils had flared. He was ready to unleash the hatred he carried in his eyes and destroy Henry without mercy. Al-Haddawi stood up suddenly and walked briskly to the other end of the large room. The council member who had not yet spoken assessed his reaction. It was a welcome response. He turned towards Henry and asked him to explain once more what he had in mind.
Al-Haddawi spent ten minutes on the phone. The others started to help themselves to food. Two women in full niqab and gloves came in with tea. Henry hesitated but finally decided it was time to join the men. No need to be shy. He too was a man of value…
The mobile flew across the room, crashing against the floor. “The dogs have killed our brother.” The Treasurer put his plate down and glanced at Henry. It was not the result he had expected. “Explain…”
Al-Haddawi re-joined the group. If he had not been in the presence of two elders who would report to al-Baghdadi, he would have sent food flying or taken revenge on the women who had served the tea. More importantly he would have taken revenge on Henry.
“Our army was pushing towards Mosul, when one of the Iraqi security forces battalions caught our fighters. Abu Abdulrahman did not look for safety. He led his men into the battle outnumbered 20 to 1. He fell with the fighters… martyred to our cause.”
“Then let Mosul’s capture become Bilawi’s vengeance,” the man who had spoken first said calmly. He speed-dialled a number on his phone and spoke a few words. It was clear he was speaking to al-Baghdadi. When he had finished, he turned to al-Haddawi. “And you, my brother, are to be the instrument of their fall.”
The smile on al-Haddawi’s face chilled Henry to the bone, a mix of glee, hatred and savagery.
* * *
“They’ve gone dark.” Amina had called Harris as he was about to leave The Chief’s office.
“When?” Harris broke into a jog as he exited the lift.
“Ten minutes ago. Not only Crowne’s.”
“Shit… anything else?”
“OMA has confirmed the blackout covers the entire Raqqa area.”
“Can we still communicate with them?” Harris opened the door of the office.
“Only if we activate the emergency protocol on Crowne’s phone… far too risky. Wasim won’t be able to communicate even through the website. He won’t be allowed access.”
“Mosul has started. Fuck.” Harris threw the mobile on his desk. “We need their intel more than ever.”
“I can activate the emergency comms on my side but I’m not risking blowing his cover… as I said, it’s too risky.”
“I’m not suggesting you blow their cover… but we need to know what ISIL’s plan for Mosul is.”
“Wasim or Crowne are doing well but I can’t imagine either of them being granted access to ISIL’s war room.”
“It’s their job to find out and transmit intel… Mosul can’t fall.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve put in place a second web access. Wasim can use this when Raqqa is back on the grid.”
“Unless you use the emergency protocol,” Harris insisted.
“Steve. That’s bollocks and you know it. If there’s something Wasim or Crowne need to tell us they’ll find a way.”
“And if it’s too late?”
“No matter how much you’d like to think they can gather that type of intel… they’re not going to get the intel you want until it’s too late, as you say.”
“Why?”
“Because they are not on the battlefield. They can’t ask the sort of questions that would help you or the Iraqis.”
“I’m not asking for the details of the attack… but simply knowing whether ISIL is regrouping or launching an assault outnumbered 30 to 1… might make a difference.”
“How do you propose they get the intel?”
Harris fished a fresh packet of gums from his desk. Amina held out a hand and Harris dropped a couple into it. She could have done with her old stress ball, a shame her daughter’s dog had shown a keen interest in it during his last visit. Harris’s mobile rang. He cast a wary eye towards it.
“Harris.” The dry reply was designed to put the caller off.
“Hello, sir… Yes.” Harris mouthed Sir John to Amina.
“You haven’t but…” Harris squeezed his eyes shut and opened them wide again.
“I’ll be with you right away.”
“What now?” Amina frowned.
“Colmore has just called The Chief… he would like to discuss options.”
* * *
It was almost dark outside when Mattie woke up again. She had willed herself to sleep, not wanting to think about what might be happening to her soon. She needed the rest to function, to remain calm and plan how best to survive. In her disturbed sleep she had been dreaming of Henry. The room in which they had met had disappeared. They were both standing on top of a steep sand dune, alone and yet she could hear voices, a ring of gunshots that made her look around, frightened.
“You’ll be fine… We’ll be fine…” Henry was repeating time and time again, and for some unknown reason she would quieten down at the sound of his soothing voice. Mattie rolled on her back. She turned her head sideways and started inspecting the room. The beds were small and spartan. The place was stripped of comfort. The blanket she had nestled under felt inadequate against the cold, even though it was an immense improvement compared with the squalid cell she had been thrown in at Raqqa Stadium.
Jean had moved to the bed that had been squeezed underneath the largest window in the bedroom. Mattie would offer to swap back with her tonight but for the moment she indulged in the relative shelter of the bed she occupied.
“Are you awake?” Jean’s voice was only a whisper. Mattie sat up. She could make out her roommate’s shape in the dim light of dusk.
“Yes.” Mattie slid from underneath the blanket, moving to where Jean was lying.
“How long have you been here?”
“Over a year. Abducted in Aleppo.”
“Why did you cross into Syria?”
“I work for an NGO, providing help to refugees in war zones. With my Syrian boyfriend. We wanted to help.”
“Is he…?” Mattie’s voice tailed off.
“You mean dead? No, I was told they let him go and I believe they did.”
“How many of us are there?”
“Other journalists, like you, one photographer, and a couple of people who are also humanitarian workers.”
“All Americans?”
“No, two British people. And Gretta who is dual nationality American and Swedish. Some Europeans too although I have not heard from them since before I was transferred here.”
“Were you at the stadium?”
“To start with, then we were transferred here a few days ago. I mean the women were… I’m not sure what happened to the men.”
“Do you know where we are?”
“Close to where al-Baghdadi lives. As far as I can tell he moves around quite a lot, never staying in the same place for long, so that he can’t be traced.”
Mattie heard the anxiety in Jean’s voice as she spoke their captor’s name. She had wanted to ask her a question but she now knew the answer to it. Whether she was practising or not, she was a Christian, she was kafir, and men would do with her what they pleased. Mattie sat on the floor next to Jean’s bed. Despite Jean’s ordeal, a quiet resolve emanated from her and it moved Mattie… whatever she would be put through, Jean would not yield.
“Has anyone tried to escape?”
“We’ve all been thinking about it… but so far none of us has found a way.”
“We’re in the centre of Raqqa, right?”
“Right.” Jean swung her legs over the edge of her bed and bent forward towards Mattie, whispering even more quietly. “It’s very difficult for women, even in groups, to move around Raqqa and impossible alone. We need to be escorted by a man wherever we go.”
“But in a car, Raqqa is close to Aleppo… four hours tops.”
“How many checkpoints are there between the two cities though?”
“And at night there is also a curfew.”
“Exactly.”
Mattie brought her knees to her chin. “There must be a way.”
Jean squeezed Mattie’s shoulder gently. “We must keep faith that our government and families will do what they can to help us.”
Mattie let her head fall back against the frame of the bed. “I’m not sure my father will do very much and even less sure about the British government.”
“You’d be surprised what people are prepared to do when they are faced with the prospect of losing their loved ones.”
Mattie squeezed Jean’s hand in return. “Thank you for trying to give me hope but I can assure you my father is a lost cause… love is not in his vocabulary.”
Mattie moved away from the subject before Jean asked her about her mother. “Who are the women looking after us?”
“The two women who brought you in are the wives of Abu Sayyaf. He belongs to al-Baghdadi’s inner circle.”
“I met a girl called Gulan when I was first brought in?”
“Yes, she brings us food. She is one of the Yazidi women who have been… enslaved.”
Mattie turned her head towards Jean.
“I know it’s a terrible word… but I can’t describe it better than that.”
“Why? Because they are not Sunni Muslims?”
“Yes… they have their own set of beliefs that set them apart from mainstream Islam, but ISIL has gone further… unless you follow their extreme interpretation of Islam, you are an infidel. One of the hostages I met had converted and he practised every day… but they still don’t recognise him as Muslim.”
Mattie thought about what this would mean for the thousands of people living in ISIL-conquered territories… a reign of terror and death on an unprecedented scale even by Middle Eastern standards.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m trying to figure out whether those women could be on our side.”
Jean rolled closer to Mattie.
“You mean help us to escape?”
“That’s the idea.”
“We can only do that if we have a man who is willing to help us though…”
Mattie’s voice hesitated. “I may know someone who can.”
Voices coming from the corridor silenced both women. Mattie went back to her bed and Jean lay down again. The door opened and light streamed into the room. The two women who had brought Mattie into the room walked in, alone. They dragged Jean out of bed, hardly giving her time to move from under the blanket. She slid her abaya
on and wrapped the niqab around her face. Mattie sprang out of bed and moved towards the door, blocking it.
“Where are you taking her?”
The two women stopped, taken aback by Mattie’s rebelliousness.
“Don’t!” Jean said. “Not now…”
The slap in the face almost toppled Mattie and the taste of blood filled her mouth. The door closed before Mattie could summon her strength again… she was alone.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was late when Henry came back to his hotel room. The meeting with al-Baghdadi’s Finance Council had been almost surreal, a cross between business acumen and zealotry. He had been questioned and quizzed in Arabic. By all accounts he felt he had done well. The Treasurer had looked relaxed and the two other men who questioned him had failed to find issues with the implementation of his plan. When it came to money laundering Henry knew what he was doing, and he did not need to fake it. His conversion to Islam had been well received, but with caution.
“I have been looking for a true belief and I have never been satisfied with what the Catholic faith gave to me.” Henry’s voice had deepened a little, the voice of an honest if perhaps blunt conversation. “Christianity puts too many intermediaries between God and the believer, too many ways of buying a favourable intercession without testing the strength of one’s faith… I’ve had enough of such weakness.” God bless Wasim who had made him rehearse his arguments for converting until they sounded credible even to Henry himself.
“Do you read the Qur’an repeatedly?”
“It is the Third Pillar of Islam. I do. And I did before I converted too.”
“But you knew you would never survive amongst us if you did not.” The man who had spoken to al-Haddawi, sending him to Mosul to avenge his brother’s death, had not yet spoken to Henry. Henry would not have expected anything else from him. After all, it was the question that was on everybody’s mind.
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