by Ward Larsen
Uday’s rise had been nothing less than meteoric, and he ended in the senior ranks not by the usual methods—either clever politicking or ghastly brutality—but on the basis of technical proficiency and merit. Even so, his final steps to the top were a matter of being the last man standing: his two predecessors had both perished, one falling victim to an American bomb, and the other executed when it became widely known that he was addicted to homosexual pornography. There were rumors the Americans might have planted the damning pictures on the young man’s laptop, but once they were revealed the news spread quickly through the ranks, leaving little recourse but a right good stoning.
In the wake of that scandal, and in spite of his fast-diminishing enthusiasm, Uday had been put in charge of twenty-two of the best technicians in the army of the Prophet. Most were computer and media specialists, but there was also an actress, a poet, and an aspiring electrical engineer. They generated the social media accounts and online journals that were so vital to recruitment, and managed ties to hopeful jihadists who popped up around the globe. Uday’s team of keyboard commandos was a classic force multiplier, each man and woman worth a dozen suicide bombers. Because of it, he today had a bigger target on his back than anyone but the caliph himself.
After the briefest of pleasantries, Chadeh got things going. “We held a meeting of the Shura Council yesterday,” he said, referring to ISIS’s unavoidably fluid leadership cadre. “A great deal has happened in the last two weeks.”
“Our success in Europe continues,” commented Uday as he stared at a poster of a smiling young boy drinking a Pepsi. The image brought back another era, the Oman of his childhood. He remembered a store very much like this one in his neighborhood in Muscat. He expanded that thought and tried to imagine Chadeh as a child, but there his nostalgic associations faltered. The bearded, dark-eyed warlord next to him defied such extrapolations.
“Yes, Europe is a bright point,” agreed Chadeh.
“I was surprised by the inclusion of radiological material in the attack in Grenoble. Was that our doing, or did the cell improvise?”
“It was only low-level material,” Chadeh said without answering the question. “We now have a solid report on their response procedures. Surprisingly, the police didn’t recognize the complication for many hours. A senior DGSI man had to bring it to everyone’s attention hours after the strike.”
“Based on the media accounts I’ve seen, the French are in an uproar. We should expect a heavy-handed response.”
“It will die down soon enough,” said Chadeh, waving his hand, “just like the others.”
“Will it? Route 4 was bombed twice last night.”
“Yes, yes … I know. Large trucks can no longer pass to make deliveries. Raman tells us our revenues have been cut in half in recent weeks.” Chadeh was referring to the nom de guerre of the Egyptian who ran the caliphate’s financial dealings—the hapless captain of a ship shot full of holes.
“I can tell you my section is in dire need of diesel to run generators. This brew the locals call fuel is no good—it clogs up the feed lines.”
“I have heard quiet words suggesting sabotage,” said Chadeh, his tone darkening. “We think someone might be adding sugar to clog the lines.”
In a rare demonstration of frustration, Uday said, “Then the problem will soon be corrected—there has not been a shipment of sugar in two weeks.” He immediately regretted the comment, although Chadeh seemed to ignore it.
Chadeh said, “The locals are hoarding again, hiding their food from us. We must be more forceful.”
“More forceful? We beheaded twelve men this week and stoned four women. At the rate we are going—” Chadeh shot a stern look that cut Uday off. No small part of his rise in the organization came from knowing when to shut up.
The senior man sighed. “You should have seen the meeting yesterday. We sounded like a bunch of old women bantering in the market.”
“Was the caliph in attendance?” This, Uday knew, was a delicate subject. The leader of the caliphate rarely engaged in face-to-face meetings any longer, having become increasingly reclusive since a near miss with a drone two months ago, which, according to rumor, had robbed him of the use of his left arm.
“No, he wasn’t. But he sent his blessings. The consensus is that recruitment has stagnated—our media campaign must be stepped up.”
“I admit, our hit count is down after peaking last summer. The video of the American reporter we burned alive in July garnered over three million views on YouTube. And there was a tremendous bump on Twitter for the photograph of the Yazidi girl being auctioned off as a slave.”
“Yes, that one came cheap. She was very attractive, and we saw a spike in young men volunteering in the following weeks. We must leverage such emotions wherever possible. But we need more, something new and inventive.”
A fully covered woman appeared with a large plate of dates and figs, and humbly set it in front of the two men. Chadeh scooped up a handful of figs.
“Does the council have any ideas?” Uday asked, trying not to sound tentative. Whatever depraved screenplays were hatched, he would be obliged to be director, producer, and writer.
“How many ways are there to kill a man? We’ve shot them a hundred at a time, burned them, beheaded them, crucified them.” He popped a fig into his mouth, and it made a squishing noise as he bit down, a dribble of juice rolling onto his black-whiskered chin. “There was a suggestion of an acid bath for one of the foreigners—perhaps the Russian pilot we captured. Would there be any technical challenges to such a presentation?”
“Let me think…” said Uday, staring at the food.
“Perhaps we could do it slowly. Do you think viewers would give up on a clip if we dripped the acid, say over ten or twenty minutes? Or would the shock value of simply dumping a barrel over the victim be more sensational?”
Uday realized he had to say something. “Let me research that—the time factor. I will discuss it with our physician. If the prisoner only passes out from pain, the effect of a longer production might be lost.”
“Yes, I see your point. That fool Kazbek suggested we search out a wood chipper, but I told him it was out of the question. We cannot be seen as cruel. Besides, where would we find such a thing in the desert? These Chechens, I tell you … they have no sense of where virtue ends and barbarism begins.”
“None at all.”
“But enough of that. Tell me the latest from your section.”
Happy to move on, Uday said, “The social media traffic relating to Grenoble is falling off quickly. As far as we can tell, the police have developed no good leads. I have wanted to ask—do we know who was responsible?” Uday was rarely briefed on operational specifics, but since his department managed all communications for the caliphate, including external contacts, he could often infer what was going on. Grenoble had taken him by surprise.
“I can tell you we knew of the mission in advance,” Chadeh said, but left it at that.
Uday removed a one-page printout from his pocket. “There was a message from Malika this morning.”
Chadeh’s head snapped up. Uday handed the message across and watched the oil-black eyes rake over it.
Malika was their most important operative in Europe. She ran an agent so secret—code name Argu—that the thread of communication was the only one Uday was not authorized to view. There again, as sole administrator of the ever-changing network, he invariably caught glimpses of the messages. He also knew that any man cunning enough to become the number two of ISIS would suspect he was taking a look.
Chadeh lowered the printout, and said, “Tell me, do we have any cells in France right now that might be considered expendable?”
“Expendable? In what way?”
“A small sacrifice to the authorities.”
“Argu again?” Uday asked.
“Yes.”
Chadeh had months ago explained that much to Uday. They would occasionally send Malika information regarding s
mall groups or individuals in France, people who were of little practical use to the caliphate. She passed them on to Argu, and soon after, the French authorities would have a minor victory. Uday recognized the ploy for what it was: Argu resided in law enforcement at some level, and Chadeh was trying to fuel his advancement.
“There is a volunteer cell in Saint-Denis,” Uday said, as if just now considering it. “The Moroccan brothers—I might have mentioned them last week.”
“Yes, I remember your caution. Drug users and criminals, you said, a useless bunch. Do you know where they are?”
“I can find out.”
“Very well. Send Malika the address. But stress to her that we are due important information from Argu.”
“Very well.”
Chadeh’s tone turned reflective. “I have to tell you, Aziz, there is a shift in thinking among the council. We have lost a great deal of territory in the last year, and even here in Ragga we have been forced into hiding. Airplanes bomb us until we are frozen in place, and drones see our every move. But the West refuses to fight us directly on the ground. The French in particular are cowards. Our destiny, thanks be to the Prophet, is to engage the crusaders in our land. The council has decided there is but one way to bring them here: We must accelerate our attacks. And there is only one place where we have the assets to do that.”
“France?”
“Exactly. But the success of this new strategy will rely heavily on your work.”
“My work?”
“Tell me the status of the database project.”
Uday blinked, as if changing gears. It was an initiative he’d been ordered to begin last month. “Progress is slow. It hasn’t been a high priority, and many of the men and women sent to help me don’t last more than a few days. No sooner do I get them trained than they are pulled away to rig booby traps or attend beheadings. We are perhaps fifty percent complete.”
“Fifty percent? You must move more quickly! I will send over more workers. Would it help to have an increase in funding?”
Uday was stunned. “New hardware is always useful … but I recently put together new spreadsheets for Raman. There is no more money.”
Chadeh waved his hand as if swatting away a fly. “Perhaps we won’t make payroll for our fighters in the eastern provinces next month—it won’t be the first time. True believers are happy to fight on the credit of the afterlife.”
Uday only nodded, considering the implications of it all. The database project, the information demanded from Argu. Their situation was more desperate than he had realized.
Chadeh rose to leave, and as an apparent afterthought, he asked, “Are you enjoying the girl?”
Uday forced a smile. “Yes, she is … very adequate.”
“Tell me her name again?”
“Sarah.”
“A Christian?”
Uday nodded.
“If you tire of her, I can get a replacement. But as I’ve told you before, you should consider taking a proper Muslim wife. You are at an age when a man should start a family.”
“Yes, I would like to … but things are so unsettled right now. The girl will suffice.”
Chadeh chuckled. “I’m sure she will. You are fortunate. When I saw her I nearly kept her for myself. Perhaps if you tire of her I will reconsider.”
With that Chadeh turned toward the door and was gone. Uday imagined him collecting his bodyguards and vaporizing into the night. He remained on the rug for some time, and it occurred to him that he was always the last to leave such meetings. Each time he seemed to linger a bit longer than the last. Tonight Chadeh’s final words had chilled him to the core. Perhaps if you tire of her I will reconsider.
Yet that wasn’t what kept Uday bolted to the floor.
For the first time ever, he had misinformed a member of the Shura Council. It wasn’t something he’d planned—for some reason he had simply blurted out the wrong number. The database project Chadeh had asked about was, in fact, nearly ninety percent complete. A week, two at the most, and everything would be in place. Uday had been staying up most nights to make entries himself, and he regularly diverted staff from projects more critical to the battlefield.
So why did I imply otherwise?
He committed to redoubling his efforts on the database, but at the same time realized that Chadeh’s other mandates could not be postponed. Tomorrow he would research the effects of acid on the human body. He would send a dual-themed message to the caliphate’s most important agent in France: one granting a sacrificial offering, the other reiterating a demand. Such was a day in the life of the head of the Islamic State Institution for Public Information.
The woman appeared and took away the food tray. She didn’t make eye contact with Uday, and never uttered a word. Something about it seemed stifling and unnatural. He stood, walked outside, and was grateful for the purifying wash of sweet desert air.
TWELVE
Somewhere over India, flying through a turbulent and pitch-black night, Slaton heard Christine’s voice in his semiconscious head.
“What now, David?”
“It’s your decision. The first option is to go to France and get to the bottom of this. I can try to find out why a terrorist I killed fifteen years ago is a senior intelligence officer in DGSI.”
“And if it’s true?”
“Then he’s a threat to us.”
A pause. She knew him well enough not to ask what that meant. “Would you do it alone?”
“I’d ask Israel for help. But the chances are good that they won’t go near it.”
“Even if they were the ones who ordered you to kill this man in the first place?”
“It’s complicated.”
“No, David, it’s insane.”
“Agreed. But we can’t pretend this isn’t happening.”
“And the other option? You and I take Davy on the high seas, sail as far away as we can? We already did that. We could hardly be more remote than we are today. Whoever is behind this … they’ve found us once. They attacked you.”
He remained silent.
“You’re going to make me choose, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry. You know it’s the only way.…”
Slaton’s eyes blinked open. He saw a flight attendant passing on his right, a stout drink in her hand and a business-class smile on her face. The air route from a remote island in the Philippines to Israel is both lengthy and indirect. Knowing it would take the best part of a day, he’d upgraded to a sleeper seat and intended to use it. He’d almost succeeded over Myanmar, but was interrupted by a burst of turbulence—mountain wave from the Himalayas.
On the tiny television in front of him he saw a map of southern Asia. A graceful arcing line connected Manila to Tel Aviv, and the airplane symbol was reaching the midpoint. In Manila he’d bought a prepaid phone, and sent a text message to a very private number in Israel. It was worth a try, but he doubted Mossad would help. The current director was a calculating man with a strong aversion to risk. His predecessor, however, who had recruited Slaton and run him for years, was more approachable.
Anton Bloch always did what was best for Israel. He was also responsible for Slaton and Christine being in the situation they were in today. For that reason, he thought Bloch might at least listen.
* * *
Slaton arrived in Tel Aviv at 11:03 the next morning. Customs was uneventful, and his legacy Mossad-issued passport, three years old but not yet expired, held up as expected. He kept two other identities that Mossad knew nothing about, but for the moment overtness was to his advantage. The Mossad item would serve as his calling card.
As if to prove the point, he was not yet out of the terminal building when a familiar profile caught his attention. Just beyond the first baggage turnstile Slaton spotted the distinctively brusque profile of Anton Bloch.
As Bloch began walking away, without a trace of recognition, Slaton thought he discerned a slight hitch in the former Mossad director’s gait. He wondered if it wa
s a result of what had happened two years ago. Bloch had taken a bullet to save Christine, and nearly died because of it—which was probably why he was the only person tied to Mossad that Slaton still trusted. Bloch was officially retired, yet invariably kept a hand in things. Watching him walk away, with his heavy stride and brooding form, Slaton remembered Christine’s two-word account of the man: endearingly sullen.
At a distance, Slaton followed his former boss through a little-used side entrance, and watched him disappear into a sedan parked along the curb. Thirty seconds later he was sitting beside him. Without a word, the driver accelerated into traffic.
As a greeting, Bloch said, “You get more fit every time I see you.” His voice was unchanged, a baritone grinder that crushed letters into words.
“I’ve been working hard. Lots of sun and fresh air. You seem to be holding up.” It was true. Limp aside, Bloch looked far more robust than the last time Slaton had seen him. His sturdy build had thinned, and judging by the tan on his nearly bald head, Slaton guessed that he too had been spending time outdoors.
“Miriam has acquired a passion for creating healthy food, and my wayward daughter has finally recognized the relevance of a good education.”
“What’s she studying?”
“Political science, God help us.”
“Maybe she’ll follow in her father’s footsteps.”
Bloch dispensed his signature glare. “You always were one of the few who would goad me.”
“I think I’ve earned it. I’m guessing my passport flagged as designed?”
“Allow an old spymaster a few indulgences, David. But don’t worry—when I received your message I was very discreet. Aside from Director Nurin, only one technician, who you will soon meet, is aware of your arrival. The rest of Mossad still thinks what they have long thought—that David Slaton, the legend, paid the ultimate price for his country. There is even a cryptic star in the lobby of the main office that many believe is a memorial to you.”
