Roth pondered the idea for a moment, then said, ‘Okay. Sounds like a green light to me.’
Everything seemed to make perfect sense. If what Segal had told them was true, little could go wrong.
But there was just one possibility that Ben had overlooked. His plan was unravelling even as they spoke. He didn’t know it yet, but he would realise his mistake soon enough.
Chapter 50
Ninety minutes earlier
As the last arrival rolled to a halt on the cracked, rain-slicked concrete outside the warehouse, everybody climbed out. It was just after 4.30 a.m., the time when the world was at its lowest ebb. The six vehicles that had driven through the night from Paris to Sandouville were a mixture of commercial panel vans, all different makes and models, some stolen, the rest cheaply procured for cash.
Their occupants totalled fourteen men. Two of them were white European converts who, after years of living the kafir life, had found deep comfort and enlightenment in jihadist ideology. Another seven were immigrants from Somalia, Nigeria, Libya, Qatar, Syria and Afghanistan. Four were French-born members of the main jihadist cell in Paris. All were utterly loyal to their leader, Nazim al-Kassar. And all were men with a hardcore criminal past that included rape, murder, terrorist plotting, gun running and bomb-making. There wasn’t one among them who wouldn’t gladly make the ultimate sacrifice for this sacred mission on which they were now embarking.
Nazim was wearing a black leather jacket and a black baseball cap. He walked up to the warehouse entrance, unlocked the heavy padlock at the foot of the steel shutter and stepped back as two of his men, the Syrian called Abbud and the Nigerian called Shaykh, heaved it up with a noisy clatter. Shaykh was possibly the most devout of the entire gang, diligently observing his five-times-daily prayers and the recitation of the Fatiha, or opening, prayer a full seventeen times each day, and was often muttering Qur’anic verses to himself; all this, despite the fact that he was black, and that his Arab fellows quietly considered his race to be born slaves, described by the Prophet as ‘raisin heads’ in the Hadith.
Nazim stood by and watched as they drove the vans single-file inside the warehouse, spreading out to leave room for the two larger flatbed lorries to park later. The transfer of the two hundred drums to the smaller vehicles would keep them all busy for a while. Nine tons divided equally to a ton and a half per vehicle, the vans’ maximum payload. Until they had it, all they could do was wait. They had several hours before the container vessel was expected to dock at Le Havre, sixteen kilometres west of here. Nazim believed in punctuality, preparedness and staying well ahead of the curve.
The terrorist leader appeared outwardly calm and composed as ever, but beneath the cool facade he was feeling nervous as his anticipation of the impending shipment grew more intense and the complexity of the plan crowded his mind. So many small details, of which any could potentially go wrong – and if anything did, it was he, Nazim, who would be held accountable by the staunchly unforgiving men who headed up his organisation and had made such a sizeable investment in this enterprise. It was a great honour that had been placed on him, but it was also a heavy burden of responsibility.
While all this troubling stuff was buzzing through his head, it occurred to him that some time had passed since he’d last checked with the men guarding the Segal woman. It was important to him that she be kept in reasonable condition, in case she needed to be used as further leverage. By ‘reasonable condition’ Nazim meant some degree of consciousness and the ability to scream horribly into a phone to remind her husband of what was at stake here; her state of health or prospects of survival meant little otherwise.
While his men were opening up the vans and preparing the transit crates in which the two hundred precious drums would be transported back to Paris in a few hours’ time, he took out his phone, dialled and waited.
No response.
Nazim cancelled the call, frowned at his phone and tried again.
No response.
Disrespectful. Unacceptable.
This time he left a terse message in Arabic: ‘This is Nazim. You better call me back right away. What’s the matter with you sons of whores?’
Two minutes went by, then three, and still the phone remained dead in his hand. Now Nazim was getting concerned. He made a third call, this one to another of the Mohammeds back in Paris, different from the Muhammad who was one of the hostage’s guards. Even Nazim mixed them up sometimes.
This Mohammed answered promptly ‘As-Salaam Alaikum’, instantly deferent when he realised who was calling. Nazim said, ‘I need you to get down to the makhba [which was what they called the hiding place in Arabic] and check things out. Take a couple of others with you. Call me the moment you’re down there. Got it?’
‘Got it, boss.’
He waited. And waited. Patiently at first, though every so often he would try the guards’ number again, to no avail. Almost half an hour went by, and Nazim was becoming quite agitated. Then the phone finally rang. Nazim snatched it up and barked, ‘Talk to me! Where are you?’
The phone signal was crackly and weak, barely there at all. Mohammed’s faint voice said, ‘We’re down there now, boss. All that’s here is a bunch of dead bodies and an empty chair where the kafir bitch was.’ Which, as a concise description of what he and his companions had discovered down in the ghost tunnel, was perfectly accurate. But then it got worse, because before Nazim could start yelling at him down the phone, Mohammed added, ‘We went in by the ventilation shaft, boss. Someone else has been down there before us. It’s been disturbed, and the door to the storeroom has been broken open too. What do you want us to do?’
Nazim was actually unable to come up with any instructions at this moment, other than, ‘Try and fix things up and get out of there as soon as you can.’
‘What about the bodies?’
‘Leave them,’ Nazim said. Which technically was a sin, as under Islamic law every dead body must be buried according to the proper protocol, although the fact that these men had died martyrs’ deaths in the service of Allah circumvented that necessity.
Nazim ended the call realising that the tunnel hideouts were now compromised and would not be used again. That was irksome enough, but worse was the knowledge that only one man could be thwarting him like this. The foreigner. The man with no name. Why, why, could they not be rid of him? Who was this shaitan, this demon in human form, who seemed to be able to evade and outsmart them at each turn while ever whittling down their forces?
That thought led to more, and worse, conclusions. Because logic dictated that if the nameless white shaitan could get to the Segal female, it meant that he could get to the bitch’s husband.
Within seconds of that realisation Nazim was dialling Segal’s mobile number. By rights the dhimmi should at this moment be asleep in bed in his hotel near the port. Nazim let it ring and ring until it went to voicemail, then he redialled twice more and did the same again, but there was still no answer. Nazim finally gave up, his suspicions now fully alerted and his mind whirling as he considered the potential chain reaction of events. Segal knew far too much. If Nazim no longer had a hold over him, the infidel could cause their whole scheme to founder. Not only by spilling their secret to the foreigner, but by leading him right here to the warehouse.
Or something even more unsettling. Nazim felt a cold shiver as he realised his greatest vulnerability was the cargo itself, the moment it was unloaded on the dock. If Segal had betrayed him, the place could be swarming with police by the time the ship came in.
Mind racing, he looked at his watch. 5.14 a.m. The vessel was still a long way out to sea. He still had time to avert absolute disaster, but the sand was running fast out of the hourglass. He must act immediately. He would catch up with the traitor Julien Segal soon enough.
Nazim turned to his men and said, ‘Stop what you’re doing, all of you, and get back in the vans. We’re aborting.’
Chapter 51
As the six vans sped away from
Sandouville, heading back eastwards through the rainy, misty darkness towards Le Havre, a desperate new plan was fast coming together in Nazim’s mind. He made another phone call, this time to his accomplice Zahran Yasin on board the ship, whose role in all of this was about to take a dramatic new turn.
Abbud the Syrian was at the wheel of the lead van as Nazim, next to him in the front passenger seat, told Zahran what would be required of him. When the call was finished Abbud looked perplexed. ‘I don’t get it. We’re already headed for the docks, so why can’t we just hang around and wait for the ship ourselves? If Segal has betrayed us to the foreigner, we just kill them and take what’s ours, inshallah.’
Nazim replied calmly, ‘And if the foreigner has brought the GIGN and a thousand gendarmes with him, are you going to kill them and take what’s ours then?’
‘Allah is our objective. The Prophet is our leader. Qur’an is our law. Jihad is our way. Dying in the way of Allah is our highest hope.’ Abbud was reciting from the official doctrine of the Muslim Brotherhood, words that he’d venerated and repeated for most of his life.
‘I have no fear of death,’ Nazim said. ‘But this plan must succeed, Abbud. I won’t die having failed.’
Twenty minutes from Sandouville, just after 5.35 a.m., the van convoy arrived at the docks. The Port of Le Havre was a huge sprawl of industry with multiple terminals and wharves that could accommodate the largest cruise liners in the world, like vast light-spangled starships that glided on the waves. Its series of canals connected the sea estuary to the major shipping lane of the Seine River. Giant cranes stood tall against the pre-dawn sky and a million reflections were shimmering on the blackness of the water.
Using his smartphone to navigate, Nazim guided Abbud through the port’s complex road system to the marina where private shipping came and went 24/7 and over a thousand vessels of all shapes and sizes were moored.
‘This is it. Stop here.’ Nazim jumped out. The five other vans pulled up behind them on the quayside and the terrorists crowded around their leader in the cold, pattering rain to hear the new plan. Nazim pointed across the dark water at the forest of masts bobbing on the swell.
‘We are going to steal a boat. Something fast and strong that can bear carrying nine tons of cargo. Spread out among the piers and search. Surely we can find the one we need.’
It took them eighteen precious minutes to come up with the goods. Nazim was inspecting the moorings on Pier 7 when his phone buzzed. It was Dariush, the other of the two Afghans, sounding excited. ‘Come quickly, boss. I think I found just the thing.’
Dariush’s discovery was a twelve-metre, twin-engined cruiser that certainly looked the business and even had its own onboard hydraulic cargo loading crane. Abbud, who had studied mechanical engineering at the University of Damascus before taking up his career in international terrorism, reckoned it was up to the job. The decision made, all fourteen men clambered aboard with the automatic weapons and long-handled sledgehammers they’d brought from Paris. Abbud soon figured out how to hotwire the diesel Cummins motors, and within minutes they were cast off and away. Nazim had piloted boats before, during gun-running operations back home, but this thing was faster than any he’d known. They sped out of the harbour with their bows high in the air and slapping the waves, throwing out a foamy wake behind them.
By now it was edging towards six a.m., just two and a half hours or so before the cargo ship was expected in port. At a speed of some twenty knots, that meant it was still about fifty nautical miles from the coast, give or take. The stolen vessel with its powerful diesels and Rolls Royce waterjets could cover the distance in less than half the time. Nazim called Zahran again, who gave him the ship’s current GPS coordinates.
Nazim estimated that they would intercept the ship’s course within an hour, perhaps less. He would strike fast, get the job done and escape before anyone even knew what had happened. He was smiling. He was winning again. Nothing could stop him.
Meanwhile, on board the ship, Zahran Azzam Yasin was getting ready to do his part. After receiving his orders from his superior, he bided his time awhile on deck and then headed for his cabin. He shared his crew quarters with three other seamen, all of whom were currently either on work shift or drinking coffee in the mess canteen. Zahran opened the locker by his bunk and took out his prayer mat and qibla compass, which pointed permanently towards Mecca. He laid the mat on the floor, prostrated himself and said his prayers, then carefully rolled the mat up and put it away. Next he took out a sports bag and laid it on the floor to unzip it. Inside, wrapped up in a couple of T-shirts, was the stubby AK-47 that he’d had little difficulty smuggling on board in Tripoli.
Zahran was extremely familiar with the weapon, having undergone extensive training in an ISIL terrorist boot camp in his native Libya. He clicked in a loaded magazine, racked the cocking bolt and set the safety, then put the weapon back in the holdall, slung the bag over his shoulder and left his cabin. It was 6.30 a.m. precisely. Nazim and the others would be here in about thirty minutes, which gave Zahran all the time he needed.
He strolled nonchalantly through the ship’s passages and corridors until he reached the bridge, the vessel’s highest point and the domain of the captain and officers. As an ordinary seaman Zahran’s tasks seldom required him to perform watchstanding or helmsman duties, and so his sudden appearance on the bridge was unexpected. The captain was in the midst of a conversation with the radio officer when they saw him and turned. Without a word Zahran set down the sports bag and, before anyone could react, yanked out the AK.
The captain froze, but the officer made the mistake of lunging towards the radio console. Zahran blasted it apart with a deafening burst of gunfire, then pointed the weapon at the officer and said, ‘Next time, I shoot you. Now get the crew up here. And remember, I know every man on board. Do not try to trick me, or everyone will die.’
All six officers and the fifteen crewmen were soon all hostages on the bridge and made to kneel with their hands on their heads. Some of the seamen who had been on morning shift were wearing yellow waterproof overalls; others had been roused from their bunks and were dressed in shorts and T-shirts. All of them were staring at Zahran with a mixture of rage and disbelief that one of their own guys, albeit one who’d just been taken on and whom nobody really knew well, could be doing this. But if anyone was toying with the idea of trying to disarm him, the steely, determined look in his eye soon persuaded them otherwise.
Zahran was completely calm and in control. On his command the engines were shut down. Now the ship was dead in the water, drifting aimlessly and wallowing on the waves. The radio console was completely shattered and in pieces, but the radar was still working fine – and within minutes it was showing an approaching vessel that Zahran knew was his leader. Pointing the gun at the kneeling hostages with one hand he took out his phone and called Nazim with the good news. ‘The ship is ours. Allahu Akbar!’
‘What is this outrage?’ the captain demanded. ‘Are you hijacking us? You want money?’
‘Keep your money, kafir,’ Zahran replied.
It wasn’t long before the stolen boat was tethered up alongside the cargo ship, dwarfed next to the gigantic hull and in danger of being crushed by its roll. 6.52 a.m. Nazim had made excellent time. Zahran ordered three crewmen to descend to the deck and lower ladders, so that Nazim and the rest of the men could board. ‘Do it now. Or I shoot the captain.’
One by one the terrorists clambered up the ship’s side. Nazim had never set foot aboard such a huge vessel. When he reached the bridge he congratulated Zahran on his excellent work. ‘Allah be praised!’
The captain was less impressed. He was a large, square-built man in his late fifties, with a red complexion made redder with anger, and he was growing less intimidated by the minute. ‘This is bare-faced piracy and you’ll never get away with it,’ he blustered at Nazim.
‘We’re not here for your ship, infidel filth,’ Nazim replied. ‘We are here to take what’s ours.
And to liberate you from your ways of ignorance.’
And before the captain could say another word, Nazim’s knife was in his throat. The captain let out a shrill gasp and fell to his knees. The officers and crew started screaming and yelling. The rest of Nazim’s men shoved them back at gunpoint. One of them tried to resist, and Zahran shot him in the face. Nazim slowly stepped around behind the captain, the blade still buried deep in the flesh and gristle of his neck, slicing and sawing as blood pumped down the man’s white shirt and spattered over the floor of the bridge.
‘Murderers!’ screamed the radio officer.
Nazim or any of his men could have explained to him that this was not murder. The ship’s personnel were kuffar harbi, infidels at war with Islam; therefore they were enemy soldiers who spread corruption throughout the face of the earth; therefore it was not only permitted but mandatory under Sharia law to kill them, and in fact it would be a punishable offence to let them live. But why bother explaining anything to infidels?
The horrific act was over in seconds. Nazim held up the captain’s severed head by a hank of greying hair, then flung it away with contempt and spat on the decapitated body slumped at his feet. A lake of blood spread around his feet as he turned to the seamen. ‘Who among you can operate a forklift truck or the ship’s cargo crane?’ Their faces were pale. They were too terrorised to protest and too appalled to speak. A couple of uncertain hands went up.
Nazim turned to Zahran. ‘Can you vouch for them?’
‘I can’t say for certain,’ Zahran replied. ‘I think I’ve seen that one drive the forklift.’
‘They’ll have to do,’ Nazim said.
‘What do we do with the others?’ Dariush asked.
Nazim smiled. Once again, the holy scripture provided the answer. When you meet the unbelievers in battle, smite their necks.
He said, ‘Cut off their heads.’
House of War Page 26
