“Yes,” said Sophia—her eyes like black ice, the ice of Lake Cocytus. “I recognize the style. They worked that way as long ago as Chechnya. Then, the authorities thought the terrorists put themselves on camera to prove they held a hostage—otherwise, how could they get their ransom money?
“But there was a puzzle. Our special services couldn’t comprehend why the stupid fools kept collecting evidence against themselves. They didn’t even cover their faces when they filmed what they were doing to people. One theory was that, since during the time of Yeltsin, it was clear that they knew they wouldn’t be punished. Another was that whoever didn’t follow the usual practice didn’t get any money. But this practice, this jihad-by-video, was actually a result of the fact that the jihadis themselves couldn’t live without it. All of them are actors.”
Sophia’s expression became gloomy, turning within to a memory frozen in black ice, among many memories. She remembered the not-quite-successful actor who had become a successful trader in blood. Wearing a plush, light-blue robe and house slippers made of crocodile skin, he had already been shot in the legs. A black stain grew in front of him on the silk carpet as he crawled, weeping and humiliating himself in front of the twenty year-old woman. He swore and he begged. Why wouldn’t he? There were no cameras present and no witnesses to his shame except his locked-up mistress—the wilted movie star who wailed from somewhere in the depths of the apartment?
It would be interesting to know, Sonya thought to herself later, how he would have behaved if everything had been filmed. Would he even have known how to die with dignity? These jihad-actors believe that unless you’re arrested, you’re not a thief. They have no court of conscience. In them it is replaced, sometimes quite successfully, by the desire to preserve face in front of others.
Sonya Greenberg researched these psychological quirks and distinctions for years in books. And then, when she was left alone and sufficiently provided for materially, she crossed the border where hatred is transformed into revenge.
For several years before meeting Leonid, she had relished her role of solitary avenger. He managed, not to stop her—that would have been impossible—but to take her to a new level and to introduce her to the general resistance movement, which made practical sense. That was why she loved him. What could she do? She did not know how to love without a reason.
For minutes, everyone was silent, buried in his own thoughts. There was no need to discuss how television would be used to broadcast to the whole world scenes that would be repeated a thousand times over, where a beaten-up, horrified man, suffocating as if he were suffering an asthmatic attack, between the torn-asunder body of one child and another still alive, wailed “ilaha... illa... allah...” And then, accompanied by approving laughter, prodded by poles, himself went to the house of a stranger “to witness his faith in blood”—dragging himself with his torturers from door to door until he found a throat for the knife pushed into his hands.
“What can I say, I can’t really thank you,” said Larochejaquelein, standing up. “You Russians are not interested in the panic behind the curtain. Our interests coincide, that’s all.”
“I’m not Russian, but you have no reason to thank me,” answered Slobodan. “As you yourself observed, I wouldn’t move a finger to save the souls of the French. But now we have to work together. I would like to take part in the planning of a response to what I have described, and I can propose some help in this respect.”
“We’ll decide about that,” Larochejaquelein exchanged looks with Sophia. “But who are you, anyway? Why do you hate us? What should we call you, at least to make it easier for ourselves?”
“He’s a Serb,” said Sophia. “The first question answers the second, and you’re too young, Henri, to understand the reasons why he hates us.”
“Not you, Sophia Sevazmios,” objected Slobodan, casting a glance at the silent member of the group. “You’re Russian and Orthodox.”
“And in the same pot with the Catholics, so out of respect for me please don’t look at the priest like that anymore. He wasn’t even born when other priests were blessing Croatian murderers. Let’s leave emotions aside and return to our task.”
“Very well.” Slobodan made a visible effort, but the lines of his face did not soften.
“Perhaps everything is not that terrible,” said Larochejaquelein quietly. “The catacombs beneath Paris are enormous. They can temporarily receive all the inhabitants of the ghettos. But we need to start taking people there right away. Gradually we may be able to transfer them abroad.”
“It is characteristic of man that he does not believe in impending catastrophe,” observed Father Lothaire. “The inhabitants of the ghetto are accustomed to living in a mine field. Many, very many of them, will not want to leave their homes and go underground.”
“He’s right,” said Sophia bitterly. “The majority simply will not believe in such a massive slaughter. They won’t believe it until they see the bestial mob in their streets.”
“What do we do then? Save our own and leave the rest to be slaughtered like chickens?”
“Slow down,” Sophia reminded Larochejaquelein. “How much time do we have?”
“Not more than a week,” said Slobodan. Yes, that was about right. They would probably prepare something in celebration of the anniversary of the conquest of Constantinople. They liked to organize such events on holidays.
“Will the Christians believe that preparations are afoot to slaughter them?” Larochejaquelein asked Father Lothaire.
“They’ll believe it, but I think they will not want to leave their homes. That is, everyone will make an effort to send the children and the weak underground. But many will stay. They will think that the moment has come for them to witness the truth. In essence, this monstrous slaughter of people is another step toward Judgment Day.”
The silence grew electric.
To Eugène-Olivier Lévêque and Paul Bertaud, who were keeping watch in front of the door, time seemed to stand still.
“By the way, Monsieur Resident, you didn’t introduce yourself,” said Sophia with a smile. “Tell us your name!”
“Let’s say it’s Knezhevich.”
“Alright, if it’s Knezhevich, then it’s Knezhevich.” Sophia laughed.
“But Sophia, it doesn’t make sense.” Larochejaquelein became upset. “What do you have in mind?”
She did not acknowledge his question. “However, please satisfy my curiosity,” she said, again looking at Slobodan. “Regarding the box for myrrh.”
“That’s easy.” Slobodan smiled. The spasm on his face disappeared. “Ten years ago, GRU finally decided to disturb Hieromonk Dionysos in his solitude.”
“Ten years ago?”
“Yes, he lived to a ripe old age in Solovki. Moreover, with a clear mind and sound sense. He reacted to this contact with deep thought. At the same time, he was asked to provide us with a sign of confidence, completely secret, so that we in case of need we could give a sign to Sophia Sevazmios. The father then gave us the little box, making the little joke that the members of the intelligence service were helping him to repent for the sin of greed. It was a fortunate circumstance that the box bore no Christian symbols. On the other hand, there were also doubts. Articles from our lives are erased from our memories after a few years. You might have simply not recognized the box.”
“No fear of that!” Sophia laughed, shaking her head. “He knew what he was doing. My father-in-law once threw that little box at me and his aim was so good that he hit me in the forehead with it. I had to comb the bits of amber out of my hair. He called me a ‘criminal adventurer.’ To be frank, ‘criminal adventurer’ isn’t an exact quote, but that was the gist of it.
“You needn’t look at me like that; the Greeks are very emotional. With them, even church on a feast day is a kind of holiday fair. During the service, they walk all over the church, wherever it occurs to them to go, greeting their acquaintances. You can’t understand it, Father, with your str
ict rites. That atmosphere does have its charms—in moderate quantities.”
Father Lothaire sighed.
“We can stop the slaughter,” Sophia said, looking to Slobodan, Larochejaquelein and then finally Father Lothaire. “It’s true that our losses will be the same as if the slaughter did take place. But in this case, it will not be innocent victims who will die but soldiers with weapons in their hands. And they will be long remembered.”
“What do you propose?” asked Slobodan skeptically.
“We have to act first, and we have to strike terror into their hearts. Our operation must be proportional to theirs.”
CHAPTER 7
Annette’s awakening
Imam Abdulwahid’s lettuce-colored Saab was slowly moving from the Austerlitz ghetto toward the botanical garden.
Abdullah, the driver, a young man who had converted to Islam, cast a frightened look at his patron, as he called him in his thoughts, who was sitting next to him in the passenger seat. It was obvious that the imam’s mood couldn’t be worse, and it was therefore entirely possible that he would hold the least little thing against him and dock a few euros from his salary.
“Another traffic jam and my blood pressure will jump. Don’t think, Abdullah, that this is the year fourteen hundred and five, when every bare ass could own his own car. In just the past ten years, personal transportation, Allah be praised, has been reduced by a third! But I simply don’t understand why we always have a problem with parking, and why all the roads are still so crowded!
“Statistics are a curious thing, venerable Abdulwahid! On the one hand, it’s true that now only one family in ten has an automobile. But how many new families have established in the last ten years?”
“Don’t get smart. After all, why do your Francophone wives have so few children?” The imam suddenly lost his temper. “You think that no one knows what you’re doing? You take an older, unmarried woman into your house who is your wife’s sister or her friend, supposedly as your second wife. But all she does is help with the housework and the children! You’re bluffing, trying to deceive honest people! None of you adheres to the normal order of things! If it were up to me, I would check if men sleep with all their wives!”
Abdullah did not answer. Despite the imam’s character, he wanted to keep this job. Abdullah made it a point to be especially patient after every visit to the ghetto. He remembered all too well the recent lean years, the abominable cigarettes, his brother’s old clothes, the apartment that consisted of a single room in the attic...
What was saddest of all, they had already begun to convert all the different idiots in the neighborhood, who didn’t even want to do it; some of them said the Shahada in tears, as if there were nothing worse in the world. Others preferred to go to their graves. And yet the religious authorities didn’t think to call him; he actually got tired of waiting. Sometimes it seemed that his whole life would pass behind barbed wire.
On the other hand, there was an important detail: You mustn’t ask to convert by yourself. Then you were considered cheap, very cheap. Finally, Imam Abdulwahid entered his house with the Narrations of the Adherents to the Sunnah under his arm. Abdullah’s mother and brother left the room—silent, defeated, disgusted. But he stayed. He listened, he nodded his head, he concurred, and occasionally he could not contain his happy smile. It ended like a fairy tale: The imam considered his conversion a personal triumph; he made every effort in front of the bureaucrats to show off the promising young man. In the end, he hired him as his personal driver. Not every Turk could win such a position and not even a true Arab would be ashamed of it!
The imam continued his rant. “And actually, those of the true faith with a pedigree are sometimes no better than you. They teach their children to enjoy the inventions of the devil—pianos, and what do you call them, double basses, violins... It’s a good thing there are none of those awful, enormous things with dozens of pipes left in the city, or they would be playing them, too! It would be better if they took care that their children didn’t sleep through the early morning prayer! But no, the salah is something of secondary importance; it’s much better that children learn to bang on the piano! Yes, Abdullah, remind me to send my assistant to burn all those packets of music notes in the house of that kafir woman we took care of today! Otherwise, she’ll hide everything, I know the scum in the ghetto...”
The summer promised to be hot. Even now, the afternoon was quite warm. The imam was tired of the ghetto, tired of climbing stairs in buildings where the elevators had stopped working long ago, of visiting miserable, dusty apartments without air conditioning. If that weren’t the case, perhaps he would not have called the police right away to arrest the elderly music instructor who eked out a living by giving lessons in the Austerlitz ghetto. The woman, whose name was Marguerite—ugh! What a name! Marguerite Teillé?—had attracted attention long ago, but she could have easily lived in her den in peace for another five years.
“But it’s easy to deal with the kafirs , you simply come and arrest them for music!” imam Abdulwahid continued. Sweat ran down his face from under the bright green turban of shiny brocade, despite the car’s air conditioning. “Now look at that. I just knew we would get stuck in a traffic jam, I just knew it!”
In fact, the Saab was still moving steadily in a column of automobiles. But at this speed, one could drive for a whole hour to get to Quatrephage Street. And imam Abdulwahid wanted to arrive at the old Paris mosque as soon as possible. He wanted to go to the sauna, and then to drink hot mint tea in the mosaic room of the mosque. Mint tea and honey cakes! How wonderful they were!
The car was moving more slowly than the pedestrians, and the distance between the Saab and the Citroën next to it was so small that the imam couldn’t have opened his door!
The imam unconsciously envied the plump boy he saw in the rear-view mirror, who was easily weaving between the cars on his shiny Harley Light. How old could he be, if his parents permitted him to drive in the streets and had even bought him such an expensive motorcycle? Judging by his size, he couldn’t be more than twelve! What times we live in!
Soon, the disagreeable boy appeared next to the imam’s door. He stood up in his seat and suddenly used something metallic to scratch the body of the car—right in front of the imam’s nose! The body of a new Saab! Ah, the scoundrel! And he knows you can’t catch him. You can’t even open the door! The faceless juvenile was already hurrying away, but his face had caught the imam’s attention. There was something in the line of the boy’s neck... and in the light-gray eyes that met his through the barrier of bulletproof glass and motorcycle-helmet plastic... It was a girl! A girl in men’s clothing, with her face uncovered! In broad daylight!
The girl had said something, but he couldn’t hear it. Her soft rose mouth had twisted itself into an ugly grimace. But if it wasn’t just a twelve year-old hooligan, but a grown kafir girl who had the courage to move around Paris so inappropriately dressed in broad daylight, then surely scratching his car was not mere mischief. What was it then?...
In the next instant Abdulwahid understood. He understood the motorcycle, which was already moving away between the cars. The Saab moved even closer to the Citroën.
Panicked, the imam now tried to change places with Abdullah. Abdullah wasn’t interested. Revolt ensued in the tight space in the front of the car. The obese Abdulwahid managed to pry one of Abullah’s hands from the wheel, trying at the same time to pull him on top of himself, so he could slide under him and into the driver’s seat. The imam even managed, casting off his turban, to get his head under Abdullah’s hip. The car swerved and hit the lights of the Chevrolet in front. All around, people were honking angrily. The mechanical sounds drowned the unexpectedly shrill cries of the imam .
But in the next moment, everything became very still. Abdullah could not understand right away. Had he suddenly gone deaf?
The imam’s attempt to change places with his driver was not without result. Upon penetrating the roof of the vehicl
e, the “sticker”—the slang term for a plastic explosive mounted in a magnet—missed Abdulwahid’s honorable head. But before embedding itself into the asphalt, it passed along his spine, through his waist, and exited through his groin. His head, with its cultured, thin mustache and obscene baldness, remained whole, completely intact. It continued opening its mouth for a long time without making a sound, like a fish in water, eyes bulging. It finally shuddered and fell into the lap of Abdullah, who desperately clung to the wheel on the other side of the car.
The white fur seat covers soaked up the blood, but this no longer concerned the imam , who had worried so much about keeping them clean. Nothing about him gave any further signs of life. Except his fingers, which were adorned with rings and kept grasping spasmodically.
Jeanne’s cheeks were burning. It wasn’t that she was ashamed. Everything had worked out perfectly. She was leaving peacefully. The driver was probably still alive, but he was unlikely to remember to use his cell phone. And even if someone in one of the surrounding cars called the police quickly, it was unlikely they would make the connection between the explosion and the motorcycle that had passed a minute earlier. By the time the police made their way through the traffic jam to the Saab and began taking statements, everyone would have forgotten about the motorcycle.
Nevertheless, it was shameful. Maybe she shouldn’t tell anyone. She would just return seven “stickers” instead of eight and say that mice ate the eighth. No, seriously, it was shameful to lie to your own side. She would have to answer for her actions. Oh, how she wished she didn’t have to do that! She would end up sitting at home for two months doing needlepoint.
Turning from Buffon Street toward the Lutetia Arena, Jeanne found herself in open space again and increased her speed. The fresh air cooled her hot cheeks. She would have to go back to the ghetto for the rest of the stickers, even though she didn’t like that ghetto at all.
The Mosque of Notre Dame Page 11
