by Nathan Ronen
Rashid’s plump, gregarious façade was misleading. He was, in fact, a devout Muslim, but left all the holy affectations to others who were more devout than him. Rashid saw himself primarily as a soldier whose mission was to bring the Islamic campaign to the doorsteps of the ‘dirty crusaders’ of the decadent West. In order to fit in, he needed to behave like the French did, and if that meant drinking their liquor or sleeping with their wives, he was willing to pay the price so long as infiltrating their culture would allow him and his people to kill more of them. He was sure that Allah would reward him for this.
“You’ve gotten fat!” Kadiri declared conclusively, striking at Rashid’s growing belly with an open hand.
“This isn’t a potbelly, it’s a tombstone!” Rashid replied jokingly.
Kadiri looked at him quizzically.
Rashid grabbed his stomach and laughed. “Tombstone… You get it… Hovering just above the dead…” He reacted to his own joke with a peal of laughter.
Kadiri did not have much of a sense of humor. He looked at Rashid solemnly, demanding: “I want to meet the people I mentioned to you. Bring them here, one at a time. They’re thieves, and I don’t trust them. Bring one of them to talk to me every hour. No assistants, just him and me, one on one.”
“Yes, sir,” Rashid said.
Mustafa Bin Aruzan, owner of a network of boats and operator of a ring smuggling immigrants from North Africa into the country, who had good connections within the police force and the courts, was already waiting in the living room on the second floor of the house, reclined in a white leather armchair. He was well-known in Marseille, for reasons including his generous contributions to many of the senior administration members in the city’s municipality and the regional government.
He and his friends had been summoned under order from Rashid, and everyone in the Marche de Noailles knew you couldn’t say no to Rashid without paying a heavy price and that ultimately it was in their best interest to provide services to this representative of the old country.
Bin Arzuan rose to his feet when Kadiri entered the room. They assessed each other like two alley cats. Arzuan was a head taller than Kadiri’s short, slim form. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I have a proposition for you that should prove mutually profitable. Let’s say I’m a high-ranking employee in a Moroccan business firm that intends to expand its dealings to France. We need your organizational skills, your existing soldiers, and the new ones we’ll recruit for this effort. Could that be of interest to you?”
Mustafa Bin Arzuan’s expression reflected his curiosity as the man in front of him began to go into his plan in detail, especially when he specified the benefits that would reward his help.
“Let’s say that at the moment, it’s in our best interest to replace the chairman of the board of directors currently in control of the government company in which I’m active…” Kadiri said.
Mustafa examined the short-statured general with interest. “Rashid and I are good friends. And if it’s good for you and good for business, why not? I’ll provide you with everything you need.” Mustafa rose from his seat and shook the visitor’s hand.
An hour later, “Mad Francois,” as he was called by his friends, showed up. The source of his nickname was an incident in which he had murdered one of his people solely in order to check whether his gun was loaded. He was the ringleader of Marseille’s largest arms-smuggling, drug-dealing, sex trafficking operation, known for his cruelty and daring against Marseille’s lax law enforcement authorities. He had, in fact, been born in France, but saw himself as a North African Arab. He commanded a squad comprising several dozen loyal soldiers. His animal instincts picked up on the high regard with which Rashid was treating the anonymous visitor, and he assumed the man was closely associated with the royal family.
“I’m calling upon you and your people to come to the aid of your homeland. The money will be unlimited. I need your connections in order to cause chaos, plenty of riots masquerading as authentic Muslim demonstrations with flags, expressions or rage, use of extreme slogans, and sometimes actual violence toward the police, in a display of protest against what’s going on in the old country, as Islam is repressed in Morocco. You can recruit people off the street, bring in the unemployed in buses from all the Muslim neighborhoods in towns in Provence and from Marseille. All of you can make a nice profit in the process. In order to benefit our campaign, I want you to take advantage of the tense dynamics between Muslims and their surroundings, their sense of discrimination. I want a challenging of Western values: the religious heresy, the immodesty of women, the lack of respect for the values of Islam. You’re French, so I want you to employ a French law firm, a respectable one, so that each protest will be well coordinated, dignified, and will make use of all the loopholes in French law, utilizing their racist liberalism and the weaknesses of democracy against them.
“You also have to hire a good advertising and PR firm, preferably not one of ours. Pick a French one that will conceive and carry out a strategic plan for us, like any other product conquering a share of the market. I want our audience to like our messages, while also attacking the French public and accusing them of Islamophobia. We’ll put together the strategy along with the French PR firm you hire, and fund it, while you recruit the people on the street.
“I want to cause the leftist French liberals to join our struggle, while constantly feeling themselves to be on the apologetic defense. We have to use the very principles of the French constitution against them. The guiding principle is not to say things that are right or true, but merely messages that the Muslim audience we’re targeting will find appealing. I want catchy names for the local organizations, and emblems with a connection to the glorious Muslim past: victories, achievements, values. Religious Muslim names, used by nationalist movements in the past. This will help the audience connect with the importance of the past and its symbols.”
A smile dawned on Francois’s face as he realized that as of this moment, he had become a legitimate operative of the Moroccan monarchy.
“Rashid here will be the operating force behind the scenes. He’ll tell you what to do and transfer a sufficient amount of money. In the meantime, you can continue to run your usual, everyday business, but I ask that you stop shooting at each other. We have a much larger target that will earn all of our people in France a lot of money, and perhaps also some handsome positions and prestige for you and your family members in our holy country.”
He signaled to Rashid that the conference was over. Rashid opened the living room doors, allowing “Mad Francois” to leave.
Rashid reverently invited his big boss, General Abdelhak Kadiri, to a nearby family restaurant to eat couscous de’hsoub, a traditional dish of couscous with fresh fenugreek leaves.
“Did you invite the young anarchists to a meeting with me?” Abdelhak asked Rashid.
His interlocutor nodded his big head while pouring him tea from a silvered pitcher. A plate of fresh mofletta, a pancake-like delicacy, swimming in melted butter and honey, was served along with the tea.
“Did you make sure they were all dialena19?” Abdelhak asked, his voice severe.
“Yes, ya sidi. All of them are our people. We gathered about ten of our countrymen, young computer experts, all of them sons of single parents or problematic families. Their loyalty is to me personally. I sent them to the US to learn the secrets of the Darknet on the TOR network from some black anarchist hackers in a Muslim Brotherhood mosque in Chicago.”
“I’m proud of you,” Abdelhak said, making Rashid blush with happiness.
“That’s exactly why we opened this internet café in the neighborhood. They can work from here, assuming the identities of innocent surfers we call trolls.”
“What are trolls?” Abdelhak asked.
Rashid chuckled. Until two months ago, he hadn’t known the first thing about this sort of terminology, either.
“‘Troll’ is a term for an online user who profits from activities of agitation, sometimes impersonating other users online. Some trolls use hacking techniques, such as identity theft. The typical troll is dedicated to inspiring conflict and strife.”
“Excellent. That’s exactly what I need. I need those people to pretend to be emissaries of Islam, and to use social media to infiltrate every home. Let them open forums calling for a return to Islam. But I also want anarchist intellectual forums calling for a democratic Morocco and opposing the monarchy, using leaked material I’ll produce and pass on to you.
“I need our trolls to create chaos in coordinated campaigns on Facebook, Twitter and elsewhere online. Their goal is to manufacture deliberate propaganda that appears innocuous and apolitical, and thus reach the man on the street, and in particular, stir up youths and students. Rashid, from this moment on, you’re in charge of all activity here at Operation Emissary of Islam, directly opposite me. The manager of our Paris embassy station can’t know about this. I don’t trust him. All activity will be carried out in three entirely compartmentalized fronts, and no one can know all three fronts are run under a single leader. Is that clear?”
Rashid swallowed and nodded vigorously.
“The heads of the French internal security agencies have to be thoroughly misled. We need to establish plenty of straw charity organizations dealing with education, religious values and good works, headed by familiar, respected public figures. They’ll be the legitimate façade fronting our activity.”
Rashid smiled in admiration.
“And now bring me a mask, too, and call in those young people.”
The next meeting took place with ten young people wearing the Anonymous mask—a smiling depiction of Guy Fawkes. General Abdelhak put it on as well, returning to his simple jellabiya and raising his hood above it to camouflage the shape of his head. Rashid was the only one sitting with his face exposed.
“We don’t want our enemy to know about the planning for our campaign: the fund transfers and the psychological warfare targeting the monarchy. I want you to stir things up among urban and rural youths, who will take to the streets, setting police stations and public institutions all over Morocco on fire. Incite the secular students studying here in France, using the cover of a ‘site for a democratic Morocco.’ Send them out to protest in front of the Moroccan embassy in France. I want riots in Morocco’s universities; I want cells supporting the Islamic Jihad and the global al-Qaeda movement, encouraging young people to offer their service to the Muslim caliphate and to attack tourism sites in Marrakesh and Casablanca. We’ll provide you with photos of Moroccan cops abusing the poor. We’ll stage rapes of young village girls by men wearing Royal Guard uniforms. We’ll feed you material and intelligence that will give you free rein for your attacks. Can all that be done without our fingerprints being detected?”
All the masked visitors nodded as one.
“Excellent,” Abdelhak concluded. “Now get to work. Rashid will establish some software-development front organization so that you can receive salaries and work from home. He’ll set times to meet with you so he can provide material and funds. Good luck.”
Abdelhak was pleased. All preparations were ticking along with the precision of a synchronized Swiss watch. He only needed the prince’s authorization to set the operation in motion.
He asked that the fake taxi serving Rashid and his people for surveillance and tracking activity be called in. He needed to return home. At Marseille Provence Airport, an executive jet was already waiting for him. It would bring him to Rabat within two hours and also allow him to evade DGSI surveillance.
When he entered the plane, he called the private number of Prince Mohammed Fouad Al Mansouri, Morocco’s minister of the interior.
“Sir, I wanted to let you know that Phase Two of Operation Emissary of Islam has been carried out. Eid al-Adha mubarak—have a blessed holiday, minister.”
* * *
18 Meerkats are mammals belonging to the mongoose family. A gang of meerkats will always include a sentry, who, when danger is encroaching, will make the rounds among the members, alerting them of the danger.
19 Moroccan: “one of ours,” belonging to our forces, from our community.
Chapter 31
The Yavne Auditorium
In the café located at the corner of the triangle created by the municipal library and the modernist Yavne Auditorium, Sasha Yarshanski, a team commander in Kidon, the Mossad’s elite unit, was already waiting for his former commander, Major General Motke Hassin.
The large plaza, built of black square-cut schist stone, was shaded by ancient sycamores with large, broad crowns. Mina birds were pecking ravenously at the fruit falling from the trees.
At this hour of the morning, the café was empty of diners, and the waitresses milled around the sole patron with shy flirtatious giggles like bees yearning for a nectar-scented flower.
Sasha, tall and athletic, with fair hair and large blue eyes, was stylishly though casually dressed. His elegant appearance camouflaged the fact that he was one of Sayeret Matkal’s exceptional fighters. His calm demeanor and physical fitness when carrying out dangerous missions beyond Israel’s borders, as well as his perfect fluency in several European languages, rendered him uniquely qualified for his work in the Mossad’s elimination unit.
He wondered why his commander had asked him to meet someone who was no longer serving in the Mossad, but jumping into a task with short notice was a routine aspect of his work for the unit. He also did not ask any questions, as he knew the answers would be coming soon.
He did not have to wait long. A large Cadillac SUV, adapted by the Ministry of Defense’s Rehabilitation Department to fit the needs of a disabled driver, turned onto the large plaza and parked at the entrance to the café. A short-statured form with a red, scarred face that seemed to bear the aftereffects of a fire emerged from the car. Large sunglasses hid the brow-less sockets. Sparkling steel pinchers had replaced the amputated hands. The figure bopped as if bouncing on springs, approaching the café in rapid strides. When the sunglasses were removed, a pair of eyes that were as black as coal, with no eyebrows, was exposed.
The sight of this approaching figure caused the waitresses to suppress a scream. Sasha rose to greet his admired former commander. The man extended the stump of his hand, equipped with a metal hook, saying, “How are you, Sasha?”
Sasha grabbed hold of the stump with obvious affection.
“I’m hungry,” Motke Hassin grumbled. “What’s there to eat here?”
Sasha raised his hand to signal the waitress to approach.
“Can I offer you breakfast for two?” she asked, her eyes avoiding the visitor’s hooks and strangely smooth face.
“That’s fine,” Motke said, and once she had taken off, addressed Sasha: “While the kid is gone, let me explain what the mission is. It’s a simple deception tactic. We have to catch a ‘wagging tongue’ in a government office who’ll lead us to exposing the corruption over there.”
“In what country?” Sasha asked.
The waitress placed a basket of bread and croissants in front of them. “This one,” Motke replied placidly, the hooks of his hands already tearing apart the warm croissant. He spread a generous helping of strawberry jam on it and swallowed it in one bite.
Sasha’s blue eyes gaped open in amazement. “Since when do we take action here? Isn’t this a matter for the police, the Shin Bet or the state comptroller?”
“It might be. But this time we need some special work done by our people.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to do?” Sasha asked.
“You’re supposed to be the honey trap. This won’t be the first time you’ve done that kind of job, right?” Motke examined him with his coal-black eyes.
“That’s right, but I did it to eliminate an extreme le
ftist group in Germany that was supporting the Islamic Jihad. I’ve never done that kind of thing here in Israel.”
The arrival of the waitress, bearing two generously laden trays, silenced the warriors, and they waited for her to depart, after first instructing her on how they wanted their eggs prepared.
“And what government office am I supposed to infiltrate?” Sasha asked, sipping a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.
“The Prime Minister’s Office,” Motke Hassin said, seemingly looking down at the roll he was filling with tuna salad, while his other eye was carefully examining Sasha’s reaction.
“But we’re part of the Prime Minister’s Office! Are you saying we have to expose corruption in our own home?” Sasha cried out in disbelief.
“Shush… Shush…” Motke tried to quiet him down. “No, not among our people at the Office, but at the prime minister’s bureau in Jerusalem, in the Aquarium,” he clarified softly.
Sasha stopped eating and looked at his handler in incredulity. “Are you sure this is legit? Do you have authorization from the attorney general?”
The hook striking the table made the plates bounce, scratched the coating of the table and echoed loudly within the café.
“Since when does a fighter ask questions like that?!” Hassin raged. “When you get an instruction to carry out a mission, you don’t ask a frigging lawyer to take a look at it.”
“Well, it just seems unconventional.”
“Our loyalty, yours and mine, is to the state, not to specific people. And if there’s a suspicion that someone in the Prime Minister’s Office is behaving in an inappropriate way, and we need some incriminating intel, then that’s what you’re going to do. Your role in this will be a Fraud Unit investigating officer. The head of the Investigation and Intelligence Division will be the only one who knows about it, but the commander of the police’s Fraud Unit won’t be in on it. You’ll be recruited as an academic with a rank of Chief Inspector who was appointed as an officer due to his degree in Economics and Business Administration.”