Blowback
Page 15
The man cocked his head to the side, turned, and walked back in the direction from which he’d come.
“Time to meet the boss,” Nic said. “Enjoy.”
Faraz followed the fighter to the main building. They went up the steps and through the front door. The man held up a hand for Faraz to wait while he went into an office on the right. He came out a few seconds later and held the door for Faraz.
The commander’s cap was on the desk, exposing his black, wavy hair, still greasy and unwashed. At close range, Faraz saw a few gray wisps in the beard. Al-Jazar’s bloody shirt was gone, replaced by a black T-shirt.
The man stood and held out a large hand. “I am Jazar. Ahlan wa sahlan.” His voice was strong, but he sounded weary.
Faraz shook his hand. “It’s an honor, sir.”
“You are from Detroit,” Jazar said, rolling the R with the tip of his tongue. “Automobiles, Motown, murder.” He laughed. His accent was heavy, but his English was pretty good.
“Yes, sir,” Faraz said.
“You are a tough guy?”
“No. Well, yes, I hope to be.”
Jazar laughed again. He seemed to enjoy intimidating the new recruit. “You know what is jazar?”
“No, sir.”
“In English, you say ‘butcher.’ I am al-Jazar, the Butcher. It is not a nice name, but I earned it. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Faraz’s voice seemed to be getting smaller with each answer.
“I no longer use the name my father gave me,” al-Jazar said, still looming over Faraz from across his desk. “My father was a weak man. He drank alcohol. He bowed to the Shia dictator who oppresses our people. He wanted to be a ‘modern man.’ He became a corrupt man, not worthy to be counted among the followers of Allah.”
Al-Jazar walked around the desk and stood right in front of Faraz. “I use the name I earned in jihad. Here, you will learn to be committed to jihad. You will do what you are told. You will learn to fight. Maybe someday, you, too, will earn a new name.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Today we lost a brave martyr. You saw?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Maybe we will lose you one day. Are you prepared for that?”
Faraz paused and swallowed. “If it is Allah’s will.”
“Correct. If it is Allah’s will, you will be a martyr. If it is His will, one day I will be a martyr. We do not know His plan. Meanwhile, we make His jihad against the infidels and the false Muslims.”
“False Muslims?”
Al-Jazar pointed to a poster on his wall. It showed the Syrian president smiling with a group of children. It had a red X painted over it. “The ones who claim to work for Allah, but do not truly know Him—the devil Assad and all the Shia blasphemers.” He turned back toward Faraz. “And some of our own Sunni people, usurpers, who came late to the fight and claim to be the leaders.”
“Usurpers?”
“You will learn more in the coming days. Now, we must send our shahid Matthieu on his way.”
Al-Jazar walked past Faraz and left the office. Faraz followed, and other fighters fell in line. When they came outside, Faraz saw that a crowd had gathered in front of the building. Matthieu’s body was wrapped in a white sheet and lay on some wooden boxes. There was no casket.
Faraz went down the steps and stood near the front. The air felt notably colder than when he’d gone into the building a few minutes earlier. Clouds had rolled in, and night was falling.
Al-Jazar addressed the camp from the porch in a mix of English and Arabic, but Faraz wasn’t paying attention. He was thinking about what the commander had said. “Usurpers who came late to the fight.” Al-Souri had returned to Syria recently and created the new organization that was getting a lot of attention, claiming a leadership role. It made sense that some might bristle at that.
Faraz filed the thought away for future reference and focused on what al-Jazar was saying.
“Today, we say goodbye to our friend Matthieu. He came to us from Paris, not so long ago, it seems. He loved Allah. He found a place for himself in Allah’s jihad. He achieved a greatness he never dreamed of. Some of you are sad, today, but I am not. I am happy for my brother who fulfilled his destiny, a destiny he sought with bravery and faith. He is already reaping his reward. Now, follow as we return his body to the earth.”
Al-Jazar descended the steps, trailed by his crew of fighters wearing stern expressions. They waited as Nic, Jamal, Ismail, and three other sand cats lifted Matthieu’s body onto their shoulders and led the way to a small cemetery outside the camp’s rear gate.
Faraz fell in toward the back of the procession. He noticed that several women were helping one who was weeping. He also saw Cindy with a stoic look on her face, alongside Amira, whose cheeks were wet and eyes red. Cindy put her arm around her friend as they walked.
At the graveside, the smell of turned-over soil hung in the air. The men placed Matthieu’s body on the ground next to the open grave and the pile of earth that would refill it. The only member of al-Jazar’s Syrian entourage who was not holding a weapon stepped forward and offered the traditional prayers.
“’Aeudh biAllah,” he began in Arabic. “I seek refuge in Allah. All praise is due to Allah, the entirely merciful . . .” Faraz knew the prayer from family funerals back home, starting with his cousin Johnny’s.
He felt the danger more sharply than he had since leaving Afghanistan, which, it dawned on him, was not so very long ago.
“Allahu akbar,” the prayer leader concluded.
“Allahu akbar,” they all responded.
The pallbearers lowered Matthieu’s body into the grave. Al-Jazar stepped forward, picked up a shovel, and dumped the first load of dirt on top of the young man. The prayer leader went next, then the security team, then the rest of them.
It was darker now, and getting colder by the minute. The only sounds were the shovel against the pile, the earth landing in the grave, and the women softly sobbing.
Chapter Twenty-four
The scene at al-Souri’s camp a dozen miles away was quite different. His fighters were celebrating. They had repulsed the attack by the ungrateful one they called the Butcher.
Nazim fired up the crowd. “He could only have earned that name from slaughtering a goat, the coward!” The men cheered and fired their weapons into the air.
Al-Souri watched his men enjoy their victory with considerable satisfaction. He had returned to his homeland to help defeat the dictator and the invading infidels. He had brought skill, money, international contacts, and leadership. He offered the chance to take their fight to a new level, to finally gain the advantage.
But some were unhappy. Some, whose knowledge began and ended with themselves, saw him as a usurper. Nonsense. The smaller they were, the more they thought they should lead. The weaker they were, the more they thought they were strong.
Al-Jazar had had the temerity to attack his camp, to try to derail al-Souri’s advance toward his natural position as leader of the Syrian opposition. Tonight, al-Souri had shown him, and all the others, that he knew how to defend his camp, how to be merciless against those who would question him.
Maybe now, al-Jazar would accept the new order of things. Maybe not.
Al-Souri called a halt to the celebrations and sent his men off to rest. He went into his small office with Nazim, newly promoted to officially be the great man’s second-in-command.
“The men did well tonight,” al-Souri said. “A credit to your training.”
“Thank you, Commander,” Nazim replied. “Allah was with us.”
“Yes. But we must be prepared for larger attacks. Al-Jazar, and maybe others, will not be placated. They will continue to distract us from the real enemies.”
“They have placed themselves among our real enemies.”
“True.” Al-Souri stared out the window. He thought of Nazim as a son, although the two could not have been more different. The commander was tall, thin, and had light olive skin, his
balding head hidden by his takkiye. Nazim was five foot five and stocky. His dark skin revealed a Moroccan, or maybe a Turk, somewhere in his lineage. And his kaffiyeh couldn’t hold his overgrown black hair.
In fact, Nazim was the son of al-Souri’s great friend Omar, who had gone with him to Afghanistan decades ago, leaving the baby Nazim and his mother behind. Omar died soon after, and al-Souri had supported them ever since.
When al-Souri returned to Syria, Nazim welcomed him, pledged loyalty, called him “commander” rather than “uncle,” as he had in letters over the years.
“Tomorrow, we will have a visitor,” al-Souri said.
“Oh?”
“A very important man. We must welcome him properly. He holds the key to our future.”
“May I ask who he is?”
“We shall call him al-Malik.” The King.
* * *
The next morning, al-Souri watched through his office window as al-Malik’s entourage swept into the camp. There were two black SUVs packed with heavily armed fighters. The man himself rode in a Mercedes sedan with dark windows in the middle of the motorcade.
As the dust the vehicles churned up settled, al-Souri came out to greet his guest.
“Ahlan wa sahlan, my friend,” he said, and he kissed al-Malik on both cheeks.
Al-Malik was not a king, but he represented one, or more likely several, and perhaps some princes, too. They were rich Sunnis from the Gulf who had pledged to help al-Souri defeat Assad in return for his promise to keep pressure on the infidels who, in other forums, the Gulf Arabs pretended were their friends.
The visitor embraced al-Souri and turned to acknowledge Nazim and other fighters who had lined up in greeting. Then, without a word, he headed toward the building, with al-Souri hurrying to keep up.
In the office, al-Malik fell into the one comfortable chair. His paunch strained the buttons of his Western-style shirt and the string that held up his traditional trousers. His charcoal gray suit jacket was open. He took off his red-and-white kaffiyeh, the style favored by Saudi princes, and mopped his bald head with a large handkerchief.
Al-Souri handed him a small glass of sweet tea. Al-Malik accepted it without thanks. He sipped and gave a disapproving look, then put it on the desk. He took a hard candy from his jacket pocket, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. Belatedly, he took out another and offered it to al-Souri, who declined.
“You are looking well,” al-Souri said in Arabic.
“I look like a fat old man. I am happy to be a fat old man, and I hope to get both fatter and older.” After a moment, he remembered to add, “Inshallah.” If it is God’s will.
Al-Souri forced a smile.
“You had a battle last night,” al-Malik continued.
“We were attacked. We defeated them easily.”
“This is a waste. This is not what they want.” He always spoke of “they.” Al-Souri had never heard al-Malik say “his majesty” or “their majesties.” The man was paid for his discretion, as much as for his willingness to travel to such places and deal directly with the pawns in the great game his masters were playing.
“I did not seek the fight,” al-Souri said. “I seek only to lead us to victory over the Shia and the infidels.”
“I tell you, you must solve this problem.” Al-Malik’s tone was matter-of-fact, but it was clear he expected to be obeyed. He crunched the candy, swallowed it, and lit a cigarette.
“These men—” al-Souri started, but al-Malik cut him off.
“Just solve it. No distractions. No waste.”
The commander didn’t like taking orders, but he couldn’t afford to say no to al-Malik and his masters, or their money.
Al-Malik scanned the room with a look of disdain. Its Spartan appearance, decorated only with framed Koranic verses, clearly did not impress him. He flicked some ash onto the floor, looked back toward al-Souri, and stared through the spiraling smoke before continuing.
“I also am sent to remind you that the Shia and the infidels in Syria are not your only enemies. You must fulfill the other part of our . . .” He searched for the right word. “Arrangement.”
“My friend, I have told you that such things take time. We had a great victory in November. Our operatives have had to remain quiet. We shall strike again when the time is right.”
“No, my friend. You shall not strike when it is convenient for you. The West is off balance. They must be hit again, and soon. Martelli must suffer the political consequences and lose the election. We cannot afford another four years of him.”
Al-Souri thought about that. He knew the Gulf Arabs didn’t like Martelli. He was too smart for their taste, easing tensions with their enemy, Iran, making progress on Israeli–Palestinian relations, developing new sources of energy to reduce America’s oil imports. And the president was pressing his new counterterrorism offensive more effectively than they had expected, hitting groups they secretly funded.
“It will be costly,” al-Souri said. He knew that wouldn’t deter al-Malik but thought he might be able to get some extra money out of him.
“You know that will not be a problem,” al-Malik said, “if the plan is right.”
“Have no doubt, the plan is right.” Al-Souri leaned across his desk and lowered his voice. He outlined his idea for the financier. He had been working on it since Afghanistan.
As he spoke, al-Malik’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward in his chair. When al-Souri finished, his guest sat back and let out a low whistle. He dropped what was left of his cigarette and stepped on it. “You think very big, my friend.”
“As you know, my priority is Syria and the Levant. But if we are going to pursue the larger struggle, we must think big. We cannot do anything small after November. The fighters have already scouted their targets, started training their teams. But we have done as much as we can without more money.”
“Of course. I shall present your plan for approval. I do not foresee any problems. When can you strike?”
“With money, soon. I cannot say exactly. And funding for our efforts here?”
“Yes, that is nothing compared to this.”
Al-Souri nodded. Nothing in monetary terms, maybe. Everything in his apocalyptic vision.
“You will hear from me soon,” al-Malik said.
“Will you stay for dinner?”
“Ha!” al-Malik spat his reply. He used both arms to heft himself out of the chair. “I must return to Damascus before dark and get a decent meal.”
“Of course,” al-Souri said, trying not to sound ironic.
* * *
That evening, al-Souri summoned Nazim to his office. “Will we attack al-Jazar tonight?” Nazim asked.
“No. We must find a way to unite all the factions. Otherwise, the dictator and the infidels will defeat us.”
“Unite under your leadership?”
“Of course.”
“Al-Jazar will never accept it. Others will oppose you, too.”
“You are right. But there is a way. You must arrange a meeting of faction leaders. There, we shall settle this. And if we can’t . . . Well, then you may get your wish.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Faraz, Nic, and all the foreign men were in the field outside al-Jazar’s camp for intensive combat training. They went through a series of exercises, then some basics of hand-to-hand fighting.
“This is strange,” Nic confided during a water break. “Usually, we have to beg for this sort of thing.”
“So, why the change?” Faraz asked.
“Unclear. But the boss is unhappy with last night, and there’s no point in training fighters if you don’t plan to use them. I’m down with it, though. You?”
“Yeah, sure. It’s what we came for, right?” Faraz finished his cup of water and walked back toward the training area.
He allowed himself to excel—without breaking his cover. He needed to show he could be a fighter. He’d never accomplish his mission workin
g on the camp’s construction crew.
As the week went on, Faraz became known as one of the best at one-on-one fighting, with quick hands and fast-moving feet. He also scored high when they were given their first chance to fire AKs. He claimed he’d gone hunting with a friend in northern Michigan a few times and honed his skills on video games.
Al-Jazar noticed. Faraz was among three foreigners called into the commander’s office. They would accompany the fighters on a mission, but hang back and observe.
Shortly after dark, in a new, all-black outfit but with no weapon, Faraz mounted an SUV with Ismail, the French Moroccan, and Jamal, the Kenyan. A Syrian fighter drove, and another rode shotgun. They were in the last vehicle of four as they sped along desert roads. The recruits had not been told where they were going or what the team would be doing.
They stopped on the edge of a town. A fighter opened the back door of Faraz’s SUV and motioned for them to get out. All the men gathered as al-Jazar emerged from the lead vehicle and spoke. “Tonight, we strike a blow at the infidels. There is a hotel in this town where the foreign workers stay—men and women who bring Western ideas and immorality in the guise of education. Tonight, they have a celebration. But it will not go as they plan. This is the night your lives have been leading to.”
Three of the fighters stepped forward, holding out vests for the foreigners to put on.
“What? What are we doing?” Jamal asked, backing away.
“We are performing Allah’s jihad,” al-Jazar said. Two of the men held Jamal.
“I am ready,” Ismail said. He stepped forward and held out his arms. The men put the vest on him and clipped it closed.
“And you, Karim?” al-Jazar asked.
Faraz could see no way out. If he refused, he might be forced to comply or, if not, relegated to a support role where he would never learn anything about planned operations. If he accepted, his mission could end in a few minutes.
But something didn’t feel right. Suicide bombers normally went through extensive preparation—prayer, training, indoctrination. They would record videos to be used later. They would know every detail of their mission. If this was a test, he had to pass it. If it was a real suicide mission . . . well, it’s where he had been a few months ago, anyway.