The Caliphate

by André Le Gallo

  “We haven’t seen each other for far too long my son, since Gao. I hope you are well and that Allah is watching over you.”

  “He is indeed, my father, he is indeed, Alhamdu’llah. I have been traveling more often: Cairo and Amman to examine operational possibilities there more closely with our Ikhwan Brothers, and to the Kingdom.”

  Salim smiled.

  “Ah yes, Wahhabist Central. Did they agree to augment our funding?”

  “Not enough, but they will after we show that we are the principal players.”

  “What about Israel? Are you in touch with Hamas? In Gaza?”

  “I have sent them a message. We must succeed there. With Allah’s help, I will create a firestorm, a final Armageddon, for the Jews.”

  38. DGSE Headquarters

  Despite their age difference, Captain Roger was showing a strong personal interest in Kella. He had taken her to lunch one day from the office. They both sat on a banquette against the wall looking toward the center of the room. He’s sitting closer than necessary, she thought.

  “I knew when I first met you that we were going to be friends,” he said. “I love that you were born in North Africa. The Tuaregs, your people, have a great history. To say they were the Lords of the Desert is an understatement. You must be proud. I’ve worked on and in North Africa for a long time. I know that we’re interested in many of the same things. I know the meaning of the tattoo on the back of your hand. I bet that not many people know that you are from noble lineage.”

  Not sure how to respond, she had asked, “Do you speak Tamasheq?”

  “No, but my Arabic is not bad.”

  He had continued in Arabic.

  “I love your eyes. They are beautiful.”

  Squeezing closer, he enumerated what he liked about her body, growing bolder. Over coffee, he had put his hand on hers and suggested they go to a friend’s apartment nearby to which he had the key.

  “I want to show you his collection of Tuareg art objects. I’m sure you’ve never seen anything like them. They are rare and valuable,” he smiled.

  “I don’t think so. Not today, not ever,” she had said.

  But Captain Roger was not easily discouraged. She wanted to report him to somebody but she knew that, in this French military working milieu, she would only be hurting herself. She also concluded that the captain’s relationship with al Khalil was not completely professional. She had noticed, for example, that he owned a rather luxurious new Mercedes SL convertible, a car that a French army captain couldn’t normally afford. She had also come across enough clues to conclude that the French oil company, Total, was paying bribes, or tribute, to AQIM through Roger in order to be left alone in Algeria. And Roger, with the acquiescence of Total, was taking five percent off the top. But she had nothing that would stand up in court, so she had held off saying anything to the general.

  ***

  Al Khalil was visiting Paris and they were at the Chernoviz safe apartment. The captain was finishing a glass of red wine, and al Khalil held a glass of lemonade in his hand. They were sitting back in easy chairs. The TV was on but the sound was turned low.

  “My office is coming up in the world,” Roger said. “Somehow we were assigned an ENA graduate. Incredibly, she is knowledgeable about North Africa. In fact she was born in Mali, around Timbuktu.”

  “I suppose you’re lucky to get talented help. I wish I could say the same. But she doesn’t sound French. Is she?”

  Before answering, Roger stood up and went to the kitchen to pour himself another glass of wine. The weight of each step extracted a squeaking complaint from the pre-war parquet floor.

  “That’s an interesting question. I guess she could claim a Malian passport, a French passport, and even an American passport.”

  Roger explained his statement.

  “Doesn’t the fact that her stepfather is an American diplomat give your security people a problem?”

  “He’s not only a diplomat, he’s also an ambassador. But, on the other side of the scale, her grandfather is head of our organization.”

  Startled by Kella’s background and credentials, al Khalil paid close attention now. This was information he could possibly use.

  “Really? And her father, or stepfather, where is he an ambassador?”

  “You won’t believe this—Israel.”

  Detecting he was on the cusp of actionable information, Tariq asked, “When she goes to visit, I want to know.”

  He was aware of his sudden authoritarian tone but didn’t bother to disguise it, knowing he didn’t need to.

  ***

  A few days later in her DGSE office, Kella received a CIMETERRE report, a transcript of a telephone conversation between al Khalil and Salim.

  AL KHALIL: I am proceeding successfully with our Gaza friends. We’ll be on the ground in a week.

  Using an Internet bulletin board on vegetarian cooking as prearranged with Steve, she shared the information with him.

  He replied:

  As I told you last time we met, the enchilada wannabe wants to transfer his cooking to the East. If we’re going to affect the outcome, we need to be in the same kitchen. Could you pay your parents a visit? The date for the ceremony to which I invited you is coming up and I’ll be there as I hope you will also. We can discuss that on the phone.

  39. On the Road toward Taba, Egypt

  Al Khalil confirmed with a glance that two Egyptian police cars still sandwiched his bus. The Egyptians had insisted, explaining it was a routine practice adopted following the killing of tourists near Luxor. He and his thirty men had left the fourteenth century Monastery of St. Catherine, in the Southern Sinai, that morning. They were heading north along the Red Sea coast toward the resort on the Egyptian side of the border with Israel

  Al Khalil looked at his men. Some were dozing. Some were praying, fingering their prayer beads. Except that, as part of their disguise, al Khalil, under the Islamic concept of Taqiyyah, concealing one’s Muslim faith for self-protection, the prayer beads were rosaries and they were all in the garb of Cistercian monks.

  Al Khalil, who had spent much of his childhood in Belgium, where the Trappists had several monasteries, seized on the monk disguise because the Cistercians had split from the Benedictines in the belief that life in the abbeys was becoming too comfortable. They had established a reformist Cistercian order, its vows including the observance of nearly complete silence. Another, even stricter, Cistercian order, the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, was created later.

  To have his Salafists remain as silent as Cistercians fit al Khalil just fine. In his explanation to his men, he pointed out that they could not be questioned individually at the border. But personally he was just as happy that they remain quiet. Al Khalil, or Father Jerome Benoit, as his current passport read, was the only one in their group permitted to speak in order to facilitate the trip.

  As part of their cover, many carried away souvenirs and religious trinkets from St. Catherine. However, the Salafists had considered the visit well within the parameters of their religious beliefs. St. Catherine’s Monastery was located at the base of Jebel Musa, or Mount Moses, a fourteen-thousand-eight-hundred-foot peak where Moses, one of the prophets accepted by the Quran, was said to have received the Ten Commandments. The Monastery was also built on the site of where Moses was believed to have seen the Burning Bush. Also of interest to the jihadists was the Mosque inside the walls of the Monastery. Al Khalil had planned the visit as a means of strengthening their cover, and perhaps also a reconnaissance of a Christian site to be soon reconquered.

  While getting his men ready in the Malian desert camp for the coming operation against an Israeli nerve center, al Khalil had told them, quoting from an al Qaeda manual, “The confrontation that we are calling for does not know Socratic debates, Platonic ideals, or Aristotelian diplomacy. But it knows the dialogues of assassination, bombing, and destruction. Islamic governments have never and will never be established through peaceful so
lutions and cooperative councils. They are established as they always have been, by pen and gun, by word and bullet, by tongue and teeth.”

  Al Khalil trusted that, even if they couldn’t understand the meaning of Socratic debate, they did understand the rest.

  ***

  The convoy had to stop for three roadblocks and it was late in the day when they reached Taba, an Egyptian resort where his Hamas contact had told him the control checks were not always as thorough. Rather than try to face the Israeli security gauntlet that night, they stayed at a hotel. They left early the next day and walked across the border, vehicles not being allowed through.

  Father Benoit said that they were on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He explained their vow of silence, and that they came from six monasteries in Belgium.

  “I come from the Monastery of Orval. Maybe you have heard of it.”

  “Orval beer? How about St. Sixtus beer? Why is it so expensive?” the Israeli guard examining the pile of passports asked, smiling.

  Surprised by the guard’s question, al Khalil, whose research on his cover had not been sufficiently thorough, replied, “Our Trappist monasteries started making beer in the nineteenth century. Since we don’t eat meat, it’s a welcome addition to our diet. In those days, it was much safer to drink beer than water. We also make cheese. Beer and cheese give us the income we need to live and to maintain the monastery, a little bit like your kibbutzes, I imagine.”

  “What about St. Sixtus beer? Why so expensive?”

  “I suppose the price is simply a reflection of the supply and demand.”

  The guard looked up at al Khalil speculatively.

  “I suppose. It’s famous even here. I’m not a kibbutzim, but you’re right. It sounds very similar. Are you visiting anyone in Israel? You’re not importing any beer are you?”

  “No, we don’t travel with beer bottles. We’ll definitely stop to visit our Trappist brothers at Latrun. And, of course, Jerusalem. And, if we have time, other sites with religious significance. But Jerusalem is our first priority of course.”

  “I notice that your passports are not all Belgian or Dutch. Why?”

  Al Khalil again was surprised. Though he did not easily become anxious, he felt a fresh prickle of sweat. This seemed an unusual depth for a screening. The questions, although not hostile, were precise and insistent under the cover of social chit-chat. The guard was obviously trying to lull him into complacency, to lower his guard. But no Jew would ever be smart enough. He found the interrogation offensive, especially considering the source.

  His body tightened. He fought to keep his composure. With exaggerated slowness, he said, “Right. The six Belgian and Dutch monasteries sponsoring this trip each has an exchange program with other monasteries all over the world, wherever we have brothers. As you can tell, we have nationals from South America and from Canada, Australia, and so on.”

  Tariq had carefully asked his Saudi contact to produce passports from non-Muslim countries, in order to keep Israeli security concerns to a minimum.

  The Israeli inspector was friendly enough but was obviously following a well-structured set of questions. Unfortunately, the guard knew more about Belgian beers than al Khalil had anticipated.

  They were through in two hours, walked out, and saw their Israeli transportation: another bus. One was driven by Hussein, who had arrived earlier by himself through Tel Aviv airport with an alias Sri Lankan passport. His cover was that of an agent to provide transportation, hotel accommodations, and coordinate the group’s travel and logistics. They were on the road for forty-five minutes when Hussein alerted Tariq that he thought a car was following them—at a discreet distance, but nevertheless following them.

  “If that car is still there before we make the next turn toward Ashdod, let’s go toward Jerusalem instead. I don’t want to have to abort this early in the game.”

  Tariq looked at his map and gave Hussein directions.

  “We don’t have a choice until the main road turns west and becomes Route 25. If we still have a tail by then, continue straight north and stay on number 90. That way, we also avoid going by Dimona. If they have suspicions now, driving by Dimona is not going to help. We’ll go to Jerusalem, just as I told the border inspector was our intention. We can spend a day there. I’ll have to change the timing with Hamas. They expect to transfer the weapons tonight at the Ashqelon Crusader Castle, where they’re hidden. It will delay the final attack by twenty-four or forty-eight hours. You can tell Rashid and Karim in Gaza.”

  The Israeli follow-on car let them go after they passed the branch—off to Route 25. Al Khalil looked at the desolate landscape of the Dead Sea: a green-blue lake surrounded by tortured salt and limestone formations. The road went through washed out yellowish rocky terrain. He looked to his left, to the West, and saw what must be Masada, now a four-hundred-meter-high publicity icon on which the myth of the Jewish nation had been founded. He turned away in disgust.

  40. Herzlia, Israel

  “Can I use the car to go to Tel Aviv?” Kella asked. “I need to buy lighter clothes. It’s hotter here than I’m used to in Paris. Besides, I should probably buy a new dress for the investiture in Jerusalem. What do you wear to a knighting?”

  Alexandria, her stepmother, replied, “There are excellent shops on Dizengoff. But I do need the car this morning. Ezra is coming in about half an hour. He could drop you off in Tel Aviv and maybe we can meet for lunch on Dizengoff.”

  Kella agreed. She liked Ezra, her stepfather’s driver. He had already shown her a photograph of his two daughters, ages eight and eleven, both dark haired with huge smiles. Ezra was an Iraqi Jew, born in Baghdad, who had made aliya—emigrated to Israel—with his parents when he was a young child.

  “Ezra, you would do me a favor if you spoke to me in Arabic,” Kella told him. “I don’t want to forget it. Where does your name come from? Why do I think I heard it before?”

  Ezra, in his forties with dark hair and always very correct, said in Arabic, “Yes Miss. I am a Babylonian Jew. I was named after ‘Ezra the Scribe’ from the Torah. My father wanted me to be a rabbi.”

  Kella sat down to change her shoes. The TV was on and giving the news in English. The broadcast had already started and a reporter was announcing, “apparently for several years. It was transported by truck from Niger under an agreement reached by A.Q. Khan, the Pakistani scientist who has been under house arrest for several years. The camp belongs to an organization that calls itself IMRA, the International Muslim Relief Agency, a social-welfare group with branches in several African countries bordering the Sahara. Still according to the Times of India, Malian authorities have refused to take its calls while the IAEA has responded that it is looking into the story. Our TV station has done some independent research and determined that IMRA was founded by Tariq al Khalil, a Muslim academic who usually lives in Brussels. We have not yet been able to reach him for comment.”

  Kella jumped up with one shoe on and the other in her hand. She gave a barely suppressed, “Yes!” pumping her fist at the same time. Her initiative had borne fruit. Her friend had been able to place the information that Coulibaly had passed on to her and Steve in the very-respected Times of India. She was very pleased.

  Alexandra walked in and stared curiously at Kella.

  “What is going on? Something good on TV? The media only tell us about conquests, war, famine and death.”

  “Nothing, really. Just before I left Paris, a friend told me she was trying to place an article and I just heard it on the news.”

  Kella was ready to go when Ezra arrived.

  “On second thought, I’ll see you at 12:30 not on Dizengoff—too crowded and touristy—but at the Haviage Restaurant. It’s Yemenite; you’ll like it, on Yermiyahu Street. I don’t know the exact address. Taxi drivers will know.”

  “Salaam Alaikum,” Ezra smiled when she got in the back of the black Lincoln Town car.

  “Alaikum salaam,” she responded.

  ***

&nbs
p; The ambassador’s residence was located in in a residential neighborhood on the northern side of Herzliya, ten miles from Tel Aviv proper. Surrounded by a security wall, it backed onto a public beach and was less than a hundred yards from the sea. It was conveniently close to the Dan Accadia Hotel, also on the beach, where the ambassador played tennis on weekends, often with the Israeli prime minister. They occasionally included the CIA Chief of Station and Ben Gal, the Mossad director.

  The car turned right and made its way toward national Road Number 2, which linked Israeli urban centers from Jaffa, just south of Tel Aviv, to Rosh Haniqra on the Lebanese border.

  Kella had visited Jaffa the day before. The visit had evoked a painting in the Louvre by the French painter Gros, titled “Napoleon Visiting Plague Victims During His Egyptian Expedition.”

  As she stood looking out to sea, Kella thought Napoleon’s lightning victory over Egyptian forces had opened a new chapter in world history. It brought home to the Arabs—or it should have—the power of European nations to invade their lands at will. She thought the Muslim religion was still dealing with the trauma of their impotence following a period of imperial dominance. For centuries, Muslims found external causes, the Mongol invasion, and Western colonialism, to explain and rationalize their situation. In a weird way, she thought, the attempt to kill Steve in Morocco, and the attack that had killed people she knew in Timbuktu, were a result of Napoleon’s victory over the Egyptians.

  “You will be surprised to learn, I think,” said Ezra, bringing Kella out of her musings, “that Tel Aviv has what you call a red-light district, and we’re about to drive through it. It’s called Tel Barbach.” He chuckled.

  Kella looked around but they were still on the coast road.

  “The girls hang around here by the side of the road and take their customers to the right, into the dunes,” he was still grinning at Kella’s surprised look in the rear-view mirror. “That looks like one down there,” he said pointing straight ahead about a hundred yards down the road. “I rarely see any of them in the daytime.”