The Caliphate

by André Le Gallo

  Kella did not think the woman in front of them was acting like a prostitute. She limped and seemed to be crying. As they got closer, they could see her clothes were ripped and her hair was in wild disarray, as if she had been in a fight. It was clear she was motioning for help rather than for a paying client.

  “I will call for help,” Ezra said as he reached for his walkie-talkie radio. “Marine Guard Post One, this is Mobile One.”

  Kella leaned forward from the back seat and said, “Stop, Ezra, stop, she’s hurt! We can’t just drive by and leave her here. Put the radio down and stop!”

  They were now very close to the woman, who was standing her ground in the middle of the road, with one hand up imploring the black car to stop and the other hand on her leg, where she was apparently hurt. There was no other car in sight. Kella could see that Ezra was torn. He probably had been told never to stop, but the situation looked dire.

  “Stop, look at her, and we’ll take her to a hospital.”

  Kella felt sympathetic, given her own recent experiences.

  Ezra stopped the car and Kella immediately got out and ran to the woman. She didn’t speak Hebrew, so she called to Ezra who was still behind the wheel, “Come on, help me, she can hardly stand. Let’s get her in the car.”

  Ezra took a quick scan of the surroundings before opening his door. He then stepped out to help Kella. As soon as he was near her, two men stepped out from tall bushes on the side of the road pointing Uzis at Ezra’s chest. They were still twenty feet away when he wheeled around toward the car, at the same time reaching down for his ankle holster.

  He had his hand on his gun when the bullets hit him and knocked him to the ground. The men were moving quickly toward him and he tried again to reach his gun. But a second burst of machine gunfire ripped into his chest, up his neck, and into his face, blowing out the back of his skull.

  Kella was struggling with the woman who, now acting strong and healthy, had her arms around her and held fast.

  “No! No! Ezra!” she screamed, tears running down her cheeks, as she saw the men fling Ezra’s bloody corpse onto the road. Less than a minute had elapsed from the time she had reached the woman and persuaded Ezra to get out of the car.

  Two more men appeared, also armed. They forced Kella toward a car hidden off the road, an old, four-door Fiat. One man drove the Lincoln off the road into an area with bushes and palm trees. He covered it with a tarp and battened it down. Kella was pushed into the back seat of the Fiat and was surrounded by her captors—one on each side of her and two in the front.

  41. Church of the Holy Sepulcher

  “Whether you believe or not,” Steve said, “you feel in your bones that something important has happened here.”

  He stood with other aspirants and knights of the Order of St John of Jerusalem, Knights of Malta, all in tuxedos, on a small square in front of the church. The Knights wore red capes, each with the white Amalfi cross.

  “I thought the church would be bigger. It’s a tight squeeze with all these other buildings,” he said, sounding surprised. They were waiting for the investiture ceremony that would make Steve a Knight of the Order. The Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the central shrine of Christendom, looked up at the minarets of the mosques on each side of it. The church’s reddish-brown stone and brick façade rose from street level, without the usual steps leading to a parvis to enhance the building’s profile and status. Half of the double-arched entrance was walled in.

  “Getting this ceremony approved by the church authorities has been a hassle, I’ll tell you,” Marshall said. “The church is managed by six warring orders, running from Franciscan Catholics to Copts, Ethiopians, Greek Orthodox, Armenians and Syrians. Each has jurisdiction over a specific part of the church. The Ethiopians, if I recall, own the roof.”

  He smiled.

  “I’m not making this up. By the way, didn’t you tell me that you had invited Kella? Isn’t she visiting her parents in Tel Aviv?”

  “Yes, I did. I thought she would be impressed, my becoming a knight and all. But she’s not here yet. It’s not like her to be late. I don’t know what could have happened,” Steve said.

  As they were speaking, a patriarch of the Greek Orthodox Church walked by with full gray beard and tall black hat.

  They had a few minutes before the ceremony and Marshall brought Steve inside to descending stairs.

  “Look,” he said, pointing to the left wall where scores of crosses had been crudely carved. “The Crusaders made those. Some of them were Hospitallers, which is what the Knights of St. John were originally called. In fact, what you see was rebuilt by the Crusaders after the Fatimids, the only Shiite caliphate, systematically destroyed the building.”

  A Franciscan initiated the investiture ceremony in the Franciscan Church inside the northwest quadrant of the main church. Because of the many nationalities represented, national anthems were dispensed with, although the American, French, Russian, Canadian and British flags were displayed in honor of the countries of those present.

  The grand commander, a Canadian, recounted the history of the Knights of Malta. As Hospitallers, they began in 1099 to assist pilgrims to the Holy Land. Recognized by a Papal Bull in A.D. 1113, they quickly took the form of a military order of chivalry and left the Holy Land after fighting and losing the last Crusader foothold at Acre in 1291. They established themselves first in Cyprus, then for over two-hundred years on the Island of Rhodes, and finally on Malta. There they remained until Napoleon forced them out, and they split in several groups with bases in Russia, the Balkans, Northern Europe, Italy, the Americas and in Australia.

  Then Steve’s moment came. He stepped forward, kneeled and received the light touch of the sword on each shoulder as the grand commander said, “I hereby bestow on you, Stephen Church, the rank of Knight in the Sovereign Order of St. John of Jerusalem, Knights of Malta.”

  The grand commander hung the white, eight-pointed Amalfi cross around Steve’s neck with a red ribbon, and an assistant placed the red cape with the white cross on his shoulders.

  As they were standing outside after the ceremony, a knight who had introduced himself to Steve as Chevalier Desandre—“Antoine Desandre,” he had specified—walked up to them. Chevalier Desandre was probably in his early fifties and gregarious. His red cape came down almost to his ankles making him appear shorter than he was. His fleshy face was topped by short russet hair.

  “One other bit of history you Americans might like to know,” he said, “is that the French officers in Rochambeau’s army at Yorktown were all Knights of Malta. There’s a painting of the surrender ceremony that clearly shows that all of the French officers wore the Amalfi cross.”

  Steve was only half listening, searching for Kella.

  As the group milled around in front of the church, still dressed in their investiture regalia, a monk in a brown robe walked by. The monk was looking down in apparent prayer but his glance strayed to the unusual sight of the knights. Steve glanced at him and, for a millisecond, their eyes met. Steve felt an instant flash of recognition, but dismissed it, his mind on Kella.

  Later, in his room at the King David Hotel, Steve checked his email messages and found one from Karim:

  Arrived Gaza with my UAV boss Rashid. The father is supposed to arrive in Israel this week with a team from the camp. They will be dressed as monks. I heard that a meeting will take place in Ashqelon before final event.

  Steve had given Karim his email address although, at the time, Karim didn’t have his own laptop.

  He’s coming up in the world, he thought, pleased, but even his pleasure with Karim could not push away his disappointment at not hearing from Kella.

  He had told Marshall about meeting Karim in Geneva and how al Khalil was adjusting his sights from a long march out of the Sahara to a more instantly gratifying operation somewhere in the Middle East, probably Egypt or Israel. He had not, however, told him that he had decided to go it alone, without the stultifying oversight of the C
IA.

  He started to tell Marshall about Karim’s latest information, when Marshall put his finger to his lips, pulled Steve into the spacious bathroom, turned on the shower, and said quietly, “The Israelis know of my CIA background. You never know,” he said pointing at the walls. “Although I hope they’ve got more important ways to use their time.”

  “Al Khalil now has a couple of UAV people in Gaza and he and his fighters are somewhere in Israel disguised as monks. I don’t know what they’re cooking up but it must be important for him to be leading the charge. There’s supposed to be a meeting in Ashqelon before the actual operation.”

  “Monks? UAVs?” Marshall asked. “We can’t go to the Israelis with this information. By itself it doesn’t mean much. Looks like we should go visit the sights in Ashqelon. We need more information for it to become actionable.”

  Steve nodded. “This message reminds me of something. Earlier today, I saw a monk walk by—when we were standing outside the church. He looked familiar but I couldn’t place him. Now I think it could have been Tariq al Khalil.”

  “That’s his cover to get into the country—‘cover for status’ it’s called. There are thousands of religious tourists in Israel every year, so hiding in plain sight is what he’s doing,” Marshall replied.

  Before they left, a special TV news bulletin announced that a suicide bomber had just blown himself up, killing twenty other people in a restaurant in Netanya, a resort town on the Mediterranean coast north of Tel Aviv. The TV station had live coverage of the tragedy. The area was cordoned off, but organized chaos reigned. Fire trucks, police vans, ambulances, and uniformed men and women worked amid shocked, sobbing, and wounded civilians, some lying in the street, some looking for friends and relatives.

  Steve took a drink from a bottle of water on the table. “Another suicide bombing. I don’t know how the jihadists convince these people to do it. I assume the seventy-two virgins story is just a product of the Western media.”

  Marshall took his shirt from the closet and started to put it on.

  “Don’t be so sure. More than one bomber, who survived for whatever reason, has talked about the seventy-two virgins as a bonus from God. For me, the greater puzzle is in the statements of support from parents. In my opinion, these young people are just handy weapons. They’re being used by Hamas, these…”

  He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Demagogues of death, who don’t volunteer their own bodies to be blown up. They manipulate these frequently impressionable, naïve youths.”

  Steve threw the empty bottle in the trash.

  “I wonder, is suicide the right word? Usually suicide is a very personal act. To me, suicide is the act of taking your life without being told or forced or convinced. Their society glorifies death. In their own way, they’re all Manchurian candidates. This is a lot more about power than it is about religion.”

  “Yes, as others have done before, Hamas and the others are using religion as a front, as a cover for their own ends, to gain and exercise power.”

  Marshall slipped his tuxedo jacket on and velcroed the red ribbon holding his Amalfi cross near the top button of his shirt in back of his neck.

  “Well, let’s go down to the dinner, the last official event in your investiture, and the last speeches. Maybe Kella is downstairs looking for you. We’ll go to Ashqelon tomorrow and try to get a lead on al Khalil. If he’s dressed as a monk and his team is using the same cover, they shouldn’t be that hard to find.”

  As Marshall walked out, Steve said, “I called Kella earlier. I left a message. I’m beginning to worry. I’m going to call again now. Hopefully, she’ll tell me she’s waiting downstairs. I’ll see you down there in a few minutes.”

  42. Brussels: Mossad Safe House

  The apartment windows were cloudy from the soft rain that had been intermittent over the previous few days. The city was dark and glistening. David Ben Tov, Salim’s Mossad case officer, his katsa, had arrived a half-hour early to do a little housekeeping. He made a mental note to get operational funding for a maid.

  The doorbell rang, and David let Salim in.

  “We haven’t heard very much from you lately. Is anything wrong, Salim?” David asked after giving him a cup of coffee. “Where is al Khalil?”

  “I told you about our conversation in Gao. He wanted to attack Israel. But I followed your suggestion, and I convinced him to focus on Iran instead.”

  “And what is al Khalil doing now? Where is he?”

  “I haven’t been in touch with him recently—I don’t know. I assume he’s probably in Niger or Mali, back to the Sahelian project. I would know if he was in Europe to give a speech.”

  “Wasn’t Israel his real target?” David asked. “Don’t you think he’s planning something against Israel?”

  He tried to look directly in Salim’s eyes, but Salim looked at a watercolor on the wall with the hint of a grin. He turned to David and felt the knot on his tie as if to make sure it was perfectly centered.

  “I don’t know that.”

  “If he is, tell me. Another conflagration in the Middle East is not going to help anyone, least of all al Khalil and the Ikhwan.”

  ***

  After the meeting, David went his through his surveillance-detection route before returning to his Israeli Embassy office on Avenue de l’Observatoire. There, he sent his report to Mossad headquarters in Tel Aviv.

  Salim’s evasive manner is troubling. The Gao meeting probably was a watershed. With a man of al Khalil’s stature and vision, nothing is out of the question. In the absence of other information, it is best to assume the worst. While we have been fortunate to keep him away until now, his focus may have changed. We need to alert our sources within our borders.

  43. Jerusalem: El Wad Street

  “Marhaba, welcome,” said Mahmoud Salah, the Hamas operations chief, to al Khalil and Hussein as they stepped into the apartment on the curved main thoroughfare in the city’s Muslim Quarter.

  “I have occasion to think of you every time I come here by way of the Jaffa Gate. Did you know that its original name was Bab al Khalil? Some people still prefer to use that name.”

  They were in a well-furnished living room. The man who had opened the door was tall, physically young, but with old eyes that had seen more than their share of violence, injustice, and suffering. Tariq and Hussein, who had changed from monks’ robes to less conspicuous slacks and shirt, sat down on a low and long banquette against the wall at Mahmoud’s invitation.

  “The time to bleed the invader, the occupier of Muslim lands is here, Alhamdu’llah. With your help, and with Allah’s blessing, peace be on Him, we are going to show the world the righteousness of our cause,” al Khalil said.

  “Alhamdu’llah. I trust your journey was pleasant and safe. We were expecting you earlier.”

  “Yes, the border control point took longer than I expected. Are you in touch with Rashid and Karim?”

  “We have received their equipment. Getting it through the tunnels under the Egyptian border took a month. Your men needed more time to assemble the planes and the ground stations. They are ready now. My entire operation has been devoted to this project. We have been able to do nothing else. When you give the green light, we will help your men to deploy them to the takeoff point. Our commitment is total. The risk is high. But I agree that the stakes are worth it.”

  “Yes. We could not do it without you. We are in your debt. But we all work for the same goals.” He paused and then asked, “What about our hostage?”

  “My men captured the American ambassador’s daughter. No problem. We can hand her over as planned.”

  Al Khalil stood up. “His daughter? Did your men know the ambassador would not be in the car? Was the American flag on the car furled or unfurled? If there was no visible flag, then your men should have known that the ambassador was not in the car.”

  Looking pointedly at Hussein, al Khalil continued. “Hussein, did you explain all this when you helped plan
the kidnapping?”

  Al Khalil again looked at Hussein and shook his head, deflecting his dissatisfaction toward his own deputy since he needed Mahmoud’s assistance.

  Mahmoud interrupted. “His daughter may be even better. An ambassador is in the government’s service. There is little sympathy for a government employee, a functionary. He is supposed to take his chances. Besides, the American policy is to not negotiate for the safety of its own people. But a young dependent, that’s something else. And a young woman, that is even better.”

  “Are the weapons ready and in place, as you and Hussein planned?” asked al Khalil.

  “Yes, they are hidden in the Christian castle. A good idea. No one ever goes there except the occasional tourist. Using the remains of the Crusader occupation is clever. As is your cover, monks who make beer and cheese,”

  He laughed.

  “It is ironic. It is right. It is an inspiration from Allah, the Most Blessed, the Merciful.”

  He grinned in appreciation.

  “The Jews are not as smart as they think,” replied al Khalil. “Tomorrow night, we will pick up the weapons. We will attack the next morning right after prayers. It will be dawn, enough light for Rashid and Karim to fly their pilotless planes, before the roads get busy, and before the workers show up at the facility. There will only be a night crew. Are your men ready, Mahmoud?”

  “Yes, it will be a great victory to the glory of Allah, the Most Blessed, the Merciful.”

  As they were leaving, al Khalil looked at Mahmoud.

  “Islam has two sides. While we submit to Allah’s Law, we also have a duty to have others submit as well. And that makes Islam a warrior’s faith. It is written, ‘It is in the nature of Islam to dominate, not to be dominated, to impose its laws on all nations and to extend its power to the entire planet It’s time for the world to see this other side, to feel the sword of our faith.”

  Hussein, who recognized the statement as one of Tariq’s favorite exhortations to his men during training and indoctrination, nodded, and Mahmoud replied automatically, “Alhamdu’llah.”