The fact that Kabir spent much of the filming for Clanging of the Swords curled up in a fetal position around his camera begging unseen snipers not to kill him means that he is temporarily working full-time from his cubicle on other people’s propaganda—and it’s what he has seen second-hand that has begun to crumble his faith in the Islamic Republic.
When you watch a stoning or a beheading in person, Kabir reflects, it’s easy enough to stay in the right frame of mind—to think appropriate thoughts in the company of brothers, your blood pumping, comradeship thick in the air. When you repeatedly watch the same thing on a computer screen, however, as you edit and upload and append appropriate sentiments to someone else’s capture of events, it suddenly starts to seem…what, exactly?
Kabir doesn’t like to say. Insane, psychopathic, deranged, bonkers, wrong? Words like this creep dangerously towards the front of his brain and the tip of his tongue. He bites them back and keeps working. He has started grinding his teeth, which isn’t ideal given that dentistry tends towards the basic here. A crown has dislodged from one at the back, and its exposed nerve jolts faintly with every breath. He still takes the same number of pills, but they no longer touch the whispering parts of his brain.
This—a voice mutters in his head, sounding more than a little like his late cousin—isn’t great or glorious or sacred or cool. It’s a bunch of pricks boasting about how much they like killing people. It’s basically your dad shouting at the telly. But with weaponry. Kabir tells his dead cousin to shut up, tells himself he needs to stop talking to dead people, then hunches determinedly over his laptop and keeps fiddling with sliders and fade effects.
The scene onscreen runs forwards and backwards in time as he trails one finger across the trackpad, flicking between life and death. To his intended audience, it should bring fear and awe in various proportions, depending on whether they’re viewing from inside the Islamic Republic (in which case, fear is the primary aim) or from among the diaspora of potential recruits (in which case the urge to inflict fear on others is preferable).
Kabir doesn’t have a plan, yet, but he has become aware that some other foreigners have also begun covertly expressing an interest in not spending the rest of their lives here. This is another reason why there have been fewer video-game, whoring and recreation sessions. One of his closer comrades from Germany, an idealist with a clear preference for the “helping fellow Sunnis” aspect of their mission over “killing everyone else,” has recently been in daily contact with his sister back in Berlin—but Kabir has a shrewd notion that this particular sister doesn’t exist.
Muhammed the German, as he’s known, exchanges detailed imprecations with her almost every day via Facebook, and claims he is close to recruiting her to the cause. But he’s also careful to do all his typing discreetly, when their superiors aren’t around. If it turns out that Muhammed’s sister needs to be met on the Turkish border, and that Muhammed alone can be trusted to provide reassurance and bring her across, Kabir suspects this may be the last he sees of his friend—unless he can get involved in the escort gig.
Outside, in the conquered maze of Raqqa, winter days are a memory: desert heat sears off brick and concrete, driving children into the shade of courtyards to play in timid rabbles. Many of the schools have been shut down for being insufficiently Islamic, which creates a kind of holiday-meets-prison-camp feel. When he’s not hunkered underground, Kabir has been told to hand out sweets and small change, the better to herd young volunteers towards training camps. He has edited videos shot inside these, too: one heart-warming scene of pre-teens executing sheep was especially memorable.
The state of its troops’ training is just one of many sore spots Kabir wishes he hadn’t identified within the Islamic Republic. For a start, there’s an embarrassing skills shortage when it comes to the infrastructure of international jihad. Among those who wish to bring death and terror to the infidel in destinations such as London, Paris, New York and Berlin, there are far too many whose enthusiasm outweighs their precision: bomb-makers whose creations explode prematurely in pointless martyrdom; conspirators who fail to coordinate their timings, and turn up early and under-prepared; improvisers of explosive devices who only succeed in blowing off their own hands; drivers who don’t know their way around the cities they’re supposed to be terrorizing. Moreover, skilled trainers and practitioners are targeted and killed at a steady rate by enemy nations (which is basically everyone), putting a premium on those who have been around long enough to know what they are doing.
Kabir has also experienced particular unpleasantness around one message in his care. At the start of this month, Caliph Ibrahim gave a speech from the site of their most glorious conquest, Mosul, announcing a worldwide caliphate in which all humanity must come together—either as believers or subjugated others. Every devout Muslim male, assuming they wish to belong to the first of these categories, is thus instructed to begin unceasing conflict against the second.
Together with Muhammed the German, two surly Pakistanis and Google Translate, Kabir has helped transcribe, translate, reformat and distribute Caliph Ibrahim’s inspirational message across the world. Unfortunately, it has also fallen to him to report back some of the less-than-enthused regional reactions it has received, and his superiors don’t take these things well. The Army of Islam, a worthless rival group of Islamists, had the nerve to call Ibrahim “delusional,” while other Sunni insurgents have muttered unhelpful things about megalomania, self-deception and the sowing of divisions. Kabir couldn’t possibly comment—at least, not without having his tongue ripped out of his living throat—but global unity doesn’t seem to have got notably nearer.
Onscreen, he is watching footage of another senior Sunni cleric calling Caliph Ibrahim an overreaching idiot unworthy of his self-appointed titles. It’s one among dozens of broadcasts from Qatar that he’s obliged to check and is proving especially colorful in its commentary. Best not to flag up this one until he’s certain the management are in a robust mood. He probes at his back tooth with his tongue. The rot is setting in.
Eleven
Odi turns out to be right about the food. Azi expected, at best, the German equivalent of his garden shed—and at worst, a blindfold and precautionary beating. Instead, he got five minutes of pointedly companionable walking, then the keys to a small apartment three blocks from the coffee shop.
They walk up to the top floor of a handsome building colonnaded over the pavement. Everything in it is new, every surface a clean line and pale shade. The fridge has been stocked in accordance with continental tastes: cold meats, eggs, salad, cheese, a bar of posh milk chocolate with a cow on it. There is a loaf of fresh bread, butter, coffee ready to brew. Even by the standards of the last week, it is not what he expected.
“This seems like a pretty comfy pad for city-center enhanced interrogations.”
“Okay, Azi, we can cut the crap. You are working for us—by which I mean myself, Anna, and what you might call our back-office staff. I know that you have come here under duress, but I expect you to be professional. You may even enjoy it. On the table is your new laptop, and on it are files that will spell out most details in due course. You will depart to pick up Munira in just over an hour, leaving time for a shower, a change of clothes, some food and a preparatory briefing. In that order. Any urgent questions?”
Azi opens his mouth, closes it, and selects the most obvious inquiries from the dozen he could pose.
“What is this place? And who exactly are you working for?”
“For the purposes of our story, this is my flat. And you are my guest. Pretty cushy, no? There is a fine view of the Französischer Dom, the French cathedral. Although, actually, it has never been a cathedral.”
“And you are—?”
“Myself, I am your great mate Odi, aiding you in your hour of need. So far as Munira is concerned, I am affluent, discreet and loyal. So far as you are concerned, I am part of a taskforce interested in the intersection between technology and terro
rism. We are small, independent, and we know what we are doing. Look around, my friend. I meant it when I said you should relax. Nobody knows you are here apart from us.”
Azi nods. “And?”
“And nothing. We have considerable resources, but we face even more considerable challenges. You should be flattered to be joining our little organization. It is very well thought of.”
“Oh, I’m really honored. So I should call you, collectively—?”
“There is no need to call us anything. Please, take a moment and focus. This is the truth you will live: my flat, our friendship. As you can see from these surroundings, I have done well since leaving London! I am making this accommodation available, you and Munira are going to work from here, and we will keep an extremely close eye on you. She must be put at ease, drawn into your confidence. Your exploits with the members of Defiance will also come in useful.”
Azi looks around. The comfort of the flat is almost narcotic after the last twenty-four hours. He wants to believe in it. Hot water, food, drink; stillness and silence; a desk with a view and an Ethernet port. More than anything, he realizes, he is hungry to touch the sleek new laptop lying unopened on the desk—to power it up and refill the blocked channels of his mind. It’s a trap. It’s an opportunity. It’s achingly odd, because he is excluded from all the information that might turn this scenario into sense.
“Odi, I’m going to take a shower. Then I’m going to eat, then I’m going to drink a lot of coffee. Only then will I even attempt to get my head around all of this. Okay?”
“But of course, my friend. As long as you stick to our timings, please make yourself at home. There are clean clothes in the master bedroom, in the chest of drawers. They will fit.”
“Now that is just fucking sinister.”
“We aim to please.”
Ten minutes later, fresh from the shower and trying to choose between the crinkled sportswear in his rucksack and the crisp threads in his sinister chest of drawers, Azi finds himself thinking about magic.
Magic played a big part in Azi and his friend Ad’s youthful imaginations, both because it was the only thing either of them ever did that impressed (some) girls—at least until Ad pushed his luck with the places the coins reappeared—and because it employed a similar artistry to hacking. Magic was what someone saw when you hijacked their assumptions, bypassing the bit of the brain that reasoned out explanations. Arthur C. Clarke had things exactly wrong. Advanced technology isn’t indistinguishable from magic. There are just two kinds of person: those who understand how something is done, and those who don’t.
Clearly there are many important things he doesn’t yet know. But where are they to be found? How tightly locked down is his new life? Questions buzz like insects, ugly at the edge of vision. Somewhere, somehow, something will have been overlooked—an absence within which magic can be made. The only problem is, they have many months’ head start on him, massive resources, a deep knowledge of his past and total control over his physical and economic wellbeing. Not to mention an inscrutably dangerous German pretending to be his best mate.
As if on cue, Odi leans into the room, gazing with exaggerated ease at Azi’s fluster. “Coffee is brewing, and you may help yourself to food. We have forty-five minutes to go through what is on the laptop, and to talk over a few things. Then you will get your friend. Then we will all have dinner.”
Azi nods, dresses in his own old clothes and heads into the living room. Odi is now seated at a spotless glass table, with the open laptop beside two cups of black coffee. Gesturing Azi to sit beside him, Odi turns the screen towards them.
“First things first. You will keep the NADIR phone on you at all times. No other devices leave or come into this flat. I will take care of the machine Munira has brought with her. We have military-grade satellite and microwave-based networks, so please do not consider mucking around. Now, look at this.”
Odi hovers the mouse over a minimized browser, then clicks. A selection of open webpages leaps into view. To Azi’s astonishment, they all show variations on the same thing: the Defiance forums frequented by Azi’s alter ego, Jim. Jim is both logged in and looks to have been highly active during the last twenty-four hours, which can only mean one thing: someone else has been pulling the strings of Azi’s puppet. And they’ve been doing an excellent job.
“That’s my…that’s the fake identity I’ve been working on. You’ve been logging in as him?”
Odi nods. “Yes indeed. Munira knows how to access Gomorrah. We are sure of this, although the information lives only inside her head: why else would the jihadis be so very keen to kill her? She knows how to access the dark marketplace, but Gomorrah will never let someone like her in. They grant access only to very particular people. The verified agents of totalitarian governments, of well-funded and discreet criminal enterprises, of parties of a certain political persuasion. Do you see where this is going?”
Azi thinks he does, but he wants Odi to spell it out. He shrugs. Odi is unimpressed.
“Playing the fool does not suit you. Jim will be our way into Gomorrah. Munira will tell you the details, Defiance will provide Jim with the necessary legitimacy, then Jim will be our access. So long as she confides in you, all will be well.”
Put like this, it sounds beautifully simple—which means, Azi decides, that almost all of it is in fact horribly complex. “And then?” he asks.
“Then nothing. It is only Munira who knows about you, besides us. So perhaps you would like to return home? She will need our protection, but you will be a free agent. Albeit one under close supervision.”
Azi sips his coffee, determined not to express his shock at the thought of returning home—that this might even be an option. Once again, it’s something he can’t afford to start believing in. Pursing his lips, Odi taps the mouse a few more times, highlighting blocks of text.
“Here are the most recent messages I have sent, volunteering Jim for a prominent piece of online campaigning. He is an impressive piece of work, Azi, and every bit as much an asset as you are. Online anonymity is strictly for amateurs, these days. Arms dealing, terrorism, trafficking—all of it works on a first-name basis.” He pauses, looking wistful. “It is really too bad. Unlike the Russians and Chinese, we do not have armies of fake citizens ready for service. You will need to convince her that breaking into Gomorrah is the only way she can learn about those tracking her—the only way to gain some kind of evidence, some bargaining chips.”
“So why didn’t Munira go to the proper authorities already?” Azi asks. “Why would she go on the run, and approach me, rather than just go direct to you guys—”
Odi raises a cautionary finger. “It is very charming that you cannot answer those questions yourself. Why might the cousin of two known terrorists not wish to approach her government with vague evidence of a planned attack, gleaned through her own theft of data from a senior agent of the Islamic Republic? Why might she be fearful, desperate and distrustful of anyone other than a few fellow-hackers?” He gives Azi a careful, unkind look. “Until we stepped in, the famous AZ was quite willing to abandon Sigma to her fate. The limits of trust, yes? This is why we play our games. This is why you will do what I tell you.”
Azi’s chest tightens. He doesn’t like being reminded that he was ready to walk away, or that all his caution failed to protect him. Then again, Odi has revealed far more than Munira has told him so far: that she stole information from a senior Islamic Republic agent, that she probably knows how to access Gomorrah. Gathering what courage he can, Azi decides to see how far Odi can be pushed.
“Munira isn’t stupid, you know. She’s going to think this is weird.”
“You do not trust me?”
“Why would I trust you? Fear, yes. Trust—that’s a long way away. How did you find me in the first place?”
“I have told you what is happening. This is not a time for debate.”
“I see that, yeah. But I also see problems. There are some things I need to know
.”
Odi stands up, the smile on his face becoming fixed. “It is not your job to see problems. You do not know enough to see anything. It is your job to listen carefully and to play your part.”
Not knowing what else to do, unsure what he wishes to say, Azi also stands up. “Come on, you can tell me something, can’t you? I mean—”
With a gentle movement of his chin, Odi looks Azi up and down—then launches an open-handed blow into the center of his chest.
Azi collapses backwards. It’s as if someone is standing on his ribcage, stamping the air out of his lungs. He cramps into the carpet, his face pressed into its thick pile, twitching with useless adrenaline. It smells of chemicals, as if some deep stain has only recently been removed. Odi’s voice has become even more precisely articulated, its edges sharp as knives.
“You have asked your questions. Here is your answer. You do what I tell you, because fuck you. You read your notes and you play your part, because fuck you. When I tell you to do things, you do them. Because, fuck you. Stand up.”
“C-can’t. Can’t.” Azi is spluttering. After years of living online, he had almost forgotten how excruciating real-world consequences can be.
“On your feet. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth.”
Odi hauls Azi to his feet, without effort, as if something tedious but useful has been got out of the way.
“Don’t let this worry you, Azi. It is very important that you know I am serious. That is all. Drink some coffee, clear your head. Eat something. Then bring Munira here.”
Twelve
Munira was there: stood outside Checkpoint Charlie, looking unlike anyone Azi might walk up to and casually kiss upon one cheek. Yet it almost happened like that—apart from the kiss, which he fumbled into a handshake. Nevertheless, she was waiting, he was on time, and they left together.
The Gomorrah Gambit Page 7