Clandestine-IsaacHooke-FreeFollowup

by Isaac Hooke

  Ethan hadn't brought his balaclava with him, but he did have his Saudi headdress, which he had recently started to wear around his neck like a ceremonial scarf. He raised it, covering the lower half of his face, bandit-style. It wasn't a look uncommon to the mujahadeen of Raqqa.

  He hurried across the road and, with a quick glance in either direction to ensure no other militants were in the area, he approached the apartment entrance. He studied the labels beside the intercom buttons. There were no obvious Chinese names. There was, however, a name plate missing beside the apartment labeled 2B. He pressed the different buttons, starting with 2B, until someone answered.

  "Allo?" someone shouted over the speaker. "Mahmud?"

  "Yes!" Ethan lied.

  The lobby door buzzed open and Ethan entered. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and approached room 2B. He knocked, taking care to stand well away from the peephole.

  He heard the shuffle of feet within and then a female voice came from the other side.

  "Allo?" She sounded middle-aged. So the scientist had brought a wife with him. Either that, or he'd been given a woman. Her accent was indeterminable so far.

  "I have a message for the Chinaman," Ethan said. He wanted to confirm that he had the correct suite, first of all, and rather than using the scientist's name, which the man may have changed, Ethan chose a derogatory term just as one of the neighbors might have done.

  "You just missed him," the woman shouted through the door. Now that he'd heard more of her, Ethan noted the distinct lack of a Chinese accent in her Arabic, lending credence to the theory that Shi had been given a local woman. Probably part of his hegira promise.

  Ethan doubted she would open the door to a stranger, not while her husband was gone. As such, there was really only one other question he could ask in that moment without arousing suspicion.

  "When will he return?" Ethan demanded.

  "Eight o'clock tonight. Who should I say called?"

  "The neighbor."

  Ethan went back to the stairwell and, trying to decide upon his next course of action, lingered there on the steps.

  He heard a door open in the main hallway beside him. Peering past the edge of the stairwell, he saw a fully-veiled head poke out of room 2C, the adjacent apartment. The faceless woman glanced both ways, forcing Ethan to duck from view.

  The door shut softly and the pad of footfalls approached his position. It sounded like one person. She was leaving the apartment unchaperoned?

  Ethan hurried up the run of stairs, moving quietly. He glanced over his shoulder twice, worried the niqab-wearing woman would spot him before he reached the intermediary platform and rounded the bend.

  He waited there, halfway between the second and third floor, and listened as those footsteps quietly descended. He carefully returned to the second floor and caught a glimpse of a black abaya as the woman rounded the bend of the platform that led to the first floor. She was definitely alone.

  He paused, and considered breaking into the apartment she had vacated next to his target. But he realized he was being presented with a far better intelligence gathering opportunity.

  Conscious that the militants were still waiting for him at the checkpoint, Ethan followed the woman to the lobby, and watched as she hesitantly opened the front door and scanned both directions. Then she hurried outside.

  Ethan moved to the glass door and was about to pursue when he realized the black ghost was headed to the bakery. She went right to the front of the line: the baker knew about her transgression, then, and was complicit in it. Ethan wondered if he could use that somehow.

  "Abu-Emad, where are you?" Abdullah's voice crackled impatiently over the radio, startling him.

  "You're breaking up, emir," Ethan said, turning the radio off. It was a lame excuse, but given the low quality of the radios and the interference from all the buildings, Abdullah would likely believe it.

  A few moments later the woman emerged from the bakery with several loaves of bread the size of manhole covers balanced on her head, beneath a plastic container filled with milk.

  She hastened across the street, almost getting struck by a Kia Rio. The driver cursed her, telling her to find a chaperon or next time he'd run her over.

  Ethan retreated up the stairwell, momentarily hiding from view.

  He heard the front door open and close, followed by the soft pads of her approach. She appeared at the bottom of the stairs and climbed halfway up before she noticed him.

  sixteen

  The black ghost froze, her body flinching. Though he couldn't see her face beneath the niqab, he could almost sense her blanch. When she spoke, Ethan heard the cold terror in her voice.

  "Please, I was just buying milk and bread for my baby." Her words, a heartbreaking whimper, were slightly muffled by the niqab.

  Ethan still had the lower half of his face veiled by the keffiyeh so that he looked like a mujahid bandit. "Come." He gestured up the stairs.

  "Please—"

  "Come!" Ethan said more firmly.

  She approached. When she passed him, the milk container on her head slipped to one side, but she steadied it with shaking, black-gloved hands.

  "Don't hurt me," she said as he followed her up the stairs.

  Ethan purposely remained silent. He couldn't let the pity he felt interfere with his job.

  At room 2C she fumbled with her keys, struggling to open the door one-handed.

  Ethan, well-aware that Abdullah and the others would be wondering where he was, relieved her of her burden so that she could use both hands.

  He followed her inside the apartment, stepping onto an intricately-patterned Turkish carpet that had seen better times—the edges were frayed, the colors faded. Ethan could see the living room and a side hallway from where he stood. A green polyester accent chair with flared arms squatted in front of a small glass coffee table. A similar polyester couch was positioned across from it. The synthetic material appeared somewhat worn, and Ethan guessed both were hand-me-downs. A polished counter separated the living room from the foyer.

  Ethan placed the bread and milk on the counter. "Go feed your baby."

  She didn't move.

  "There is no baby, is there?" he said.

  No answer.

  "That's what I thought. Where is your husband? At work?"

  "Dead."

  "Look, I'm not going to hurt you." He hesitated, then lowered his veil.

  When he revealed his face her body language shifted subtly. Her shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. She was still afraid, but she trusted him for some reason. Him, this strange mujahid who had carried a Dragunov sniper rifle into her house.

  "What do you want?" she said.

  "Your neighbor," Ethan said. "Tell me everything you know about him. Quickly."

  Her head shifted subtly to the right, indicating she knew he was referring to the Chinese national in 2B.

  "He moved in over a month ago, after the previous occupants fled. He and his wife keep to themselves, mostly. He leaves around noon every day. For work, I guess."

  "You've seen the armed escort that accompanies him?"

  She nodded slowly. "It is hard not to. Sometimes they come to his door, making a loud racket in the halls. Most of the time he goes down to meet them with his bodyguards."

  Ethan glanced toward the door and its peephole, and then at the canopied window adjoining the family room. Confined as she was to her apartment most of the day, Ethan supposed she was well-acquainted with her only windows onto the world.

  "His bodyguards?" Ethan said.

  "Yes, two Chinese men. They are with him at all times. They room in the apartment."

  Ethan rubbed his chin. Interesting. That meant his wife was likely confined to the bedroom when the scientist and his bodyguards were home. "He leaves at noon every day? Bringing his bodyguards with him?"

  "Yes. Except Sundays."

  "And he comes back with the bodyguards in the evening?"

  "Yes. Around eight o'c
lock."

  "Does he go out regularly at other times?" Ethan said. "For prayers, maybe? A nightly walk, a morning stroll?"

  The voice behind that black-shrouded face became cold. "Do you believe I spend my days glued to the spyhole at my front door? I don't know."

  "How well do you know the wife?"

  "I don't."

  Ethan rubbed his chin. "Make friends with his wife. Develop a rapport. Gain her trust."

  "Why?" she said.

  "Other than for the obvious reason that if you don't do as I ask, I'll hand you over to the Khansa'a brigade?" He retrieved a handful of Syrian pounds from his pocket and let them land, clinking, onto the countertop.

  Her veiled head turned toward the coins. "I don't want your money."

  "Take it," Ethan said. "There's more where that came from. A lot more. As long as you do what you're told."

  She remained silent. He wished he could read her expression through that black veil.

  "If you won't help me, perhaps I'll turn in the baker across the street. Knowingly selling goods to an unchaperoned woman is a crime."

  "I'll help you," she said quickly.

  "Good." Blackmail was an unfortunate part of the job, and he used it when he had to. Didn't mean he liked it. "I'll send you more instructions in a few days. You have access to the Internet?"

  "There is an Internet cafe a block to the north. I go there once every few days."

  "By yourself?"

  Her head bobbed slightly. "Yes."

  "You have no one who can act as your chaperon?"

  "My brother," she said. "But he visits only once a week."

  "What about a chaperon service?"

  "The Caliphate does not allow them. All chaperons must be related."

  Ethan chuckled softly. "That doesn't stop people from offering the service."

  "It's risky," she said. "If a militant or Hisbah checks our IDs and discovers we're unrelated..."

  "It's less risky than going out on your own."

  She didn't have a response to that. Certainly a stubborn woman.

  Ethan rubbed his forehead. "All right. Check your email by yourself, when you can. Do you have The Mujahid's Security?"

  "I have this. My husband taught me how to use it."

  "Good." He wrote down the username and password to one of his gmail aliases. "I'll expect a message from you in the draft folder in a few days, if not sooner, containing your public key." He handed her a memory stick he'd bought from a street vendor. "Run the program on here before you send me any messages. It will delete any malware on the machines you use." He'd given Mufid a similar stick a few days ago.

  Ethan turned to go, then paused, remembering something she had said. "This brother of yours. What day does he visit?"

  "Wednesdays."

  That was tomorrow. "I'd like to meet him," Ethan said, never one to miss an opportunity to acquire another asset.

  She took a step back. "No. We should... we should leave him out of this." The fear was thick in her voice.

  Ethan was beginning to suspect her brother was a rebel of some kind. Even better.

  "I insist," Ethan said. "Tomorrow, tell him you wish to be chaperoned on a date."

  "And what do I say to explain how we met?"

  "Tell him a mujahid knocked on the wrong door. Tell him I was enamored when I saw you."

  "How do you know I'm not ugly behind this veil?" she asked, a hint of challenge in her tone.

  "Maybe you are. Tell him I was enamored anyway. How often do we mujahadeen get the chance to see a woman's face these days, after all? You could look like a donkey and I'd be in love."

  "But I never answer my door without the veil," she said.

  "Just say you washed all your niqabs and only had a hijab handy. It's not a crime to answer your door without a veil."

  "Isn't it?"

  "Not if you don't let the visitor in. Tell him the mujahid insisted, and you were afraid so you opened it, just a crack, keeping your door chain latched."

  She hesitated. "This is a bad idea."

  "I'm the father of bad ideas. Tomorrow at eight. Al Rashid restaurant. Just in front of Swan Garden beside the Municipal Stadium."

  "I know the place," she said.

  Ethan grinned. "They serve amazing fatteh."

  "I don't like fatteh."

  "Well you'll like the fatteh they serve. Eight o'clock. What was your name again?"

  She hesitated. "Alzena."

  He wasn't sure he believed her. Alzena was a generic name that literally meant "the woman."

  Ethan smiled and said: "And I am Alrajil." The man.

  * * *

  At the checkpoint Abdullah and the others gave him shit for taking so long to bring the bread. "We thought you ran off to join the infidels!" Zarar joked, though his accusation wasn't so far from the truth.

  That night Ethan left Mufid an encrypted message, sending the address of the target's apartment and the time the motorcade arrived. He asked if Mufid, his son or one of their associates could covertly tail the motorcade and relay the eventual destination to him. A photo of the final building would be good, too, but not required.

  The next evening Ethan left the compound after prayers and jogged to the restaurant where he was to meet Alzena. By the time he arrived he was covered in sweat.

  Though he'd cased the spot earlier, at night the area was a completely different beast, and at first he wasn't even sure he had the correct location, as the unpowered street lamps provided no light to read the sign, nor were there any windows on the otherwise nondescript building.

  When he stepped inside, he found himself in a dining room of burnt-brick walls decorated with abstract paintings. Cylindrical light casings hung from the ceiling; lightbulbs shone dimly from within, indicating that somewhere a diesel generator was operating. Small candles inside glass bowls provided additional ambiance at each table.

  The eyes of the male patrons turned toward him, and his gaze was met with either nonchalance or fear, and sometimes contempt. He wore a traditional white robe and checkered keffiyeh, but what made it obvious he was a militant was the Dragunov he sported over one shoulder. He had considered leaving the sniper rifle behind but in the end decided to bring it. The pros of being readily identifiable as a mujahid far outweighed the cons.

  The two women present had raised their niqabs to eat, and while their faces were readily exposed, their hijabs still hid their hair. Both women appeared middle-aged and relatively plain, and didn't allow their eyes to stray from their chaperones, who sat across from them. Neither of them could have been Alzena, because their tables had seating for two alone.

  The elderly proprietor immediately rushed forward to greet him. "Salaam, salaam. Welcome to Al Rashid!" He shook Ethan's hand enthusiastically.

  "Salaam," Ethan said, smiling lightly.

  "We welcome the fighters of our great Caliphate!" the proprietor said. "Welcome with open arms!"

  "Wonderful," Ethan said.

  The man led him to a table for four and Ethan took a seat in one of the wooden chairs. The red tablecloth had the words "Coca-Cola" on it.

  The elderly proprietor hurried to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a cool towelette. Ethan used it to wipe away the sweat on his forehead and neck.

  When the man had gone, Ethan watched the doorway for a minute, then glanced at the menu. Each Arabic entry had the English equivalent written beside it: Sorcki Salad (dry cheese with thyme, tomato, onion, parsley, olive oil), Kibeh Niye (raw lamb meat mixed with bulgur wheat and spices), Makdous (tangy eggplants stuffed with walnuts, olive oil and red peppers). The latest prices were printed on paper cutouts glued to the menu—the cost of each item had increased so many times that the cutouts formed small lumps.

  Ethan's attention was drawn back to the door as a woman and man entered. The woman's niqab was still down, so he couldn't see her face. It must have been difficult for her to navigate the dark streets outside with that on, though apparently in the low light of the re
staurant she could see readily enough, because she gestured toward Ethan immediately.

  Upon seeing the man who accompanied her, he understood in that moment why Alzena hadn't wanted to have the meeting.

  Fool, he thought.

  The pair reached the table and Ethan stood.

  "As salaamu alaykum," the chaperon said in a cool voice.

  "Wa alaykuma salaam," Ethan returned with a calm he did not feel. He shook the man's hand.

  Her brother was not a rebel at all, but rather, judging from the radio harness worn over his white thawb, and the AK-47 slung over his shoulder, he was a young, strapping member of the Hisbah.

  He sat to Ethan's left, while the veiled woman took the seat across the table, also to his left so that she wouldn't reside directly across from him.

  Ethan was about to initiate small talk when the black ghost lifted her veil and his breath caught in his throat.

  A woman of her spectacular beauty was a rare, rare thing. She had it all. Perfectly symmetrical features. Prominent cheek bones. Strong, sharp nose. Flawless olive skin. Luscious, sensual lips. Almond-shaped eyes. He only wished he could see her hair, hidden as it was beneath the folds of her hijab.

  Alzena's head was lowered, but she glanced upward for a moment and when her gaze met his, Ethan felt his heart quicken. Those eyes were like two blue, brilliant sapphires, of an azure different from anything he had ever seen. They seemed fathomless, and he felt they could swallow him up if he stared for too long. And yet for all their depth, there was a sadness about them.

  The moment lasted maybe half a second before she lowered her gaze once more, her cheeks reddening slightly.

  "I am Raafe," her brother announced coldly, breaking Ethan's trance. "Alzena's brother. You are Alrajil?"

  Ethan glanced at Raafe. The Hisbah regarded him with open disdain.

  "Yes," Ethan said.

  The proprietor came over and lavished Raafe with praise. "What great works the Hisbah are doing for this city! What great changes have taken place. Allahu ahkbar!"