Clandestine-IsaacHooke-FreeFollowup

by Isaac Hooke

  "Allahu ahkbar," Raafe agreed.

  "Allahu ahkbar," Ethan echoed.

  The proprietor gave the new arrivals cool towelettes, then took the drink requests. Water for Ethan and Alzena, a coke for Raafe. Ethan also ordered the mains: chicken fatteh, kebab khashkhash, and a side of flatbread.

  "So you want to marry my sister?" Raafe said into the uncomfortable silence that followed the proprietor's departure.

  Ethan had almost forgotten: going on a date in a strictly Muslim country was tantamount to asking for a woman's hand in marriage.

  "I am considering this, yes," Ethan said. It wasn't even a lie. He couldn't resist glancing at her, though she refused to meet his gaze that time.

  "It is very unusual how you met," Raafe said.

  "It is," Ethan agreed, not exactly sure what Alzena had told her brother.

  "The Khansa'a Brigade typically arranges weddings for foreign fighters," Raafe said. "Making chaperoned meetings such as these unnecessary."

  "The women's brigade?" Ethan said. "I thought they were just sharia enforcers?"

  "They are." Raafe seemed slightly insulted, as if he thought Ethan hadn't shown the proper respect due the Khansa'a by calling them just sharia enforcers. "But they also hunt down eligible women."

  Ethan thought that was an interesting choice of words. Hunt down. "I didn't know."

  "We need to better educate the new fighters. It would avoid uncomfortable situations such as this." Raafe tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Speaking of the Khansa'a, I will have to have a talk with them. My sister's iddah ended weeks ago." That was the prescribed period of mourning a woman must observe after the death of a spouse: four lunar months and ten days. "I'm sure they will find someone perfect for her." Raafe spoke as if it were a foregone conclusion she would not marry Ethan. Which she wouldn't, of course.

  He studied Ethan for a moment. "There is something I would like to clarify. My sister says you knocked on her door. That you were at the wrong apartment."

  "That's right," Ethan said.

  "You did not go inside her apartment at any point?"

  Ethan didn't bat an eye. "No, I did not."

  "She did not unlatch the inner security chain?"

  "No she did not."

  Raafe tapped his lips skeptically. "You are one of the mujahadeen responsible for the Chinaman?"

  "No."

  "But you claimed to have knocked on the wrong door... or so my sister says. If you were not there to collect the Chinaman, then who were you visiting?"

  "A cousin."

  "Really. During the middle of the day? You are working for the Caliphate, aren't you?" He eyed Ethan's Dragunov.

  "I was in the neighborhood with my unit. I wanted to say hello."

  "In which room does this cousin of yours reside? 2D?"

  "That is none of your concern."

  "May I see your barrack papers?"

  "Again, that is none of your concern."

  Raafe smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. "Careful where you tread, Alrajil. You are balanced on a tightrope above the abyss. One misstep and you will fall. Very far."

  Thankfully the proprietor arrived right then with the non-alcoholic drinks.

  "So," Ethan said to Alzena when the proprietor had gone; he hoped to take control of the conversation and avoid any further uncomfortable questioning. "You are from Shaam?"

  Raafe was the one who answered. "Yes. She was born in Aleppo, like me. Our family moved to Raqqa when she was six."

  Ethan turned toward Alzena, trying to loop her into the discussion. "Tell me about your dearly departed husband."

  Raafe again spoke for her. "He was a mujahid from Jordan. My sister married him seven months ago. He was martyred two months later. A good man. A great one. He was the one who led me down the path of the Hisbah."

  "It must be hard for her," Ethan said.

  Raafe tilted his head, then glanced at Alzena. "Sister," Raafe prodded her. "Tell him what it is like to be the wife of a martyr. Go on."

  She looked at Raafe, then shyly transferred her gaze to Ethan. She couldn't hold his eyes for very long. "The wives of martyrs, we are admired by the other women. Respected." Her tone was neutral, her words guarded.

  Ethan waited, but she had nothing more to say.

  Thankfully the food arrived.

  "They are quick here," Raafe remarked.

  "When a Hisbah and his mujahid friend visit," Ethan muttered. "Of course they're going to be quick."

  "And what does that mean?" Raafe said.

  "Nothing. Only that they honor us." By then Ethan only wanted the awkward evening to end.

  He grabbed the tip of a lamb kebab and lifted the skewer from the khashkhash container; he bit off a chunk, tasting the parsley and pine nuts, though the flavor was almost overwhelmed by garlic and chili peppers.

  Raafe took a kebab for himself. Alzena meanwhile stared at her hands, which were folded in her lap.

  "Sister," Raafe said between bites. "Eat. Be polite."

  She looked up at Raafe, her gaze distant, blank.

  "Eat," her brother urged.

  A fire kindled in those sapphire eyes and for a moment Ethan thought she was going to defy her brother, but then she ripped away some flatbread and nibbled at the edge. Ethan realized she had been slouching forward the entire time, avoiding any contact with the backrest of her seat.

  "Which country did you say you made your hegira from again?" Raafe asked.

  "Saudi Arabia," Using the provided ladle, Ethan served himself a dollop of the fatteh. He made sure to scoop up several pieces of chicken along with the yogurt and chickpea mix, though he only took a small portion of the soggy bread at the bottom of the bowl.

  "And how did you originally contact the brothers in Shaam?"

  "Social media."

  Raafe smiled knowingly. "This is the first war that has been fought mainly over the social networks of the world. And so far, we are winning." He finished his kebab and then abruptly sat back, wiping his hands on the napkin. Ethan was expecting more grilling on his background, but instead Raafe turned toward Alzena and said, "So what do you say, sister? Will you marry him?"

  Ethan had finished his serving of fatteh and was in the process of chewing a spicy khashkhash meatball, but those words made him freeze on the spot. A part of him wanted her to say yes, though he knew it was a very bad idea.

  Alzena didn't look up. "I will ask Allah for guidance," she said emotionlessly. "But I believe my answer will be no."

  "There you have it," Raafe said smugly. "This meeting is over."

  He and his sister arose. Alzena seemed just as relieved as Ethan that the evening was finished. She lowered her veil and Raafe led her away without a word of goodbye. Ethan hadn't noticed earlier, but her walk seemed a little stiff.

  Raafe paused beside the two tables where the couples sat and asked for proof of relations. When he was satisfied that no immoral meetings were taking place, he reminded the women to lower their veils before leaving. "It is far better for women to eat at home," he told the couples. "Remember that, in the future."

  When Raafe was gone, Ethan stared at the uneaten food before him, not all that hungry anymore.

  seventeen

  Ethan stopped by an Internet cafe on the way back to the compound. The owner told him no USB sticks or other adapters were allowed, but Ethan managed to connect his device unnoticed while another customer paid.

  He checked his three gmail accounts and found a message from Alzena waiting in one of the draft folders, dated earlier that day, before the ill-fated supper. He decrypted it.

  I have approached Shi's wife and we have had tea. We are on good terms.

  Shi's wife. Ethan hadn't told her the scientist's name. That meant she was telling the truth. Good girl. It also meant the scientist wasn't using an alias.

  In his response, Ethan laid out what Alzena was to do next. Hopefully the incident at supper hadn't affected her willingness to help him.

  Before he left th
e cafe, he executed the Regin payload. Nothing like installing a little self-replicating cyberespionage malware to boost one's mood.

  When he met with William and Aaron in the cafeteria later that night, at nine-thirty, his fellow operatives revealed that both of their units were headed to Kobane the next day. Apparently more holy warriors were needed to wage jihad against the city, as the Kurds were responding with heavier than expected resistance.

  "You have two options," Ethan said. "You can disappear, and deliver what intel you can from the shadows of Raqqa. Or—"

  "Or we can go to Kobane," William said. "And strike at the enemy from the heart of their front lines."

  "I like the disappear option, myself," Aaron said. "Seems to me, we're more useful alive than dead."

  "I don't plan on being a martyr," William said quickly. "I think I've laid down a good foundation here in Raqqa. Intel will trickle in from the assets I've farmed over the next six months. Some of it will be actionable, some not. If I go to Kobane, I'll have an opportunity to obtain immediate actionable intel, firsthand. Sam has already sent word, Doug is on his way to embed with the defending Kurds. I can help him with eyes behind enemy lines."

  "Sounds like you've already made up your mind."

  "I have," William agreed.

  Ethan glanced at Aaron. "You don't have to go."

  Aaron sighed. "Shit. If William's going, guess I will, too. If only to keep his ego in check."

  "But you're not even on the same unit," Ethan said.

  "I know. But when Doug hears I stayed behind while William went to the front, I'll never hear the end of it. From the both of them."

  William glanced at Ethan. "You think you can hold down the fort while we're away?"

  "Too much work," Ethan replied in mock resignation. "I'll never manage without you guys."

  "Are you planning any operations we should know about?"

  "Not really," Ethan replied. Which was true. There wasn't anything the two of them could do to help him, not when they were leaving the city. Ethan was on his own.

  "Don't start too many fires while we're gone," Aaron said, patting him on the back.

  William and Aaron left for Kobane the next morning.

  That same evening, when he checked his account in the computer room, he found a reply waiting from Alzena. She confirmed his plans, mentioning a possible date and location. He agreed to both, thanking her. He was just glad she was still a solid asset after what had happened.

  A few evenings later he found himself seated in a restaurant called Al Jamal Qawiyya, literally The Camel Is Strong. He was playing a Jordanian named Samuel that night. Dressed in his thawb, he wore a white keffiyeh held in place by a black headband. He'd purchased the latter two items earlier that day specifically for the alias. In the washroom of a nearby cafe he'd changed, then snipped off a small portion of his beard and glued the extra hair to his eyebrows, thickening them. It was a poor man's disguise, but it was good enough for what he intended.

  Drinking tea, Shi was already seated at the table when Ethan arrived. The scientist wore a well-fitting suit with a white dress shirt and red tie that night. The checkered keffiyeh covering his hair seemed somehow wrong when paired with those clothes. The whole getup couldn't be all that comfortable in the heat—indeed, a layer of sweat slicked the man's skin. But Ethan understood why he wore it: other than the suit he had nothing going for him. His features were unremarkable. His eyes were rather unfortunately close-set, and his cheeks were pocked with acne scars. His nose looked like a steamroller had gone over it. All in all a rather unpleasant and shady-looking individual.

  Ethan noticed Shi's bodyguards seated at another table a respectful distance away. They were Asian, much better looking than Shi, also dressed in suits but without the headgear. He wondered if they were supplied by the Chinese government. He wouldn't have been surprised to learn that China was using the Islamic State to fight a proxy war against the West, given the number of other countries using proxies in the region.

  Ethan shook the scientist's hand—the man's palm was cold and clammy. A little nervous, are we?

  Ethan sat down and ordered a black tea for himself. "This is a nice place." The decor was almost exactly the same as Al Rashid, replete with red Coca-Cola table cloths and abstract paintings.

  "Yes, it is very nice," Shi said. He spoke Arabic with a heavy Chinese accent. The nasal, high-pitched, fast-paced rendition was uncannily similar to how a Chinese person might speak English, with the ends of many words unceremoniously chopped off.

  "I am so glad to be here," Ethan said. "On this great jihad. Surrounded by brothers such as yourself." He wanted Shi to feel at ease with him, and he hoped evoking the sense of brotherhood that pervaded the mujahadeen ranks would help. He had purposely left behind his rifle for the same reason—though he did have a Makarov pistol secreted in his right boot, courtesy of the barracks supply officer.

  "Yes. It is good." The scientist sounded reserved, cautious.

  Ethan smiled, sipping his tea. "Thank you for agreeing to meet me."

  Shi nodded quickly. "My wife says you are Jordanian."

  "I am Jordanian," Ethan agreed. He wasn't overly concerned about his Saudi accent. He doubted Shi would even notice.

  "And how do you know my neighbor again?"

  "I don't. Not personally, anyway. I knew her husband. I sent him an email a few weeks ago letting him know I had joined the great Caliphate, and that I was currently stationed in Raqqa. His widow answered, and explained her husband had died. I expressed my condolences and we ended up in a dialog, mutually exhorting the love we felt for our lost brother. I explained the project I was involved with back in Jordan, and the widow told me her neighbor was the wife of a great scientist. She sent me your name and I looked up some of your papers online. They were in Chinese but I was able to understand parts of them with Google Translate."

  "But my wife told me she met the neighbor only a few days ago," Shi said.

  "Yes," Ethan agreed. "Your neighbor, the widow, only told me about you a few days ago as well."

  "You worked for the Jordan University for Science and Technology?" That was part of Ethan's cover story for the meeting, which he'd researched online. The wonders of open source intelligence.

  "As a fitness professional," Ethan said. "I trained people at the university gym. My father, however, serves on the board of the Jordan Research and Training Reactor project, sponsored by the university. He is an influential man. He can get you on the board. We need people like you. People with experience. We're making a difference, working to develop nuclear and renewable energy in Jordan. My country imports ninety-six percent of its energy. It's time to break free of our dependence on foreign sources."

  "What is the name of your father again?"

  Ethan gave him the real name of one of the men involved in the reactor project. He had asked Sam to place an asset in the University's IT department in case Shi decided to email him, but she had said no such placements were forthcoming, not for a few weeks anyway. It didn't really matter—Ethan planned to glean everything he needed from the one meeting, so that by the time the scientist discovered his lie, if ever, it would be too late.

  Shi pursed his lips. "Is it not strange," he said. "That the son of an obviously rich man would come to Syria to wage jihad? Most in your position would merely send money."

  "My father has sent money, this is true. But I'm not the first son of a rich man to fight for his fellow Muslims. Nor will I be the last. I'm here to do my duty and wage jihad for what I believe in."

  Shi frowned. "Your little father approves of this?"

  Ethan felt his artificially-thickened brows draw together. Little father. Was the man purposely trying to insult him? "Of course not. But what can he do? Disown me?"

  "Maybe he will," Shi smirked. "Imagine that. The spoiled rich boy, stuck in the Islamic State, unable to go running home to father when this is done."

  "Maybe I want to stay," Ethan said.

  "After
what you said about your home country? I doubt it."

  Ethan considered refuting him, but decided to stick with the script. "You're right. I don't plan on staying. I will do my part to fight for my Muslim brothers, but if I survive I will go home."

  Shi nodded smugly. "Not a true holy warrior, then."

  "Just because I don't want to burn my passport and live in the Caliphate forever doesn't make me any less a holy warrior." Ethan let anger enter his voice. "I fight for Dawlah, but I also have another fight, in my own country. Look around you, and ask yourself, with so many in the world lining up against the Islamic State, will it really last more than five years, if that? Truly ask yourself this question. And when you come to the inescapable conclusion that most likely the Caliphate will not exist, at least not in its current form, then you will realize you have no future in this country. When it falls, and the locals round up the sympathizers like you and execute them, don't blame me. The fault for staying will be your own."

  "If you don't believe in them, why do you fight?"

  "As I said already, Muslims are dying, and I would be remiss if I didn't come here and defend them. I will do my duty and then I will go home. True, I don't believe the Caliphate will endure in the end, but that doesn't make my effort any less sincere. Or heroic."

  Shi sipped his tea for a long moment. "This board you mentioned, it pays well?"

  "Extremely."

  Shi pressed his lips together. "I will think about it."

  Score.

  Ethan finished his tea, and then, trying to keep his tone as casual and disinterested as possible, like he was merely making small talk, he said, "So what kind of work are you doing for the Caliphate?"

  The man stiffened slightly. "Many things. Too complex for a rich boy with your tiny brain to understand. For a fitness professional."

  Ethan smiled obligingly. "I know a little about nuclear science. Nuclear weapons, specifically. Take some Plutonium-239, some aircraft counterweights to use as shielding, a fishing cooler, packing foam, plastic explosives, blasting caps, firing circuits, and you have all the ingredients for a dirty bomb."

  Shi wore a sour expression. "The ingredients, yes," he said with disdain. "But it takes more than ingredients to make a bomb. And for a personal trainer, you know a suspicious amount about nuclear weapons."