The door opened, revealing a man in gray robes and black turban. The man looked Tariq up and down, as if he were an apparition, then raised a hand for Tariq to wait outside a moment. The door clicked closed. Tariq heard muffled voices behind it, then the door reopened. He was motioned in.
Stepping inside, Tariq leaned against the wall and paused beside the door, which closed quietly. Hands clasped in front of him, he scanned the room. Abu al-Bakar, the caliph and leader of the ISIS, sat against the far wall on thick, red silk cushions, his arms resting in his lap. Tariq’s stomach knotted as he became increasingly nervous, more nervous than he’d ever been. His throat was tight and his mouth dry, his head pounding as his forehead beaded with a thin layer of cold sweat. He had no idea why he had been called or what he should say and do. Despite his jumbled emotions, Tariq was thrilled to be visiting the man he had revered. Abu al-Bakar was his true father, he believed—not his birth father, a man he despised, a weakling, an apostate who had succumbed to the world of the Christian crusaders.
Abu al-Bakar, his dark eyes set in a round face, his beard long and full, lifted his manicured hand and signaled for Tariq to wait.
As he stood absolutely still, Tariq looked upon the man as a kindly cleric, convinced al-Bakar was not, as the Christian Crusaders claimed, the leader of the world’s most vicious and successful jihadist movement since the death of Osama bin Laden. Al-Bakar spoke softly to the half dozen men seated in a circle facing him, then dismissed them, saying they’d gather again after their midday meal. The men quickly rose, murmuring to each other, then bowed and filed past Tariq and out the door.
Al-Bakar motioned for Tariq to sit beside him, waiting as Tariq settled onto a nearby cushion. They sat in silence as the barefoot aide disappeared and moments later returned to place between them a silver platter with an ornately engraved and polished silver teapot and two clear glass teacups in gleaming metal holders. The aide poured green tea into each glass cup, then turned and left. Al-Bakar lifted the lid to the ceramic sugar bowl and emptied two teaspoons of sugar into the steaming, pale liquid, stirring slowly with a small silver spoon.
Tariq did the same, his hands cool and twitching with anxiety, despite the heat.
Al-Bakar gently cleared his throat. “You have accomplished many things for the glory of Islam,” he said, stroking his beard slowly as he let his tea cool.
“God is great,” Tariq replied, raising the steaming liquid to his lips for a sip. It burned.
“We have brought the infidel scum to their knees,” al-Bakar said. “Soon all of Syria will be ours. Then, God willing, we will have Baghdad and all of Iraq.”
“The rise of the Islamic State is the will of Allah. It cannot be stopped,” Tariq said. “I pray that I can continue to serve God in this way.”
“Your execution of the foreign journalists and the other kafirs sends a message to the cowardly crusaders. We are proud of your work.”
“I am most grateful.”
“Now, you must listen carefully.”
Tariq swallowed, his throat thick with expectation, and nodded.
“I have another, even more important mission for you.”
“I am prepared to do whatever you ask.”
“God willing, we will be able to sever the head of the Great Satan.”
Chapter 5
Tariq’s feet ached. He and his men had been walking in the Sonoran Desert for two days now. The soft shuffle and tramp of their feet was monotonous, mind-numbing. Yet, the anger burning inside propelled him forward. If they have lied to me, they will surely die. Tariq clenched his teeth, mashing his lips tightly. And if they have told the truth, they will also die.
Tariq worried they’d been walking in circles. Yet, he and the other jihadis trudged through desert scrub, following their two Mexican guides, their coyotes. He liked the term coyotes because it meant the Mexicans were animals, a species of dogs. It would be easy to kill them. Tariq chuckled silently to himself. They were not like dogs, they were dogs. I will take care of them as I would any dog, but only when the time comes.
It was late in the day and the air was warm and dry, the wind and the gritty soil of this northern Mexican desert reminding him of eastern Syria. I am a Kuwaiti. I am of the desert. The desert is my home. My home? What is home? I am a jihadi now. Now and forever. I have no home on this earth. My home is in heaven with Allah.
He and his men had traveled far, first crossing the border from Syria into Turkey, then riding in panel vans to Istanbul. There, they’d shed their jihadi garb and bought jeans and western shirts in the sprawling, open air markets where no one gave them a second glance and gladly took their cash. They had arranged for airline tickets, and using forged passports, had flown from Istanbul to Mexico City, a nerve-wracking, circuitous route with connections in Madrid, then Caracas, and on to Mexico City. But it had worked. They had purchased round-trip tickets to avoid suspicion, though they had no intention of returning. They were met at the Mexico City’s Benito Juarez airport by their cartel handlers and taken to a hotel near the airport. The next day they’d flown north Hermosillo, where two vans had taken them to the town of Altar. It had all gone smoothly. In’shallah.
Once at Altar, their coyote, José, had balked when Tariq said he needed to buy weapons. It was not part of his agreement, José said. He was only going to take them across the border. He was not going to get involved in any other business.
José was a solid man, with thick salt-and-pepper hair, curly sideburns widening as they descended his cheeks. He wore a straw cowboy hat and had the beginnings of a belly. José’s thick thighs filled his jeans from the years of walking. His scuffed hiking shoes seemed molded to his feet. José had a partner, a slighter, thinner version of himself, a man named Fernando, who said little but seemed to know José’s every thought and move.
At the clothing store in Altar, Tariq and his men bought the clothes and backpacks to make them look like Mexican migrants. Each now wore a baseball cap, desert camouflaged cargo pants and a hooded camouflaged sweatshirt. In each backpack was a gallon jug of water, a package of tortillas, and plenty of dried beef. What did they call it? Jerky? A stupid name.
José had no choice, Tariq had said. He and his men needed weapons and José would get them. Otherwise, Tariq said, he would find someone else to take them across the border. After calls back to Syria and calls to José’s cartel bosses, a dozen AK-47 pistols were secured, each light, short-barreled, and reliable. Tariq preferred them, having used them in Syria. Each had a pistol grip and wooden front grip, making it easy to control as the barrel spewed death and destruction. Best of all, the weapons came with a 30-round magazine and each man carried a dozen magazines. Tariq touched his nine-millimeter Beretta, the one he carried in the waistband of his pants. He had another in his backpack.
Tariq trailed José along the barely discernable path around the spindly bushes and squat trees dotting the landscape, keeping back a short distance. Tariq didn’t like José, whose face remained hidden under a baseball cap and behind sunglasses. José also carried a 9 mm pistol in a black nylon holster attached to his belt at his right hip. Tariq knew José would put up a good fight, given the chance. He’d take José by surprise.
But not now. He needed José—at least until they crossed the border. He didn’t trust José and knew José didn’t trust him either. José was arrogant, a mental condition that affected most western infidels, and the Mexicans were the worst. They had treated Tariq and his men like dogs. But,Tariq thought, they are the dogs and I know what to do with dogs.
José stopped suddenly, turned and stared at Tariq, then motioned to a cluster of small bushes that offered mottled shade. “We rest here for a couple of hours,” he said.
Tariq shook his head in disgust, wanting to continue the trek. But a pang of hunger pierced his stomach. Maybe José was right. He drew a breath, looked to the others, and speaking in Arabic, said, “Time to res
t. Drink water. Eat something.” Tariq dropped his backpack in the thin shade of a desert bush. Once settled on the dirt, Tariq twisted the top from his nearly empty water jug and gulped thirstily.
The water was warm and tasted of plastic. Tariq longed for the crisp, cold water that came from the deep desert wells. It refreshed the lips, the mouth, and the soul, he thought. God’s water. He had an impulse to spit out the warm water, but thought better of it, knowing that he needed every drop for the rest of the journey. He replaced the lid and pushed the jug into his pack. Tariq scrambled over to José, settled beside him, and asked, “How much further?”
“Be patient, my friend,” José said. “It is hot now and necessary for us to rest.”
Tariq had a mission and did not want to waste time. I won’t take orders from you much longer. He then growled, “Answer my question! How much further?”
José winced, irritated at the tone in Tariq’s voice. José pulled the sunglasses from his face, then glanced at the sky as if asking God for relief. He dropped his gaze to the horizon, squinted as he scanned the desert terrain, then said, “Two hours. Maybe three.”
“That’s what you said three hours ago, Mexican!” Tariq barked. “You guaranteed that we would cross in two days. It has been two days. Your time is finished.”
José glared, his dark eyes glistening. “We wait until dark,” he said with finality. “Otherwise la migra will see us.” He paused, knowing Tariq understood he was referring to the US Border Patrol. “Is that what you want?”
Tariq clenched his jaw, exhaled slowly, and forced himself to be calm. “If they find us, you’re a dead man,” he said, then looked at Fernando. “Him, too.”
José narrowed his eyes, struggling to contain his anger. He slowly moved his hand to his sidearm.
Tariq yanked his own pistol from his waistband and thrust it inches from José’s face.
José slowly raised his right hand and smiled as he showed Tariq his empty palm. “Get some rest,” he said. “Then we will go.”
Tariq glared for a long moment, lowered his pistol, and returned to the shade of his bush. Again, he turned to his men, and raising his hands, said, “It is time for us to pray.”
There was no dissent. His men had been carefully picked for their dedication and devotion to Islam, to ISIS, and to Abu al-Bakar. Tariq pulled his thin prayer rug from his backpack, unfurled it with a shake, and spread it on the dirt toward what he guessed was the direction of Mecca. Satisfied, he stood at one end of the rug, hands clasped in front, and with eyes closed, silently recited his prayers. He dropped to his knees, and with his eyes still closed, bent forward to press his forehead to the rug.
His prayers finished, Tariq spread the rug beside his backpack. Despite his exhaustion and his distrust of José, Tariq lay on the rug, resting his head against his backpack. He was reluctant to close his eyes, but fatigue overcame him. As the warm desert breeze brushed his cheeks, he dreamt of walking on the desert sands of his native Kuwait. He dreamt he was alone and felt the desert wind against his robes as he trekked across crusted dirt and rocks. He heard the voice of his father calling him, and even as he felt the tug of that ancient longing, his anger smoldered. Dressed in western clothes, his father reached out for him. As Tariq watched unmoved by his father’s appeal, the man’s image faded.
Then in his dream, Tariq heard a soft voice calling his name, like a whisper, yet laden with yearning and sadness. Tariq strained, and seeing the face of his fiancé, his desire for her burned hot. But he couldn’t move. He was frozen in place, and as much as he strained, he couldn’t reach her. She was a shimmering apparition, her silky scarfs caressing her face, revealing only her eyes, dark and mysterious. He called out, “Fiona, Fiona.”
Tariq jerked awake to the sound of his own voice. He blinked and looked around. The dream gone, but the image of Fiona lingered. But his anger soon returned, stronger than ever, as he remembered he’d been banned from traveling to see her. The British government had refused to let him travel from England to Kuwait so he could marry Fiona due to his known affiliations with Islamic fundamentalists. Fiona’s family then decided Tariq was too much of a risk for her. Their daughter could not marry him, despite the protests lodged by Tariq’s father that his son’s problems with immigration authorities were only a misunderstanding.
Tariq sat up and looked around to get his bearings in the waning light of the day. The sun had set and the ache and tiredness had melted from Tariq’s feet and legs.
José looked at Tariq and nodded. “We can go now, since you are in such a hurry.”
Tariq stood and called to his men, “We must go.”
Chapter 6
The sun had dropped below the western horizon, painting the sky orange and red. The air was cooler, almost comfortable. They’d been walking for two days and a night, falling easily into the rhythm of the slow, steady trek across the desert. Tariq lifted his eyes to the fading sky and thanked Allah that so far, nothing had gone wrong. “Allah akhbar,” he whispered.
Soon the shadows were gone, along with the light. Tariq felt like he was drowning in a sea of numbness and monotony, unsure of where he was or where he was going. We must be in the US by now. He had studied the maps and knew that once they had entered the low, rugged mountains with the stunted and twisted pine trees, they were at the border. How long have we been in this terrain? Why has José said nothing about it to me?
Tariq pressed the button at the side of his wrist watch and the dial glowed green for a moment, then faded. 9:43 p.m. They’d been walking for nearly three hours since their last break. Of course they were in the US now, because they’d walked up and down the sides of low mountains, snaking between the hills, now humps in the darkness. Tariq turned to his comrades, all shadowy figures shuffling behind him.
Tariq froze at the ominous sound of a helicopter thudding through the night sky. His heart pounded, his throat tightened.
José waved his hands and shouted, “Corréis! Escondéis! Run! Hide!”
Tariq mimicked José, waving to the others to disperse and hide. His men knew what to do and dove under the stubby trees and bushes, huddling against rocks—anything they could find. Tariq crouched under a bush, closed his eyes, and covered his ears as a Black Hawk chopper swooped low, dust and grit swirling and pelting his face. The chopper disappeared into the distance, then turned for another pass. Tariq pulled out his pistol and scrambled over to José who crouched under a small tree. Tariq pointed his gun at José’s head. “They’ve found us!” Tariq growled.
José stared, his eyes wide with fear. His left hand extended, José’s right hand hovered above his holstered pistol.
“Don’t!” Tariq growled with a shake of his head.
José’s hand quivered an inch above the grip, his breath short.
Tariq jammed the gun barrel against José’s chest.
José slowly raised his right hand. “Don’t … kill … me,” he said in his halting English. “I beg of you. I have a family.” José glanced anxiously to the dark sky as the helicopter thudded closer, its bright spotlight sweeping the ground with stark white light.
Tariq squinted as the chopper moved closer, like an airborne demon thundering through the night.
Tariq caught movement in the corner of his eye as José grabbed for the pistol at his side. Tariq reflexively pumped two rounds into José’s chest, the crack-crack of the shots muffled by sounds of the approaching Black Hawk.
The chopper arched upwards, the spotlight having found its prey, then turned in a tight circle and hovered for a moment over Tariq and his men, floating and churning the air with dust and grit. The chopper’s spotlight cast a cone of intense white light on the men cowering beneath trees and bushes, their heads down and covered with camouflaged hoodies.
Dust swirled as Fernando, the second Mexican coyote, crawled on his hands and knees to the dying José. He stopped and looked in horror at Jo
sé’s bloody chest. He raised one hand in surrender, and using the other to shade his eyes from the bright spotlight, squinted and blinked in the swirling air.
Tariq pointed the Beretta at Fernando and shouted, “How far away to the pickup point?”
Fernando gestured to the distance, waving and pointing. “No lejo. Not far! Alla! Alla! There! There! Por favor, señor. Please,” he said, begging Tariq not to kill him.
Tariq fired. Fernando’s head snapped backwards, his body twisting and falling to the dirt.
At the sound of the gunshots, the Black Hawk lifted and turned sharply away. After retreating about one hundred yards, it swiveled back toward them, hovering at a safer distance and angling the spotlight again at Tariq and his men.
Tariq ducked behind a bush, and sinking a hand inside his backpack, extracted his AK-47 pistol. His back to the light, he fished a banana clip from his pack and snapped it tight into the weapon. Shading his eyes with one hand, he shouted for his men to grab their weapons. The chopper again floated toward them as the spotlight washed the ground.
Tariq caught movement as five or six Border Patrol agents emerged from the shadows, weapons drawn.
“Alto! Alto! Manos arriba!” the first agent shouted.
“Stop. Put your hands up,” another shouted.
Tariq wheeled, and holding his AK-47 at his side, shouted to the others in Arabic. “Kill them!”
Shots erupted, Tariq’s men firing and killing three of the green-clad agents. The remaining agents returned fire, sending one of Tariq’s men to the ground, clutching his chest.
Holding his AK-47 pistol at his side, his left hand grabbing the barrel guard, Tariq squeezed off a burst of three shots, the bullets pinging as they penetrated the metal skin covering the nose of the chopper. The spotlight still shined. He fired another burst and the chopper’s spotlight went dark.
Enemy of the People Page 3