Use of Force

CHAPTER 20

Tursunov chose a small hotel in the twelfth arrondissement near the Gare de Lyon. It was in the eastern part of the city, north of the Seine. There were lots of tourists and plenty of turnover. It was an easy neighborhood to disappear in.

He had begun his morning as he always did. After conducting a partial ablution, he had directed himself toward Mecca, had prayed, and then begun his exercises. The Americans and the Russians had been sticklers for physical fitness. In the quiet of his room, he had carried out thirty minutes of intense push-ups, sit-ups, chin-ups, and dips.

When his workout was complete, he had showered, dressed, and left the hotel. Near the train station was a café with an outdoor table that allowed smoking. He had taken a table and ordered un serré—a shot of the blackest coffee you could get in Paris.

Unwrapping a pack of Gauloises, he had lit his first cigarette of the day and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. The nicotine relaxed him and helped him focus.

He had been taught that like his body, his mind was also a weapon. It was yet another area in which his Russian and American instructors agreed.

Both countries had taken an active interest in counterterrorism measures in Tajikistan. As an elite operator, he had been invited to travel abroad and train with their Special Forces units. He had grabbed the opportunity with both hands.

He learned as much traveling to Russia as he did traveling to the United States. He hadn’t spent much time outside Tajikistan before that. They had been eye-opening experiences.

Instead of developing a greater appreciation for and deeper commitment to his homeland, he began to loathe the Tajik government. Everything was corrupt — from the President, with his grand palace in Dushanbe designed to look like the American White House on steroids, to his own command structure within the National Police Force.

As he had exhaled a trail of smoke into the air, his eyes had tracked the people moving up and down both sides of the street. He had seen a police officer chatting with a grocer. He had wondered if it was about money.

In Tajikistan, everyone was on the take — even the cops. But while they took just a little, the politicians took a ton and lived like royalty.

Everything was based on a pecking order. You knew where you stood based on your license plates. The president had 8888. His family was just beneath him. The numbers, along with a person’s status, dropped from there.

Tajikistan was such a poor country that just to make ends meet, street cops resorted to shaking down citizens by “arresting” their cars if they didn’t have the right safety equipment onboard. Tajiks would have to bribe the officers on the spot, or face an even steeper payment when they went to retrieve their vehicles from the government impound facility. He hated Tajikistan.

The more corruption he saw, particularly from fellow Muslims, the angrier he became. It got to the point where he couldn’t even stand to attend mosque with cops or politicians.

He had searched for good, pure men of faith. He had found them in a small religious center outside the capital. It was there that his introduction to true Islam began, and his passion to wage jihad in the name of Allah was ignited.

Removing a small map of Paris from his coat pocket, he established where he was and planned his route. There were a handful of sights he had wanted to see before his afternoon meeting.

After paying for his coffee, he headed west toward Notre Dame. As expected, in the wake of the attack at Santiago de Compostela in Spain, France had beefed up security at its major churches.

Security had also been stepped up at the Louvre museum and the Pompidou Center, the Musée d’Orsay and the Eiffel Tower. The French authorities were everywhere they should be, which was exactly what Tursunov had wanted.

Moving around the city, he took great pains to make sure he wasn’t being followed. By the time he made it to the sprawling flea market north of Paris, it was late afternoon.

There was still a sea of people milling about. Their faces were a mix of white, brown, and black — European, North African, sub-Saharan. The smell of roasting meats, of shawarma and kebabs, wafted through the air from food carts out on the street.

He had committed the shop’s name and location to memory — the matchbook cover with the information long since discarded.

It was in a section, deep within the market, that was a maze of tiny alleys and passageways. The sign above the door was made from hammered copper, weathered to a chalky-green patina — L’Ancienne.

When he opened the door, an electronic bell chimed, alerting the owner to his arrival.

The small shop looked like an Arab souk had exploded inside someone’s garage. Hand-crafted pots and pans hung from beams across the ceiling. A pile of Persian carpets sat stacked shoulder high. Hookah pipes were organized in neat rows like a company of soldiers. There was clay pottery next to delicate side tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

Bolts of jewel-colored silk leaned against intricately carved wooden dressing screens. Dusty mirrors framed in polished silver hung alongside vintage Janbiya daggers from Arabia. Nearby hung ornate flintlock rifles clad with ivory from the time of the Ottoman Turks.

The store even smelled as if it came from another era — as if he hadn’t stepped through a door in Paris, but rather through the flaps of a trader’s tent somewhere along the ancient spice route.

An older man of Moroccan descent greeted him. He wore a crocheted prayer cap, thick black glasses, and walked with a limp.

Tursunov handed him a business card from a Dutch antiques dealer. On the back was written the name of a nearby boutique hotel, Maison Souquet.

“Is it true that their rooms are named after famous courtesans?” the man asked.

“Yes, but their hammam more than makes up for it,” Tursunov replied. The Maison Souquet was known not only for its private indoor pool, but for its hammam, or Turkish-style bath, as well.

Having presented the business card and responded correctly to the man’s question, Tursunov’s authentication was complete.

“As-sala-mu ‘alaykum,” the man offered. Peace be upon you.

“Wa ‘alaykum al-salaam,” Tursunov replied. And unto you peace.

The man stepped past him, locked the door, and turned the sign so that it read Fermé. Closed.

He pulled the draperies across the front windows, then stepped back and embraced his guest.

“Welcome to Paris, brother.”

Tursunov returned his embrace. “Thank you, brother.”

“I am Abdel.”

The man was nervous. Tursunov smiled. “Abdel El Fassi. Yes, I know you.”

“And you knew my brother,” he replied. “Aziz. You fought together for the Caliphate in Syria.”

“We did. Your brother was a great warrior. A lion.”

Abdel beamed with pride. “Will you take some refreshment?”

A meteor could be screaming toward the earth and the Arabs would still want to stop to take tea.

“Is everything ready?” Tursunov asked.

“Yes. The Paris operation is ready.”

That was a relief, but only partially. “What about the new chemist I need?”

The Moroccan forced a smile. “Let’s take some refreshment.”

Tursunov didn’t smile back. He didn’t want refreshment. He wanted his chemist. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Abdel shifted uncomfortably. “There is a problem.”