Use of Force

CHAPTER 21

Abdel brewed a pot of Moroccan tea for them. It was a staple of the Maghreb and a cornerstone of daily life for its people — at home and abroad.

It combined green tea with spearmint leaves and sugar. The host poured it with great panache from several feet above the glass.

Not only did it provide a dramatic presentation, but it also aerated the liquid and created a foamy, white head likened to the prophet Mohammed’s turban.

Because the ingredients were left to steep, the flavor of the tea changed over time.

Traditionally, a guest was offered three glasses — each more flavorful than the last. It was considered extremely impolite to accept anything less than all three.

The two men took their tea Bedouin style, on a rug in the middle of the floor. Abdel set out a plate of Moroccan cookies filled with almond paste, known as Gazelle’s Horns.

After their first glass, Tursunov got down to business. While he had been placed in charge of all European operations for ISIS, Abdel was the terror organization’s point person in France. He was highly thought of. A methodical man. A good thinker. A planner.

“You communicated that you had found me a chemist,” said Tursunov.

The man nodded.

“What’s the problem then?”

“The chemist may be under surveillance.”

“So find me another one,” the Tajik ordered.

Abdel shook his head. “There isn’t time.”

The Moroccan was right. “Why do you suspect surveillance?”

“Over the last few days, several members of his mosque have been followed.”

“Followed by whom?”

Abdel shrugged. “No one knows.”

“How were they followed?” Tursunov asked. “On foot? With vehicles?”

“Both.”

Coordinated surveillance, thought the Tajik. Not good. “Tell me about the mosque. Is it considered a problem?”

“All mosques in France are considered a problem.”

“But why would authorities be surveilling this one?”

The Moroccan removed his glasses and polished them on his sleeve before putting them back on. “French intelligence monitors all mosques.”

“Mosques, yes,” replied Tursunov. “Mosque members, no. Not unless they suspect something.”

“I think we should assume French authorities suspect something.”

This was a problem the Tajik neither wanted nor needed right now. He needed razor-sharp focus on their pending operation. Nevertheless, it raised a critical question. “Is there any connection between this mosque and the brothers you have recruited for the operation here in Paris?”

“None,” Abdel replied with a shake of his head. “One team is from Roubaix, in the north of France near the border with Belgium. The other comes from Marseille, in the south. They have no connection with Paris.”

“So the only connection is you.”

The Moroccan paused. “What are you suggesting?”

Tursunov brushed his question aside. “How did you find this chemist?”

“Brother, if you think that—”

“Answer my question.”

“I find it very insulting—” Abdel began, but the Tajik cut him off again.

Tursunov was leaving nothing to chance. He had fought alongside Abdel’s brother, but that was a lot different from having gone into battle with Abdel.

The ISIS hierarchy had selected the Moroccan to oversee operations in France. He hadn’t been Tursunov’s pick. Organizations, no matter how noble or devout, made mistakes. He, on the other hand, survived by avoiding them.

“Answer my question,” he repeated.

The Moroccan looked at him. He was disappointed by his distrust. Finally, he said, “He is my nephew.”

Tursunov had been right to question him, but it was obvious the man was insulted.

Before he could say anything, Abdel added, “You bled with his father in Syria.”

The Tajik was confused. “Aziz?”

Abdel nodded. “Yes. Your chemist is the son of a lion.”

“I don’t understand. He never spoke of a son. Only a wife and daughter in Marrakesh.”

The Moroccan poured them each another glass of tea. As he did, he recounted his brother’s story. “The boy is from an earlier marriage. It was not a good match. His wife, Safaa, was beautiful, but not a good Muslim. Aziz was devout. He was also strict and they often fought.

“Much of her family lived in France. One year, she took her son for a visit and never returned home.

“She divorced Aziz from abroad, renounced her Moroccan passport, and took full French citizenship.

“Eventually, Aziz remarried. His new wife gave birth to a daughter and soon thereafter he took up arms for the jihad.”

“Did he ever see the boy again?” Tursunov asked.

“He made only one visit to France. Its decadence repulsed him, and Safaa’s family treated him quite badly.”

The Tajik could only imagine what the experience had been like for Aziz. It was understandable that the man would keep such an embarrassing chapter of his life hidden. “How did you become connected with the boy?” he asked.

“He found me. Years ago, after he had moved to Paris and had begun his university studies, he walked into this very shop. For a long time, he had wanted to reconnect with his father’s side of the family, but his mother had forbidden it.”

“And you encouraged him, as a good and pious Muslim, to pursue jihad?”

“No,” Abel replied. “As a good and pious Muslim, he came to that decision on his own. My job was to direct him. Younes is a smart, talented young man. He better serves our cause through his mind. Picking up a rifle or strapping on a suicide vest would be an insult to Allah and the gifts He has bestowed upon him. I merely made these truths clear.”

“I see,” said Tursunov, still concerned about the surveillance of the mosque and Abdel’s connection to the chemist. “Has your nephew been involved in any previous operations?”

“None.”

“How certain are you?”

“I am positive.”

“What about his Internet searches? The videos he watches online? The message boards and the chat rooms he visits?” the Tajik asked.

“I have trained the boy myself,” the Moroccan replied. “I would trust him with my life.”

Tursunov paused and then said, “Good. Because you are about to trust him with all of our lives.”