Uday located the new command center, and was ushered inside by a guard. The place had been set up only yesterday, in the shell of an ancient Christian church—regardless of faith, houses of worship were generally left untargeted. Inside he found an agitated Chadeh backed by a half-dozen others, most of whom Uday recognized. The mood was less that of a meeting than one of a tribunal.
Chadeh briefly explained the problem, then asked, “When did we send Malika the information on these four men?”
Uday had had the foresight to bring his laptop. He took a seat at a table and was soon referencing his communications log. “I sent her a contact number for the cell in Marseille almost two months ago.”
“And now these men end up dead halfway around the world? What was she thinking?”
It was a purely rhetorical question, but with Chadeh hovering behind him, Uday felt an urge to reply. “You believe Malika is responsible for this?” Much of the Shura Council was in attendance, and Uday felt everyone’s eyes on him. For lack of a better target, the messenger was being blamed. He felt compelled to keep talking. “I can’t say if she ever made contact with these men. The South China Sea is not an area of operations we’ve discussed with her … and I know nothing of any missions there.”
“We keep contacts with groups in Indonesia, Malaysia, and Thailand, do we not?”
“We have loose associations, yes, but our footprint in the Philippines is virtually nil. The place where this happened, on a coral reef in the middle of the sea … I can think of no reason Malika would have sent recruits there.”
“Do we know who was responsible for their deaths?” one of the council members asked.
Chadeh said, “Perhaps they were engaged by a Special Forces unit. The Americans are active in that region.”
Uday referenced the most recent press release. “There have been no arrests, but the authorities say evidence leads them to believe that drug smuggling was involved.”
“Drugs?” Chadeh repeated. He paced about the room, and his mood seemed to brighten. “Yes,” he said, “that makes more sense. These recruits we unearth in Europe are useful, but so many are no more than impressionable criminals. They meet true believers in jail who steer them into our fold, but some give us nothing but trouble.”
Uday sensed the crisis ebbing. He said, “If you wish, I can contact Malika and ask if she knows anything about this.”
“Yes, a good next step,” said Chadeh. “And when you do, tell her to keep up the pressure on Argu. We must have his information by tomorrow.”
“Very well.”
One of the others said, “Perhaps it is time to tell Uday of our plans. We will soon need his team’s expertise.” The man who’d spoken was a recognized hafiz, meaning he had memorized the entire Quran. An impressive accomplishment, to be sure, but Uday had always been struck by the narrowness of that learning—such men often had no idea how the outside world functioned.
Uday watched Chadeh take a silent poll, before saying, “Leave us and wait outside.”
He was happy to comply.
* * *
Uday stepped through the great doors of the church, and outside he encountered the same guard who’d let him in. The guard nodded and offered him a cigarette. Uday took one, and without a word between them the two stood side by side in the gathering midday heat. Somewhere in the distance an explosion rang out, but neither flinched. Uday remembered hearing the first blasts of the war, so many years ago. At the time he’d thought it was distant thunder. Now the inverse had taken hold—the last rumble from a storm had been lost on him, and he’d been caught by surprise when rain began sweeping down. Such strange acclimatizations war brings.
Five minutes later he was summoned back inside. Only three people remained, Chadeh and two council members. Uday hoped his expression did not betray what he felt—that he would rather be anywhere else at that moment.
Chadeh said, “We are in agreement. As I recently mentioned, attacks in Europe will take on increasing importance in our overall strategy. We will soon launch a broad series of assaults. The skills of your team will be necessary to maximize their effectiveness.”
For the next ten minutes Uday listened as the three council members laid bare an audacious plan. Argu would soon provide critical information. When paired with Uday’s personnel database, it would be nothing short of a declaration of war. Uday finally understood why his project had found new emphasis.
“Will there be attacks using radiation?” he asked, sensing a connection to Grenoble.
“There are no bounds—we will use whatever can be leveraged. France’s weaknesses will soon be laid bare, and an army lies in wait to exploit our advantage.”
“Surely you recall how the Americans reacted to 9/11,” commented the hafiz. “A few thousand dead, and they went straight into Afghanistan—where they remain mired to this day. The French crusaders will take the same course. Hit them hard enough, and they will rush to our ground for the battle of the Apocalypse. When they do, followers of the Prophet from across the world will unite to bring us victory.”
Uday stood speechless. He looked at each of the three men in turn, thinking, Do they not realize what such an escalation will bring? They looked back at him expectantly, as if waiting for affirmation of their grand scheme. All Uday could say was, “May God be with us.”
Those words were instantly echoed around the room.
* * *
Baland decided to go home for lunch with his wife. He would normally have walked the entire way, but a light drizzle persuaded him to take the Métro across the river. From there he detoured to intercept his usual path. More than once he’d been reprimanded by his security minders for keeping such predictable habits. It was poor operational security, they said. Baland wished he could tell them how wrong they were.
The signal surprised him when he saw it, understandable since he’d seen it only once before. On the back side of a particular street sign near Boulevard Saint-Denis a circular sticker had been applied, the trendy logo of a surfboard manufacturer. There were a million such decorations across Paris. Part advertisement, part urban graffiti, this one had no doubt been ignored by a thousand passersby that morning. There was a fleeting moment of apprehension, and Baland slowed to take a good look at the sticker as he passed. On its circular edge, at the two o’clock position, a distinct notch had been cut out.
He kept going for another hundred yards, then took out his phone and called his wife. With a heartfelt apology, Baland said that he could not meet her for lunch after all. “Something has come up at work,” he explained, and heard disappointment in her voice when she replied, “That’s all right, darling. We’ll have dinner waiting.”
They exchanged a few words about the girls, and agreed to have a date soon. Baland ended the call and pocketed his phone. He pulled out his gloves, put his head down to the drizzle, and walked briskly to the bus stop at Bellini.