Malika made the pickup at a little-used dead-drop location, a soon-to-be-insolvent used book store whose out-of-print volumes collected more dust than customers. Behind a gap in a certain shelf she was surprised to find a thick envelope instead of a digital drive. She made one minor purchase, a yellow-edged study on Charles de Gaulle, and cursed Baland all the way back to her apartment. On arriving she slammed General de Gaulle into the trash bin and removed a sheaf of papers from the envelope.
She shuffled through and found forty pages—two extracted sections, it appeared, of a much larger dossier. Malika slapped the unbound pile onto the table. What is he playing at now? Not only had Baland partially fulfilled his mandate, he had done so in the most cumbersome way possible. Malika would be forced to photograph everything, page by page, then transmit the images to Raqqa. She glanced at the clock on the wall. 10:43. There was no way she could do it all now.
She had far more important things to tend to.
* * *
Uday walked hurriedly through a souk, one of the malleable marketplaces that rose each morning amid Raqqa’s sandstone squares. He’d spent two hours behind his keyboard, and the heaviness that had enveloped him was gone, replaced by something new—urgency.
The scene all around him was a desperate one. Downtrodden vendors stood by their carts more out of habit than hope. Gone were the bread and spice stalls that had been here only a few years ago. The scent of fried pastries was missing for lack of any way to cook them. An old man sat listlessly on an empty crate that had probably once held chickens. Next to him, tellingly, was the one enterprise on the square that was doing a brisk business—a cart that held all manner of military uniforms. There was no common denominator—desert camo ensembles were interspersed with black special-ops vests, and even a handful of jungle-green patterns had found their way into the mix, albeit at a substantial discount. Uday thought it a perfect representation of the economics of war, displayed on one listing, donkey-driven wagon.
For all the chaos around him, he felt increasingly disengaged from his surroundings. Like the market, his mood had altered, and he was sure it would never be the same again. Dread, anxiety, a compulsion to protect. Uday didn’t know the exact moment, but at some point in recent weeks his obsession with jihad had been supplanted by something far more influential. He was hopelessly in love with Sarah.
Because of it, he saw a terrible choice looming.
He paused at a flower stall, thinking it an enigma that after so many years of war people still bought and sold flowers. The stand was run by a smiling teenage girl, and without considering what bombed-out garden they might have come from, Uday pointed to a bouquet that caught his eye. The girl happily pulled the bunch free, and he watched her pluck a few dead leaves from the arrangement.
Uday found himself watching her, and noticed that she occasionally glanced up at the sky. This was a relatively new phenomenon, albeit one with little practical value—the drones were virtually invisible, and fighter-bombers rarely heard or seen before their loads struck home. Even so, like small animals who’d seen too many of their brethren taken by hawks, the survivors invariably found their eyes drawn skyward.
She handed over the bouquet of yellow and red blooms. Uday had no idea what they were. He had never been a man bent to passion, and held little enthusiasm for long walks or lingering dinners. The only time anyone had ever put his name and the word “inspired” in the same sentence, it had involved a coding algorithm. Still, in recent weeks he’d begun to see things in a new light—one whose spectrum at the moment involved yellow and red.
He reached into his pocket for money, but recoiled as if by electric shock when he realized he’d dipped into the wrong one. Uday switched to the other side and retrieved a U.S. twenty-dollar bill—the caliphate’s fantasy of its own currency had never gained traction. He handed it to the smiling girl behind the cart and didn’t wait for his change.
He elbowed through the crowds, trying not to crush the flowers, and on turning the final corner Uday saw his building in the distance. Sarah was on the front steps, using a broom to beat a small rug. Last week he might have felt relief at the sight of her. Today it brought only apprehension. She didn’t notice him right away, and he paused to watch her in her chore. Even fully covered, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Soon they were inside together, and he presented the flowers. Sarah lifted her niqab and he saw a beaming smile. Uday exchanged the flowers for an enthusiastic kiss, and he watched her fill an old plastic bottle with water and begin to insert the flowers. She placed them one by one, delicately and with an occasional turn. When she looked at him again Uday forced a smile, but one that left the rest of his face untouched.
“What is wrong?” she asked, walking over and taking his hand. She was beginning to sense his moods.
He collapsed onto their old couch and she sat down beside him.
“Things are happening so quickly,” he said.
Her hands went to his shoulders, and she began squeezing knotted muscles. He felt the tension drain away. “When I first became involved with the movement it seemed virtuous, a struggle that would affirm my beliefs. I thought I could use my expertise to help the caliphate grow, to help common people return to the ways of the Prophet. But now…” His words trailed off. “Now I see these leaders for what they are—common men who contort Islam for their own selfish interests. They order others to sacrifice while they bicker about who gets the best villas and vehicles, who deserves the most protection. I hear whisperings that some are even hiding money, saving for the day when everyone must disappear. But the most troubling thing of all”—he turned to look at her—“is that I am in love with my Christian slave. It is strictly forbidden, yet how can what I feel for you be wrong?”
“It’s not wrong, Aziz. No more than what I feel for you.”
“Our leaders demand strict interpretation of Sharia law. I use my skills to upload videos of beheadings and crucifixions. I can’t remember the last time we discussed giving food to the poor, or putting old women in houses. We once did those things. The misery our movement has caused, most of it imparted upon fellow Muslims—I don’t see how it can be right.”
He looked at her as if searching for answers.
“If you are expecting me to denounce them, to tell you how much I hate the Daesh—I won’t do it. They killed my father and brother, and my poor mother suffers. But I forgive them, Aziz. That is how I keep my own faith, and without it I am nothing.”
“So you would never rise against them?”
She looked at him questioningly. “If you are asking whether I could raise a hand to harm them—no, not even the caliph himself. But I would sacrifice anything to end the suffering.”
“Suffering,” he said. “There will soon be much more of that.”
“What do you mean?”
He sighed. “I learned yesterday that new strikes are being planned against France. The council are blind—they tell one another that God is on our side, and scheme to lash out at the West like children throwing stones at a pack of wild dogs. Sooner or later, the dogs will turn. But these new attacks—I think there might be a way to stop them.”
She looked at him with a confluence of emotions he couldn’t read. Pride? Fear? She took his hand, and said, “The choices you make are between you and God, Aziz. No one else can tell you what to do.”
“Actually,” he said, reaching into his pocket for what would save them, “I have already made my decision. But I had to hear yours.…”
* * *
Claude Michelis was leaving his final meeting of the day when his phone vibrated with a message. It was from Zavier Baland.
Running late. Can we make lunch 1:30 instead of 1:00?
Michelis sent a reply to say that was fine, and got an immediate response.
Thanks, Chief. I’ll call Henri and have him hold our table.
The director sighed and looked at his watch. It was twelve thirty. He hoped it didn’t go any later. He was getting hungry.
Michelis’ reply did not, in fact, ever reach Baland. For reasons he would never understand, his message terminated in a luxury condominium in Tel Aviv. Zavier Baland was equally unaware of the hijacked thread. He, however, would realize something had gone very wrong within sixty seconds of arriving at Le Quinze.