“Yes, I’m sure.”
But he was not sure, not at all, and with each hooded appearance before Fareed Barakat his confidence weakened. So, too, did his will to resist. By morning he was talking to a cellmate who did not exist, and by early afternoon he could no longer walk the flight of steep stairs leading from the cellar. It was then Fareed removed the hood from his captive’s head and laid before him a photograph of a round-faced, veiled woman. Other photos followed—a weathered man wearing a black-and-white keffiyeh, a boy of sixteen or so, a beautiful young girl. They were the ones who would pay the price for Nabil Awad’s actions. The old ones would die in shame, the young ones had no future. That was the other thing about the Jordanians, thought Gabriel. They had the power to ruin lives. Not just the life of a terrorist but generations of lives. No one knew this better than Nabil Awad, who was soon sobbing in Fareed’s powerful embrace. Fareed promised to make everything all right. But first, he said gently, they were going to have a little talk.
26
NORTHERN FRANCE
IT WAS AN ALL-TOO-FAMILIAR story—a story of disillusion and dissatisfaction, of needs unmet, of economic and marital hopes dashed, of rage against the Americans and Jews over their perceived mistreatment of Muslims. Half the jihadists in the world could have told the same sad tale; it was, thought Gabriel, well-trod territory. Yes, there were a few bright minds and young men from good families in the upper ranks of the global jihadist movement, but the foot soldiers and the cannon fodder were, for the most part, radical losers. Political Islam was their salvation, and ISIS was their paradise. ISIS gave purpose to lost souls and promised an afterlife of eternal copulation to those who perished for the cause. It was a powerful message for which the West had no antidote.
Nabil Awad’s version of the story began in Irbid, where his father tended a stall in the central market. Nabil was a diligent student and upon graduation from secondary school was admitted to London’s University College. The year was 2011; Syria was burning, British Muslims were seething. No longer under the thumb of the Jordanian Mukhabarat, Nabil quickly began associating with Islamists and radicals. He prayed at the East London Mosque and joined the London chapter of Hizb ut-Tahrir, the Sunni Islamic organization that supported the resurrection of the caliphate long before anyone had heard of a group called ISIS. The Hizb, as it was known colloquially, was active in more than fifty countries and counted more than a million followers. One was a Jordanian from Amman named Jalal Nasser, whom Nabil Awad met during a Hizb gathering in the East London borough of Tower Hamlets. Jalal Nasser had already crossed the line—the line between Islamism and jihadism, between politics and terror. In time, he took Nabil Awad with him.
“When exactly did you meet him?” asked Fareed.
“I don’t remember.”
“Of course you do, habibi.”
“It was the spring of 2013.”
“I knew you could do it,” said Fareed with a paternal smile. He had removed the bindings from Nabil Awad’s wrists, and had given him a cup of sugary tea to keep his energy up. Fareed was drinking tea, too—and smoking, which Nabil Awad, a Salafist, did not approve of. Gabriel was no longer present; he was watching a video feed of the interrogation on a laptop in the next room, along with the other members of his team. Two other teams were monitoring the interrogation as well, one at GID headquarters, the other at King Saul Boulevard.
With a nudge, Fareed encouraged Nabil Awad to expound on his relationship with Jalal Nasser, which he did. At first, he said, Jalal was guarded around his fellow Jordanian, wary. He was afraid he was an agent of the GID or MI5, the British security service. But gradually, after several conversations that bordered on interrogations, he took Nabil into his confidence. He said that he had been dispatched to Europe by ISIS to help build a network capable of striking targets in the West. He said he wanted Nabil to help him.
“How?”
“By looking for recruits.”
“Recruits for ISIS?”
“For the network,” said Nabil Awad.
“In London?”
“No. He wanted me to move to Belgium.”
“Why Belgium?”
“Because Jalal could handle England on his own, and he thought Belgium was promising territory.”
“Because there were many brothers there?”
“Many,” answered Nabil Awad. “Especially in Brussels.”
“Did you speak Flemish?”
“Of course not.”
“French?”
“No.”
“But you learned to speak French.”
“Very quickly.”
“You’re a smart boy, aren’t you, Nabil—too smart to be wasting your time with this jihad shit. You should have finished your education. Things might have turned out differently for you.”
“In Jordan?” He shook his head. “Unless you are from a prominent family or connected to the king, you don’t stand a chance. What was I going to do? Drive a taxi? Work as a waiter in a Western hotel serving alcohol to infidels?”
“Better to be a waiter than where you are now, Nabil.”
The young Jordanian said nothing. Fareed opened a file.
“It’s an interesting story,” he said, “but I’m afraid Jalal tells it somewhat differently. He says that you approached him. He says that you were the one who built the network in Europe.”
“That’s not true!”
“But you see my problem, habibi. He tells me one thing, you tell me the complete opposite.”
“I’m telling you the truth, Jalal is lying!”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Tell me something that I don’t already know about Jalal. Or better yet,” Fareed added almost as an afterthought, “show me something on your phone or your computer.”
“My computer is my room in Molenbeek.”
Fareed smiled sadly and patted the back of his prisoner’s hand. “Not anymore, habibi.”