Which was, of course, him.
Or, to be more accurate, the mobile phone on which he’d just called Ibrahim. Procopio had left the phone live in a paper bag at the foot of the trash bin. A young Police of State officer carefully examined the container—a bomb was a possibility under the circumstances—and then found the phone. He held it up. One officer, apparently the commander, shook his head, undoubtedly in disappointment, if not disgust. Other officers looked at nearby buildings, surely for CCTV cameras. But there were none. Procopio had made sure of that before leaving the bait phone.
He now stubbed out his cigarette. He had learned all he needed to. This, in fact, was the entire point of the call to Tripoli. He needed to see just how far along the police had come in their investigation.
So. They knew about Ibrahim’s existence, if not his name, and that there was an operative here. And they were scanning the landline and mobiles.
It would be total phone silence for the time being.
He settled into the car’s comfortable seat and started the engine. He wanted to find a café and enjoy another cigarette, along with an aperitivo of a nice Cirò red wine, and some hard, dried Calabrian salami and bread.
But that would have to wait.
Until after the bloodshed.
Chapter 62
The street was colorful.
Some tourists, but also many people who seemed to be true Neapolitans—families, women with strollers, children on bicycles…and preteens and teen, boys and girls. They strutted and shied and revealed themselves, wearing proud boots and bold running shoes and high heels and patterned tights and languid shirts, and they displayed, with understated pride, their latest: necklaces and clever purses and anklets and eyeglasses and rings and ironic mobile phone covers.
The flirts seemed harmless and charming, the youngsters innocent as preening kittens.
Oh, and the view: beautiful. Vesuvius ahead in the distance, the docks and massive ships. The bay, rich blue.
But Fatima Jabril paid little attention to any of this.
Her focus was on her mission.
And pushing the baby carriage with care.
“Ah, che bellezza!” the woman of a couple, herself pregnant, cried. And, smiling, she said something more. Seeing that the Italian language wasn’t working, she tried English. “Your daughter!” The woman looked down into the carriage. “She is having the hair of an angel! Look, those beautiful black curls!” Then, noting the hijab her mother wore, she paused, perhaps wondering if Muslims believed in angels.
Fatima Jabril understood the gist. She smiled and said an awkward, “Grazie tante.”
The woman cast another look down. “And she sleeps so well, even here, the noise.”
Fatima continued on, hiking the backpack higher on her shoulder. Moving slowly.
Because of the crowds.
Because of her reluctance to kill.
Because of the bomb in the carriage.
How has my life come to this?
Well, she could recall quite clearly the answer to that question. She’d replayed it every night falling asleep, every morning rising to wakefulness.
That day some weeks ago…
She remembered being pulled off the street in Tripoli by two surly men—who had no trouble touching a Muslim woman not a relation. Terrified and sobbing, she had been bundled off to the back room of a coffeehouse off Martyrs’ Square. She was pushed into a chair and told to wait. The shop was called Happy Day. An irony that brought tears to her eyes.
An hour later, a horrific hour later, the curtain was flung aside and in walked a sullen, bearded man of about forty. He identified himself as Ibrahim. He looked her over stonily and handed her a tissue. She dried her eyes and flung it back at his face. He smiled at that.
In Libyan-inflected Arabic, a high voice, he had said, “Let me explain why you are here and what is about to happen to you. I am going to recruit you for a mission. Ah, ah, let me finish.” He called for tea and almost instantly it arrived, carried by the shopkeeper, whose hands trembled as he’d set out the cups. Ibrahim waited until the man left, then continued, “We have selected you for several reasons. First, because you are not on any watch lists. Indeed, you are what we call an Invisible Believer. That is, you are to our faith what a Unitarian might be to Christianity. Do you know what Unitarian is?”
Fatima, though familiar with much Western culture, was not aware of the sect. “No.”
Ibrahim said, “Suffice to say moderate. Hence, to the armies and the security services of the West you are invisible. You can cross borders and get to targets and not be regarded as a threat.”
Targets, she thought in horror. Her hands quivered.
“You will be assigned a target in Italy and you will carry out an attack.”
She gasped, and refused the tea Ibrahim offered. He sipped, clearly relishing the beverage.
“Now we come to the second reason you have been selected. You have family in Tunisia and Libya. Three sisters, two brothers, all of whom, praise be to God, have been blessed with children. Your mother too is still upon this earth. We know where they live. You will fulfill your obligation to us, complete these attacks, or they will be killed—every family member of yours from six-month-old Mohammed to your mother, as she returns from the market on the arm of her friend Sonja, who will die too, I should say.”
“No, no, no…”
Ignoring the emotion completely, Ibrahim whispered, “And now we come to the third reason you will help us in this mission. Upon completion of the assignment, you—and your husband and daughter—will be given new identities and a large sum of money. You will get British or Dutch passports and can move where you wish. What do you say?”
The only word she could.
“Yes.” Sobbing.
Ibrahim smiled and finished the tea. “You and your family will travel to Italy as refugees. A smuggler I work with will give you details tonight. Once you arrive, you will be taken to a refugee camp for processing. A man named Gianni will contact you.”
He’d risen and left, with not another word.
They’d no sooner landed in the Capodichino Reception Center than Gianni in fact called her. He explained in a guttural voice, clear and still as ice, that there would be no excuses. If she fell ill and could not detonate the bomb, her family would die. If she were arrested for stealing a loaf of bread and could not detonate the bomb, her family would die. If the bomb did not go off because of mechanical failure, her family would die. If she froze at the last moment…well, she understood.
And what should happen but, of all horrific coincidences, her husband had been snatched by that psychotic American! That in itself had been terrible—she loved him dearly—but the incident had also brought the police. Would they find the explosives and phone and detonator that Gianni had left for her? Would they relocate her and her daughter while they searched for Khaled?