He had searched for good, pure men of faith. He had found them in a small religious center outside the capital. It was there that his introduction to true Islam began, and his passion to wage jihad in the name of Allah was ignited.
Removing a small map of Paris from his coat pocket, he established where he was and planned his route. There were a handful of sights he had wanted to see before his afternoon meeting.
After paying for his coffee, he headed west toward Notre Dame. As expected, in the wake of the attack at Santiago de Compostela in Spain, France had beefed up security at its major churches.
Security had also been stepped up at the Louvre museum and the Pompidou Center, the Musée d’Orsay and the Eiffel Tower. The French authorities were everywhere they should be, which was exactly what Tursunov had wanted.
Moving around the city, he took great pains to make sure he wasn’t being followed. By the time he made it to the sprawling flea market north of Paris, it was late afternoon.
There was still a sea of people milling about. Their faces were a mix of white, brown, and black—European, North African, sub-Saharan. The smell of roasting meats, of shawarma and kebabs, wafted through the air from food carts out on the street.
He had committed the shop’s name and location to memory—the matchbook cover with the information long since discarded.
It was in a section, deep within the market, that was a maze of tiny alleys and passageways. The sign above the door was made from hammered copper, weathered to a chalky-green patina—L’Ancienne.
When he opened the door, an electronic bell chimed, alerting the owner to his arrival.
The small shop looked like an Arab souk had exploded inside someone’s garage. Hand-crafted pots and pans hung from beams across the ceiling. A pile of Persian carpets sat stacked shoulder high. Hookah pipes were organized in neat rows like a company of soldiers. There was clay pottery next to delicate side tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
Bolts of jewel-colored silk leaned against intricately carved wooden dressing screens. Dusty mirrors framed in polished silver hung alongside vintage Janbiya daggers from Arabia. Nearby hung ornate flintlock rifles clad with ivory from the time of the Ottoman Turks.
The store even smelled as if it came from another era—as if he hadn’t stepped through a door in Paris, but rather through the flaps of a trader’s tent somewhere along the ancient spice route.
An older man of Moroccan descent greeted him. He wore a crocheted prayer cap, thick black glasses, and walked with a limp.
Tursunov handed him a business card from a Dutch antiques dealer. On the back was written the name of a nearby boutique hotel, Maison Souquet.
“Is it true that their rooms are named after famous courtesans?” the man asked.
“Yes, but their hammam more than makes up for it,” Tursunov replied. The Maison Souquet was known not only for its private indoor pool, but for its hammam, or Turkish-style bath, as well.
Having presented the business card and responded correctly to the man’s question, Tursunov’s authentication was complete.
“As-sala-mu ‘alaykum,” the man offered. Peace be upon you.
“Wa ‘alaykum al-salaam,” Tursunov replied. And unto you peace.
The man stepped past him, locked the door, and turned the sign so that it read Fermé. Closed.
He pulled the draperies across the front windows, then stepped back and embraced his guest.
“Welcome to Paris, brother.”
Tursunov returned his embrace. “Thank you, brother.”
“I am Abdel.”
The man was nervous. Tursunov smiled. “Abdel El Fassi. Yes, I know you.”
“And you knew my brother,” he replied. “Aziz. You fought together for the Caliphate in Syria.”
“We did. Your brother was a great warrior. A lion.”
Abdel beamed with pride. “Will you take some refreshment?”
A meteor could be screaming toward the earth and the Arabs would still want to stop to take tea.
“Is everything ready?” Tursunov asked.
“Yes. The Paris operation is ready.”
That was a relief, but only partially. “What about the new chemist I need?”
The Moroccan forced a smile. “Let’s take some refreshment.”
Tursunov didn’t smile back. He didn’t want refreshment. He wanted his chemist. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
Abdel shifted uncomfortably. “There is a problem.”
CHAPTER 21
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* * *
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?”