The Caliphate by André Gallo (booksvooks .txt) 📗

my former employers are keeping an eye on him. He has become a leader in Salafist circles.”

     Coogan smiled, looked at Steve and added, “Your father thought I could give you some useful background before you go to Morocco, so let me fast-forward for you. We are witnessing the renaissance of a religion, no, of an authoritarian ideology. Its proponents—jihadists, Salafists, whatever you choose to call them—honestly believe everyone must fall in line, that it is God’s will that we all submit. In the short term they are skillful at perception management, using the internet, killings, whatever works. In the long term, the only constituency they care about is God, Allah. Those who liked the Taliban will love the new Caliphate, the idea that they’re going to recreate the Middle East as a borderless Muslim empire, but only as a first step. My generation struggled against one global ‘ism.’ Your generation is faced with another. That can be your first lesson on contemporary Islam.”

     “Are you saying that I’m going to have to deal with these guys in Morocco?”

     “Depends. Just keep in mind that the true believers are deadly. They are a small minority of the Muslim world to be sure. Some say, what, only one-to-five percent are extremists? That’s between fifteen-million and seventy-five-million people. Some of them are in Morocco. That’s where the terrorists who bombed the Spanish trains came from.”

     When they reached Coogan’s house, Benjamin met them in the hallway.

     “Welcome back boss. What do you think of your Arab neighbors?”

     Seeing Coogan’s expression he continued, “Oh, you don’t know? I thought the police called you. Well, it turns out that the robbers came over the wall in the back, from the Saudi residence. Their footsteps are still there. The gang that couldn’t shoot straight,” he said, with more bravado than Steve had seen yet.

    Coogan and Benjamin went to go have a look. Steve was anxious to leave to go meet Kella.

     “I’m off to the Metro. I promised to meet someone. But could the thief have come from the Saudi residence? What do you think?”

     “We’ll talk about the theft later,” Coogan told him. “You look in a hurry. Forget the Metro. Take my car if you want. I won’t need it for the rest of the day. I’m going to be busy right here.” He turned to Benjamin and said, “I’ll be here tonight for dinner but not tomorrow. So just prepare your usual fine cuisine tonight, and Steve can tell you what he would like tomorrow.”

    “Thanks. The car will be useful since I’m late.”

     As Steve turned to go, Benjamin said, “By the way, a reporter called you this morning Steve. But he didn’t leave a message.”

     “A reporter?” He looked at Coogan. “What did he want?”

     “He asked for the person who met Mr. Coogan at the airport. He said that you had given him your name but that he hadn’t had a chance to get the spelling right for the article. So I gave it to him.”

     Steve and Ted looked at each other. Steve smiled at the reporter’s ingenuity but Coogan frowned. Steve hurried to the MINI Cooper to go meet Kella wondering what Coogan looked worried about.

3. Tel Aviv

On consultation from his assignment in Brussels at Mossad’s European headquarters, David Ben Tov had been summoned by Mossad Director Nahum Ben Gal to his top floor office. Mindful that Mossad’s American desk chief often lunched with the CIA chief of station at the Asia House near the Mossad building, David Ben Tov parked two blocks away from the Hadar Dafna Building on King Saul Boulevard in Tel Aviv. Seemingly a business office building, the Hadar Dafna was the headquarters of the Ha Mossad, le Modiyn ve le Takfidim Mayuhadim, the Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, Israel’s external Israeli intelligence service.

     Ben Tov was in his late forties, with blondish receding hair, light skin, in reasonable shape for his age, and dressed in loafers, cargo pants, a sport jacket and white shirt. He wore no tie, a style established early by the David Ben Gurion tie-less generation of pioneers.

     The sky was cloudy, threatening rain. Ben Tov quickened his step.

     In the elevator on his way to the director’s top floor office, Ben Tov reviewed his operations in Europe to be ready for whatever Ben Gal wanted to take up with him. He ran several agents: a Libyan and an Ethiopian diplomat, a Belgian businessman who did business in Saudi Arabia. The Turkish Ambassador was his very good friend, although not yet an agent. He was cultivating the manager of a five star hotel in Brussels where many Arab plenipotentiaries stayed when visiting Brussels to lobby the European Union.

     Ben Tov hoped to be able to plant microphones and cameras in several of the suites. He also had a number of other lesser contacts including a promising young Palestinian with intriguing family connections. By the time he stepped out of the elevator, he hadn’t dredged up any problems that would reach Ben Gal’s level.

     Ben Gal, tall, still dark-haired although ten years older than David, was dressed in slacks and a shirt with sleeves rolled up. He walked to greet him from behind his desk and extended his hand.

    Good signs, thought Ben Tov. He had been in Ben Gal’s modest office only once before, when Ben Gal’s predecessor had told him that Mossad would pay for his last two years of university studies at the University of California, Berkeley, assuming he was accepted. He had met his future wife Rachel there, also a Sabra, and picked up American-accented English and expressions.

     Ben Gal moved back to his chair. “I understand that we sent you to Berkeley a few years ago. It’s time to amortize our investment, to use your American background for