The Caliphate, André Gallo [best books to read ever .TXT] 📗

     After recounting his story, Steve said, “So, in a nutshell, yes there were signs. Somebody went through my stuff in the hotel, I had company for sure when I went to the mausoleum, but I thought Curly and his friends in Fes were on my side. The Moroccan police must have all those guys in jail by now.”

     “This definitely sounds like Tariq al Khalil’s style. We knew they had a cell in Morocco but it hasn’t been very active,” said Jason, his dark hair lightly spiked.

     At that point a slim woman in her late thirties entered the room.

     “Steve, this is Thérèse LaFont, the Chief of the Africa Division of the National Clandestine Service,” Marshall said.

     Steve recognized her from the last photograph on the wall. She had short blonde hair and was elegantly dressed in dark tailored slacks and jacket with a white silk blouse. She gave him a firm handshake.

     “I only heard part of your story, but that was some driving. The only thing that’s going to keep your father from going to jail for sharing our methods with an unauthorized and uncleared individual is for you to come to work for us.”

     She laughed. Steve managed a laugh, too.

     “My father showed me how to do that maneuver on a vacant lot in an old Ford. It stuck with me, luckily.”

     They spent the next few minutes focusing on the respective roles of Benjelloun as the Salafist penetration of the Moroccan security service, Spaceck’s over-the-top-zeal in trying to gain favor with the Moroccans to build himself a retirement sinecure, and Abdelhaq al Fassi’s continuing value to the king.

    “I understand, Steve, that you know Tariq al Khalil?” said LaFont, abruptly.

     “I met him a couple of times when I was in school in Brussels,” he replied, noticing the meeting was moving beyond his Moroccan experience.

     Nicole and Jason left the room and the two officers who had been sitting against the wall moved to the table. LaFont introduced them.

     “This is Philip, branch chief for the Maghreb and Mel, West African branch chief.”

     Philip, average height, average weight, dark hair with specks of gray. Could be any age, Steve thought. He was the original gray man who would be undistinguishable in a crowd. Mel was a heavy-set woman in her fifties with white hair. She was draped in an abundance of striped fabric.

     “According to our information, al Khalil has a front in Timbuktu called the International Muslim Relief Agency,” Philip said. “From there he is trying to establish a base for radical Islam in the entire Sahel, across North Africa, especially in countries with weak governance. His tools are his academic reputation, his Muslim Brotherhood ties, plenty of money, and the willingness to use physical violence. He is starting to make an impact. His goal is to establish a new Caliphate in the Sahel and grow it to include all of the Middle East.”

     He turned to Mel, who asked, “Steve, at West Gate International, do you need medical clearances before you travel?”

     Steve, puzzled by the non sequitur, nodded.

     “Why do you ask?”

     Philip shot a frown in Mel’s direction and took the conversational lead back.

     “Al Khalil recently traveled through Algeria with his operations chief. While he was in Ghardaia, a major town in the Northern Sahara, two French oil workers were killed for no known reason. We suspect that his presence in the area was not a coincidence.”

     LaFont leaned forward.

     “We have no one who can give us an “eyes-on-target” view of his set up in Timbuktu. Islam, radical or not, is not a topic the Malian Government wants to talk about with us. You know, I assume that Mali is a Muslim country. I’ll be up front with you, since you’re family,” she glanced and smiled at Marshall. “Our eventual goal, of course, is to have a source in al Khalil’s office, in his group. So what we need to get started is a general overview—who these people are and what they do. Of course names, identifying data, and assessments would be great.”

     Steve glanced at his father, leaned back, and said, “I definitely want to help. What I’ve seen and learned in the last month has convinced me that the Salafists are a threat.” He hesitated and added, “But if you’re thinking I can get this information for you, you’ve got the wrong guy. I have no idea how I would go about it.”

     “Well, you could do more than you think just by visiting him in Timbuktu. It’s just to give us context. The biggest thing we’d like you to do, that we would appreciate your doing, is to meet with al Khalil once or twice under some pretext. Hopefully you could go to his IMRA office and take a look around. We’ll take it from there.”

     “What do I tell my boss at West Gate? I do have a day job.”

Marshall, who had let the conversation take its course, now jumped in.

     “Your people just told us that the cell that attacked Steve in Morocco came under al Khalil. Now you want him to walk into al Khalil’s office? Why does that make sense to you?”

     He looked at LaFont and at the two other CIA officers.

     “Yes, we talked about that and we reviewed the communications between al Khalil and the Moroccan cell,” Philip answered. “They never mentioned Steve’s name per se. The cell leader in Casablanca and al Khalil’s operations chief, who was in Morocco at the time, only mention a young American who worked for Ted Coogan.”

     Marshall looked a bit surprised.

     “That’s new. When did you have those messages? Why weren’t they available while Steve was in Morocco? If you