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

     “Some are dead and the rest are leaving. Even some of the NGO people are packing, al hamdu’llah. The results are even better than we planned. Next time, Hussein, get more fire power on the target, just to make sure.”

22. Hôtel Bouctou

Steve hurried back to his room after getting Kella onto the French military plane, an hour and a half after the terrorist attack. Izem was threatening to burn off the soles of Karim’s feet, using the finest interrogation methods he had learned in the Libyan army. So far, Karim, tied to the only chair in the room, had admitted little other than that he was Algerian.

     Steve told Izem to go outside and wait. When he left the room, Steve said, in French, “I guess the next step is to call the police. How will you like the salt mines in Taoudenni?”

     It worked; Karim looked frightened.

    “It wasn’t my fault. I was forced to do it,” he said.

     “Forced to kill innocent people? Who forced you?”

     “They are not innocent. They are forcing good Muslims away from Allah. They are saying lies about the Prophet.”

     “Really? Did you hear anyone at that party say anything at all about the Prophet?”

     “They are bad people. They should not be here. They have to leave. This is not their country.”

     Steve repeated his question: “Who sent you? Who do you work for?”

     Karim considered his answer.

     “I’m thirsty. I need water.”

     He glanced toward the bathroom.

     Steve leaned down from his chair, pulled out a soda from the small room refrigerator, and handed it to Karim.

     “There’s an opener on the side of the fridge,” he said pointing.

     Karim, still tied to the chair, shrugged, “I can’t.”

     Steve grinned and said, “Oh, I forgot. Well, for the time being, you’ll have to stay thirsty. Who sent you? It’s me or the Malian salt mines.”

     “I work for IMRA. Either I do what they say or they kill me, so I do it.”

     “IMRA? The IMRA that does social work among Muslims? Tell me who heads IMRA. Why the killings?”

     “I told you, to make the missionaries and the other foreigners leave. We got our orders by Hussein.”

     “And he is?”

     Karim shifted his weight a bit on the chair.

     “He’s Tariq al Khalil’s deputy.”

     “So, the missionaries and the others were shot because they are foreigners. What about the Malians you killed? And what about you—is this your country? I thought you told my friend that you came from Algeria, right? Why are you here?”

     Little by little, Steve pulled Karim’s story out. Karim had been a young student in a village outside Oran when the Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat, which later became AQIM, raided it. Karim’s teachers, French and Algerians who were deemed too westernized by the Salafists, were among the over two-hundred-thousand people killed over a period of several years.

     “One day they came when we were in class,” Karim said. “They killed all the teachers. They took nine of us with them. They put us in dirty chicken coops for two days without food or water before taking us out one at a time. We all agreed to become their soldiers. Before we knew it, we were ambushing Algerian patrols.

     “I was arrested once and spent six months in jail at Sidi Belabbes. It was difficult; two of my friends died there. But they let me go after a year. Later, I went to the Sudan and I met Lahlou—he’s a Moroccan at IMRA—at a training camp. He recruited me for IMRA.”

     Steve stood up.

     “I find your story interesting, but I don’t see why I shouldn’t just turn you over to the Malian police. You killed some people today, including Malian Muslims. I don’t know how your religion works but I don’t think that killing other Muslims is the way to heaven, nor is killing Malian citizens the way to live a happy life in Mali.”

    “I don’t want to go to jail. Please, I beg you! Let me go! What do you want?”

     “Well, there’s nothing you have that I want. You think you can help me? How?”

    “I will tell you about IMRA. What do you want to know about IMRA?”

     “I’m just a photographer. What makes you think that IMRA is of any interest to me?”

     Steve moved to the window and looked out.

     “You’re an American. I know that al Khalil hates Americans. You are a crusader; otherwise you wouldn’t be here, in a Muslim land. I will tell you what al Khalil is doing and planning,” Karim said in a rush.

     “You’re a murderer,” Steve said, pointing at him. “I should just turn you over. I don’t know. I don’t care about your information. But maybe I know someone who is. Maybe I can put you guys together. In the meantime you can talk to me. Let’s try it. If your information proves to be good, and you don’t lie, then we have a deal. If you’re speaking the truth, then I’ll say nothing to the police. But in case anything happens to me, I’m giving everything I know about you to a friend in the American Embassy in Bamako. And if something happens to me, the police of the world will be after you. But my friends will get to you first. I guarantee it.”

     “May Allah, the merciful the beneficent, favor you,” he said in Arabic. Reverting back to French, he said, “If Hussein or al Khalil find out, they will kill me on the spot. This is very dangerous. But I will do it.”

    “I want to see you right here in a week.” He looked at his