Читать книгу Undercover Jihadi Bride: Inside Islamic State’s Recruitment Networks - Anna Erelle, Anna Erelle - Страница 12

Milan was asleep. His bedroom was calm and quiet. I tossed and turned. The blinds were open, the streetlamps outside bathing the room in a poetic light. This familiar nocturnal scene accompanied my insomnia but did nothing to silence the questions crashing through my brain.

I carefully got out of bed. Milan slept like an angel, while my subconscious dragged me into the living room and toward a demon imprisoned behind a retina display. Three new messages from my correspondent awaited me. I hadn’t expected so many. I lit a cigarette. He’d sent the first one at 2:30 p.m. in Syria, a surprising time for a zealous fighter to be corresponding. He should have been on the front. Or elsewhere. I was bewildered by the thought of him digitally stalking a girl from an Internet café in the middle of the afternoon.

“Salaam alaikum, sister. How are you today? I wanted to let you know that I’m available if you want to talk. I’m around.”

Around? Around where? His next message grabbed my attention before I could reflect on that question:

“What time will you be online? I really want to talk to you.”

“I have a special surprise for you . . . Masha’Allah*.”

The “surprise” was a picture of him, armed to the teeth. So cool. A gigantic M4 assault rifle was slung across his shoulder. A black bandana embroidered with the Islamic State’s white insignia covered his forehead. He stood erect, puffing out his chest, smiling. I had trouble believing this was real. He didn’t know me. What if I was hiding behind Mélodie’s identity? What if I was really a cop? Or a journalist searching for reliable information from a solid source? Abu Bilel wasn’t concerned. Clearly, he thought he’d caught a fish. Based on the tone of his messages, it didn’t seem like he was going to let this one escape from his net. Did he often act like this? It must have been four o’clock in the morning. I was looking for answers. For now, all I had were more and more questions.

People often compare journalists to dogs in search of bones to gnaw on. Admittedly, at that moment, I was excited by the idea of delving into the mind of an assassin—this assassin. I admire people of faith. I envy the strength it affords them. Faith is a precious source of support as one confronts life’s inevitable difficulties. But when people use spirituality as an excuse to commit murder, I, Anna, give myself permission to become someone else. At least digitally speaking. That was how I justified becoming Mélodie, a desperate and naïve young woman. Some might object to my methods on moral grounds, but at the time this terrorist organization was doing everything in its power to enroll a maximum number of new recruits. I let my conscience decide. Abu Bilel wouldn’t be the subject of a story. I wanted to examine what he said and untangle fact from fiction. How many people now served the Islamic State? How many French? How many Europeans? Did women really pleasure jihadists as a way of serving God? Did they also take up arms? Abu Bilel beckoned me onto his path of religious domination, while he decimated the meek and helpless in a country rife with religious divisions. Could I get him to tell me about the bloody conflicts he spearheaded?

As day broke, I surfed the Net, scanning the labyrinthine Web for anything I could find on Abu Bilel. I dug up dozens of conversations between mujahideen and potential recruits. Nothing conclusive. However, I learned that a very important battle had just taken place in Syria, in the region of Deir ez-Zor, less than three hundred miles from the border with Iraq, a country still haunted by the ghost of Saddam Hussein and the American invasion. I came across an exchange that normally would have interested me: “We destroyed them! I recorded the whole thing! But al-Baghdadi and his emirs were suspicious it might be an al-Nusra trap, and they stayed inside the house. Call Guitone; he’s with them.” I’d known of al-Baghdadi, the very dangerous leader of ISIS, for a long time. But that night, since I couldn’t find any information on Bilel, I was interested in Guitone. I knew him “well.” Guitone, aged twenty-two or twenty-three, was born in Marseille and had lived for a while in Great Britain before joining ISIS, where he quickly climbed the ranks. He possessed three qualities that made him an essential asset to the Islamic State’s digital propaganda campaign: he was good-looking, he knew his religion by heart, and he was able to preach in four different languages.

My colleagues and I had nicknamed him “the Publicist.” Whenever we needed information, we could rely on him. He was always eager to help. Guitone knew me through my true identity: Anna. We had spoken on several occasions. I’d last contacted him in March about Norah, a fifteen-year-old girl from Avignon. Her family had recently told me that Norah had left to join the al-Nusra Front, and not the Islamic State. Guitone had confirmed that fact as well as her geographic location.

Guitone bragged about his affiliation with ISIS on his Facebook page, often posting videos of himself: Guitone visiting wounded jihadists in hospitals; Guitone flouting France and Turkey, armed to the teeth at a feast on the Turkish border; Guitone waving to a crowd of fighters celebrating in the conquered streets of Raqqa, Syria. Guitone was unbelievably famous. Each of his posts literally made adolescents from all over Europe salivate. He claimed to live like a king, and he was always dressed from head to toe in name brands. He was respected for what he was. He always had an innocent smile on his face. That was his trademark. Who better to convince you to embrace his cause, particularly in a country so affected by war? Admittedly, it was clever PR. I considered sending Guitone a message asking him to fill me in on the latest battle, at which the “emirs” were nowhere to be found, but I decided against it. I didn’t yet know that Guitone, Abu Bilel, and al-Baghdadi were related—insanely related. I continued dissecting the information at my disposal. I had nothing on Bilel. Who was he? And how old? I guessed he had extensive experience in the field. My curiosity growing, I sensed this man was more complicated than the young jihadists I’d encountered before.