Читать книгу Undercover Jihadi Bride: Inside Islamic State’s Recruitment Networks - Anna Erelle, Anna Erelle - Страница 15

Okay. It was time. I sat cross-legged on my sofa. It had a high back, which hid most of my apartment—and any distinctive features—from the camera. André had also removed from the wall a famous photograph taken in Libya three years earlier. He positioned himself in a blind spot behind the sofa. Mélodie bought some time by typing a reply to Bilel. My smartphone was already recording. I was also equipped with another, prepaid phone I’d bought a few hours earlier. The Islamic State is brimming with counterespionage experts and hackers. It was safer if Bilel didn’t know my phone number, so Mélodie had her own. I’d also created a new Skype account in her name. I’d found a video on YouTube explaining how to scramble an IP address. If things started to go wrong, Bilel wouldn’t know where to find me.

The Skype ringtone sounded like a church bell tolling in a dreary village. If I pressed the green icon, I would become Mélodie. I took a moment to breathe. Then I clicked the button, and there he was. He saw me, too. For a split second, we didn’t speak. Bilel stared at Mélodie. His eyes were still accentuated with dark liner. They smoldered as he gazed at the young Mélodie, as if trying to cast a spell. I don’t know if it was because I was nervous about meeting this man face-to-face, but in any case what captured my attention most was his location. Bilel was Skyping Mélodie from his car, using a state-of-the-art smartphone. He lived in a country often deprived of water and electricity, yet he had access to the latest technological devices. The connection was good, which was not always the case in such circumstances. Bilel made ISIS sound more like a nongovernmental organization than a terrorist group, but one would never confuse him with a humanitarian aid worker. He looked clean and even well-groomed after his day on the front. He was a proud man, his shoulders pulled back and his chin thrust forward, but I sensed he was nervous meeting Mélodie. After what felt like an eternity, he finally broke the silence:

“Salaam alaikum, my sister.”

I made my voice as tiny, and as sweet and bright, as I could, considering I’d smoked like a chimney for the past fifteen years. And I smiled. My smile instantly became my best defense mechanism, and it remained so throughout my investigation. I would use it whenever I didn’t know how to react. I believed I could become another woman by playing the understanding friend. But I couldn’t bear the thought of watching the videos André was going to film of these virtual discussions. Today, when I watch them, I don’t see the pure and naïve Mélodie; for me, she isn’t the person I see smiling and impressed as she converses with Bilel. I see myself, Anna, dressed in black, sitting on my familiar couch, which I have come to hate. I’m the girl smiling. It isn’t Mélodie; she doesn’t exist. Should I feel ashamed for having taken part in this exercise? I’m a private person, and when I see these images of myself—playing a part, but it’s still me—I feel sick.

Mélodie replied using the same polite expression, but she didn’t finish her phrase. André distracted me by jumping around the sofa and waving his arms, careful not to enter the camera’s field of vision. In the heat of the action, I hadn’t replied correctly to Bilel’s question. The proper response to “salaam alaikum” is “walaikum salaam.” It was a beginner’s mistake, and I knew better. I wanted to laugh, and at the same time, I would’ve liked to see André in my shoes! But I couldn’t do anything; Bilel was hanging on Mélodie’s every word. He may have been in Syria, and I in France, but our faces were separated by mere millimeters. I had to be careful not to let my eyes wander from the screen. I was flooded with random thoughts. Ignoring André, who was still jumping around like a kangaroo, I choked when I heard Bilel’s first question.

“What’s new?”

Seriously? I hadn’t expected him to show interest in Mélodie’s day. I was so caught off guard by this ordinary request that I couldn’t think of anything to say but, “So much! But I’m shy. First, tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?” he asked, smiling confidently.

He took the bait. Mélodie’s life didn’t seem to interest him much after all. Too bad for her. Great for me. That said, I didn’t want to awaken his suspicions and risk blowing my cover by asking too many questions. ISIS knows that many journalists and police officers hide behind fake identities. Mélodie was twenty years old, and her knowledge of the world needed to match her age. She didn’t know much about politics, geopolitics, or holy wars.

“It’s crazy to be talking to a mujahid in Syria,” she said, impressed. “It’s like you have easier access to the Internet than I do in Toulouse! I share the computer with my sister, and my mom takes it away from us a lot. And you’re totally in a car. It’s insane! Even your phone is newer than mine.”

In addition to getting into character, I was giving Mélodie a plausible excuse for future unavailability. She lived with her family, and she couldn’t always honor her engagements.

“Syria is amazing. We have everything here. Masha’Allah, you have to believe me: it’s paradise! A lot of women fantasize about us; we’re Allah’s warriors.”

“But every day people die in your paradise. . . .”

“That’s true, and every day I fight to stop the killing. Here the enemy is the devil. You have no idea. The enemy steals from and kills poor Syrians. He rapes women, too. He’s attacking us, and we’re defending peace.”

“Is the enemy the president of Syria?”

“Among others. We have many adversaries.”

In addition to Bashar al-Assad’s regime, he mentioned the al-Nusra Front (an armed branch of al-Qaeda), Syrians, and all those he considered infidels. I knew ISIS wouldn’t hesitate to decimate the Syrian people (already oppressed by the Alawite dictatorship) if they refused to adhere to the terrorist organization’s rules. But I sensed the fighter didn’t want to elaborate. Bloody descriptions of the violent acts he committed every day didn’t fit with his strategy of lobotomizing his prey. Especially not when they might involve the weak. He didn’t want to give Mélodie pause.

“You’re awfully curious,” Bilel said. “Tell me, do you wear your hijab every day?”

Mélodie recited what I’d heard from the majority of girls I’d met during my career who had secretly converted to Islam.

“I dress normally in the morning. I say goodbye to my mom, and when I’m outside the house, I put on my djellaba and my veil.”

“Good. I’m proud of you. What you’re doing is really brave. You have a beautiful soul. And you’re very pretty on the outside, too.”

Bilel peered lecherously at Mélodie. She asked him to show her his surroundings. He claimed to be near Aleppo. In reality, he was probably several miles outside of Raqqa—ISIS headquarters and the first city where the organization literally established a state whose laws and strict policies subjugate locals through barbaric practices.

“The Prophet says you must choose a wife based on her character. Her inner beauty is her true beauty,” he added. “But when a woman is beautiful inside and out . . .”

Bilel bit his lip and stared at what he could see of me. I smiled. In response to Mélodie’s request, he got out of his car and his smartphone showed me images of a devastated Syria. Not a person in sight. It was about 9 p.m. in Syria, and it was absolutely silent. Suddenly, men’s thick voices broke the mournful silence.

“Don’t say anything!” Bilel ordered anxiously. “I don’t want anyone to see or hear you! You’re my jewel; you’re pure. Okay? Do you understand? Tell me you understand.”

Mélodie said she understood. She wouldn’t make another sound until he instructed her otherwise. That meant I could listen to the conversation. I was able to distinguish the voices of two other men. They greeted one another in Arabic, then switched to French, which sounded like their mother tongue. They laughed a lot, congratulating themselves for having “slaughtered them.”

“Salaam alaikum. What’s up?” one man asked. “Are you putting in overtime, or something?”

“I’m on the lookout, brother, lookout duty . . . nothing special. Nothing happening here. This area is all cleared out. You know that.”

As he finished talking, a sardonic smile spread across his face. Given the camera angle, I was able, with difficulty, to make out his facial expressions. By “cleared out,” Bilel meant his militia had laid siege to the area. The dried blood I saw on the concrete was evidence of the attack. ISIS’s black flags with white insignia floated in the distance. I listened to Bilel go on about a variety of issues, notably his impatience for the arrival of his “American cargo” and “chocolate bars.” André and I exchanged a meaningful look. The other men seemed to treat Bilel with respect, and they were quick to congratulate him. The exchange was too short to draw any conclusions, but their way of politely addressing him suggested my “contact” was higher in the ranks than they were. A minute later, he said goodbye to his fellow fighters and spoke into the phone, worried Mélodie might have hung up.

“Oh, you’re still there! And just as beautiful—”

“Who were they?”

“Fighters who came to say hello.”

“Oh, it sounded like they were reporting to you. You don’t want to brag, but I bet you’re a boss or something.”

“You’re right; I don’t like to brag . . . but people respect me.”

“Why? Are you an emir?”

Bilel adopted an attitude of false humility.

“You’ve guessed it, but I don’t like to brag. Let’s keep it between us. We’re all here for the same thing.”

“You seem really determined . . . can I ask what your job is?”

“Killing people.”

“Killing people is your job? I mean, that’s a job?”

“Of course it is! I work hard here. This isn’t Club Med!”

“You kill infidels?”

“Yeah, and traitors, too. I kill anyone who tries to prevent Islam from dominating the world.”

“What do you mean? Do you plan to take over the world?”

“Our leader Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi seeks to abolish all borders. It will take some time, but soon the world will be one big Muslim territory.”

“And what if the world is against it?”

“Then I’ll have a lot of work to do. In time, we’ll succeed.”

“A lot of work to do? Will you kill everyone who doesn’t agree?”

“Me and my men will. I can’t do it alone! Masha’Allah.”

“I bet you helped capture Raqqa. There were pictures of the Islamic State everywhere.”

The Battle of Raqqa, which took place in March 2013, was one of ISIS’s bloodiest victories. It demonstrated to the world the group’s fearsome determination. Fighters waved the black standard throughout the city and posted enemy heads on spikes in a main square. Pictures of mutilated bodies spanned the globe, acting as weapons of propaganda. Even Mélodie had seen them, on Twitter. Needing to remain focused, I shifted into autopilot. There would be time to think about Bilel’s madness later.

“You make me laugh!” he said. “Yes, of course. We obliterated them. It was crazy. . . . I’ll send you some pictures.”

He really did send them. This grisly memory made him extremely happy, and he didn’t try to hide it.

“Anyway, you’re not interested in all that,” he went on. “You ask too many questions. Tell me about you!”

“I want to know one thing first. . . . You say you kill bad people to cleanse the world. But why do you mutilate them? If your cause is noble, why such barbarism?”

“Well, we^* conquer territory by eliminating people. But everyone has a specific job. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m very important, so I’m in charge of supervising operations. I give orders, and when all the kafirs are dead, the emir decides what to do with their bodies.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well . . . didn’t you say you’d seen the videos and pictures? That day, for instance, the emir of Raqqa told us to cut off their heads. But enough of that. Tell me about you!”

“Okay, but I’m too shy! Let me see your car first. It looks like you have a lot of interesting stuff.”

Bilel was glad to show off his car, delighted whenever Mélodie—whom he already considered his betrothed—flattered him. Mélodie told him she thought the white submachine gun sitting amid a heap of clutter on the backseat was pretty. Bilel grabbed it and offered to give it to her. Laughing, he said, “I’m not surprised you like it! Women love this model because it’s easy to use. Do you like guns? I’ll give you plenty, starting with a lovely Kalashnikov.”

I could tell from his expression that he was being sincere.

“I want to learn more, but what does all this have to do with religion?”

“What guided you to Allah’s path?”

I was dying for a cigarette. At that moment I couldn’t think of anything else. Mélodie had existed for years without really existing. She’d simply been a name on a Facebook profile. As late as that morning, I never would have imagined playing this part for Bilel or needing to fabricate a backstory for a desperate and ultrasensitive young woman. I hadn’t had time to invent a “real” life for Mélodie. My veil was starting to itch, and when I glanced at André, a man known for his hyperactivity, I noticed that he was stunned.

At a loss for words, Mélodie stammered, “My dad left when I was little, and whenever my mom was too overwhelmed to take care of us, we stayed with my uncles. One of my cousins was Muslim, and I was fascinated by the inner peace that his religion gave him. He guided me to Islam.”

“Does he know that you want to come to al-Sham?”

Bilel assumed that everything had been decided. For him, Mélodie would soon arrive in Syria.

“I’m not sure that I want to go—”

“Listen, Mélodie. Among other things, it’s my job to recruit people, and I’m really good at my job. You can trust me. You’ll be really well taken care of here. You’ll be important. And if you agree to marry me, I’ll treat you like a queen.”