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THE CALIPHATE
an online short story..
When a terrorist group establishes an Islamic republic in Canada, two friends are forced to confront their own loyalties---and each other
Part 4
* * *
Security was tight in the catacombs of offices that lay beneath the airport. No fewer than three security personnel—all of them Arabs—checked Marty’s Islamic Guard credentials at various points on the way down.
Harb had only recently reopened the Toronto Airport. This was another attempt to present a veneer of normalcy. Only a few countries allowed planes from the Islamic Republic of Ontario to land: North Korea and a handful of Middle Eastern countries. But agitation for the recognition of the Islamic Republic of Ontario was growing in the United Kingdom, Italy, and Spain—where Islamist groups were active. Planes from Toronto might soon be landing in London, Rome, and Madrid.
A visa from Harb was of course required for travel. When you left you had to appoint a family member or a close friend to serve as your “guarantor.” “Guarantor” was a euphemism for hostage; if you defected while abroad, Harb would execute the person designated as your guarantor. They had done so more than once.
Marty was in the downstairs office by 1:10. Neither Phil nor Ali would be here for a while, so he had some time to think.
Can I trust Phil?
If I find out that Phil has committed an act of treason against Harb, how do I handle it?
Room 115 was filled with various Harb paraphernalia: a locked gun rack held four automatic weapons. Everywhere were banners. Most of these were in Arabic, which Marty couldn’t read. The few that were in English exhorted Canadians to “Resist the lies of the infidels!” and “Live according to the words the Prophet.”
A photograph of Sheik Abdul Qafisheh hung on the wall near the clock. Marty had read several accounts of Qafisheh’s life. The founder and spiritual leader of Harb was born in Yemen to a poor family of ten children. His father, a fisherman, had been a devout Muslim who raised his children to be pious servants of Allah.
It was said that at the age of fifteen Qafisheh had memorized the Quran. Then at eighteen he had a vision somewhere in the desert outside of coastal city of Sayhut. Shortly thereafter, he had begun his life’s true work.
First he went to Palestine, where he became involved in the Black September movement. In the 1980s the Sheik had fought alongside the mujahadeen in Afghanistan against the Soviets. The 1990s saw him fighting for the cause all over the world: shouldering a gun in Bosnia, training suicide bombers in Palestine, and orchestrating car bombings in Pakistan, Manila, and Chechnya. The Sheik had amassed quite a collection of contacts during his years as a Jihadi. He had contacts in the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade, the Fatah, even al-Qaeda. A decade ago he had founded Harb, the Islamist organization that would eventually eclipse all its predecessors.
The door to room 115 opened and Ali entered.
“Where is Phil?” Ali demanded.
“He’ll be here soon.”
Marty’s handler muttered something to himself in Arabic. Ali was only twenty-eight or twenty-nine. Although he was originally from Cairo, he had earned an engineering degree from Rutgers before returning to the Middle East to join Harb. Unlike so many of the group’s regulars, Ali spoke impeccable English. Although he wore a beard, he usually eschewed traditional Middle Eastern dress. Today he was wearing in his typical attire—dress slacks, an open collar shirt, and a dark sports jacket.
Marty had been a psychology major at the University of Toronto. He knew that the selection of a handful of Harb handlers with Western affectations were a deliberate effort by Harb to build rapport among the members of the Canadian Islamic Guard. Harb wasn’t above marketing itself and pushing subtle psychological buttons.
“Any more word about the missing key?” Marty asked, knowing that Ali would bring up the matter if he didn’t.
“Ah, yes,” Ali replied. “We at least have some good news on that front. One of the guards apparently knocked the key off its peg while retrieving another key. The key was found underneath the main desk in the security office.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“Yes it is. But we still have the problem of the Donovans to confront. You know, Marty, the time has come for us to put a stop to their activities. Once and for all.”
“Ali, I think I know what you’re going to ask. And I’m telling you now, that would be difficult.”
“But Marty. Think about what you’re saying. You’ve been a guard member for more than a year and squad leader for several months now. We have never asked you to do anything very difficult. Oh, you don’t agree? Just tell me: What have you had to do?”
Marty shrugged. Ali had a point. So far, the enforcement duties that he and his companions had carried out had been innocuous and even boring. They were the Harb equivalent of meter maids, really. Each day they issued citations for petty infractions: beards that were not long enough, kiosks selling unapproved reading materials, etc. They were little more than religious traffic cops.
The chador in particular was a constant thorn in their sides. How many Harb dress code citations had Marty been forced to write over the previous months, all because Canadian women didn’t like wearing the chador? Most of them especially hated the head covering, so it was the most common point of violation. And last month Marty had busted a college coed who had cut and hemmed the material at the bottom of the garment, so that it resembled a knee-length skirt. Not only had she been fined a hundred dollars—she also looked ridiculous. What some people would do just to bend the rules.
“We are not unreasonable,” Ali said. “Harb realizes that it will take time for the people of Ontario to completely change their ways. And we can be lenient where necessary. Do you remember our conversation about the daily prayers, just the other day? Have we gone around shooting every citizen who doesn’t observe the obligation?”
“No,” Marty admitted.
“In fact, I think you’ll remember that we discussed ways to make the custom easier to observe, such as delivering the prayer summons in English.”
“Sure.”
“But the Donovans are a different matter. The Donovans aren’t just imperfect practitioners of Islam. The Donovans,” Ali had clenched one fist. “Despite every warning delivered by the Harb, are actively working against us. Witnesses have seen them proselytizing, Marty, on more than one occasion. How can we tolerate that?”
Marty wasn’t sure what to say. He offered no answer.
“Therefore,” Ali continued. “We have no choice but to make an example of the Donovans in this matter. And you and Phil must participate. If the Islamic Republic of Ontario is to survive and grow stronger, then you Canadians must also aid its construction. Do you understand?”
Once again, there didn’t seem to be a good way of answering Ali’s question. Marty made a noncommittal grunting sound that could be taken either as assent or denial.
“And where is Phil?” Ali gestured toward the clock. It was 1:35.
“I told him to be here at— ”
As if on cue, the doorknob turned and the Phil’s shadow appeared in the translucent pane of glass that filled the upper half the door. Phil walked in and nodded first to Ali, then to Marty. The door wheezed back and closed with a little bang and a metallic click.
“You’re late.” Ali snapped.
He seemed to be waiting for Phil to explain himself. But Phil remained silent.
Ali shook his head. “We can talk about you later. Come on now, both of you. We’re going.”
“Where are we going?” Phil asked.
“Marty can tell you while we go there.”
Ali abruptly opened the door and swept them both out with a terse hand gesture. Phil nudged Marty on the way out, his expression hinting at another angry outburst. Marty didn’t want a repeat of the scene in the terminal—not here with Ali to contend with. Marty raised his index finger to his lips. “Later,” he whispered.
They walked very quickly through the maze beneath the airport, their feet echoing in the barren corridors. Ali directed them to the airport’s parking garage. They boarded an elevator and rode to the ground level.
A black Chevrolet Suburban was idling in the damp spring air, obviously waiting for them. Two men were standing beside the vehicle. One of them was a tall, broad-chested Harb member named Ghazi. Marty tended to avoid Ghazi whenever possible. Ghazi was uncouth, ill-tempered, and he displayed an open hostility toward all Canadians—even those who were in the Guard. The other man was also large—nearly as big as Ghazi, but Marty could not see who he was. The man wore a hood that revealed only his eyes.
As they approached, Ghazi pointed at Marty and Phil and said something to Ali in Arabic. Ali waved him silent, and shouted an obvious command. Ghazi pounded his fist once on the side of the SUV, but he complied. It was clear who was in charge here. Nevertheless, Ghazi would be dangerous and unpredictable as always.
Ali arranged them in the vehicle. Marty and Phil sat in the backseat, with the hooded man and Ghazi between them. It was an especially cramped fit because there were four of them. Ghazi seemed to make a point of spreading out so that he would push Marty up against the door. Ali sat in the front seat beside the driver, who had been waiting inside the vehicle. He was a Harb member, a bearded young man who Marty did not recognize.
Another command in Arabic from Ali, and they were on their way.
* * *
From the online journal Foreign Affairs in the 21st Century:
The Islamic Republic of Ontario and the United States
Why Washington may ultimately need to accommodate Harb
“South of Canada, in the United States, the recently elected American commander-in-chief wavers between bluster, and a stark resignation to the missiles aimed at Detroit, Cleveland and Chicago. ‘We absolutely will not tolerate a nuclear-armed terrorist enclave on our northern border,” he says one day. ‘We are assessing our options in regard to the Canadian situation, and there has been some dialog with the group known as Harb.’ a White House spokesperson says the next.
There are of course firebrands in the U.S. who want to evacuate the American cities lying within range of the missiles, and then launch an invasion of Ontario. The Canadian situation now dominates the news magazines on CNN, MSNBC and Fox. The lineup of these programs has become predictable: a bellicose U.S. senator lays out the case for an invasion. Then he or she is countered by a cool-headed expert who explains (often with more than a trace of condescension) that the invasion scheme will never work. Why? The answer is obvious. Harb can have its missiles in the air before a single U.S. shell kills a single Harb fighter.
Nevertheless, the first part of the ill-fated plan already seems to be spontaneously underway. Although there has been no explicit directive issued by Washington for a voluntary evacuation of the Great Lakes region, people have been trickling out for months. The populations of Cleveland, Detroit, and Buffalo are said to be at half their previous levels. Real estate prices have plummeted in every U.S. city within two hundred miles of the border with Ontario…..”
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