The Monroe Decision Page 6

  “The Parc del Clot is a public park about ten kilometers from where we are. But what is interesting about that is there is a large mosque near there,” Aaron replied.

  “Should we go there and ask around?” asked Sarah.

  Aaron grimaced. “Yeah, we can go there later but we have to be very careful. I would rather just go there and listen. I’m not sure we should be asking any questions of people just yet.”

  “You’re the boss,” replied Sarah.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BARCELONA, SPAIN

  THURSDAY, JUNE 16TH

  11:05 A.M.

  The door chimes rang as a young mother with two toddlers entered the small bakery located on Carrer del Clot near the market place. The owner of the bakery, Abdul-Aziz Baseer, was seated at his desk in front of a computer and had been monitoring some activity on Facebook when he heard the chimes. He stood and stepped into the bakery store to meet the young woman. Abdul-Aziz was in his mid-thirties, lanky, with dark hair and a good two days’ stubble.

  “Salam Alaikum,” Abdul-Aziz greeted her. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  The young mother adjusted her light blue hijab so that it fully covered her neck and breasts. “Yes, please. I would like to purchase some baklava and some qatayef.”

  “Well, you have come to the right place. We have the best baklava in Barcelona and the freshest, made just this morning,” lied Abdul-Aziz. He knew the baklava was two days old. “And our qatayef,” he kissed his fingertips, “better than you could find in Casablanca.”

  “Good. My husband’s brother and family are coming to visit and I want to make a good impression.”

  Abdul-Aziz quickly opened the back of the glass showcase. “Would you like a dozen of each?” he asked. “I will make it a baker’s dozen for the same price.” He pulled a paper napkin out of a box and began picking baklava pieces out of the tray and bagging them.

  “No, I think eight pieces of each will be enough,” replied the woman.

  “No, no, no,” he responded, “That is not enough. These are so good your husband’s brother will want more. I will give you a good deal. Ten percent off.”

  “How much will this cost?” asked the young woman.

  “The baklava is one euro and ten cents per slice. I will give it to you for one euro each. Ten percent discount with the thirteenth slice for free,” he declared. “I will give you the qatayef for the same price. I will practically take a loss at that price but I want you to make a good impression.”

  The young woman bit her lip. After a moment she said, “Okay.” She handed Abdul-Aziz twenty-four euros.

  He handed her the bag full of pastries and placed the euros in his cashbox and bid her, “Salam Alaikum.”

  Abdul-Aziz locked the door to the bakery, pulled the blinds down, and hung the ‘Closed’ sign in the door window. It was lunch time, so he walked through the bakery to his living quarters in the back. He pulled some slices of pita bread and hummus from a wood cupboard and placed it on a plate, then added some oranges and pears from a small refrigerator.

  He left the kitchen and walked down a short set of stairs to a damp basement and unlocked the door and opened it. It was a small room with no windows and an attached water closet and shower. One incandescent light bulb hung from the ceiling over an aluminum card table. Along three walls in the room were three small beds. Four young girls sat on those beds, two on the bed opposite the door and one each on the other beds. They all wore modest blue or gray abayas. The girls all looked up at Abdul-Aziz as he walked in and set the plate of food on the table.

  “It is time for you to eat,” he announced.

  The girls stood slowly with slumping shoulders and trundled over to the table. As they ate, one of the girls asked, “Why are we not allowed to step outside or even go upstairs in the bakery?”

  “That cannot be allowed,” Abdul-Aziz replied curtly. “You are runaways. Don’t you think that your parents have given your descriptions or pictures to the police? No, we cannot take the chance you will be seen. You will stay in this room until we are ready to take you to the caliphate.”

  “But we have so little to do,” said the girl softly.

  “You must study your teachings,” he scolded, pointing at some binders on the bed where she had been sitting. “These have been prepared by the caliph to prepare you for what will be expected of you when you arrive there.”

  One other girl whimpered. “I would like to go home. I don’t want to do what these teachings say will be expected of me.”

  “Enough!” hollered Abdul-Aziz. He slapped the girl’s face with the back of his hand hard enough to knock her down. “That is enough. We will leave in a few days. Then you will serve the caliph. That is what you wanted.” He slammed the door as he exited and locked it from the other side. Abdul-Aziz faced the door and shook his finger like a club. At two hundred euros a head, you will not back out of our arrangement. He walked up the stairs and through the kitchen and returned to the computer at his desk.

  Abdul-Aziz logged back into Facebook and with a few keystrokes found the post he had been looking at earlier. This girl has piqued my interest. She’s an immigrant. She feels a little out of place in Barcelona. She has a strict father and she is depressed and has nothing to do and wants to find some excitement. I think I’ll watch her for a few days. He leaned in closer to the monitor.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  BARCELONA, SPAIN

  FRIDAY, JUNE 17TH

  9:05 A.M.

  Two men and one young woman jogged on the concrete embankment guarding the city against erosion at the former Olympic beach. Aaron slipped on a pair of Maui Jim sunglasses as he gazed at the clear, blue sky and bright sun over the Mediterranean. The temperature was already in the mid-seventies. Two women surfers were attempting to ride the two-foot waves without a lot of success.

  “This place is kinda deserted,” remarked Sarah. “As crowded as it was on the metro, I thought it would be packed here.”

  “Give it a few hours and it will be,” replied Aaron. “We rode in with the college crowd. Professors and administrators, mostly. The former Olympic village where we got off is now the city campus of their public university. Another hour or two and the beach will be filled with students on break between classes.”

  “And I’m assuming we’re not here to enjoy the beach?” Sarah mocked.

  Aaron interlocked his arm with Sarah’s as he led her up a set of stairs. “No, baby, this isn’t going to be a beach holiday, although in a few hours there will be more beautiful bodies walking in this area than you can count.”

  They arrived at a wide outdoor mall with shops along the left side; along the right side were outdoor seating areas overlooking a row of palm trees and the sea beyond.

  “There’s a small Internet café up here where you can log on. I thought we could spend a couple hours online and then we can just hang out down here. This is one of my favorite places in Barcelona.”

  “So you’ve been to Barcelona often?” asked Sarah.

  “At least a half-dozen times.”

  “I’m afraid to ask what you might have done on those trips,” replied Sarah.

  “This is the café,” he said, eyeing the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  They were the only patrons and they took seats at a table with two chairs facing the water and a large-screen iMac. Aaron went to the counter where a young woman in a black dress, black leggings, and too much white and black makeup sat behind the counter at the register. He purchased two hours of computer time and two cappuccinos.

  Sarah logged on to the computer with the password provided by the attendant and opened the Facebook page she had established for Yasmin.

  “Wow, I have a dozen more friend requests.” She read the profiles of the friend requests and after a few moments turned around and faced Aaron. Her eyes were unblinking.

  “Most of these profiles are young kids,” she explained. “Pretty much the same kinds of things that I put in my pro
file. I’m bored, parents too strict, and I don’t like living in a European city. I posted that I miss living in a predominantly Islamic place.”

  “Go on.”

  “This one,” she pointed at a friend request on the screen. “The profile name is Arbab. A message was posted directly to me that said this person relates to my situation.”

  Aaron folded his hands behind his head. He exhaled through is nose. “Can you tell if this is a man or a woman?”

  “I think it’s a man, but in Islamic culture he would probably want to appear to be a woman until he’s earned my trust.”

  Aaron thought for a moment. “Let’s ask for some advice. Ask if this person can recommend someone that can help Yasmin adjust to her new life.”

  Sarah smiled wryly, then turned and tapped out a message on the keyboard.

  After ninety-five minutes at the Internet café, Sarah logged off the computer. They took a walk along the palm tree-lined Passeig Maritim to a Vodafone cellular telephone store and picked up a seventy-two-hour prepaid cellular phone. The area had filled with pedestrians and the beach on the east side of the Passeig had filled in with hundreds of surfers, swimmers, and sunbathers.

  They stopped at a beachside café with an open, garage door-size window on both sides that opened the seating area to the sea breeze yet shielded patrons from the sun. Aaron was sipping on a pint of Stella Artois beer while Sarah enjoyed a Spanish concoction called Agua de Valencia made from cava and orange juice. The tables had white marble tops and the chairs were cherry wood with comfortable fabric seats and backs. Sarah set up the Vodafone using the Yasmin alias and placed it on the table. Aaron had just ordered some paella and chorizo tapas when Sarah noticed the iPhone vibrate. She picked it up and several messages downloaded from Facebook.

  “Aaron, there’s a post here from Arbab.” She leaned forward, pushed her drink aside, and leaned both elbows on the tabletop. She read from the post, “Yasmin, I do know an imam who might be able to help you. He is a very understanding and gentle imam. I have explained your situation to him and he is willing to meet with you and discuss a way that will allow you to continue to embrace the way you were raised in Islam and satisfy your contempt for the material ways of the European youth. If you are interested, answer this post, and I will arrange a meeting.” Sarah’s gaze lifted toward Aaron.

  “This might be our guy,” Aaron proclaimed. He thought for a moment, his fingers drumming on the tabletop. “We have to go back to the Internet café and send the message from there. If you send it from an iPhone he’ll be able to see that and he might get suspicious. This girl Yasmin would never be allowed to have a smartphone.”

  Sarah nodded. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  They left their unfinished drinks on the table and hurried back to the Internet café.

  “I’ll only need about thirty minutes this time,” Aaron said to the studious goth attendant with a human physiology book on her desk.

  “You’ll have to pay for the full hour,” she replied without looking up from the book.

  Aaron smiled and shook his head one time. “A full hour then.”

  The attendant stopped reading, took Aaron’s cash, and told him the new password. He and Sarah were directed to the same computer they had used earlier. They sat facing the window toward the sea and Sarah logged on to the iMac.

  After a few keystrokes she was on Facebook and found the post Arbab had sent to her earlier.

  “Here it is,” she said as she turned her head toward Aaron.

  “Okay. Tell Arbab you would like to meet this imam and ask where and when.”

  The response came back quickly. “Arbab wants to know where I live,” she informed Aaron.

  “Alright, tell him you live near Plaça de Catalunya.”

  * * *

  The young girl was very pretty. Fifteen years old with black hair and a dark complexion and pretty brown eyes. Abdul-Aziz had pre-arranged to meet her at the nearby Parc del Clot at eleven and then escorted her back to his bakery and the room downstairs. When he met her, she had proclaimed her excitement to meet with him and to have the opportunity to serve the caliphate. He explained that her new name would be Abdul Qameer, slave of the powerful.

  Earlier, she wore a sleeveless brown dress that ended below the knees and tennis shoes. She was naked, in the dank basement shower, with Abdul-Aziz watching. She cried, and she called to the other girls to help her, but they were too frightened to do anything but watch. This same scene had played out earlier for each of them.

  “You are clean now,” Abdul-Aziz announced. “Put this on and eat your lunch with the others.” He handed her a gray abaya similar to the ones the other girls wore and left the room with her dress in his hands, locking the door behind him. He walked through the kitchen and threw her brown dress in his garbage. He then sat at his desk where the desktop computer was located.

  Abdul-Aziz logged into his computer and his Facebook account under the name Arbab and scrolled through the recent posts until he found what he was hoping to find. “Yes, Yasmin. I know someone who will help you.” He interlocked his hands and stretched his arms in front of him, cracking his knuckles.

  Abdul-Aziz leaned forward and hurriedly typed a message, edited it twice, then sent it.

  * * *

  After a few minutes of waiting, Sarah’s computer pinged and the screen image changed. She read the response aloud. “Meet the imam tonight at eight o’clock at the Pita Inn on Les Rambles.”

  “Ask how you will be able to identify him.”

  Sarah typed the question. The response came quickly. “He will know who you are and he will approach you.”

  “Okay. He’s going to be looking for a thirteen-year-old girl,” Aaron surmised. “He’ll approach and ask if the name is Yasmin.” Aaron rubbed his chin with thumb and forefinger and thought for a moment. “Tell him you will be there and look forward to meeting the imam.”

  Sarah typed what Aaron had told her and as she did that, she said, “I don’t know where you’re going to find a thirteen-year-old girl for this.”

  He stood behind Sarah and placed his arm on her shoulder. “We don’t need one. I know the place he is talking about. There’s a small bar across the street. We can sit outside with a cocktail and stake out the Pita Inn. It will be easy to spot someone who is there at eight o’clock waiting for someone else to arrive. When Yasmin doesn’t show up, I will follow him home.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  BARCELONA, SPAIN

  FRIDAY, JUNE 17TH

  7:45 P.M.

  The cocktail bar across the street from the Pita Inn was crowded with men and women mostly dressed in business attire and a few couples who appeared to be tourists when Aaron and Sarah arrived. They were fortunate to snag the last two seats at an outdoor wrought iron table with a glass top near the entrance. Aaron sat facing the Pita Inn on the other side of the boulevard and Sarah sat opposite him.

  A waiter wearing a black coat, white shirt, and black bow tie approached. A white towel was draped over his forearm, which he used to wipe their table clean. Aaron ordered two vodka martinis and the waiter nodded, then stepped away.

  From his vantage point across the boulevard, Aaron could see inside the front half of the Pita Inn. The shop had a garage door-size opening no doubt with a metal roll-down door coiled under the yellow and red banner. Inside there was a cashier and a counter where the customer told the pita maker what ingredients to use. There were high-top tables and chairs along the wall across from the counter. There was also a backroom that Aaron was unable to see clearly.

  Just outside was a stoplight and crosswalk. A young girl with long black hair wearing a short black dress and white running shoes waited at the crosswalk while she typed something on her smartphone. An older man, slim with gray hair, a brown shirt, dark glasses, and a large gold watch started to approach the girl, then stopped and walked back inside the Pita Inn.

  “I think we have our bogie,” Aaron said.

  “Already?” Sa
rah turned to look.

  “He’s the guy with the brown shirt that’s just going inside now. He saw the young girl at the crosswalk and started to approach her. I think when he saw the cell phone he assumed that couldn’t be the girl he was waiting for.”

  “And the dress,” added Sarah. “The girl he is waiting for would never wear a dress that short.”

  After a few minutes, the man in the brown shirt walked outside and looked both directions on Les Rambles Boulevard, then walked back inside.

  “Yeah,” said Aaron. “That’s the guy. I think he’s getting a little pissed his girl has stood him up.”

  Sarah sipped her martini with both hands and blinked owlishly.

  “What is that look supposed to mean?”

  “I was just watching you. You’re really good at what you do, aren’t you?”

  “I try to be. This is not a job you want to be second best at.”

  Sarah placed her drink on the table and leaned toward Aaron. She was about to say something when the man in the brown shirt came outside again. He looked both ways on Les Rambles, then looked at his watch. Aaron looked at the screen on his iPhone. The time was quarter after eight. “Get ready. I think he’s going to leave.”

  Aaron left money for the drinks and they slowly walked away from the cocktail bar and across the street onto the boulevard. The man in the brown shirt began to walk south on the boulevard at a fast pace. Aaron and Sarah increased their pace as well. They stayed about twenty paces behind the man.

  The boulevard was crowded. It was a pleasant night and that brought out quite a few families to shop at the many storefronts on the boulevard or to just sit on one of the many park benches while their children played games. As they tailed their prey, Aaron and Sarah maneuvered through the crowd, Sarah struggling to keep pace.

  “Sarah, go back to the hotel and wait for me.”

  “Why do you want me to go back?” she asked.