2266 words (9 minute read)

The House of the Spider

Ottawa, Ontario, 11 Apr 2015 – 1210 Local

For the second time in his life, Erik Petersson was at war.

Perched on the pedals of his yellow hardtail bike, his butt inches above the saddle, he pushed the thought from his head. A rock garden was up ahead and he needed to concentrate. Knees and elbows bent, he coasted past towering pine trees and scanned for the safest line through the obstacle, trying to ignore what would happen if he fell. As in war, he couldn’t let himself become paralyzed by analysis.

This war was different. There were no uniforms, nobody shooting at him. There was no dirt or sweat or blood or hours hunkered in a concrete bunker to escape wayward rockets and mortars. But the biggest difference was that although he was still a soldier, still bent on capturing or killing the enemy while starving them of resources, he wasn’t in the Army anymore.

Mud sprayed his legs as he splashed through a puddle and sideswiped a partially submerged rock. The handle bars wrenched in his grip and he tightened his hold. He should’ve missed that one, but it had been awhile. With his riding partner opening up distance, Erik might need the excuse for falling behind. He could still keep up with men half his age, but all the same, he could do with less time hunting people and more time in the saddle, yet another thing different about this war. Indeed, this war made up for his first experience with a host of other features.

Such as time to go trail riding, even if rarely.

Still, that was only part of it. This war had Twitter, Facebook and YouTube, not to mention overtime, and Starbucks. In this war he never left home, never deployed to combat zones despite being on duty twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. At times, this second war was so different he could almost forget he was even at war, as so many people did, more concerned with time spent clearing airport security than why those precautionary measures were necessary.

But war it was. 

The crowded bush gave way to a field of bulrushes under a clear, spring sky. He rode onto a narrow wooden boardwalk, blinked to clear the sweat stinging his eyes, then pedaled faster in pursuit. Competition, at least, was one thing that would always be the same.

This war was still a struggle between opposing forces. There were still people trying to kill each other, even if they used old school methods like beheadings and crucifixion. There were tactics and strategies that adapted and evolved and because of that, combatants still needed to protect their vulnerabilities. It was a full-time job with this enemy, who could be so innovative in their callous disregard for life. If the public only knew what didn’t make the news they’d be too scared to leave their homes. The plot to detonate pressure cooker bombs during Ottawa’s Winterlude Festival, the plan to explode a train carrying crude oil in Winnipeg, and others, all prevented with help from Erik’s team.

Times like that made him feel like a neurosurgeon must feel after removal of a brain tumor; it didn’t get much better. Sure, much of his work involved sifting through piles of reports; contradictory reports, false reports, reports overcome by events, and his personal favorite, circular reports. Yet it wouldn’t be war if the hours of boredom weren’t broken by bursts of intensity and when he uncovered links that led to neutralization of a threat, the often thankless sacrifice was worth it. He was a good soldier; he served his country and protected his loved ones.

Like Arielle.

The bike’s front wheel jerked wildly. He pitched side to side to find his balance, put out his foot to steady himself when his handlebar clipped a tree and he was falling. A mix of mud and water sprayed where he hit, the muck still ice-cold from the spring melt. He gasped and pushed into a squat, then looked up as his riding companion approached.  

Jordan skidded to a stop. “You hurt?” he asked around swigs of water.

“Just my pride,” Erik said, standing up his bike.

“Maybe if you got out of the office a bit more…”

“About that…” Erik looked at his watch. “Mind if we head back?”

“Seriously? It’s Saturday. Tell me you’re not going to work.”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

“Give it a rest, man. You’re like a dog with a bone.”

“Then you’ll be happy to know I’m not going to work,” Erik said. He stood tall, although he still had to look up at the younger man. “I’ve got a date.”

“I don’t believe you.” Jordan flashed a smile that never failed to catch the attention of many women and some men. “I have dates because I have a life outside work. You don’t.” Jordan squinted in pretend suspicion. “Who’s this date with?”

Erik cleared his throat. “Arielle. We’re playing World of Warcraft.”

“I knew it. Your daughter doesn’t count,” Jordan said. “And you’re like fifty years old. That’s too old to play video games, you know that, right?”

“It’s something I do with Arielle,” he said, then shrugged. “We’ve missed the last few weeks, so I want to make this one.”

“Why not go for coffee, like normal fathers and daughters?”

“She lives in Montreal,” he said, frowning. “Remember? And I’m forty-five, that’s a long way from fifty.”

“All right, all right,” Jordan said with a smirk. “Is your character at least cool?”

Erik grimaced. “No, not really. If I wasn’t in Arielle’s guild, I’d probably get my ass kicked by twelve-year-old kids every time I played.”

“Or fat dudes pretending to be chicks.” Jordan sighed. “At least you’re honest. Okay, old man, let’s go. You take the lead.”

Erik faced the bike in the opposite direction, leaned into the pedals and pushed back onto the boardwalk. His thoughts turned to Arielle. For all Jordan’s kidding, he had a point; Erik needed to get to Montreal more often. Hell, it was less than two hours door to door to Arielle’s university. If only work would slow down.

“You think Stephanie would play Warcraft?” Jordan called over the rattling of the wooden planks.

“Fuck you,” he said over his shoulder, his cheeks warm and not from the exertion.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Jordan said. “The only thing you both have in common is being workaholics.”

“It’s unprofessional to date a colleague.”

“Another good point,” Jordan said. “Although you’ll probably have to fight her off once you catch that asshole radicalizing people in Montreal. That shit’s like Spanish fly to the ladies.”

Laughter spurted from Erik’s mouth and he wobbled on the bike. He dragged a foot on the ground and rolled to a stop, then smiled back at Jordan. “What’s wrong with you?” he said as Jordan stopped beside him.

“What? Why are we stopping?” Jordan said in mock exasperation. “I thought you had to nerd out?”

“I’m not asking Stephanie out,” he said. “And al Kanadi isn’t from Montreal, he went to school there. All I need –” Ringing came from the black bag on his handlebars. “You’ll see,” he said and dug for his phone. The number was familiar, although Arielle shouldn’t have been calling already. They weren’t supposed to be online for another ninety minutes.

He glanced at Jordan. “Gotta take this. I won’t be long.”

Jordan nodded up the trail. “I’ll go slow so you can catch up.”

“Right behind you,” he said and brought the phone to his ear.

“Stephanie. Warcraft. Genius,” Jordan called out as he rode off. “Start a blog.”

“Asshole.”

“Dad?” Arielle’s voice rose in confusion.

“Not you, sweetie, sorry. I’m talking to Jordan.”

Silence, filled by the throaty rasp of crows in the trees overhead.

“Arielle?”

“I’m here.”

“Thought I lost you for a second,” he said. “What’s going on? Are we still on for two o’clock? I know how –”

“Dad…”                         

He stopped. “What is it?”

“I can’t make it.”

“What do you mean? We had a date.” More silence. The dense canopy of trees pressed in upon him, the air at once thick and dark. “Is everything okay? Talk to me.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m not going to be able to see you for a while.”

“What are you talking about? Did something happen at school?”

“I’m not at school.”

“You’re not…” He switched the phone to his other ear. “Where are you?”

“Frankfurt.”

“Frankfurt…Germany?” Mud squelched underfoot as he shifted weight.

“I don’t have much time. My flight’s in a couple of minutes.”

“Wait, what? Flight to where? Why are you in Frankfurt?”

“I don’t disown you.” Her voice had a slight waver. “We’re supposed to – that’s part of it – supposed to erase our previous lives. But I still love you. I know you always meant well. I pray for you.”

She prayed for him? The words bewildered him, as unexpected as if she’d said horns had sprouted from his forehead. He realized she’d kept talking and he forced himself to focus.

“– to Turkey,” she said.

“What? What about Turkey?”

“We’re flying to Turkey,” she said. “We’re meeting someone there who’ll take us into Syria.”

Turkey? His mouth opened and closed in a soundless rhythm. Syria?

“Dad?”

“I’m here.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, had to remind himself he was on the phone with his daughter and not for one of his investigations. “Listen, there’s a civil war in Syria right now. It’s dangerous. Don’t do this. Whatever you –”

“I have to,” she said, the steel in her voice a signal she’d made up her mind, the same hardheaded tone she’d used since she was three years old. “I have to go,” she continued. “Now that there’s a caliphate, hijrah is an obligation.”

“What are you talking about?” He shivered, chilled at the resonance to his work. The hijrah, or duty to migrate to the caliphate, was what all the high-risk travelers said these days, especially the most radicalized ones whom he tracked on a daily basis. “There’s no obligation and even if there was, what does it have to do with you?”

“I converted six months ago,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“Say that again?” He staggered. Whatever was going on, he needed to get a grip. Keep her talking. “Did something happen at school?”

“No…yes…”

“Arielle –”

“It’s not just school, it’s everything,” she said, louder. “I can’t live like this anymore. Naomi says it’s better there.”

“Who’s Naomi?” he said. “Is she with you?”

“I met her at school,” she said. “She introduced me.”

“To who?” He ran a hand through his short brown hair. “No, no, no. Do you know how dangerous this is?” What was she thinking?

“I have to go. My flight’s boarding.”

His heart pounded in his ears. Think. He was almost out of options. “Okay, stay put in Turkey. I’ll get in touch with my team, we’ll call ahead and have the police pick you up there.”

“You’re not listening, Dad. I don’t want to be picked up,” she said. “Besides, there’s not enough time. You know that.”

He checked his watch, her words a dagger of ice that numbed his heart. How long could her flight be, two hours? Three, max? Shit. She was probably right – so what now? He looked around wildly. “Stop. Come home.” His free hand found its way to a plain metal ring that hung from a leather cord on his neck. This couldn’t be happening. He clenched his eyes shut.

“Dad…”

“I’ll find you,” he said. “I’ll bring you home.”

Another voice sounded through the line, a girl’s voice, urgent.

“Text me when you make it through.” The numbness spread from his chest, threatened to overtake his entire body. “Texting should be safe.”

Silence.

What else? “Don’t go with anybody you don’t trust,” he said, then shook his head. Stupid advice. Well, what did he expect – his job was to stop would-be extremists from going to the Middle East, not coach them through the process. “Be careful.”

“I will. I promise,” she said. “Bye.”

“Arielle –” The line went dead. “I love you.” He lowered the phone, hand shaking.

His daughter was going to Syria.

Images of black flags, masked men, and blindfolded prisoners with saw tooth knives at their throats flashed through his mind. The woods closed in on him and he fought for breath, blinked up at the dense canopy where the muffled croaks of crows rose in discord as they took flight to the north-east. He tightened his grip on the ring. Damnit, he couldn’t lose Arielle, too.

He tucked the ring back into his shirt, then speed-dialed the duty officer for the High-Risk Traveler Task Force.