Alastair Luft
The Opening
Raqqa, Syria, 11 Apr 2015 – 1733 Local
Abu Noor al Kanadi stood near the center of Raqqa’s crowded main square, hands clenched at his sides. At least two thousand people stood with him in a circle that surged forward, now pressed back, anchored by gruff commands from men in black hoods with assault rifles nestled in their arms. Two such men stood at al Kanadi’s side to protect a space of several feet around him. A perk of rank, although he would earn it today. He always did.
Across the plaza, the crowd parted to let through a small procession. Two hooded men in tan camouflage half-led, half-dragged a third man dressed in orange coveralls, his emaciated limbs held together by chains. Behind these three strode a rotund, hooded man in the same desert camouflage, combat shirt stretched taut across his distended gut, the flip-flop sound of his cheap leather sandals echoing in the square. He might have been comical except for the wicked three-foot curved blade slung over his shoulder. Together, the group marched toward a plain metal chair in the center of the square.
Al Kanadi clenched his jaw shut and his lips tightened into a thin line. He thought of his old brothers-in-arms from 5th Special Forces Group, who would laugh to see how he’d fallen. If they only knew. He had no idea why the ragged-looking man was to be executed, perhaps spying or maybe for being an infidel. There were countless roads to the executioner’s blade, many of them unpredictable which, after all, was partly the point. It was far easier to reap terror where confusion had been sown.
The guards shoved the prisoner onto the chair and grabbed his hair to force his head forward over his chest, the rest of his body slumped. With a shove, they indicated the prisoner should remain seated with his head down, then both men withdrew several feet. In turn, the fat man with the sword sauntered forward into the vacated spotlight at the center of the square.
Such savagery, but Ibn Tamiyya’s writings were explicit as to the need for these acts. A French philosopher, Guy Debord, had suggested that the spectacle could distract and pacify the masses through entertainment, but Ibn Tamiyya understood that fear was equally effective. The symbol was the important thing, in this case of a new power ascendant, and it was the reason that though his stomach revolted in nervous anticipation, al Kanadi would not only watch, but be seen to watch. To look away would incur doubt in his faith, reinforce the belief that Westerners were inferior fighters, cannon-fodder. He would not have it. There was too much to accomplish and Protean-like, he would take any form to ensure success. Even still, he was thankful the sun had sunk below the buildings. If he’d had the midday heat to contend with as well, he might have fallen to his knees.
Beside him, one of his bodyguards stiffened, then stepped aside, as if to let someone through. Al Kanadi frowned – he’d made it clear he was to be left alone – and turned to see who presumed to disturb him. He found himself face-to-face with Mamdouh al Qassam, his second-in-command.
Mamdouh leaned close, his hand coming to al Kanadi’s back. “Another two girls are on their way,” he said in his gravelly voice.
He shrugged off Mamdouh’s hand. “It can wait.”
Mamdouh’s eyes narrowed. “They’re from Canada.”
Al Kanadi’s frown deepened. “When?”
“They’ve already begun to travel.” Mamdouh’s gaze flickered to the scene in the square, where the fat man was reading the prisoner’s sins from a piece of paper. “I thought you might want to oversee the preparations yourself. I can represent you here.”
“I’m sure you would.” Al Kanadi gestured for Mamdouh to stand beside him. The offer was attractive; he’d been waiting for this development for almost a year now. “My place is here.”
“My apologies,” Mamdouh said, almost licking his lips as he assumed his place beside al Kanadi. “I know how these…sights…bother you.”
“They have their place.” He made a mental note to reprimand his subordinate. Mamdouh’s ambition served him well, but it would get him into trouble sooner or later. “I prefer more subtle methods of instilling fear.”
“I would never have guessed.”
The corners of Abu Noor’s mouth slowly spread up as he focused on the executioner, who stood with his blade extended above the prisoner’s neck. He willed himself to be silent, an image of stoic resolve, yet couldn’t resist another question. “When will they arrive?” He could feel Mamdouh’s smile grow wider, more sinister. He didn’t care, he needed to know.
“Within a few days.”
His heart quickened. Insha’Allah, these recruits would be more suitable than the last ones. What was it the British said, fortune favors the bold? He smiled. His plan was nothing if not bold.
The executioner’s sword began its descent and for the first time in ages, Abu Noor al Kanadi did not flinch as it fell.