“It’s Al-Buraq,” Louis said.
I nodded in grim awe. “The Prophet’s warhorse.”
Part Five
Warhorse
Chapter 89
8th Arrondissement
April 12, 7:20 a.m.
Brothers and Sisters,
We the warriors of AB-16 fight in the name of Al-Buraq, warhorse of the Prophet Mohammed, blessings be upon his name. Flying into battle on the back of the winged Lightning, AB-16 calls to all immigrants and immigrant youth:
Look at the way France has treated you.
No job. No future. No hope.
And brutal oppression when you protest.
This will be your useless life unless you join our fight now. Take up the sword of divine justice. Wage holy war for your children’s lives.
Help us drive out the decadent French culture now, and replace it with one that will make the Prophet proud.
Lightning has taken flight over Paris. The warhorse soars over all of France in 2016.
Hear his battle cry. Spread the message. Join our ranks.
Al-Buraq in 2016!
AB-16!
Sitting in the living area in the suite, with the television on and my breakfast eaten, I set the letter aside. It was the fifth time I’d read it since Ali Farad first received a copy three days before, but it was the first since I’d watched the sculpture of the Prophet’s warhorse ignite and burn so furiously hours before.
The two together-image and call to jihad-felt greater than the sum of their parts. The letter alone was incendiary, a call to treason and revolution. But footage of the factory fire and the statue was dominating the news in ways the letter could not.
Every station I turned to, even the ones out of Japan and China, was showing images of the Prophet’s warhorse engulfed in flames. CNN kept broadcasting a clip with firemen arriving on the scene. When they had turned the hoses on the still-glowing sculpture, it had hissed and thrown steam, which made it seem otherworldly and threatening all over again.
The BBC was reporting that in response to the bombing in Sevran and the factory fire in Pantin, the riots had spread. The feed cut to a knot of youths, their faces wrapped in head scarves, defying the curfew and chanting, “AB-16! AB-16!”
In voice-over, the British reporter said that police and army officers, firemen and ambulance workers, had been shot at repeatedly during the night, and dozens of vehicles had been set ablaze and used to block streets.
I changed to a French station and was reaching for the pot to pour myself more coffee when the screen jumped to someone I recognized.
It was Major Sauvage, the French Army officer from the night before. He was giving the press a briefing. He looked hard and focused, not tired at all.
“It has been a violent night,” Major Sauvage began. “While trying to stop a van of immigrant men from breaking curfew and attempting to leave Les Bosquets at around three a.m., my men came under intense fire. Three men in the van were killed. The other two are in custody.
“All five men were carrying AK-47 assault rifles and a considerable amount of ammunition,” he went on. “As of now, we consider all members and supporters of AB-16 to be armed and dangerous.
“Despite this brazen show of force, my soldiers remain committed to preventing outside forces from destroying France and its culture. That, I can tell you, will not happen on our watch.”
The screen jumped to Barbès, where the imam’s mosque had been firebombed, and several white French teenagers had been beaten by immigrant gangs.
A picture appeared, showing one of the boys and identifying him as Alain Du Champs, an aspiring photojournalist who had been hospitalized in serious condition. To my surprise, I recognized him. He was the same kid who’d sung that funny version of the Billy Joel song to the Muslim-
The room phone rang. It was Louis.
“Hoskins wants you to work with a sketch artist on that redhead you saw on the bus,” Louis said.
I thought of her, saw her clearly in my mind, and somehow it all clicked.
“I know where I saw her before,” I said with growing conviction. “You’ve seen her too, Louis. Remember the day we went to Al-Jumaa tailors and there was a white kid with a camera singing to a beautiful Muslim woman?”
“I remember. It’s her?”
“Her eyes were a different color, but I think so,” I said.
Louis said in a leaden voice, “She was coming from that mosque then, Jack, so the imam has to be involved with AB-16. And by extension Ali Farad.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, and then I did.
“We’ll deal with whoever is involved later,” I said. “Right now we need to find out what hospital the rioters in Barbès were taken to last night.”
Chapter 90
12th Arrondissement
8:30 a.m.
IN THE BEDROOM of Haja Hamid’s small apartment, she and Amé watched the television footage of the linen factory collapsing upon itself and the giant winged warhorse surrounded by burning timbers, smoke, and ash. The beast was so hot that the feathers and some of the skin were going molten and falling away, revealing the skeleton.
“It’s brilliant!” Amé cried. “My God, what a statement, Haja! That image will never be forgotten in France-ever.”
As an artist, Haja was pleased with the overall effect: sculpture and fire as performance art. The whole had been better than she’d hoped, and iconic as well-a symbol of her adopted nation’s inner, hidden turmoil.
But at the same time, Haja’s satisfaction was tempered by the memory of Jack Morgan staring at her from outside the bus in Sevran. Had there been a flash of recognition in his expression?
She wasn’t sure.
But if so, Morgan had probably followed them to Sevran after he’d followed Epée to the linen factory. Haja had not told Amé of her suspicions and certainly not Émile Sauvage. As much as the major craved her, she knew his unwavering commitment to the cause. If he ever thought that she had become a liability, he would sacrifice her the same way he’d sacrificed Epée. She wondered whether it was time for her to slip off, and leave the country until things had shaken out.
“How did you do it, Haja?” Amé asked. “Make it burn like that?”
“Math, thermodynamics, and magnesium,” Haja said.
“Translation?”
“A wood fire can burn up to four hundred degrees,” Haja said. “Throw gasoline in, and a wood fire can create temperatures well over five hundred. Magnesium ignites at roughly four hundred and seventy-three degrees, and can then burn as hot as four thousand degrees. I made the horse’s skin with sheets of magnesium, which caught when the first fire was at its hottest.”
Amé shook her head. “How in God’s name did you figure that all out?”
“God had nothing to do with it. I looked it all up on the Internet.”
Her burn phone rang.
Sauvage.
“Your art,” he said. “It’s all they’re talking about. Your masterpiece is raising a revolt, chéri. I’m seeing it with my own eyes.”
Haja smiled at last. “I’m glad you’re pleased.”
“Beyond pleased,” he said, and paused. “Did you see Jack Morgan there?”
“The Private guy?” she said. “No.”
“He told me he saw you through the bus window, but didn’t recognize you.”
Haja had gone from a state of relative calm to desperate alertness.
“Why would he?” she asked. “That one time I walked by him I was wearing a robe, head scarf, and contact lenses-a totally different woman than the one on the bus.”