God's Army

‘Wallah, don’t do that, ekhti,’ one of the guards hissed in Arabic. ‘The kaffir will see there’re people in here.’

She barely noticed the guard and did not heed his warning. She looked and looked and felt an invisible hand throttling her. She didn’t care any longer if he who was making all that fuss would see her. In fact the man must have seen her, though he obviously didn’t recognize her in her full body veil. But she recognized him. No, there could be no doubt. Despite the changes that ten years had wrought in his appearance, she recognized him beyond question: dancing wildly like a loon, some ten meters away, was the man she had met in an earlier lifetime, in Beirut – Daniel. And he was screaming about – the girl entrusted to her.

Was she, then, his daughter? A‘udhu billah, God forbid!

MARTYR

Six Books Series

BOOK TWO

GOD’S ARMY

FRANK EMMANUEL

Copyright © Frank Emmanuel 2015. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise – without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cover design by C-Borg.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Quotations from the Qur’an are based on MidEastWeb for Coexistence, The Qur'an in English Translation, Complete in electronic format with Historical Background (Revised version, May, 2011): http://www.mideastweb.org/mew-quran.pdf

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Shahid, f. shahida, pl. shuhada: Witness or martyr: one killed for his/her religious beliefs or in battle with the infidels.

Table of Contents

Chapter One: Encounter in Ghent

Chapter Two: God's Army

Chapter Three: God's Army on the March

Chapter Four: Noureddin's Miracle

Chapter Five: Late Confession

Chapter Six: An Unforgettable Birthday

Chapter Seven: The Trap Shuts

Chapter Eight: Donald, You Owe Me!

Cast of Characters

Glossary

About The Author

Other Books In This Series

Connect With The Author

Sample a Scene of Book Three: The Naked Statue

A Personal Request

Chapter One

Encounter in Ghent

1.1

24 April 2009

Where did Evelyn get the stupid idea to let Lieve go on her own to meet me at midnight in Antwerp! She’s not even eighteen yet.

Caught in a sudden traffic jam, Daniel turned off the engine of his car and tried again to reach Lieve on her mobile. He had no choice but to leave a short message: ‘Hi, answering machine of Lieve, it’s me, for the third time. I’m blocked here in a traffic jam. Lieve, if you hear this: stay close to the main entrance of the Central Station. Don’t leave or I won’t find you. I’ll come to fetch you as soon as I can.’

Fortunately, it was rather warm for the time of year: if she had stayed in as they had agreed, she wouldn’t have to shiver. But why had she turned off her cell phone? Daniel had just given a lecture for a humanist association in one of the outskirts of Antwerp and had arrived by a secondary road. He was traversing the quiet Kiel area when he got caught up in a long queue of cars waiting to cross into the Abdijstraat. He heard honking, screams, and far away, harsh chanting.

Then, a group of tall young men walked past the blocked cars in little groups, some walking in what must be their exaggerated rendering of a military step. In the eerie light of the street lanterns, he noticed that many wore dark leather jackets. A Flemish Lion, black on a yellow field, was emblazoned on many them. Daniel also recognized Celtic crosses. Black ski masks hid most faces. Either they’re football hooligans or an impromptu demonstration of rightist Flamingants.

Why did I have to take this detour? he asked himself.

It was normally a fast way. Now, he couldn’t get out. It was, he knew, a mixed, heavily foreigner-inhabited quarter. But at this late hour, except for these frightening fellows and the other drivers stuck with him, no other people were to be seen in the street. They must have come from some nightly football match. On their march, many were drinking beer. More than a few looked drunk. Others had covered themselves in the purple flag he recognized as belonging to a local soccer club. A few women in vulgar sexy outfits accompanied the hooligans.

The procession seemed to never stop. At least two hundred, he guessed, seemed to be walking toward the Abdijstraat, which in daytime was a popular shopping street, just around the corner. They paid no attention to the queued cars whose passage they blocked. One boy kicked with his boots an empty car parked in the street.

Then Daniel heard the tinkle of breaking glass, followed by loud shouts of encouragement. About hundred meters from where he sat, one mischief-maker had thrown a stone through the window of a parked car. Moments later, he saw irregular yellowish lights rising from inside the vehicle. More shouts, then the fire disappeared: somebody must have doused the flames. A few of the cars caught in the jam tried to drive backward, but without success. They were all stuck.

His mobile rang - one of the Dutch radio programs.

‘Mister de Vries, your comments on the xenophobic incidents going on in the suburbs of Antwerp?’

Some journalists seemed to know about problems before they even happened. What they did not know, though, was that he was literally caught in the middle of the event they wanted his opinion on. To be recognized, after all these years, as one of the country’s more reputable commentators on Islamic affairs, flattered his ego. To have to pay for the privilege with hassles at inconvenient hours was less enjoyable.

First, I’ve got to find Lieve, he thought. All analyses of the clash between populism and fundamentalism must wait. He excused himself and suggested that the caller try again tomorrow morning.

What are they talking about?

He opened his window a crack and picked up snatches of conversation from passing demonstrators.

‘That stab paralyzed Rik. He won’t walk again, ever.’

‘It’s time we teach those monkeys a lesson,’ another voice added.

A yell, above the others: ‘Flanders white!’ Then somebody else, at the top his voice: ‘Islamieten parasieten!’

At once, other voices picked up the refrain and began to scream in unison, rhythmically: ‘Muslims parasites’. He shuddered. More glass broke. Just before the curve that led into the Abdijstraat, flames rose from another car. From where he was sitting, it was hard to see what was happening. Some of the rowdies had by now turned the corner. This time, nobody was doing a thing to stop the arson. A few drivers caught in the jam were now standing next to their cars, looking and making comments. Daniel joined them.

‘Five years ago, such a brazen show of force would have been unthinkable, don’t you think? Those mad fascists,’ he said to the man in front of him.

‘Perhaps. But, who started it?’ the other reacted. He was corpulent and lit a cigarette while leaning against his black BMW. ‘Five years ago, you say – wasn’t that when they murdered that annoying journalist in Holland? Or is it six already?’

‘They – who?’ Daniel asked. ‘And is that reason to go on a rampage?’

‘In itself perhaps not. But those Islamics also blew up the metro in Madrid. And a year later, they did the same in London.’ The fellow seemed to have a crystallized opinion.

‘Yes, and set hundreds of cars ablaze in Paris,’ another voice added. A third man climbed out of his Mercedes and joined their conversation. He was elderly, with thinning hair, and wore a modish raincoat. A lady in an elegant outfit followed him, trailing a black poodle.

‘Paris?’ the fat one added. ‘Our own riffraff in Brussels also set a couple of cars alight, don’t forget.’

‘It’s all because of these radical Muslims you hear so much about of late,’ the woman with the poodle contributed.

‘Yes, and that cartoonist they killed. The one in Norway who drew Mohammed.’

‘These people come from another culture. They’re more violent than we are. They can’t understand that you’re permitted to criticize politicians like we do. Take the pope, for instance…’

‘The artist was not killed,’ Daniel observed, but nobody paid attention. The vox populi irritated him. He added: ‘You can’t attack people from a certain religion or nation just because a small minority…’

‘Oh, you must be one of those intellectuals with learned arguments,’ the lady cut in, ‘always defending the underdogs, whether they deserve it or not. It’d be better if they went back where they came from. Soort zoekt soort: the similar looks for the similar.’

‘So you’re actually justifying—,’ Daniel began. But at that moment a siren sounded.

Seconds later, two heavy motorbikes rushed by. They came to an abrupt halt next to the burnt-out car. A stout policewoman jumped off her motorcycle. She looked around, crossed her arms and said something to a couple rioters close by. There was a motionless moment. Then, three or four masked youngsters walked in her direction with threatening gestures. Daniel thought he saw one of them twisting her arm. The constable retreated, jumped on her motorcycle, and sped away, followed at close range by her colleague.

It all happened in seconds. A few supporters made a show of pursuing the police, called names, then came running in the direction where Daniel was talking.

The lady with the poodle and her companion hastily withdrew into their car. Alarmed, Daniel did not wait either, and ran back to his car. The hooligans did not approach further. But everybody stayed inside.

He switched on the news: street protests in the area where he was stuck, between far Right antiforeigner extremists and Moroccans. Flowerpots, cars and windows going to smithereens. The newsreader mentioned acts of arson, wounded, and lots of arrests. Police are out in force to control the situation.

Daniel looked around. No police to be seen. Noise rose from the nearby street. He tried again Lieve’s mobile: no reply. Quite nervous now, he tried to pass the time, pushed in a disk with baroque music, switched it off again, zapped through the radio stations. An item on the BBC late night service caught his ear: the Legal Affairs Minister of Malaysia forbids the forced conversion of minors to Islam. A Hindu had embraced Islam and converted his children as well. His divorced wife had objected, but it was too late. Now, there was unrest among the Chinese, Christians, Buddhists…

After another twenty minutes, he heard more sirens, and scores of brigadiers wearing riot gear and armed with sticks passed. A little while later, the cars in front of him slowly started to move. Policemen opened a way out and whistling and gesturing, directed the traffic downtown. Daniel followed the others into an alley that bypassed the disturbances and soon landed again on the main street.

Free! He raced to the station. If only Lieve were still there! And even then, there would still be another hour’s drive ahead of them – to Ghent.

He parked the car in a deserted side street in the diamond quarter and ran the last three hundred meters to the railway station. It was close to one now. Lieve was nowhere to be seen.

His phone rang.

‘Daniel? Are you safe?’ Jacqueline asked. ‘Your line was down for a long time. You weren’t in those riots in Antwerp, were you?’

‘I’m okay. There was this cortege of I don’t know how many cars. We were surrounded by a legion of crazy skinheads. But I’m out of it now, trying to locate Lieve. Will you still be up?’

‘Easy. Lieve and I just arrived. Here, I give her to you.’

He was surprised but relieved to hear her voice. Lieve sounded neither tired nor tense, just matter-of-fact. ‘When you didn’t show up, I reckoned I’d better catch the last train to Ghent.’

‘But I left you three messages to wait for me.’

‘I tried to answer you. When I heard of the street battles, I guessed it might take you time…’

‘Well, I’m glad you’re safe. How did you…?’

‘Auntie Jacqueline picked me up from St. Pieters Station. I called her from underway.’

‘Well, I hope you have a nice couple of days. And I hope it’ll help you clarify what you want to study after summer.’

‘Tomorrow, she takes me to a philosophical debate where she’s going to speak. And Monday I’ll sit in a class she’s teaching… By the way, Danny, aunt Jacqueline asks if you don’t want to drive up here anyway and sleep over.’

‘I think not. I had a tiring day. Main thing is, you got there in safety. I’d better head straight for Amsterdam. I have a lot of writing to do tomorrow.’

1.2

‘You could have been a bit more forthcoming to Daniel,’ Jacqueline remarked the next morning. ‘After all, he must have been worried about you.’

Lieve shrugged, causing her long ash-blonde hair to ripple across her black sweater. She had slept in while her aunt waited for her at breakfast. Jacqueline, with her graying hair and severe glasses, seemed to Lieve like an older and more sedate version of her mother. Lieve liked her, but she did not like being called to task.

‘He always makes so much drama,’ she observed in a dry voice, blushing. Somehow she felt she was being unjust, but she could not keep herself in check. Danny had an entire wardrobe of interests and beliefs. She had tried them on like so many pieces of clothing, but could never decide which one fitted her best. A young woman now, she was no longer a child in need of pats on her shoulder from that caring grownup whom she had known for as long as she could remember, without ever understanding his precise relation to her.

‘I was afraid for him,’ Jacqueline said. ‘Christ, where will this escalation end? It’s not he who makes it up – there’s a real drama here, every month…’

‘Was he ever in danger, then?’ Lieve glanced at Jacqueline. ‘It was just a minor disturbance, wasn’t it?’

De Morgen lay open on the kitchen table. Last night’s destruction wrought by the Stormfronters in Antwerp was in the headlines. Jacqueline shoved the newspaper toward Lieve to read. She had just called Evelyn, and learnt that Daniel, who had securely arrived late at night in Amsterdam, was still asleep. She dropped the subject.

‘This afternoon I must speak at that debate on multiculturalism. Are you coming, or would you rather explore the old town on your own?’

‘Of course I want to hear you speak. Last year, I missed your show.’

‘No, that was in 2007. You haven’t been here for over two years.’

‘I’d also like to see the cathedral and that famous painting Evelyn’s always talking about.’

‘The Lamb of God? We can do that on Sunday. Anyhow you’ll keep me company for a couple days, won’t you? And you’re still calling your mother by her name, young rebel? When’s school starting again?’

‘The week after next. But in reality, they let us a lot on our own, to prepare exams.’

‘You’ll do fine.’

‘I’m afraid of Latin and math.’

‘You’ll do fine, I tell you. And, what do you want to become when you are grown up?’ she joked. They had reached the purpose of her visit.

‘If only I knew. Anyway, I don’t want to end up giving philosophy classes, like Evelyn.’

‘Or like me… Why does that seem so terrible to you?’

‘Preparing texts and Powerpoints. And having to read papers. Boring.’ She made a face.

‘But that’s just the routine part of it. Aren’t you interested in reflecting on what we’re doing here on earth? Stretching our mental muscles to make sense of it all? That’s fascinating stuff. To me, at least.’

Lieve’s eyes involuntarily lit up. ‘The meaning of life, yes… But I could never find the concentration for all the legwork.’

‘The prep’s really minor, I find. What enthralls me is… how we should behave. We face so many dilemmas. And what better way to discover that than through dialog? What about you, Lieve? You must have an aim, an ideal, don’t you?’

‘I don’t know.’ Lieve said as if put on the spot.

‘Oh, you sure have some idea. Perhaps you want to be a biologist later, or a sales manager, or a ballet dancer, or a plain nurse. I could introduce you to some courses. Don’t give me that blank stare, Lieve. What’s your preferred subject at school?’

‘Geography.’

‘Geography? I didn’t know that’s even still being taught.’

‘It isn’t,’ she joked. ‘But I’d like to travel. Rather that than studying at the university. Or even worse, getting trained in a profession that will pigeonhole me for the rest of my life.’

‘Why?’

Lieve did not answer. Jacqueline smiled softly. ‘You have the same longing I had at your age. Fair enough. So,