Battling Brexit Read online

  I walk forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, tough guy, I’m trying to help you. Admit it. You don’t really know what you could be walking into. I’ve been trained to fight and we can take Rada with us.”

  He gives me a blank stare, even though I mentioned my dog to Afrim more than a few times within Drago’s earshot.

  “Who is Rada?”

  “My best friend,” I smile. “Rada, come.”

  Rada’s thirty-five-kilo, well-muscled bulk comes bolting out of my room. She tackles Drago to the ground. I grab onto her collar, calling her off.

  “Drago meet Rada. Rada, Drago. He’s a friend, at least I think so. Please don’t rip him to pieces.”

  Rada barks as Drago stands back up, dusting himself off and raising an eyebrow. Then he looks at me, confused.

  “This is Rada,” I say again, enjoying the image of him thoroughly rattled. “She thinks we’re sheep and if you threaten one of her flock, God help you.”

  I watch his eyebrows go up and down. “You were raised isolated in a vineyard and your best friend is an oversized Šar Mountain Dog. Actually, somehow that makes perfect sense.”

  I smile. “It certainly does, city rat. Now, come on, let’s find your brother,” I call over my shoulder as I walk toward the elevator. “Erika, I’m going out for a while. Don’t tell your dad where I am, if he comes home early.”

  “Okay, enjoy your date.” The response filters from her room down the hallway on the other side of the living room.

  “It’s not a date,” Drago calls back at her as he, Rada and I crowd into the elevator. Whatever it is, it finally is time for something I can get my head around.

  ***

  Drago and I stand in front of what is, of all things, a monument to the messenger pigeons that died during the First World War. Drago turns to me, probably not being openly snide for the first time in his life. “This is one of the places where Afrim hangs out. I came back hoping to find him here. Apparently, no dice.”

  There are some kids playing around in the park that spreads out in front of the statue. Drago calls to one of them. “Hey, Ayoub?”

  One of them, who has kind of olive-looking skin and hair that’s short but longer on the top than the sides—maybe about Erika’s age—looks up. He notices Drago and comes over. He has an especially harsh accent as they speak in French. “Yeah, what is it?”

  “Have you seen my brother around here lately?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  Drago rolls his eyes.

  The kid cocks his head. “Come on. My dad has been out of a job for so long that he hardly even qualifies for any chômage benefit anymore. Of course, he’s not about to let my mom work.”

  “It’s not like I’m made of money either,” Drago reminds him. The kid looks over at me.

  I reach into my pockets and turn them both inside out. “I’ve got nothing.”

  Drago sighs. He reaches into his coat pocket and takes out a two-euro coin. He flips it over to the kid, who pockets it.

  “Yeah, I saw him earlier.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  The kid cocks his head again. Drago rolls his eyes again and flips him another two-euro coin.

  “He said that he was going to your adopted dad’s house, but he didn’t come back. Given his ties, it’s probably something to do with the Proclamation, if you ask me.”

  I jerk my head back. “The Proclamation? That’s what that Islamist yahoo I saw on my first day here was talking about.”

  The kid looks at me and then cocks his head back at Drago, who flips him one euro. Ayoub’s head gets more cocked.

  Drago snorts. “I’m out of twos and you’re not getting a five. Spill.”

  The kid hunches his shoulders, features falling like he’s disappointed. “All right, fine. You must really be out of the loop if you haven’t heard about the Proclamation. My dad is going to it, tonight; no one knows exactly what’s going to happen there, but it has everyone on edge. People are disappearing from the Mujahedeen, al-Qaeda, the Taliban, al-Nusra…” He trails off, and then says, “People who were disobedient like you and your brother. Everyone knows something is up. Rumor has it that it has something to do with the Islamic State, but you didn’t hear any of that from me.”

  He runs off like he’s afraid of something.

  I turn to Drago, confused.

  He rolls his eyes. “Let me guess, you’ve been so sheltered that you don’t know what he’s talking about.”

  I hunch my shoulders.

  He sighs. “It sounds like someone is kidnapping members of the extremist cells in the city in preparation for some kind of announcement. Afrim might have gotten caught up in it, because we basically deserted the Mujahedeen. The leader of the so-called Islamic State— Daesh—declared an Islamic caliphate in Syria a few months ago. It might have something to do with that. The questions we need to be asking now are what exactly is going to go on at this Proclamation and where is it going down?”

  I purse my lips. “If it’s that serious, we should go get Lucija. She literally does nothing but work. She’ll know what’s going on and what to do about it.”

  “No, if we get her involved, she might start checking into the stuff I had to do in Kosovo. Then it will be my neck on the line.”

  “Then where are we going to look?”

  “Avdi’s place. As much as I hate even talking to him, at least the man who raised me and my brother is a place to start.”

  We head in the direction of the canal, Rada at our side. Drago leads me to an unassuming street, back over the canal into Molenbeek, the neighborhood where those people chased me down the road when I arrived. Seeing us, two men immediately come out of the tea shop across the street.

  “Drago, what are you doing here?” one of them asks with immediate suspicion.

  “I need to see Avdi, now.”

  “He is a very busy man.”

  “I think he’ll make time for the kid who used to be his assassin. Now, can I see him or not?”

  “Very well. The dog stays outside.” The man opens the front door of a run-down, whitish-painted brick building.

  “Rada, stay,” I command. She lets out a soft whine and then lies down on the sidewalk.

  The man leads us up a flight of stairs. We go through the living room and past a kitchen into an office that has plaques with Arabic writing on them.

  The man behind the desk has a white circular cap on his head. He speaks Albanian. “Drago, not that I’m unpleased, but you are the last person I would expect to see here. If you felt the need to come to me, it must be something important.”

  Drago snaps at him, also in Albanian. “What did you do with him?”

  “Who?” he asks, seeming confused.

  “With Afrim. You and al-Qadir kidnapped him, didn’t you?”

  “Afrim? I did not do a thing to him. He showed up earlier asking for money for that student day parade. I told him that I was not going to give him money for something that sounded haram. He left and that was it.”

  “So you didn’t kidnap him?”

  “Absolutely not. I know you still don’t believe me, but I gave my besa that both of you would be treated as my own. I would never allow our people to do something like that, if I knew. It is possible that this is al-Qadir’s doing, but if so, my hands are tied; if I tried to do anything, he would merely come after you. Besides, if Afrim was kidnapped—and I pray that he was not—then he is not alone. Others have been disappearing as well. It is all connected to the Proclamation if you ask me.”

  “Where is this Proclamation happening?”

  “Sorry, Drago. You’re not with us anymore. As much as I may want to find your brother, I can’t tell you anything about it. We cannot allow any word of this to leak to the authorities. Al-Qadir has forbidden it. I’m sorry but my hands are tied in this matter as well.”

  “Yeah,” Drago simmers at him. “They always are.”

  Without another word, Drago leaves. The guard
ushers us back down the stairs, onto the street.

  Rada walks up by my side. I pet her on the head, like I’m saying sorry for making her wait. We start to walk down the street. People give us strange glares right and left.

  “How the hell do we know we can trust that guy?” I finally ask.

  “I’d rather not. But that was the guy who raised and supported us after my parents died, one of the few UÇK leaders affiliated with a Mujahedeen cell in Kosovo. He was telling the truth,” Drago insists.

  I roll my eyes. “Charming guy. How can you know that?”

  “Because, if he did kidnap my brother, he would have tried to make me do something by now. I only trust him up to a point and I still don’t believe the besa he gave for a second. I really went there to see what else he knew about this Proclamation.”

  I bring my hand to the medal hanging around my neck. “You’re right, all of this seems related to the Proclamation, whatever that is. I find it hard to believe that Lucija and the Belgian authorities don’t know about it. Without asking them, how else can we even find out where it is? Besides, if Afrim is there, the authorities will stop it for us, right?”

  Drago scrunches his eyebrows together. “First of all, the authorities have never cared about the local community here, if you ask me. I’d bet what money I have that they don’t know. At any rate, the last time Avdi stopped by our place in the Gare Maritime, Afrim mentioned something about him telling us to stay away from Tour et Taxis, where our room is, on the first Friday evening of October. That’s today. What if that’s because the Proclamation is set to occur there?”

  The logical course of action seems clear enough to me. “Fine, so if it is, we’ll sneak in.”

  He stops in his tracks. I keep walking with Rada. He mutters behind me. “This girl has got to be crazy.”

  I smile. “Thanks. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  I hear him running after me. “Hold on. That wasn’t a compliment.”

  I snort. “Whether you like it or not, city rat, that’s how I’m taking it.”

  Drago

  It’s night. All of Tour et Taxis seems almost dead. We’re watching the warehouses from the entrance to the Gare Maritime. I notice people arriving at the door to the warehouse a few buildings down. There are two men standing at the entrance. If I look closely at the windows in the jagged roof, the lights are on, dimmed.

  Hoping Tito’s spoiled granddaughter will be able to take whatever we’re about to face, I say to Elena, “All right. I think we found the Proclamation. Something is going down here, at least.”

  Fortunately, she has followed my advice to put on a headscarf. She actually puts her arm around me as we walk toward the entrance.

  I recoil away from her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “What? This should make us less conspicuous.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper. “Now, stay quiet and walk five paces behind me, until I stop.”

  After another minute of walking, we make it to the entrance of the warehouse just behind the already-renovated Royal Depot building. She catches up. One of the men speaks to me in Arabic. Fortunately, I don’t recognize him; it doesn’t look like he recognizes me. I respond fluently in the same language. I hear Elena take in a breath beside me. There isn’t anything for her to worry about, at least not language-barrier-wise.

  The goon and I go back and forth a few times. He asks me what my favorite verse from the Koran is and the like. They let us in. There is a whole crowd, mostly looking like they’re from the Middle East or North Africa, in front of a makeshift stage. This is way more people than I was expecting.

  “Since when do you speak Arabic?” Elena whispers in Albanian.

  “Since I had to fight alongside a Mujahedeen terrorist cell, that’s since when. Now stay quiet.”

  We stand there in the crowd next to each other. Some lights go on, illuminating the stage.

  A man with a beard coming out from under a black face mask walks up onto it. “Assalamualaikum, my brothers,” he bellows.

  The rest of the crowd belts it back. I join in, even though I think that this guy is a prick; from his voice, he is one of the two Abdsalam brothers, who regularly harass us now that we’re not with Avdi anymore. They make the guy who raised us look like a kitten and they’re affiliated with al-Qadir.

  He opens his mouth again. “We know what you have endured since you or your parents came here to work forty years ago, like ours did: the poverty, the unemployment, the lack of opportunities. Many of you are Belgian nationals, but you are treated as if you are second-class citizens, simply because of your Muslim faith and background.

  “But, my brothers, it is precisely because of that faith that you are the righteous ones. The time has come to vanquish our infidel oppressors and their entire way of life. Yet, are any organizations from the Islamic Conference trying to do that? No. They are not. But, I am here to proclaim that this is about to change. The Amir al-Mu'minin of Islamic State has declared the resurrection of the Caliphate. Now is the time to pledge our loyalty to it; it is time for our holy jihad to begin. I am here to deliver that message and to show you the price that any of you who refuse to heed that call will pay.”

  Four men are led onto the platform by the younger of the Abdsalam brothers. One of the prisoners is Afrim. Now I know why Avdi wasn’t invited; I don’t see him here.

  The older one continues: “These four men attempted to defy the teachings of Allah. We, the sword of the Islamic State in Brussels, will demonstrate our loyalty to the Caliphate by beheading them in front of your eyes, so you will know and remember.”

  After all I’ve done to protect my little brother, I don’t know how I’m going to get through an openly hostile crowd and rescue him. I whisper to Elena, “Okay, I had some dark thoughts about what might be going down tonight. But this? We’ve got to get him down from there.”

  To my surprise, instead of looking freaked out by this, she calmly looks around to the back of the warehouse, then to the ceiling where there is this old system that looks like a crane on two tracks suspended from the ceiling, under the skylight in the roof. It’s meant to move goods around.

  “I think I have an idea,” she whispers. “Do you know where the controls for that crane are?”

  “I only live here. They’re by the entrance, in that room off to the left of the main warehouse doors. We just have to get past the guy guarding the doorway without anyone noticing.”

  She bats a hand through the air. “One guard? No problem.”

  “No problem? Big problem.”

  “If you really think Rada and I are dead weight, think again. I’m going to save your brother. I just need you to work the crane’s controls.”

  I nod once. We make our way to the control house through the crowd. There are a few old boxes. We crouch behind the guard. He is standing there, presumably planning to enjoy the beheading ceremony. Everyone else is focused on it, too. I could take him down, but it would require an attention-getting brawl.

  Without hesitating, Elena leaps forward and grabs him in a chokehold. She uses her body weight to lower him to the ground; he’s out in about twelve seconds. I crouch there in astonishment as I hear a scream and then a wet crunch. The sound of someone having their head chopped off. At least it wasn’t Afrim’s voice.

  Elena motions for me to run over to the control booth. We drag the guard’s body inside. “Lower the crane’s cable to ground level,” she instructs. I begin to see what she’s planning. It’s crazy risky. My reaction is immediate; I knew it was a bad idea to have her around.

  “No. I’ll do it. He’s my brother.”

  “Will you relax, city rat?” There’s something in her voice that makes me wonder if she’s actually enjoying herself—or if she really understands what she’s getting into.

  Elena goes on. “Lock yourself in the booth. People are bound to notice once I’m airborne.”

  “Thank you, Maršal Obvious.” I r
un into the booth. With the noisy crowd focused on the beheadings, they don’t notice as I lower the cable. There is a hook on the end. She grabs it. For the first time I notice that she has big muscles for a girl. I push the joystick forward and start to move the crane down the tracks in the ceiling, pulling her up. It makes a loud metallic groan; all hell breaks loose.

  Elena

  I get raised up over their heads. People gasp as they realize that I’m flying over them, about ready to swoop down like an avenging angel and save my friend. The stage is a bloody mess and there are three headless bodies on it. A black-masked executioner is making his way to Afrim.

  All of a sudden I’m dropped down toward the stage. I kick the executioner in the face as I land. Then I punch him in the groin and kick his face one more time. He goes down just as the crowd turns into chaos, people scrambling everywhere. Afrim looks over at me, eyes wide and tears in them. I cut the ropes around his wrists with my bichaq.

  “Grab onto my arm,” I command. He does. Drago must still be at the controls because we’re raised over the back of the makeshift stage.

  The exhilaration coursing through my veins at finally making a difference disappears, replaced by shock and confusion at what I see on the other side.

  Hidden behind the far side of the stage, there’s a white guy speaking British English to another guy, older and Middle Eastern. Apparently, the Brit is pissed off at my disrupting the event. “What is going on here? You assured me that no non-extremists would be informed of this rally. Now keeping our alliance a secret is going to be even harder. If it comes out that my supporting your organization is connected with my plans for Brexit, then the whole plan falls apart, for both of us.”

  What? Apparently, this means that whoever declared this Caliphate-whatever-thingy and whoever is trying to cause Brexit are connected! Of course they don’t want anyone finding out about it. Too late. Informing everyone is exactly what I plan to do.

  We’re lowered to the ground beyond the honked-off Brit. Afrim and I break into a run for a door at the far end of the warehouse. Four goons run after us. We run to the door and crouch on either side of the frame. I turn the handle, still behind the warehouse’s wall.