The Prism 2049 Read online

  Chapter 80. New England

  Postscript

  Glossary of Names and Abbreviations

  There is no nonsense so arrant that it cannot be made the creed of the vast majority by adequate governmental action.

  Bertrand Russell (1872 – 1970)

  From us to you. Know that I do not consent to any of your people dwelling amongst us. I myself shall never be reconciled to you, nor shall I permit any dealings with you. Henceforth there shall be no exchange between us save those between Muslims and unbelievers - holy war, as the Almighty has enjoined on us. There is neither authority or power save in God on High.

  A Caliph of the Fulani Empire in Africa. Circa 1900

  Pauvre banlieue parisienne, paillasson devant la ville où chacun s’essuie les pieds, crache un bon coup, passe, qui songe à elle  ? Personne. Abrutie d’usine, gavée d’épandages, dépecée en loques, ce n’est plus qu’une terre sans âme, un camp de travail maudit, où le sourire est inutile, la peine perdue, terne de souffrance, Paris ‘le cœur de la France’ quelle chanson  ! quelle publicité  ! La banlieue autour qui crève  ! Calvaire à plat permanent, de faim, de travail, et sous les bombes, qui s’en soucie  ?

  Louis-Ferdinand Destouches (1894-1961)

  Introduction

  ‘Of all things in history the most intangible is Geography’ Bismarck ‘If you think this is impossible you are wrong. Everything and anything is possible, look at history’

  This story has its roots in the early part of the twenty first century. During that period Europe and more particularly France had entered a period of intense transformation. In addition to the wave of continued immigration from Muslim countries, the sons and daughters of previous generations of immigrants reached maturity. The Muslim population of France reached eleven million. Islam had replaced Protestantism to a very large degree as the second religion of the country.

  Successive governments had encouraged or condoned immigration, without looking further than their next election, without questioning the changes that were taking place in the world, without taking the decisions necessary to integrate the new arrivals into the mainstream population.

  The result was a gradual radicalisation of attitudes of both the recent arrivals and the existing population towards each other. Most immigrants felt excluded or discriminated against and many were easily converted to the attitudes of their co-religionists in their countries of origin, who in turn were conditioned by events in the Middle East and elsewhere in the world, where Islam was in conflict with the West. The non-Muslim population of France assimilated the immigrants with foreign extremists.

  The twentieth century had been one of war, but the event that had most marked its end was the collapse of the Soviet Union. The new century commenced with the first signs that pointed to the end of the oil age; the end of low priced energy from mostly Muslim countries, compounded by militant Islam the recurrent wars and revolutions in which Islam was the banner. The list crises had become long; Israel, Palestine, Iraq, Afghanistan, the Balkans, Chechnya, Pakistan, Algeria, Iran and the Lebanon, aggravated by extremist regimes in Syria, Libya, Iran and the Sudan, or the hard-line Islamic petro-kingdoms of Saudi Arabia and the Gulf States.

  The cry of a radical Islam that echoed from the Indian Ocean to the Atlantic should have alerted the politicians, but they refused to look, afraid of the accusations of racism or discrimination. They lived in the guilt formed by the long shadow that Nazism and Fascism had thrown over Europe. France’s leaders were incapable of recognising an enemy.

  For one hundred years, from early twentieth century Jerusalem to twenty first century Kabul, the cry for jihad and revenge echoed, resulting in wars and revolutions, terror and death, with the declaration of a new kind of war that started with the attack on Manhattan, a mile stone on the long road that led to the foundation of Algharb.

  One morning had changed world; America had discovered its vulnerability. Since its birth no outside force had ever put foot on its home soil.

  The Middle East since the disappearance of the Ottoman Empire had been ruled by an endless series of dysfunctional governments, bent on the pursuit of power and wealth, by kings and dictators with their families, clans and henchmen. Not one single state had been ruled democratically or had a democratically elected head of state.

  America renounced its dependence on oil, abandoning the false friends of the Middle East to their fate and leaving Europe and its Federation to face the consequences. A huge wave from the Arab world threatened to transform France, as its poor and desperate sought refuge in the land of Liberté, Fraternité et Egalité.

  The First Day

  John Ennis looked out at the approaching coastline from the window of the decrepit Airbus of ACA Airlines. It seemed as though he hung suspended in the clear sky above the sea which reflected the afternoon sun like a silver mirror. The plane banked into a broad turn, entering its final flight path towards Medina Hurriya, the capital city of Jaziirat al Gharb. He glanced at his watch; it was almost five o’clock, an hour since they had taken off from Algeria, an Emirate of the Arabian Caliphate of Misr-Maghrib.

  Jaziirat al Gharb was an autonomous region according to the Evian Agreement, signed in Paris fifteen years previously. It was administered, in theory, by the Nation of France under the tutelage of the European Federation.

  Ennis was filled with curiosity; it was his first visit to that young country since travel restrictions to Algharb, as it was generally known, had been lifted for foreign journalists and in particular for Americans.

  As the plane descended the airport he saw the sprawling city of Medina Hurriya lying beneath a fine brown haze of pollution. The city centre with its buildings and monuments, built in the characteristic rose coloured stone of the region, stood out against the parched hills that formed its northern boundary, to the west he could make out the endless shantytowns that stretched beyond the city suburbs, almost as far as he could see, covered by the pall of low-level haze.

  The plane bounced on the runway, brakied violently then turned towards its gate. Once inside the terminal building Ennis followed the disembarking passengers towards the passport control where he joined one of the slow moving lines. Thirty minutes later he presented his passport to the uniformed official, whose shoulder badge indicated ‘Police des Frontiers’.

  “Tu vas rester combien de temps?” the official enquired in a curious French accent, whilst closely examining the visa Ennis had obtained at their consulate in Algiers.

  “Ten days.”

  “You’re a journalist?”

  “Yes, I’m here for my work.”

  “Have you a permit? A letter from the Ministry?”

  “Yes,” Ennis replied, presenting the letter of authorisation from the Ministry of Information of Algharb.

  “You were born in London.” It was more of an accusation than a question.

  “Yes, my father was Irish and I’m a naturalised American citizen.”

  The agent gave him a sneering glance of disapproval, then stamped the passport and shoved it towards him.

  “Remember the conditions in the letter. Don’t forget to report your arrival tomorrow morning to the Ministry,” he added referring to the numerous restrictions listed in the letter.

  Ennis collected his bag from the carousel and turned towards the customs where he expected problems. He took one of the Green Lanes where a senior customs officer engaged in apparently idle conversation with two men in business suites feigned disinterest, and then with no more than a cursory glance nodded him towards the exit. A few moments later he found himself outside of the arrivals building where he pushed past a small crowd waiting for the newly arrived passengers. Relieved by the relative lack of formalities, he turned his attention to the taxi stand.

  He headed to the first available taxi, passing two heavily armed RAS Corps men dressed in black uniforms, who inspected him with a look of contempt. He pulled out the confirmation for the hotel reservation and noted it indicated
an address near the Old Port, in the city centre.

  The air was stifling with the temperature in the mid-thirties and the humidity like a hamman. For late afternoon it seemed surprisingly quiet for an international airport with little movement outside of the arrivals terminal. He passed his bags to the driver and climbed into the taxi. It was an old model bio-fuel Renault; he noted that the telemedia and tracking system was new, the latest, apart from its frame, which was deeply scratched and twisted along the edges, probably the work of a heavy screwdriver. Perhaps stolen in France, he thought.

  “Where to my friend?” asked the driver, in the curious style of French Ennis had remarked at the passport control.

  “Hotel Medina Hurriya.”

  “Okay, the Sofitel.”

  “Maybe, I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, before it was the Sofitel, I remember it was already there when I was a kid.”

  o0o

  The taxi drove at a reckless speed towards the city. On both sides of the autoroute, beyond the grass verge, stood a wall consisting of pre-cast concrete slabs and posts that separated an endless shantytown from the traffic. Here and there a slab was broken or missing, the opening in the wall acted like a doorway onto the autoroute where small groups of adults and children gathered watching the passing traffic. A few of them risked their lives by crossing to a low central dividing rail, which they