ISIS: Our Children at Risk

By Dale W Forsythe

“Forsythe has written a powerful exploration of ISIS and its radicalization of youths. … a highly teachable novel which will capture a student’s interest … A must-read.”     

—Jan Macomber, M.S., English teacher (retired)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quinn Press
• Release date: Apr 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9780996699716

Book preview

Part One

The Recruitment

CHAPTER ONE

Fatima

Spring 2014

I followed my recruiter’s instructions to the letter. My one-way ticket came with a generous amount of travel money in Turkish Lira. An ISIS representative met me at the Istanbul Ataturk Airport. She was accompanied by an older Arab man. His full beard was still dark in contrast with the white hair on his head. The woman wore a full-cover black abaya. No bare skin was revealed. The ISIS agent took me into the airport terminal washroom to change into the same full-coverage dress that she was wearing. Once in the restroom, she handed me the abaya. Put this on, quickly, she told me, as she motioned toward the stall. Once I was dressed, with my head covered, we left the airport terminal and entered the rear seat of a Chevrolet sedan, which was waiting for us curbside. The same full-bearded man, now wearing dark sunglasses, sat behind the wheel. He was taking me and the ISIS female to the facility where I would begin my new job. I sat in silence, my mind racing, as the car pulled away from the curbing. Have I spawned a series of events that I can’t control? This thought and many more like it raced through my head as we rode along the empty streets.

We drove straight through to Raqqa, Syria, with short stops on both sides of the border to pay the expected bribe. It was late at night when we arrived at our destination: the women’s dormitory. The driver braked parallel to a large four-story building. It was unmarked, dark, and undistinguished. Before entering, my female escort pointed and explained, Just down that sidewalk, on the left side, is a bright green building. This is our technical training school. The building is full of computers and other female students. Your training will begin tomorrow.

I followed my guide into the building. Its small, private, well-furnished rooms had stark, bare walls. I was thankful when she said, This is your room. I will see you tomorrow. She turned and closed the door behind her. It felt good to have the chance to be alone. At least I could settle in without being watched. I was tired, more tired than I should have been.

The room was plain with a small twin bed and night stand beside it. The mattress was thin, with a well-worn sheet and blanket covering. I took a seat on the bed as it sagged beneath my weight. It had been used often, and without care.

From what I could tell, there were very few women in the dormitory. It seemed unnaturally quiet. Competition, I had learned, was fierce among the ISIS jihadists to earn the right to marry (Most often, females were handed over for marriage only to ISIS fighters who had brought honor to themselves by killing infidels or opposing fighters in battle.)

The following morning, I heard the call to prayer. I dressed in my abaya, but did not wear my head covering. Curious to discover my new surroundings and get a feel for the city, I left my room, being careful to close my door. The front door of my building was not locked. Outside, there was an old sidewalk, a deserted street, with a few scattered buildings across the street. No one was out, so I assumed the other women must still be sleeping. I was alone and that was fine with me.

I could see the Green Building from the sidewalk and began walking north toward it. My new training facility didn’t look too impressive, but looks could be deceiving … I hoped.

The training building was about a hundred yards down the broken sidewalk. There were no cars or pedestrians. At about the halfway mark, I noticed that a door to a small apartment building a few yards in front of me was open. I could hear male voices coming from inside. I was not too concerned but, I watched the open doorway, wondering what they were doing. Maybe I should cross the street and finish my walk on the other side? Just as this thought rambled through my stressed and addled brain, two men sprang from the open door. In an instant I felt several strong male arms around my waist. They were pulling me toward the open door. As I began to struggle, one of the men picked me up and carried me through the open door. I heard male laughter, and the slamming of the door. The room was dark and smelled of sweat. In that moment I went from reality to nightmare.

Six or more madmen … sex-crazed rapists were inside that dark, smelly room. I managed a few desperate kicks, but this seemed to incite them and fuel their anger. I was raped over and over again. Just before surrendering into a grateful unconsciousness, I had a moment to wonder: How can this be happening? What have I done? How will I ever get my old life back? I was in a lethal void. My whole life passed before me.

Fatima

My name is Fatima Baloch. I live with my parents off the Edgeware Road in London. My family immigrated to England from Pakistan in the late eighties. I was born in England, and I am a British citizen. My father is a physician, and my mother is a stay-at-home housewife in the Muslim tradition. My mother never learned to speak English, although my four brothers, my father, and I could all speak English quite well. Our family worships at a nearby mosque. Mother is a devout Muslim, but my father, my brothers, and I never enter the mosque unless we are being pushed by my mother. I am the youngest and the only girl. My mother is relentless in trying to arrange my marriage. She wants me to marry my father’s friend. This man is much older, however, and I don’t like the way his breath smells or the way he looks at me. Although he is a devout Muslim, which means everything to my mother, I could never love him.

My brothers and I performed well in school. All my brothers who attended university are successful in their chosen careers. None of them opted to follow in my father’s footsteps and become a doctor. My brothers are like my mother: all bright, but preferred reading and intellectual pursuits, rather than sports, even as young children.

On the other hand, I favored my father. Father won a place on the Pakistani National Soccer team at the age of eighteen, but sustained a knee injury and settled for a career in medicine. My father encouraged me to participate in sports. I excelled in soccer and began studying Taequando, at the age of fifteen, earning my black belt at nineteen. Soccer was my favorite sport, and I just missed qualifying for the U.K. soccer team. Behind sports, my second love was computers. I was always something of a computer geek. Father, after much coercing and cajoling, finally gave in to my choice of computer management at university, with one caveat: I had to complete all the premed requirements to create options for the future. As things turned out, that was good advice.

I loved my four years at university. My campus dorm room was small, but cozy, and I stayed at home on weekends. Every weekend, my mother would pressure me to agree to her arranged marriage. In exasperation, I presented her with the following detailed list of my requirements for any man willing to throw his hat into my ring: no previous marriages; no older than twenty-six; documented IQ of over 140; at least six-feet two-inches tall; with less than ten percent body fat, no criminal record, and a license to practice medicine. Father concurred; Mother learned to enjoy her only daughter and youngest child at home while she could.

Near the end of my fourth year at university, I received a cryptic invitation at school to report to the student center for an unspecified interview. When I asked my counselor what it was all about, she said, I have no idea. The contact was made by phone. All I can say is the interview will take place in this office complex next week, if you approve. People were probably selling something, like insurance; if so, they were barking up the wrong tree. As the Americans say: Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I granted my approval and put the meeting out of my mind while I finalized my degree requirements. Like my fellow graduates, I anticipated the grueling process of job hunting in a competitive job market. I would be foolish to pass up this mysterious employment interview.

When the day came, I dressed in my most conservative black pants suit, being careful to arrive exactly on time. A Student Center representative delivered me to a private interview room. As I entered, an older woman stood to firmly shake my hand. She was much older than my mother. Her dark gray suit implied that she meant business. Her steel-blue eyes seemed to highlight the shock of white hair cut short, which hung just below her earlobes. She wore no jewelry, and the crisp white blouse fit her well. She was in great shape.

Emily Brodrick; but please … call me Emily, she noted, as she motioned for the chair positioned beside the conference table.

Hello … Emily, I’m Fatima Baloch. I am pleased to meet you, and please, call me Fatima. Emily looked me in the eye. That made me nervous, but I was determined not to let her see me sweat. I tried my best to maintain strong eye-contact—it was not easy.

Fatima, I represent a high-level, national-security agency. You are the sole candidate selected from your university. We are looking for a female candidate who possesses superior intelligence, demonstrated academic excellence, physical strength, and athletic ability.

The interview, which was more of an interrogation, was lengthy and detailed. I reminded myself that I had nothing to lose and perhaps a good-paying job to gain. The interview Lasted nearly two hours with no interruptions. Emily listened to my answers attentively, but she took no notes. After ninety minutes, she allowed a hint of a smile and said, Fatima, I would be pleased to forward your candidacy to the next level, with your approval … of course. I have not revealed the nature of the position, but my colleagues and I will clarify the details tomorrow at the Secret Intelligence Services building at Vaux-hall Cross. Do I have your approval, Fatima?

Yes.

Then, at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, I will meet you at the main entrance, and Fatima, I must ask that you share with no one our contact today and pending contact tomorrow. Can you do that? Her blue eyes bore into my soul as she waited for my reply.

Yes, I can do that. I will say nothing about the interview today, nor about the upcoming appointment.

We shook hands while I looked as relaxed as I could. Inside, I was shaking in my three-inch heels. Everyone in London knows the imposing building complex on Vauxhall Cross is the home of Section 6, Military Intelligence, lovingly known as MI6.

I did not sleep well that night. This was a crossroads for me, and I knew it. It was one of those moments that would split my life: I would have my life before I kept the appointment, and my life after I kept the appointment. This follow-up interview could place me on a very different path, a path that led to the murky world of espionage.

The morning sun slammed into my bedroom window. I jumped out of bed, nervous and excited. My computer sat on my dorm-room desk, open and ready. I Googled MI6 and memorized the history; mission; and current director, Alex Younger. Whatever happened, I was determined to stay focused and gather my thoughts before answering their questions.

At precisely 8:50 in the morning, I stood at the entrance to the SIS building. Emily was waiting at the door. Her ghost of a smile gave me no hint of what would happen next. She led me past a security gate into one of a bank of elevators. Inside the elevator, she punched the top button. Her name badge rattled across the front of her suit as she stepped off the elevator into the massive hallway. I followed her into a large conference room with a huge mahogany table in the center of the room. Four padded, wheeled-office chairs snuggled up to each side. At each end of the table were two more padded, leather chairs. These were the power chairs, where the chairman or chairwoman of the board might sit, or the head of the agency might conduct clandestine meetings with field operatives.

An attractive, older woman sat at in the chair at the far end of the table, flanked by two dark-skinned men, one younger and the other graying at the temples. Both men were dressed in dark suits, with red ties. They looked all business.

Emily directed me to a seat, which was no doubt the hot seat; I was introduced to no one. My thoughts were: If these dudes think they are going to cow me, they will be sorely disappointed.

I established eye contact with each one of them; Emily, with a smile that barely hid her amusement, said to the woman, This is Fatima Baloch.

The woman replied, Fatima, my name is Carmen. Her hair was a salt-and-pepper gray. She wore it straight and close to her face. It was cut quite short. Carmen reminded me of Judy Dench, she could easily have been the handler for James Bond. "What can you tell me about the Circus?" She waited for my response. Did Carmen suspect that I was so ill-prepared that I was unaware of MI6’s pet name?

"I’m afraid not much, Carmen, only what I can