The conspiracy: ESPIONNAGE

By J.MORIARTI

"The path to the 'Kingdom of the Prophet' is paved with gold and blood." Chris Balmer, a freelance reporter and specialist in state manipulation, receives a mysterious email that will launch him into a thrilling investigation. Hunted by one of MI 6's most dangerous killers and helped by invisible benefactors, he will have to discover the hidden meaning of the message with Énola Florés, a French journalist, while following leads that take them from Europe to the Middle East.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.MORIARTI
• Release date: Jun 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223672630

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The Persian Gulf. 1971.

Four years that the Company has been prospecting the Persian Gulf from coast-to-coast. Four long years searching the seabed for black gold. Four years of data collected by Thomas Janssens’ teams.

Thomas, who is in charge of the direction of offshore excavations in the Persian region, is anxious at the beginning of each month when he has to pick up his phone and review his progress with the management committee at the international headquarters in The Hague.

The Company relies heavily on his surveying. It already exploits a petrol field on land since the early 1950s and believes it has found a new, very promising one in front of the Qatari peninsula.

Together with his geologists, he supports an intensive exploration off the coast of Iran, despite an unstable political situation and the risks of nationalization in the event of extraction.

His team guarantees him the field of the century and rather favorable operating conditions with an ocean floor only two hundred feet deep.

The Company granted him significant resources. Two prospecting boats cover an area of several thousand square miles, towing behind them up to twenty-six-thousand-foot lines of cables equipped with state-of-the-art sensors and hydrophones. They regularly emit a pressure wave which, once reflected by the underwater rocks, is recovered and analyzed. Since the speed of propagation varies according to the environment crossed, analysts can map the seabed, its subsoil and the nature of the elements. However, so far, they detected very little oil. Nothing to justify exploitation. The prospecting budget has been widely exceeded, and impatience grows at headquarters.

Thomas is prepared to announce again the lack of results, but his data analysis manager, Joshua Thompson, asked him to wait awhile. Some results and overlaps require further study, he said.

Joshua knocks on the door of his director’s office and enters without waiting for an invitation.

With his step in a hurry, his expression tense, his nautical charts under his arms, he heads for the large meeting table that occupied one corner of the room. He lays out his cards while his supervisor joins him.

So?

Do you remember the readings around the areas 29 and 44?

Should I? There have been so many!

Some oil had been discovered there. I remind you these are the first areas where we found some. In small quantities ... But also gas!

He then points to the two areas on the chart he keeps open.

Yes. It’s common to find them together!

Indeed! As you mention they often go hand in hand. We extract or burn gas before pumping the oil. But in this case, we won’t do so because the quantity is too small.

If you come to tell me that we should start operating on the assumption that the gas will compensate for the low volume, I stop you now. This is hardly conceivable on land and even less so at sea.

No, that’s not the point, but from the beginning, by searching for petrol, we put the rest aside. The traces from both areas pushed us to continue our quest forward.

Are you telling me we missed a gas pocket?, Thomas asks now intrigued.

I’ve been running through the tests since 1967. Needless to say, the Persian Gulf covers a geologically complex that belongs to an oil system that extends over much of the Middle East. We thought we would reach our land deposit by sea, but so far we haven’t found any connection, any oil seams. However, there are still traces of gas. Over the entire area covered. I have re-examined in detail the wave propagation velocity measurements to identify connections between the different areas. They're all connected. Even if I don’t have an estimate of the thickness of the pocket yet, I can already tell you that it’s significant.

Joshua takes a red marker and draws a line around the prospecting area. From the north of the Qatari peninsula, the elliptical circle crosses the Persian Gulf to the Iranian shores, covering an area larger than a country like Lebanon.

Thomas, let me introduce you to the largest gas field in the world!

PART 1

The path

1. New York. Long Beach. Fall 2015.

In a black full-length steamer wetsuit, Chris Balmer, lying on his surfboard, paddles quietly offshore.

The water at the end of October is pleasant, and the absence of wind makes it smooth as a mirror, with no resistance to slipping. It’s a beautiful surfing morning as the late season can offer when the last hurricanes that hit the Caribbean send perfect waves generated from swell trains all along the East Coast.

After reaching the lineup, Chris sits on his longboard and waits. Waiting is part of surfing. It allows preparing, anticipating and imagining what the next wave will be like, but beyond that, it also encourages taking stock, finding oneself. A moment he particularly likes. A habit he cherishes since his childhood, partly in California. Sitting on his board, his gaze lost in the distance, cut off from any disruptive element, he plunges into his thoughts, goes back in time, makes plans, develops his future journeys, studies the information he has gathered throughout his investigations. He relives pleasant and sometimes painful moments. Like a repairing shower, his moments of solitude and communion with the elements bring him back to life like the Phoenix. Worries, doubts, regrets disappear and give way to determination, trust and certainty.

A slight ripple on the horizon, a sign of a larger wave, suddenly catches the surfer’s attention. He rows towards it, to better position himself, then close enough, sits down and rotates his board by a circular movement of his legs, thus turning his back. He resumes his oar, but now to move from it and gain speed. Arrived at its level, the surf carries away the extreme sportsman who straightens immediately and begins his descent. It’s a nice six-foot-tall wall that he hurries down in no time before making his bottom turn and continuing to the left. He slides along a perfectly smooth wall. First, his hand touches the wave like a caress in love, then sinks in, to slow his race. At the same time, as if in response to a stimulus, the wave straightens up and projects its lip over his head. Chris then settles in the hollow of the tube thus created and realizes the ultimate figure of surfing. Pleasure of the Gods, some say. The perfect symbiosis between man and the liquid element for others. A few unforgettable seconds when speed, water and power create a universe in its own right. At the end of the liquid tunnel, an opening appears, letting the surfer continue his slide to the beach.

Before going home, he has lunch at the delicatessen on Prince Street, then buys tea from his favorite dealer two blocks from his apartment. A Chinese shop run by a family of Taiwanese who continues not to speak English after three decades in New York. He plans an afternoon of relaxation on his sofa, reading a good detective novel while sipping a Lapsang Souchong and listening to jazz. His last major reportage affected him a lot. He has sold it to the Daily Globe and plans to take advantage of his nest egg to recharge his batteries and spare himself.

As soon as he arrives, he boils water despite the heat that still prevails on the Big Apple on this Indian summer day. While waiting for the tea to be prepared, he sits at his desk and automatically turns on his computer to check his emails; two from advertisers, another from the editor of the Daily Globe, announcing the publication of his investigation next week, and the last one that he judges at first glance to be fraudulent. He’s about to delete it when stopped by the object. Good kisses from Mata. Mata. Mata, the undercover man, who provided explosive information that, once published in an article on cocaine smuggling, revealed Chris to the public in 1997, when he was still a sports journalist from Florida.

The address doesn’t correspond to any known address: [e-mail].

A quick search shows him that clipmail.eu is a website for generating temporary email addresses. Limited to a few hours, they prevent users from giving their own and finding themselves on commercial mailing lists.

Mata died three years ago. Chris understands that the sender wishes, by putting in the subject of the email the nickname of the person who forged his reputation, that it shouldn’t be identified as spam but read.

In English, the only line is simple and enigmatic:

The path to the Kingdom of the Prophet is paved with gold and blood.

Chris rereads it, doubtfully, wondering if he deals with yet another polluting message from some messiah of the truth, who wants to launch the reporter into an anti-sect or anti-conspiracy crusade. It’s true that his reputation as a specialist in all kinds of state plots and schemes is well established.

Three files are attached to the email. He downloads them without worry to his computer. ‘V’ had him install an operating system derived from UNIX, FreeBSD, in place of Windows. Too little distributed, it doesn’t interest hackers and thus fears neither viruses, Trojans or dishonest intrusions. ‘V’ is his IT coach. An idealist hacker he met during one of his investigations on cyber war and the Deep Web. He willingly proclaims himself as one of the founding fathers of Anonymous, the famous group of hacktivists, and gives him a hand when his computer skills are no longer enough. An unique friendship has developed between them. They have never met and chat exclusively by encrypted messaging.

The first download is an Excel file with the name: IMTBUHB. The spreadsheet consists of three columns filled in abundantly; in the first, a series of eight or eleven characters, in the second, another series with at least four digits and finally, in the last, what is similar to a date. The table contains about one hundred lines. From time to time, the figures in the penultimate column are repeated. He goes through the lines, one after the other, in search of a key, a known number, a reference point to hang on to in order to decode its meaning. In vain.

Chris moves on to the second: a photo. A street in a city that is, according to architectural details, probably European. Colored buildings; yellow and pale green with white window outlines for some, columns, balconies supported by atlases. A shopping street, with international retailers, parked cars. The picture was taken in winter. Snow covers part of the roadway and piles up along the sidewalk. The few passers-by are warmly dressed. The shooting focuses on what is likely to a commercial agency. Relatively austere, with a glass front, semi transparent curtains, posters worn by excessive exposure to light, making reading futile and a dominant of colors from another era: brown, beige, dark green. No visible sign. Apart from the fact that the vehicles and clothes are recent, Chris can’t find any other intriguing.

He opens the last file. Another picture. Unlike the first one, it features an interior. A coffee room. Low tables and armchairs occupy the entire space. The decoration is in the Middle Eastern style with octagonal tables covered with colored marquetry, mosaics that decorate the walls and columns. Trays with teapots and glasses dominate some tables, chicha on others. Most of the chairs are occupied by men, European and oriental. At the back of the room, a large bay window opens onto a street terrace. A peaceful scene, a moment of immortalized conviviality. A very commonplace scene, if not a detail. At the top left, a recessed group stands out from the rest. Four individuals standing beside others who gathered around a low table. Unattractive, they look in opposite directions, with an automatic weapon in hand. The two facing the camera are Westerners. The others turn their back and wear the keffiyeh, a traditional Arab headdress and famous Palestinian emblem. The seated group is composed of Westerners and Orientals dressed in both Western and Eastern styles. One of the people sitting there is talking to a man wearing a white turban while the others watch the exchange. He’s European. Chris stops at him. The image quality is not optimal, and the scene is underexposed. He zooms in on the face. There’s no room for doubt. Despite a thick beard, Chris immediately recognizes him.

2. Mali. Bamako. At the same time.

In the heart of Nariéla, the historic district of Bamako, Énola Florès waits in the living room of a wealthy house. A tired ceiling fan brews hot air that, despite its efforts, can’t make her forget the heat wave of the day. Sitting on a carved wooden palaver chair, a symbol of discomfort for any European, she continues to wonder if she wouldn’t have done better to listen to her editor who warned her about the unreliability of informants or information in Mali.

Énola investigates women trade in the sub-Saharan zone and its link to the Islamic State’s slave market. Mali was at the heart of a highly organized trafficking between Bamako and Tripoli from 2004 to 2011, resulting in the conversion of Malian girls into sex slaves. Officially, this business has ceased to exist since the fall of the former Libyan regime, but the French military operation in Mali in 2013 revealed the opposite. According to the journalist’s military sources, the traffic increased with as the final destination no longer the suburbs of Tripoli or the Libyan border, but the Islamic state.

A month and a half that she visits women’s refuges, homes for ex-prostitutes, in search of a trail on the slave trade. The most total Omerta reigns among these wounded women. Few accept to talk to a European. The rare information gleaned is irrelevant or obsolete, and her exchanges with the locals mainly motivated by financial interest. She had only Few friendly and selfless contacts until this meeting with a young Tuareg girl: Adjan.

Adjan lives in Bamako for more than two years with her mother and sister. They left the desert after her father’s death and occupy an old house belonging to one of her tribe patriarchs who gave up nomadism a few decades ago. Adjan helps these women, who have escaped the hell of prostitution, by providing them with psychological support and administrative assistance. Speaking French, she became friends with Énola and invited her to come and meet her family.

The young Malian woman enters the room, followed by her mother and little sister who carries a tray filled with two teapots, glasses and a sugar loaf. Without a word, she puts the platter on the coffee table facing their guest, while Adjan and her mother sit.

The tea ceremony can begin. With a small knife, the youngest breaks pieces of sugar and deposits them in one of the teapots, then grabs the second, from which volutes of odorous vapors escape, and pours its contents into the first. She repeats the operation few times, transferring the liquid from one teapot to another until the sugar is melted. She will use the infusing green tea leaves for all three services, because, according to the Kanoun, the Tuareg canon on tea, only one tea can’t be served, because only God is one, nor two because it’s lacking generosity, but three. The tea ceremony is a sacred art among the Tuaregs.

Adjan breaks the silence while giving a full glass to her visitor.

Thank you for coming in. It’s a great pleasure for me and my family that you accepted our invitation.

My pleasure, the French woman replies.

We wanted to meet you here, without indelicate ears. That’s impossible to speak freely in the refuge.

Adjan looks at his mother who nods. Intrigued, Énola steps into her seat.

Our family history isn’t simple. I told you we abandoned our village to move here after the death of my father and brother. At the time, we lived near the Algerian border. But my father wasn’t just a merchant. He had about thirty camels, and with my brother and his men, he was transporting goods between Niger, Algeria, and Mali. Smuggled goods, drugs, weapons and ... women.

With her face down, Adjan takes a break. Énola feels a great embarrassment. A shame.

My mother and my father often argued about these women. Young girls. Sometimes younger than me at the time. I remember seeing them dressed like Tuaregs when they arrived home in a van before leaving with the caravan. Most of them were smiling. When I talked to them in secret, because my father forbade me to do so, they told me about a new life waiting for them. A much better life. Afterward, my mother explained to me what would happened to them ... that they would be treated less well than our slaves. And I was ashamed that my family was involved.

Your slaves?

Yes! We have two ... they stayed in the village. We couldn’t take them with us.

Énola learned, without believing it, with the managers of women’s refuges, that slavery still persists in Mali. And more particularly in the Tuareg community. Clearly, traditions perpetuate themselves, the French woman thinks. Her reflexes, as a journalist, push her to tackle the subject, especially since the naturalness with which Adjan responded surprises her, but not wanting to offend the sensitivity of her hosts, she prefers to refocus on the investigation.

Were there many arrivals?

It could vary. In some years, girls would leave every month, while in others, passages were more spread out. The caravan went with them and came back more and more often with weapons.

What did your father do with these weapons?

"One of his friends picked them up. He told us it was for the little jihad. The Holy War."

And what happened to your father and brother?

One morning, they left in a hurry, just taking their arms with them. Shortly after their departure, we saw French soldiers. There were many of them, and they crossed the village without stopping. They went in the same direction as my father. Then we heard explosions and fighting noises in the distance. My uncle advised us to go to Bamako and expect the situation to calm down. It’s been more than two years now.

Did your father work alone?

My father never talked about his business. We never knew where he was going or when he would be back. He even forbade my brother to tell us about it.

Adjan turns to her mother. They exchange in Tamajaq, one of the Tuareg languages, the old woman doesn’t speak French.

My mum knows almost nothing about what he was doing and his relationships. However, when she left our village, she took some of his papers. She can give them to you if you want.

Énola looks at the mother whose dark and sad eyes seem to be begging her to welcome them.

But why helping me?

Because my mother never accepted the fate of these poor women. She feels guilty of not being able to do anything. She tried once. I was very little at the time. She had come between my father and one who had changed her mind before the caravan left. He hit her so hard he broke her jaw. Now that he’s gone, she wants to fix what’s been done. I told her you’re a journalist and you investigate the trafficking of young girls. So if we can help you, we would be honored.

The mother gets up and leaves the room. She comes back with a pocket full of documents that she hands to Énola, who quickly opens it.

The content consists of black and white leaflets written in Arabic, maps of different desert regions, a small Koran, a spiral notebook with tables and bank statements. Adjan explains to Énola that the leaflets are propaganda messages for the Islamic state or verses from the Koran, the spiral notebook, a pre-printed account book that her father filled out as he traveled. One double page per month. In French, the journalist has no difficulty in reading it. Purchases on the left page, sales on the right. She finds his current expenses there, such as access to a water well, fodder, food, but also his personal purchases as electronics, television, etc. The sales of the month are reported with the type, the recipient and the method of payment. She goes from one line to another, from one month to the next and eventually notices recurrences and a main source of payment. She takes over the bank statements. All are from BOA, Bank Of Africa. She studies them carefully for long minutes, then rests them on the stack of documents. Énola smiles.

She finally has a lead. 

3. New York. Chris Balmer’s apartment.

Sullivan O’Brian is the very symbol of American heroism and success. Of military lineage for three generations, he fought in Iraq during the first and second war as an officer in the famous 75th Ranger Regiment. In 2003, he was prisoner in Falluja Province and tortured. After several months of internment, deprivation and despite a broken leg, he managed to escape. He owed his salvation to a coalition patrol on a spotting operation around his captivity location. Decorated with the Purple Heart, O’Brian returned to civilian life and entered politics in 2008, after a military career as a liaison officer.

His Middle East knowledge has made him a consultant in high demand by politicians. Close to the Republican Party, he began a political career as an advisor to Senator John Curtis in Virginia. His strong positions and opinions on Middle Eastern issues have largely influenced the policies of successive American governments for almost a decade.

Chris has often crossed his name. When investigating the Middle East destabilization operations in 2011, he even suspected him of being the instigator of the Arab spring.

Seeing him now in this photo, talking to dignitaries in a public place in Beirut, Algiers or perhaps Tunis, rekindled the reporter’s flame. Like a detective at a crime scene, Chris looks for clues, starting at the bottom of the picture and working his way up. On a table, he identifies a pile of magazines with a newspaper on top. He enlarges it. Even pixelated, he easily deciphers the name: Jordan Times. The Jordanian Anglo-Saxon daily distributed mainly in Jordan. For it to be freely available, he guesses that expatriates or foreigners passing through frequent the place. Surely in a city of importance, such as the capital Amman, a rare city in Jordan that can meet these criteria. The reporter continues the exploration to the top of the photo and the scenery visible from the bays open to the street. In the distance, a wooden square. Behind tall and wide palm trees, he remarks a building with a sign on the roof. Although partially masked by the palms, a portion remains legible. In the Latin alphabet, Chris reads the word Hotel followed by a second one. Only two letters are visible: AL. An Internet search reveals that the