The “surprise” was a picture of him, armed to the teeth. So cool. A gigantic M4 assault rifle was slung across his shoulder. A black bandana embroidered with the Islamic State’s white insignia covered his forehead. He stood erect, puffing out his chest, smiling. I had trouble believing this was real. He didn’t know me. What if I was hiding behind Mélodie’s identity? What if I was really a cop? Or a journalist searching for reliable information from a solid source? Abu Bilel wasn’t concerned. Clearly, he thought he’d caught a fish. Based on the tone of his messages, it didn’t seem like he was going to let this one escape from his net. Did he often act like this? It must have been four o’clock in the morning. I was looking for answers. For now, all I had were more and more questions.
People often compare journalists to dogs in search of bones to gnaw on. Admittedly, at that moment, I was excited by the idea of delving into the mind of an assassin—this assassin. I admire people of faith. I envy the strength it affords them. Faith is a precious source of support as one confronts life’s inevitable difficulties. But when people use spirituality as an excuse to commit murder, I, Anna, give myself permission to become someone else. At least digitally speaking. That was how I justified becoming Mélodie, a desperate and naïve young woman. Some might object to my methods on moral grounds, but at the time this terrorist organization was doing everything in its power to enroll a maximum number of new recruits. I let my conscience decide. Abu Bilel wouldn’t be the subject of a story. I wanted to examine what he said and untangle fact from fiction. How many people now served the Islamic State? How many French? How many Europeans? Did women really pleasure jihadists as a way of serving God? Did they also take up arms? Abu Bilel beckoned me onto his path of religious domination, while he decimated the meek and helpless in a country rife with religious divisions. Could I get him to tell me about the bloody conflicts he spearheaded?
As day broke, I surfed the Net, scanning the labyrinthine Web for anything I could find on Abu Bilel. I dug up dozens of conversations between mujahideen and potential recruits. Nothing conclusive. However, I learned that a very important battle had just taken place in Syria, in the region of Deir ez-Zor, less than three hundred miles from the border with Iraq, a country still haunted by the ghost of Saddam Hussein and the American invasion. I came across an exchange that normally would have interested me: “We destroyed them! I recorded the whole thing! But al-Baghdadi and his emirs were suspicious it might be an al-Nusra trap, and they stayed inside the house. Call Guitone; he’s with them.” I’d known of al-Baghdadi, the very dangerous leader of ISIS, for a long time. But that night, since I couldn’t find any information on Bilel, I was interested in Guitone. I knew him “well.” Guitone, aged twenty-two or twenty-three, was born in Marseille and had lived for a while in Great Britain before joining ISIS, where he quickly climbed the ranks. He possessed three qualities that made him an essential asset to the Islamic State’s digital propaganda campaign: he was good-looking, he knew his religion by heart, and he was able to preach in four different languages.
My colleagues and I had nicknamed him “the Publicist.” Whenever we needed information, we could rely on him. He was always eager to help. Guitone knew me through my true identity: Anna. We had spoken on several occasions. I’d last contacted him in March about Norah, a fifteen-year-old girl from Avignon. Her family had recently told me that Norah had left to join the al-Nusra Front, and not the Islamic State. Guitone had confirmed that fact as well as her geographic location.
Guitone bragged about his affiliation with ISIS on his Facebook page, often posting videos of himself: Guitone visiting wounded jihadists in hospitals; Guitone flouting France and Turkey, armed to the teeth at a feast on the Turkish border; Guitone waving to a crowd of fighters celebrating in the conquered streets of Raqqa, Syria. Guitone was unbelievably famous. Each of his posts literally made adolescents from all over Europe salivate. He claimed to live like a king, and he was always dressed from head to toe in name brands. He was respected for what he was. He always had an innocent smile on his face. That was his trademark. Who better to convince you to embrace his cause, particularly in a country so affected by war? Admittedly, it was clever PR. I considered sending Guitone a message asking him to fill me in on the latest battle, at which the “emirs” were nowhere to be found, but I decided against it. I didn’t yet know that Guitone, Abu Bilel, and al-Baghdadi were related—insanely related. I continued dissecting the information at my disposal. I had nothing on Bilel. Who was he? And how old? I guessed he had extensive experience in the field. My curiosity growing, I sensed this man was more complicated than the young jihadists I’d encountered before.
“Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones crashed against the walls of my living room, resonating like a premonition. I turned on my computer and found new messages from Bilel. I barely had time to read them before he connected and contacted my digital puppet. In his first posts, he struggled to hide his crass insistence. Every other line, the mercenary begged Mélodie to sign off Facebook and continue her conversation with him over Skype, a platform that combines sight and sound. Why was he so obsessed? Was it a safety measure? Did he want to verify my identity? Or did he want to make sure the new fish swimming in his net was appetizing?
“Why do you want to Skype?” I had Mélodie reply awkwardly.
“Conversations over Skype are more secure, if you see what I mean.”
No, I didn’t see. He ended his sentence with a smiley face, a yellow, winking emoticon. It was absurd. He was absurd. On his profile, he swore he was “devoted to the Islamic State,” so I tried to engage him on that point.
“I see you work for the Islamic State. What’s your job? In France, people say it’s not a very strong brigade.”
I couldn’t help using Mélodie to insult him. I also added a blushing smiley face. Bilel was quick to defend his vanity, firmly insisting that ISIS embodied the height of power, not only in Syria but throughout the world. Soldiers came from all corners of the globe to join its ranks.
“There are three types of fighters,” my charming interlocutor went on, in teacher mode: “those on the front, those who become suicide bombers, and those who return to France to punish infidels.”
“Punish? How?”
“You know how . . . like Mohammed . . .”
It was a reference to Mohammed Merah, the shooter in Toulouse. But Mélodie didn’t understand.
“Who’s Mohammed? And how is he punishing people?”
“You live in Toulouse, right? You don’t know about the scooter killer? . . . There’s one important rule: terrorize the enemies of Allah.”
“But Merah killed children. Don’t children represent innocence and purity? How can they be enemies?”
“You’re so naïve, Mélodie. . . . You like children? One day, you’ll have some of your own, Insha’Allah. You know, we have many orphans here in need of mothers. ISIS sisters take care of them; they’re remarkable women. You have a lot in common with them. You would like them.”
Although he didn’t know Mélodie, Bilel was a master manipulator. His method: lull her into a state of security by telling her what she wanted to hear. Ultimately, the subject of conversation didn’t matter; he would guide her in whatever direction he wanted. Mélodie expressed a certain affection for children, so Bilel suggested she could become a surrogate mother. Forgetting the discussion about Mohammed Merah, she smiled faintly, and imagined what it would be like to devote herself to others worse off than herself. As if other people’s despair could cure her of her own. For some time, she’d felt lost in her depressing surroundings. Everything seemed like a waste of time. Nothing mattered. True happiness was a rare and fleeting sensation; she barely remembered the strength it could provide. Mélodie was tired of her dull and futureless life. She was lost and looking for purpose. I imagined her as a marginalized teen with a difficult and scarring past.
The