[Al-Qaeda]: The Day the Bells Fell Silent

[Grant]

The Day the Bells Fell Silent
Paris, France 🇫🇷​

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Charles De Gaulle Airport - 08:24 CEST

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The early morning sun was rising over Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport as the SunExpress airplane gently touched down on the runway before taxiing through the maze of taxiways that crisscrossed the airport. Gulzar Safi and Parwiz Samadi, two Afghan gentlemen seated side by side, both tried to catch a glimpse out of the small window as they watched the jetway roll forward and latch onto the plane. They were eager to disembark after having taken two connecting flights just to get there. Within seconds of the jetway attaching, the engines powered down, and the familiar seatbelt sign flickered off, accompanied by its soft, indistinct chime. Movement and quiet chatter quickly filled the cabin.

Parwiz glanced at Gulzar and smiled. “I’m going to be glad to get off this plane. My back feels like it’s been through a battle.”

Gulzar smirked and looked down the rows behind them. “Yeah… It’ll be nice to feel some fresh air. Which row were Majid and Ehsan in again?”

Parwiz glanced back, gesturing vaguely. “They’re somewhere over there. We’ll meet up after we're through passport control.”

As the plane began to disembark, the two men moved into the aisle, weaving their way through the crowd blocking their path. Once clear, they strolled freely into the terminal, the cool air of the building a welcome relief after hours in the cabin. Overhead signs glowed softly, guiding them toward baggage claim. They passed cafes opening for the day, travellers dragging wheeled suitcases, and airport staff moving briskly between gates. The other two Afghan men soon caught up, and the group fell into easy conversation, their laughter occasionally echoing in the spacious hall. They headed toward Passport Control. The queue stretched ahead, passengers lining up patiently. Gulzar was the first to step forward, passports and visa in hand, ready for inspection.

The French Border Officer glanced at Gulzars' paperwork, particularly eying the visa and noticing it was issued for work-related visits. Gulzar shuffled slightly as he adjusted his bag on his shoulder. The border officer began questioning the nature of the work being undertaken in the country. Gulzar quickly replied, unfaltering in his words: "Business. We're here to trial trading on the Paris Stock Exchange and maybe fit in a bit of sightseeing during our downtime. There isn't much trading out where we come from, so it's something new. It's the same for my colleagues behind." Gulzar gestured behind him to Parwiz, Ehsan and Majid. The border officer nodded and quickly stamped the visa and passport before allowing Gulzar through. One by one, each of the men approached and had their visas stamped before moving on into the arrivals hall.

The glass doors of the airport slid open with a hiss as the four weary men stepped into the warm glow of the Parisian morning. It was rush hour, and the taxi queue stretched far down the curb—travellers jostling for position, some heading into the city, others bound for the suburbs. A van pulled up and began unloading passengers. As a woman at the front of the line moved toward it, Ehsan stepped forward, seized her shoulder, and pushed her aside with a low, gruff command. “Get the next one.” Without waiting for a response, the men climbed into the van. Gulzar leaned forward from the back seat, holding out a slip of paper with two addresses on them.
The driver glanced across the group, calculating the route in silence before offering a polite nod and easing the van into motion.

Nearly forty minutes passed in the cramped taxi, the ride marked by stilted attempts at conversation—brief, awkward exchanges hampered by the language barrier. Eventually, the Seine came into view through the right-side window, its waters catching the morning light. Beyond it, the towering form of Notre Dame Cathedral rose into the skyline, commanding attention. The men fell silent, exchanging brief glances before turning their eyes back to the view. Crossing a nearby bridge, the driver steered the van toward the cathedral and came to a stop in the courtyard at its entrance. Gulzar and Parwiz stepped out first, nodding solemnly to the others as the taxi pulled away and vanished into traffic, leaving a faint trail of exhaust in the still air.

Parwiz moved slowly toward the entrance, his steps hesitant, as if he were unsure whether to proceed further. Gulzar lingered near the curb, pulling out a cigarette pack with unsteady fingers. He lit one, inhaled, and then offered it to Parwiz, who shook his head without looking back. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The distant toll of a bell echoed from the cathedral tower. Gulzar returned the pack to his coat pocket, exhaled sharply, and stared up at the ancient stone façade. Once Gulzar finished his cigarette, he flicked it to the pavement, crushed it under his heel, and gave Parwiz a light tap on the shoulder. "Lets go" mumbled Gulzar. Without a word, they moved forward together, joining the slow-moving queue leading into the historic cathedral.

In the car, Ehsan and Majid sat in silence for the rest of the ride, doing their best to ignore the French taxi driver’s off-key singing as he cranked up the radio to belt out his favourite song. Both men stared out the windows, watching the Seine slip out of view as they crossed the Pont Alexandre III into the heart of the city. From the left side, the Eiffel Tower rose above the rooftops, its spire outlined in the golden haze of the morning sun—a postcard-perfect view that reminded them why Paris was so celebrated around the world. After twenty minutes of musical torture, the taxi finally pulled over across the road from La Défense, the sleek financial district housing Euronext and the French Stock Exchange. Ehsan, already in a foul mood, tossed a random handful of euros onto the driver’s lap and stepped out without a word. Majid, smirking, lingered just long enough to butcher a farewell: “Ay revooor, Monsoor,” he said, drawing a confused glance from the driver before climbing out after him.

Alexander

 

[Grant]

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Euronext Stock Exchange, La Défense District - 09:05 CEST​

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Ehsan and Majid stepped into the Stock Exchange building, blending in with the flurry of brokers rushing through the lobby. The market had opened just minutes ago, and the energy in the air was electric. Without drawing attention, Majid broke away and headed toward the security desk, scouting for vulnerabilities at that end of the building. Ehsan drifted toward the restrooms, lingering near the doorway while scanning for an opportunity to arise.

Just then, a sharply dressed man stormed in through the main entrance, phone pressed to his ear. He barked into the receiver, agitated: something about plummeting shares and selling them immediately. “I’ll be on the floor in two,” he snapped before jamming the phone into his inside pocket and charging toward the toilets—brushing past Ehsan without so much as a glance. Ehsan’s instincts kicked in, and he quickly followed him into the bathroom.

The heavy door swung shut behind them, dulling the roar of the lobby outside. The broker headed straight for the sink, muttering curses under his breath, one hand jabbing at his phone while the other loosened his tie.

Ehsan scanned the room — it was empty. Just the two of them. Without hesitation, he reached for the nearby wet floor sign leaning against the wall. In one swift motion, he wedged it tightly into the door’s swing arc, jamming it shut. No one would be getting in easily now. He took a breath, straightened his posture, and turned the corner calmly as he approached the far sink. He began washing his hands while watching his reflection in the mirror. The broker ended the call with a final curse and stuffed the phone into his inner pocket. With a sigh, he leaned over the sink and splashed cold water on his face, grumbling under his breath.

In a blink, he closed the distance, driving his forearm hard into the side of the broker’s neck. The man’s head snapped sideways and collided with the mirror with a dull, sickening crack. He staggered, dazed but still conscious. Ehsan caught him before he could fall, slipping an arm around his throat and locking him in a chokehold. The broker thrashed weakly, kicking against the tiles, one hand flailing for his phone.

“Shhh,” Ehsan hissed, tightening his grip. “It’s not personal.”

He dragged the man backwards, his shoes scraping against the floor, and forced him into the last stall. With a sharp shove, he slammed the door shut behind them and braced it with his foot. The man writhed, trying to yell — but Ehsan was done. With a final wrench, he twisted sharply. There was a harsh, firm crack, and the man went limp. His body slumped lifelessly onto the closed toilet lid, head tilted unnaturally to one side.

Ehsan wasted no time. He crouched down, unfastening the man’s blazer and unhooking the RFID badge clipped neatly to the lapel. He laid the suit out on the stall floor, undressing the man piece by piece — jacket, shirt, trousers, even the polished Oxfords. Ehsan worked fast but carefully, keeping everything tidy. He stripped off his hoodie and jeans, folding them and stashing them on top of the cistern out of view. Slipping into the man’s clothes, he adjusted the collar, fastened the watch, and ran a hand through his hair to mimic the slicked-back look as best as he could. He quickly slid the stall lock shut, then dropped to one knee and crawled out beneath the door, leaving it sealed from the inside. Rising smoothly to his feet, he adjusted his cuffs, brushed down the borrowed suit, and stepped toward the exit. At the mirror, he paused — just for a moment — to smooth his hair and straighten the stolen ID badge. Then, without another glance, he walked out to face the chaos beyond the door, shunting the wet floor sign to the side.

By now, the lobby had quieted. The brokers had scattered to their trading floors, ready to face the long day ahead. Ehsan surveyed the space—just a few stragglers lingered, their conversations low and idle—but there was no sign of Majid. He gave a small shrug and continued toward the security desk and the row of electronic gates. Pausing for a breath, he held up his RFID card and swiped it across the scanner. For a heartbeat, time seemed to hold its breath. A green light blinked on, framing a white tick on the LED display. With a soft hiss, the gate slid open. The moment passed. Ehsan stepped through, nodding briefly to the security staff, and moved on. Scanning the various signs posted along the walls, he navigated his way to the main bank of elevators and pressed the call button. He gently stepped inside and

Meanwhile, Majid had circled back outside, hugging the building’s perimeter in search of a way in that wouldn’t trigger attention. Near the gated service entrance, he spotted a delivery truck idling unattended — its engine off, back doors shut but clearly not locked. The driver had already taken a load inside, leaving the vehicle momentarily unwatched. Majid tried the handle. It gave with a soft click. He slipped inside the rear compartment and crouched among the scattered parcels. The air was thick with the scent of cardboard and diesel. He grabbed two medium-sized boxes, stacked them just high enough to shield most of his face, and stepped out, affecting the calm, bored pace of a routine delivery worker.

As he neared the service gate, he caught sight of the security guard slouched in his booth, face aglow from the screen of his phone. A football match — cheers and commentary faintly bled through the glass. Majid kept walking towards the gate as the guard glanced up briefly, gave a distracted wave, and turned back to the match without a word. Majid released a breath of relief while passing through into the compound. Inside the rear lot, he pressed forward, parcels in hand, following the scuffed delivery path toward a grey steel door with a keypad and push bar. It had just clicked shut — Majid cursed under his breath as he heard the delivery driver’s footsteps echoed away faintly from beyond. He gently perched himself against the wall near the door. He counted as the time passed, ten seconds, then twenty. How long would he be? Another 30 seconds passed before footsteps were faintly heard of the other side of the door. The door creaked open again, and the courier stepped out, grumbling into a Bluetooth headset. Majid stepped forward, nodded once at the delivery man, and slipped into the open entrance as though he belonged. The courier never looked twice.

Inside, a long service corridor stretched ahead, ending with a freight elevator. Majid set the boxes down carefully and scanned the hallway. The delivery cover wouldn’t work on the upper floors — he needed another plan. He moved quickly, testing doors as he passed, peering inside each one. Finally, he found it: an empty janitorial cupboard. Slipping inside, he began gathering cleaning chemicals, stacking bottles onto a nearby trolley. He added a mop and bucket, then stepped back into the corridor, pushing the trolley steadily forward towards the service elevator. He called it down and stepped inside, taking one last glance at the hallway behind as the doors closed in front of him.

Alexander