[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

 

[Grant]

Majid counted the seconds inside the elevator, the silence broken by a deep mechanical thud followed by a soft ding. The doors slid open to reveal a blindingly bright, chaotic trading floor. The sound hit him instantly — hundreds of French brokers barking into phones, eyes glued to glowing monitors, their voices overlapping in a wall of noise.

He stepped out calmly, pushing the janitor’s trolley ahead, scanning the room for opportunity. Sticking to the edges to avoid attention, he found a small, unused trading booth along the wall and slipped inside. His eyes dropped to the trolley — several large containers of disinfectant sat nestled between cloths and mop heads. Each bore the same red warning: Flammable. Working quickly, he began preparing. He stuffed green paper towels into the bottlenecks, soaking one end in liquid while keeping the other dry, forming makeshift wicks. He tucked one bottle under the desk. Then, unscrewing another, he poured its contents liberally across the carpet, over the chair, desk, and monitor — saturating the space in a chemical sheen. With quick hands, he replaced the empty bottle, glanced toward the aisle, and then left another prepped Molotov on the floor. He flicked a lighter from his pocket and touched the flame to the exposed paper towel. It caught instantly. Without watching it burn, Majid pulled the trolley back into the corridor, moving steadily.

As he walked, he tipped a container, letting the disinfectant trail behind him in a slick, invisible fuse. He veered into a second booth — also empty — dropped a fresh bottle, lit the wick, and moved on. Behind him, the first booth burst into life — the flame caught the soaked fabric and electronics, erupting into an uncontrolled blaze. Flames licked across the desk, feeding on everything flammable in sight. He didn’t look back — time was vanishing. Flames had already begun to draw attention, heads turning, voices rising in confusion.

Majid stormed into the center of the trading floor, pulling free his lighter. One by one, he lit the remaining containers, watching each wick flare up and vanish into the sloshing liquid below. Without hesitation, he began hurling them. The first bottle smashed into a cluster of brokers, shattering in a burst of flames and chemical spray. Screams erupted.

Majid’s adrenaline surged. He threw back his head and roared, “We are Al-Qaeda! You will never be safe!”

Bottles flew from his hands in rapid succession, each shattering with a burst of fire and chaos. The carpet ignited in a creeping blaze as people scrambled to escape—some already engulfed, their clothes melting and burning through to raw flesh. Fire alarms blared relentlessly, panic ripping through the room like a storm. Majid charged at a group that had narrowly avoided the initial inferno, a final, fierce cry building in his throat. With a sudden lunge, he grabbed a man by the collar of his expensive suit and hurled him toward the roaring flames nearby. The man crashed into the fire, tumbling helplessly into the searing heat and choking smoke.



Meanwhile, Ehsan stepped out into a sleek, modern hallway, the polished tiles gleaming under the cold overhead lights. His suit allowed him to blend in seamlessly with the corporate setting as he moved forward, scanning his surroundings. A sign on the wall pointed toward the central server room. As he walked, he passed rows of glass-walled offices, each occupied by focused IT analysts hunched over screens deliberating on fixes. Keeping his pace measured, Ehsan followed the signs, slipping deeper into the heart of the building.

He followed the sign around the corner and stopped — two armed guards stood on either side of a reinforced door with a keycard scanner glowing beside it. Adjusting his stride, Ehsan veered casually toward a nearby wall, pretending to study a notice board pinned with memos and floor plans. He muttered a quiet curse under his breath, weighing his options. The corridor was empty, the air tense and still.

Then, in an instant, the fire alarm system erupted — a shrill, urgent sound. Red strobes lit the hallway. The guards' radios crackled to life, voices barking out alerts as chaos from the lower floors spilled up through the building. Ehsan glanced up at the strobes going off, and lowered his head slightly for Majid, taking a deep breath and muttering a silent prayer.

Alexander

 

[Alexander]

While security at the Bourse de Paris was by no means insignificant, the reality was that the nature of threats to the exchange had always been about data integrity, insider trading, and other threats of a more white collar nature. The thought that the exchange could be subject to a terrorist threat had quite frankly never really occurred to either Euronext’s private security or for that matter the National Police, Paris Police Prefecture, or DGSI. Really the biggest threat to the facility themselves was considered an attempt by an armed group to force their way into the datacentre to get their hands on proprietary data.

These assumptions were reflected in the security setup, while the guards at the building entrances and exits as well as the employee only IT sections were armed and authorized to use lethal force, once inside the building one would only really encounter guards armed with at worst non-lethal weapons such as batons or tasers. The idea being that someone who managed to make it onto the actual trading floor had already gone through various stages of verification and couldn’t pose a significant threat.

After today that would never be the case again, as the first Molotov cocktails were thrown onto the trading floor chaos would be the first response, with most people at first thinking there was some kind of accidental fire. The idea that someone would launch a terrorist attack here simply was inconceivable. Soon however the response would shift to panic as it became clear the inconceivable had become reality. Security on the floor would shift to evacuating as many people as possible while support was requested from the armed guards near the entrance. Some guards, realizing that even unarmed there was strength in numbers would move to tackle Majid and disable him.

Simultaneously security would call the police, who taking things very seriously would mobilize an immediate response.

Operating under the National Police, RAID was one of the two national level counter-terrorism units and like their counterparts in the GIGN they were the best at their job. As the Paris Police Prefecture cordoned off a two-block radius around the exchange, a 20-man RAID team made their way into the building. Their mission was simple, identify and neutralize any attacker. If possible the goal was to take them alive, but failing that the only thing that mattered was taking them out once and for all. Despite these immediate efforts, however, there would still be dozens of dead and many more injured.

When the attack on the trading floor triggered both the fire and security precautions. For the integrity of the French financial system, whenever a major incident was ongoing all trading was immediately suspended. Both on location and remote. Furthermore, when there were fears that the integrity of trading systems might have been compromised servers and other IT systems were set to lockdown, as a result the servers behind the two guards would shutdown and due to full disk encryption require manual intervention after the crisis was addressed to return to operation. Ehsan for his part had no business being in this part of the building, after all with the sensitivity of this part of the facilities the guards knew the faces of every technician authorized to be there. While under normal conditions they would move to detain him until they could identify him, they wouldn’t take any chances now. Both guards would pull their sidearms and take aim at Ehsan.

“Sir, you are not authorized to be here. Surrender immediately” They ordered, nerves starting to get to them as neither had actually ever had to use their service weapons outside of training yet.

Grant