The Taliban declared holy war against rapists, thieves, and murderers. The madness—the violations of Sharia law—would not be tolerated.
It had not been the Taliban’s intention to take power or to rule the country, at least not in the beginning. They had been simply trying to restore order. But to do so, they had to be ruthless about enforcing the law.
Akhtar remembered the executions outside Kabul’s Olympic soccer stadium, where he and Pasha had been among the young warriors tasked with carrying out sentences handed down from Taliban tribunals. They cut off the hands of those guilty of theft, shot rapists, beat men failing to comply with Sharia dress codes and beards, and stoned to death women accused of adultery.
It had not been easy.
But it had been necessary to unite a nation.
By 1996, the Taliban controlled Kabul, and by 1998, most of the country.
Until the Americans came.
Akhtar stared at his brother. As with him, the long war had been harsh on Pasha, lining his once smooth face.
“I have missed you, brother,” Akhtar said, as they stood in the small courtyard just past the fortified entrance to a compound built by the Soviets back in the 1980s as a mountain headquarters. It was located almost nine thousand feet up the Sulaimans, on a wooded plateau overlooking Lashkar Gah.
Moscow had spared no expense. The place was a citadel. Reinforced concrete walls, instead of mud and stone, rose two stories high against a steep wall of granite. It included a basement bomb shelter with an escape tunnel into the opposite face of the mountain. Watchtowers at every corner overlooked the rectangular property, and a twelve-foot wall surrounded it all. Given the altitude, large conifers, primarily towering Cedrus deodara and stone pines, cast a permanent shadow beneath their wide and overlapping canopies, shielding the compound from the scorching sun. But more importantly, the trees hid Akhtar’s headquarters from American UAVs.
A cold breeze swept down the snowy peaks capping the mountain range, rustling branches and chilling his face. Pasha, wearing camouflage pants under a long cashmere tunic, a round woolen pakol hiding his short dark hair, slowly nodded while regarding his older brother with eyes that sagged at the ends.
“It has been a long and treacherous journey. But Allah was merciful.” He pointed at the scientist getting out of the car, a short and wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair, a wispy mustache, and round wire glasses.
“Allah and our beloved Akaa,” Akhtar added. “Plus the warriors we had to sacrifice.” At the last count, the attack on Kandahar had cost him more than thirty-five men.
“I hope it is all worth it, brother,” Pasha said. “We lost a lot of good men, including Uncle Qadeer.”
Akhtar didn’t know that, and he grimaced when a pain stabbed his gut. For a moment he wasn’t sure if it was the need to opiate or the loss of a blood relative, but in the end it didn’t really matter. It had to be done.
“The Americans, the Russians, the British, and the French have them,” Akhtar said, turning to face the man Pasha had introduced as Dr. Ali Khan. “The Chinese, the Indians, the Pakistanis, and even the damn Jews have them. And now you will help us add Afghanistan to the list of states with nuclear weapons.”
“And in return you leave my family alone?” Dr. Khan asked.
“You have my word,” replied Akhtar.
“So far I have not been impressed.” The scientist crossed his arms and just glared at Akhtar through his little glasses.
“Come again?” Akhtar said.
Stretching an index finger up to Akhtar’s face, Dr. Khan said, “You put my family in danger with that firefight outside my home, and then you almost got me killed in the pass.”
Akhtar looked at Pasha, confused.
His younger brother shrugged. “Somebody betrayed us and sent the SSG to the professor’s house. We had to fight our way out.”
“Like I said,” Dr. Khan said, “not impressed.”
“Professor,” Akhtar said, working hard at measuring his words, “it would be wise not to test my patience.”
“Then stop testing mine.”
Akhtar looked at Pasha, who just shrugged again and said, “The balls on this guy, huh? See what I’ve been putting up with, brother? Maybe I should cut them off and see if his attitude tempers, like the goats?” Pasha placed a hand on his pesh-kabz.
“I will do my job,” Dr. Khan retorted, stabbing himself in the chest with an index finger. “The question is, can you do yours properly so I can do mine?”
Akhtar fought the urge to reach for his own pesh-kabz and peel the skin off his face while Pasha gelded the little bastard. But bin Laden had sent the man, and they did need his expertise.
So he took a deep breath, counted to ten, and just grinned and said, “Then show me, Professor. Show me by taking a look at what we have.”
They descended to the basement, where the Russian weapon rested on a lab table. It was just under ten feet in length and almost two feet in diameter, painted silver and green.
Anticipating the needs of the scientist, Akhtar had arranged two tables packed with an assortment of tools, mostly stolen from various raids. He had also set up two video cameras to record the disassembly process. The air conditioner controlling the temperature and humidity in the room hummed quietly, powered by the same refurbished Soviet diesel generators that were providing electricity to the compound.
Dr. Khan, now dressed in a white lab coat, as were three men designated to assist him, stood in front of the weapon. He spoke slowly into a lapel microphone connected to a waist transmitter slaved to one of the cameras.
Akhtar and Pasha stood to the side, out of the range of either video recorder. The scientist took his time eyeballing the bomb before perusing the tools on both tables, settling on a small adjustable wrench.
“The Russian RN-40 tactical nuclear device exterior appears in good condition,” Dr. Khan began in a forensic, monotone voice. “We are dealing with a gun-type fission nuclear device designed to detonate at a preprogrammed altitude for an airburst, or via a nose contact fuze for a groundburst. It gets its name because of its gun barrel shape. At one end conventional explosives fire a projectile made of stacked uranium-235 rings down the length of a bore gun tube, sliding over a second set of smaller-diameter U-235 target rings, achieving the required critical mass to trigger a fission event. In the case of the RN-40, the yield is estimated to be in the thirty-kiloton range, or twice the size of the Hiroshima bomb.”
One of the guards standing next to Akhtar began chanting to Allah, and Akhtar quickly slapped him on the back of the head.
Dr. Khan frowned at the guard, who was quietly rearranging his turban, then said, “We will start disassembly by removing the front nose locknut, which attaches to the main steel rod holding the nose contact fuze, altimeter radar, batteries, and U-235 target rings.”
The professor’s hands moved with expert ease. It was obvious to Akhtar that he had done this before during his years helping to build Pakistan’s land- and air-based nuclear warheads, which numbered close to 130.
“Well, he seems to know what he’s doing,” Akhtar whispered to Pasha.
“Yeah, and that’s too bad,” Pasha replied.
Akhtar gave him a sideways glance.
Pasha shrugged. “I was looking forward to dragging him outside by his dick before feeding it to him.”
“Oh, how I’ve missed you, brother,” said Akhtar.
The locknut came off easily, allowing the professor to slide off the heavy steel nose plug forging, which resembled a gym weight. Two assistants carried it to a fourth table, set up for disassembled components, where the third assistant measured the component, weighed it, and tagged it.
Dr. Khan then slid off the impact-absorbing anvil and the tungsten carbide tamper plug, both resembling thick metallic cylinders. The contact fuze was next, and the professor took extra care in its removal, unplugging the wires connected to the trigger mechanism. This was delicate work, especially given the state of unce
rtainty about the weapon. Like everything else, the removed components were tagged while the cameras recorded the process for future reassembly, for propaganda, and for any other purposes Akaa might devise.
Akhtar watched the proceedings with interest and anticipation, finding it difficult to keep quiet, wanting to ask Dr. Khan about the state of every component. But he held back, choosing to lead by example, allowing the scientist to do his work.
It took all three assistants almost an hour to remove the outer shell, which came off in a dozen sections attached to a steel skeleton, finally exposing the gun-shaped mechanism. He also removed the tail fins, the parachute, various explosive bolts, lift lugs, and two layers of armor plating.
By the time Dr. Khan stepped back to inspect the actual weapon, he had detached almost three hundred pounds of material from the device.
He worked on the back of the bomb next, inspecting the electric gun primers, primer wiring, and conventional explosive charge designed to shoot the U-235 projectile rings down the gun tube. A protective steel back and a tungsten carbide disk insulated the delicate U-235 projectile rings from the explosives. Dr. Khan removed and inspected everything, making notes before passing them to his assistants.
Three hours into the process, they sat by the disassembled components while reviewing his notes and handling various sections, especially the trigger components.
At the end of the fourth hour, Dr. Khan stood and walked up to Akhtar and Pasha.
“Well?” Akhtar asked.
Dr. Khan looked at the guards, and Pasha said, “Out! Everyone!”
The assistants and the guards mustered out single file, closing the door behind them.
Alone with the professor and Pasha, Akhtar asked again, “Well?”
“The device is in good shape … for the most part.”
“What does that mean?” asked Akhtar.
“The actual gun system, including the U-235 rings and the explosive charge, are good. This is good news, as they are the most critical components.”
“But?” Pasha asked.
“But I can’t say the same for the electric gun primer,” the scientist continued, removing his glasses, cleaning them with the sleeve of his shirt, and slipping them back on. He held up a small printed circuit board. “It will need to be replaced. Also the primer wiring is no good.”
He picked up a strand of green wires, disconnected them from the circuit board, and flaked off the insulating plastic with his thumb. “No good.”
Akhtar and Pasha exchanged a look of pure disappointment before the latter asked, “Anything else?”
“The projectile tungsten carbide disk.”
“What about it?”
“Too brittle.” He tapped the four-inch-thick disk with the edge of a screwdriver and a chunk shattered off. “It’s meant to protect the stacked U-235 rings of the projectile from the explosion of the conventional charge by cushioning the ensuing shock wave, allowing for a smooth acceleration of the projectile to the other end of the gun barrel. It also needs to be replaced.”
“What else?” asked Akhtar, his voice beginning to show an edge.
“The battery pack.” He pointed at a small shoebox-size container housing six cylinders resembling sticks of dynamite. They were encased in greenish, powdery battery acid. “There are six cells in the battery pack. Only three are needed to power the system. The other three are for backup. But all cells are dead, as you can see from the spilled acid. Fortunately, the desert heat kept the acid from damaging any components. They will need to be replaced with the exact type.”
The brothers sighed in unison, and then Pasha said, “That’s all?”
“I think so,” he said. “I will have to spend another day checking everything else closely to make sure, but at the moment I think the rest just needs some cleaning and lubrication before reassembly. How soon can you get me the replacements?” He tore off a sheet of paper from his notebook and handed it to them.
Akhtar took it and read the short list, which included detailed descriptions, critical dimensions, and serial numbers. He had, of course, no idea where or how to get such components. But then again, he’d also had no idea what to do with the device after bringing it here. He was a warrior, not a scientist. Unlike Akaa, he lacked al Qaeda’s international connections. All he could do was send the information to Akaa and hope for the best.
Handing it to Pasha, he stared at the scientist with far more confidence than he felt, saying, “I’ll pass on the request to our people. It shouldn’t be very long.”
As he left the basement to give the professor time to check his work, Akhtar couldn’t help but wonder how in the hell Akaa would be able to secure components for a seventeen-year-old Russian nuclear bomb.
And without raising any suspicions.
25
Second Fiddle
BAGRAM AIR BASE. NORTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Bill Gorman wasn’t new to the art of interrogation.
Freshly out of the Farm, he had gone on to spend an introductory month at the United States Naval Station Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. It was in this place, nicknamed “Gitmo” after the airfield’s designation code, GTMO, that the young CIA officer was exposed to the most controversial forms of this tradecraft, honed to near perfection in the wake of the September 11 attacks.
The methods, lumped under the term “enhanced interrogation techniques,” included waterboarding, sleep deprivation, rectal infusion, walling, chaining, and nudity. Used independently or in combination as part of a strategy to coerce confessions, EITs were regularly administered to a large population of detainees.
Although he was not necessarily a fan, Gorman was painfully aware that the intelligence gained through those nightmarish sessions had helped thwart attack plans, capture more terrorists, and save lives. Critical to the Agency’s understanding of al Qaeda, EITs still ran in full force at more than fifty black sites across twenty-eight countries, including Gitmo in Cuba, the Temara Interrogation Center in Morocco, and the Salt Pit in Kabul.
Which was later moved right here, he thought, as he stood in the rear of a holding room in the heart of Bagram’s Parwan Detention Facility.
But tonight Gorman wasn’t applying any of the interrogation practices he had either used or seen used. Tonight the CIA officer played second fiddle to Maryam Gadai, who approached the recent detainee, who was zip-tied to a sturdy wooden chair bolted to the middle of a reconfigured metal shipping container.
Unlike the containers used as living quarters for the nearly ten thousand troops stationed at Bagram Air Base, this one lacked creature comforts. A single fluorescent bulb washed metallic green walls with the same grayish light that glinted in the defiant eyes of Adnan Zubaydah.
Gorman sighed. The captured cartel boss served as testament to what could be achieved with a little interagency cooperation by the two most powerful intelligence services in the world. The ISI had kept tabs on Adnan and other cartel chiefs for years, so they had on file recent photos of the rugged drug lord and al Qaeda sympathizer. The images had been uploaded to the CIA database, where facial recognition software had compared them to the high-resolution images captured by the Predators circling the border over the Khyber Pass. It had taken just a couple of hours before a UAV camera returned an 87 percent match. The elusive drug lord had been spotted near a poppy field on the Afghan side of the border, a mile off of the N-5, which changed names from Grand Trunk Road on the Pakistani side to Jalalabad–Torkham highway in Afghanistan.
Two dozen marines aboard a pair of Black Hawk helicopters and a fierce one-hour battle had yielded the wounded but quite alive man who now was staring with contempt at Maryam. Unfortunately, by the time the troops had secured the field and seized Adnan, there had been no sign of Dr. Ali Khan or of Maryam’s asset, Zameer.
She had shed her traditional clothes the moment they’d reached the airfield, and Gorman took her to the co-op. She now wore a pair of army camouflage pants, a sleeveless dark green T-shirt, and standard issue boots. T
he tighter-fitting clothes revealed a figure that belonged to a Marilyn, not a Maryam, and Gorman had difficultly not staring. Plus she had let down her hair, which reached the middle of her back.
“I will tell you nothing,” Adnan said in Urdu, sitting up proudly before spitting saliva and blood at her new boots. The man had taken a bullet in the shoulder and another one in the left thigh, but luckily they had gone through clean, missing major organs or arteries, and a medic had patched him up on the ride back to the base.
“I just got these,” she said, looking down at the red slime on the insteps.
“I am ready to die, whore,” he said, arms visibly straining against the restraints.
Gorman couldn’t see her expression as she faced their captive, who had been shaved and dressed in a white prison jumpsuit. But Maryam didn’t reply. She simply reached into her back pocket and produced two photographs, which Gorman had printed from the images her agency had transferred to the CIA a couple of hours ago.
Adnan’s heavily wrinkled face shifted as his stare dropped to the four-by-six-inch photos she held in each hand, his eyes narrowing in obvious curiosity before widening in a mix of surprise and fear.
“I know you don’t care what happens to you,” she said. “But I know you do care about them.”
The man shrank back in his chair when presented with photos of his wife and children, taken just last month in Peshawar. “Over thirty thousand people go missing each year in Pakistan, Adnan,” she added. “No one would notice six more.”
“You are bluffing. You do not even know where they are.”
She set a photo on each of his knees, facing him, and then removed a piece of paper from her right pocket, unfolded it, and said, “Your two daughters are on their lunch period at the Fatima Jinnah Public School in Asya Park. Your two youngest boys are in math class at the Iqra Public School on Warsak Road, and your oldest boy is walking in between classes at the Khan Academy of Business and Technology. Your wife is helping your mother shop at the Jinnah Market.”
Without Fear Page 17