by Bob Graham
Tony stepped out into the street and placed a call to Senator Stoner.
Tony had never met Ahmed, but recalled the numerous occasions on which his name and role had arisen in conversations with Senator Billington. He and Stoner had first met Ahmed on an Intelligence Committee tour of primary terrorist sites in August of 2001. Ahmed had been very hospitable and informative in his briefings. He had the reputation of knowing the Taliban and al-Qaeda better than any other non-Afghani. It was Ahmed’s responsibility to maintain close ties with Afghanistan, including the current Taliban government, in the event Pakistan were attacked by India and had to retreat beyond the mountains into Afghanistan. A receptive Afghanistan, whatever the character of its government, was a crucial element of Pakistan’s defense-in-depth doctrine.
The relationship between Ahmed, Billington, and Stoner had grown to the point that in appreciation for a dinner he had hosted on their final night in Pakistan, the senators had invited the general for breakfast in the U.S. Capitol on his next visit to Washington. That invitation was accepted for September 11, 2001. The coincidence had been one of Senator Billington’s most repeated stories.
Billington’s fourth-floor Intelligence Committee conference room in the Capitol was no match for the spacious parade ground at the ISI headquarters in Islamabad, nor did the scrambled eggs equal that evening’s tribal feast, but the atmosphere was electric in anticipation of an expansive sharing of information and analysis among friends and allies.
Dressed in a blue English business suit rather than his usual olivebrown uniform, General Ahmed reviewed the nuclear standoff with India from the Pakistani perspective. Billington’s assessment was that no progress had been made since Pakistan had tested its first nuclear weapons in 1998.
The conversation turned to the topic Ahmed knew as well as any person on earth: the mentality and intentions of the Taliban and the guests it had invited to Afghanistan, al-Qaeda.
“Most people live in three stages of life—the accumulated experiences of the past, the realities of today, and the dreams of tomorrow,” the general began. “Most people are aware of their past and fantasize about the future.”
He was interrupted when the committee’s staff director handed a note to Billington. He scanned it, then read to his guests: “The North Tower of the World Trade Center has been hit by an airplane.”
Billington would say later that he was perplexed, but, aware of several other instances when large buildings had been hit by airplanes, was not overly anxious.
The general, with no apparent mental or emotional reaction, continued. “But the primary focus of most humans is on the present—getting along day-to-day. The Taliban and al-Qaeda are different. For them, only the future of paradise after death matters. Any activities of the present are trivial interludes until the ultimate is achieved. The discipline, the norms of behavior that influence everyday life, are irrelevant for those who dismiss the worthiness of today.”
A short time later, the staff director returned with another note. This time the color drained from Billington’s face as he read it. “A Boeing 757 has hit the South Tower.”
The breakfast broke up in distressed confusion. As Billington said, “And the world entered a new era.”
Upon returning to Islamabad, Ahmed found his previous value as an intermediary with the Taliban had become an embarrassment to the Siachen government, and he was sacked. It now appeared to Tony that this old general-to-senator relationship might be his opening.
“Senator,” Tony said over the garbled satellite phone, “I’m in Islamabad and need your help.” He explained his circumstances and the urgency of his meeting with the new president of Pakistan. “If you intercede with General Ahmed, I think you could make it happen.”
“I’ll call you back within an hour.”
Stoner called back forty-five minutes later. “Tony, I have spoken with the general. He will receive you in his office now.”
All of Islamabad’s taxis having long since taken to the hills, Tony jogged the three kilometers through the turmoil to the ISI headquarters.
He identified himself as staff to Senator Billington and presented his State Department credentials. Having been pre-cleared, he was escorted to General Ahmed’s office. Ahmed, although several years older, did not appear much changed from the inscribed photograph Senator Billington had kept behind his desk in the Hart Senate Office Building. Tony thanked the general for seeing him and got down to business.
“General, thirteen hours ago I was informed by my government that the Indians have determined that Osama bin Laden, not the government of Pakistan, was responsible for the nuclear attack on Mumbai. However, based on its assessment of Pakistan’s intention to initiate a first strike, India has commenced the process for a nuclear launch on Karachi. Prime Minister Sabha has attempted to communicate with President Fazullah, but has been unable to connect.”
Ahmed motioned Tony to join him at his desk. It was cluttered with military maps and satellite photographs of Indian strategic facilities.
Pointing to a cluster of vehicles and support equipment surrounding a launch pad, Ahmed declared, “This is Sriharikota, the Indians’ primary rocket base. The presence of this activity is clear evidence they are within hours of the ability to strike. I have so informed our leadership and urged that we strike preemptively.”
“General,” Tony pleaded, “it is critical to your people and the people of the world that this calamity by miscalculation be stopped. Your president must talk with the prime minister immediately and step back from the most unimaginable consequences of this rush to nuclear destruction.”
“Mr. Ramos, I accept the wisdom and urgency of your request, but there is no means of doing so. There has never been the kind of hotline that existed between the leaders of the United States and the USSR during the Cold War. There has been no serious, sustained engagement in over a decade. Regrettably, it is impossible. We have no choice but to ...”
Tony punched in his phone. After an endless twenty seconds, Ambassador Talbott was on the line. “Mr. Ambassador, I’m in the office of the director of the ISI. He informs me there is no channel for communication between his president and the Indian prime minister. It is imperative that this take place; both sides are rushing to be the first to strike. Could you get the prime minister on this line, and I’ll give the phone to President Fazullah?”
“Leave the line open,” Talbott directed. “Take your phone to the presidential office and I’ll contact the Indians.”
In General Ahmed’s Mercedes, Tony sped through the now almost empty streets to the president’s headquarters. As they were racing up the five flights of stairs to the president’s office, Talbott’s voice resumed. “Tony, I have Prime Minister Sabha on the line.”
They continued up the remaining steps to the office of the president of Pakistan. Breathing deeply from the exertion and adrenalin flow, General Ahmed said, “Mr. President, Prime Minister Sabha is holding. I implore you to talk. The future of both our nations depends on your willingness and wisdom.” Tony handed the phone to the president.
Tony and the general stood back as President Fazullah and Prime Minister Sabha commenced the first direct conversation between the heads of government of these two neighboring nuclear countries in ten years. From the side of the conversation he could hear, with President Fazullah speaking in his minimal English and red-faced with emotion, it seemed to Tony that it would be a short talk with the worst possible outcome. But after five minutes, the tone quieted. Fazullah was now speaking in Pashtun. With a semblance of a smile, the president handed the phone to Ahmed, who continued in his Sandhurstinfluenced English. Eighteen minutes after the conversation began, the parties disengaged.
Ahmed invited Tony into the adjacent office. “Mr. Ramos, the president and the prime minister have agreed to a three-day moratorium under U.S. and U.N. supervision. Since you are here, and through your association with Senator Billington, I consider you to be an honorable man. I suggested you
be the observer of our stand-down. The Indians have agreed.”
Tony, demanding rather than responding, said, “I must have a tenminute meeting with your president. Now.”
Ahmed returned to the president’s office. In three minutes the general ushered Tony into the presidential chambers and withdrew.
“Mr. President, I appreciate your confidence in commissioning me to oversee your activities for the next three days,” Tony said. “But, before I can undertake another responsibility, I must complete one for my country.”
Tony summarized what he knew of the Petronius and the prospect that a third nuclear attack would target the United States in less than ten days. It was imperative that he know the detonation code for the device so that he might secure a reprieve for Americans, as he was facilitating one for Pakistanis and Indians.
“Mr. President, you know Osama bin Laden; I implore you to avert another impending tragedy.”
In English, the president replied, “You are a good American. Whatever the world thinks of your leaders, we admire the personal qualities of your people. I will do all in my power to comply with your request.”
OCTOBER 24
Islamabad
Sixty hours of the moratorium had passed. Tony had contacted Randy Crest and the former U.S. embassy military liaisons in Islamabad and received their advice on how to carry out his supervisory role. In the hours available to him he had arranged for continuous telephone and Internet linkage between the president and the prime minister, discussed with the new joint chiefs the security arrangements that controlled Pakistan’s nuclear stockpile, and personally toured the two northern strategic installations by Pakistani army helicopter. All seemed to be in order and consistent with the president’s and prime minister’s understanding.
Tony left his satellite phone with President Fazullah’s chief of staff, as General Ahmed had provided him a Pakistani replacement. Ahmed was on the phone.
“Mr. Ramos, the president is ready to meet with you in his office.”
After checking with the pilots, Tony responded, “General, I can be there in ninety minutes.”
At 10:43 p.m., Tony entered the president’s reception room. The room, which the previous morning had been crowded and filled with agitated voices, was quiet and empty except for Sonji and the veiled woman.
Sonji spoke first. “Mr. Ramos, the president and, when they realize what you have done, the people of Pakistan are deeply gratified by your intervention on their behalf. Your friendship will be rewarded. When we were together Saturday—it seems a year ago—you met Madam Bakht.”
Tony nodded to the woman, dressed in precisely the same manner as when they first met in Peshawar.
Sonji continued: “She has been Osama’s principle advisor on the non-Arab media. She had served him loyally since she left her home in India to join in the war to evict the Russians from Afghanistan. Ms. Bakht is the mother of one of Osama’s daughters, Mamata. In 2002, when al-Qaeda was forced out of Afghanistan into the tribal areas of this country, Mamata returned to live with her grandparents in Mumbai. She was one of the schoolgirls killed in the September 19 attack.”
The woman dropped her head to her black garment. A gasp and sob emerged from beneath her scarf.
“Since Ms. Bakht has been in Pakistan, she has worked with President Fazullah, who was then the al-Qaeda leader in this country. When the president contacted her after your visit Tuesday, she overcame her earlier reluctance and pressed to secure the information and, at substantial personal risk, has done so.”
Sonji handed Tony a brown envelope as he and the woman excused themselves from the office.
OCTOBER 27
The U.S. Southwest ☆ Los Angeles
Abdul Muhadded and Ben Brewster were on Interstate 15 en route from St. George, Utah to Henderson, Nevada.
Five weeks earlier, as they had sped south, Muhadded had been savoring another period of seclusion and solitude in Mexico. Except for a tranquil interlude in Switzerland, he had spent the time from his earlier successful operations in Florida and Grand Cayman until called to duty in Washington in a quaint village north of Cancún. It was not until the third Tuesday in September that he returned to his San Diego family and responsibilities.
Before reaching the Tijuana border station, Ben convinced him that the risk of detection in attempting to run border security and then not being able to get back into the country were too great. Instead, they diverted over local roads to the east. In Calexico they rented a Kia and dumped the Toyota pickup at an end-of-the-line automotive salvage yard, removed the tags and documents from the glove compartment, and continued toward New Mexico. They were assiduously cautious crossing Arizona, concerned that a minor traffic offense could result in arrest and detention.
During the following weeks they stayed on the move, rarely lingering in one location more than a couple of days. Every two weeks, they discarded their rental car and leased a new one. Muhadded shaved off his beard and took to wearing wraparound Formula One–style sunglasses. He committed to a strict diet that shed a dozen pounds. Brewster’s effort to downsize from obese to rotund was less successful; the rich food of the American Southwest added seven pounds to his already generous frame.
Their only close call occurred in the third week, ten miles south of Gallup, New Mexico, when they were pulled over by a New Mexico state patrolman for speeding. The officer submitted all the information he was trained to request, but there were no kick-outs from any of the state or federal law enforcement data banks. He wrote the two a ticket for $175, and they continued on. The ticket was shredded and flushed down the next gas station’s toilet.
It hadn’t taken Muhadded and Ben Brewster long to bond. By the time they reached the desert south of Las Cruces, Muhadded was feeling the effects of yet another separation from his family and his duties as monitor of Saudi students in San Diego. He had been learning the names of new freshmen and graduate students when he was called for the operation at Lock & Load.
In spite of the increasing number of extraneous assignments and extended absences from home, after three years in San Diego, Muhadded was becoming more comfortable with American culture. He admired the rapidity with which his two primary-grade daughters had learned English and assimilated with other children in the neighborhood.
Through his infrequent civil conversations with Tony, Brewster was aware that Billington’s and Carol’s killer had an idiosyncratic signature: the placement of two .45 caliber casings in locations where they were certain to be found shortly before each victim’s death. This apparent indiscretion from a man Brewster was coming to admire for his judgment drove him to ask, “Muhadded, I don’t understand the .45s thing. You’re leaving a trail of evidence for the police to track you down. It seems so out of character. What are you doing?”
“Have you ever hunted?”
“I’ve shot some quail at my uncle’s plantation in south Georgia.”
“Nothing bigger than a fat little bird?”
“No.”
“I don’t know about quail, but if you are hunting large animals like pronghorn antelope, there is an understood code of conduct: you don’t shoot females; you don’t shoot an animal on the ground; you don’t shoot until you are sure you have a kill shot—and if you wound an animal, you are responsible for putting it out of its misery. And there are other rules like that. This is what I am talking about.”
“What’s that have to do with killing humans?”
“There is a code there, too. It is no sport just to hide and kill from ambush. Your prey should be aware he is in danger. That gives him the chance to take evasive action, to try to get away, to make your job more challenging and interesting. Most are like that old senator, no change in routine. The day after I dropped those shells in his car he followed exactly the same walking route as he had the day before. The kill was so easy it almost took away the rush. On the other hand, the girl had gotten a handgun. On purpose I let her fire first. On purpose because I figured I wasn’t in
much danger. So I guess you could say I do it just for the high I get when I take down a worthy target who knows he—or she—is going to end up in my crosshairs. And I took her out of her misery.”
Both were quiet for several minutes. Muhadded broke the silence.
“Ben,” he asked, “I know why I am here in this situation, but why are you? Look at what you have given up for the life of a fugitive. What happened?”
“It didn’t happen in a single step,” Brewster confessed. “It was a series of what, at the time, seemed like unrelated events that came together to change my life.”
“That’s true for most people,” Muhadded commented. “How did it start?”
“I’ll admit to having had a privileged life: nurturing and well-off family, whatever financial support was needed, and superior education. I was able to be successful without too much heavy lifting. But I felt I had not been truly tested, so after graduate school at Princeton I looked for something that would challenge me.”
“And that was? ...”
“I applied to Goldman Sachs, but after three rounds of interviews I was rejected. They didn’t tell me why, but I suspected they thought I was too patrician and soft for the rough-and-tumble of international investment banking. It was the first time anything like that had happened to me. In hindsight, it was a positive experience. It made me more competitive, more willing to put it on the line with at least an appearance of self-confidence.”
“So what did you do with this new insight?”
“I looked around at possibilities in the federal security and intelligence agencies, applied for a few, and was selected by the State Department’s INR bureau.”