Walking Ghost: Welcome to Terrorist University

by Nicholas Black

  So the bad guys in Valdemoro are for real. If somebody talks slick to somebody important . . . they get appropriately dealt with. And in a timely manner.

  As far as these gangs' business connections are concerned, being on the inside of a Spanish prison makes no difference, it's just another work day. In the Spanish facilities they allow real money (euros) inside the prisons. Not exactly sure what the theory was on that. 300 euros to a functionario (prison guard) and you can get anything that can be smuggled in. You just get your people on the outside to put a package together and deliver it to the functionario, and your prize will arrive in a day. Italians guys were ordering Algerian hits, written in arabic and smuggled out of the prison through one of the Spanish language teachers. We had cellular phones, drugs, and women on the weekends. We wore our own clothes, had jewelry, and Playstations. And there was a 24-7 black market.

  So I'm with all these real-live bad guys and for the first time I realize that if these guys ever got organized . . . well, then everyone in the free world was going to have some real problems.

  I kept my head down for a few days and sussed everyone out. I decided that I could trust this English guy named James. He had been a quite talented goalie for a semi-pro Football club until he found that drug smuggling was much more lucrative. Along the way he accidentally killed a couple of people. Typical, really. So he was the guy who introduced me to the prison's 'collection' guys. They were all eastern block; mostly Russian and Polish mob who collected all of the outstanding debts owed by other prisoners. As it turned out, the first call I was able to make was courtesy of the Russians. It was on a smuggled cellphone, to my attorney.

  He told me that he'd be on a plane, and that the State Department had been talking to him. Isn't that an interesting coincidence. Perhaps my arrest was not so accidental.

  My attorney arrived three days later to ask me all sorts of things about passports, travelers' checks, and terrorists. And during our meeting - through a glass wall - he did not ask me one question about my legal situation. He informed me that he had been sent to get information so that the US and Spanish could go after these 'Terrorist enablers.' He also asked me if I was aware that they had 14 or 15 alleged al Qaeda suspects that just so happened to be in the same prison I was in. I knew where this was leading.

  He wondered if, since I spoke French and was such a personable mercenary, if I could get 'in' with these guys. Why French? Because most of the middle east speaks French. And these particular suspects - who were Algerian, Egyptian, Saudi - probably wouldn't suspect a guy like me to be a spook.

  Oh, yeah . . . and I'd be the one getting killed if it all went tits-up, not him.

  Anyway, he half asked me and half told me to try to do this. Appealed to my patriotic nature. Before I could answer he told me that there were guys at the State Department, as well as NIS(Naval Investigative Service) that were interested in how close I could get to the 'AQ Boys' as they were later dubbed. I just shrugged. What the hell, right?

  So he tells me to keep in touch, communicate every couple of days, and try not to get killed while hunting for Ossama. Cheers, mate! Best of luck to you.

  Two days later I hear my name being butchered on the intercom. I head through the high-security facility towards one of the many electrically controlled gates that herd the prisoners like cattle to and fro. They point at me from behind thick glass and bars, and say 'visita, visita.' Another interesting note: The prison guards do not enter population wi th the inmates. They were always behind a glass enclosed area where you couldn't get to them. So the men behind the glass are pointing toward the large corridor that is like a main artery to all of the areas of the prison. I thought, hmmm . . . that's odd, because my attorney was supposed to be back in the States by now. I was curious what he wanted. But when I arrived at the glass wall I saw two guys that looked like Feds.

  There's a difference between Feds (federal agents on the law enforcement side), and spooks (intelligence operators). Feds dress like cops, act like lawyers, and talk like high school math teachers. Spooks on the other hand, dress like locals, act like whoever their cover dictates, and talk like your best friend. Now, I'm referring to your 'cold war' spies. Lately the intelligence agencies seem to be turning out cookie-cutter spies who might as well wear t-shirts with 'I'm in the CIA' printed on the front and back. Anyway, these particular two men looked like feds. One of them was tall and dark complected, with slightly curly hair that didn't understand the effects of gravity. The other guy was a buttoned-down white guy whose appearance seemed to be screaming 'Accountant!' You know the type: cheap suit, kind of squirmy.

  The dark one was from INS(Immigration & Naturalization Service), and the second one claimed to be somehow related to INS. I didn't get a business card or get to study their ID's so they could have been anybody. I never got the dark one's name, but the squirmy one said his name was Ted. Probably short for Theodore. But after talking to them for about twenty seconds I realized that they were too straight-laced to be spooks. And if they were, well . . . that pretty much sums up what I've been saying about poorly trained spies and the demise of our intelligence agencies.

  They hit me with a barrage of questions about the passport doctoring and smuggling. I told them what I knew about the different locations and players. They took copious notes and then asked if I knew what was going on with my legal situation, and if I would be going back to the island anytime soon. Well, that confirmed that they were not related to the guys at State. It also told me that behind the scenes there were tons of different agencies trying to get what I had, or could give them. Not very inspiring when they were so bloody incompetent when it came to interagency communication and cooperation.

  If you don't believe me then read any page out of the 9/11 Commission's Report. Mistake after mistake, then cover-up. For the record, I'm not a conspiracy theorist.

  Anyway, they asked me if I could draw a map of the locations that were important. I shrugged to them in the affirmative. They said they'd see what they could do to get me back to Ibiza, but it was not a convincing sell. Truth is, they were done with me the minute I finished giving them their notes. No worries, though. I was already trying to figure out how to infiltrate al Qaeda. That's how I stay sharp . . . one job to the next. I don't like down time, and don't really want it. Stay in the game, you won't get lazy.

  There really isn't any guidebook to being a spy, or an 'asset' as they sometimes refer. You can learn it one of a few ways. First, you can finish college and then join an intelligence agency. You'll probably need a degree in Political Science, Psychology, or Languages. Then you play their politics and get trained as a field operator. That usually means going to some school in Virginia for a couple of months. When you're done they'll most likely post you at an embassy or give you to a task force. And good luck with all that.

  The second way—my way—is to move around in every circle. That is to say: to go to every country you can; live with different people, and learn their different customs and skills. You have to be willing to be good sometimes, and bad most times. If you're scarred of getting blood or dirt on your hands then you won't be worth the investment. You need to learn several languages. A former Colonel in the Croatian army told me that, "language is like a weapon." One that people can't take away from you when you're captured. A weapon they don't ever see

  A real spy needs to be able to fit in to any situation or circumstance. He needs to be equally able to function in high society, as well as the dirtiest, darkest ghettos. He had better be able to fight and have some understanding of unconventional/discretionary/guerrilla warfare. He should know how to talk to and seduce members of the opposite sex. And above all else, he should be able to find solutions to problems that have no solutions. Because, basically, if you mess up one time . . . they're using a HAZMAT team to deal with your polonium- 210 filled body (or lead, or depleted-uranium, or poison, or . . . you get the point). Total adaptability on the fly.

  And all of those things, for better
or for worse, I can do.

  FIVE

  So here's what I was looking at:

  In my modulo(unit) there were about 70 guys. The breakdown was something like this: 8 or 10 Italians, 15 or so Russians and other eastern block gangsters, 8 Basque Separatists, a couple of French, some Columbians, quite a few Spanish, one or two Jamaicans, one Israeli (who I will mention later), and about 8 or 9 middle eastern men (the aforementioned al Qaeda suspects).

  James and I were working with the Russians, collecting outstanding debts and stuff like that. I guess I should quickly explain how I got in with them. The Russian guys were big into wrestling around and generally pounding the crap out of each other. I told James that I didn't think there was a one of them who I couldn't choke out. He laughed and then told them about my challenge. It took me about a minute to slap a triangle-leg choke on one of the bigger Russians. He tapped out, and I was in. So here I am needing to find a way in with the AQ boys, but that was going to be difficult for several reasons. Obviously I couldn't just go over and pick a fight with al Qaeda. For each group you need a different system.

  First, their defenses were about as high up as they could be due to the fact that they were being held as terrorist suspects - probably at the behest of the U.S. Government. So they were literally looking for American or Spanish spies that might be attempting to infiltrate their organization.

  Strategically placing intelligence agents behind prison walls is an age old tactic. Sometimes they will have the agents just sit and watch; sometimes they will try to facilitate an operation to entrap the bad guys; and on rare occasions they will even engineer a 'break-out' so that the agent can instantly gain access into the organization by paving the way for their escape. Anyway, such behind-the-wire measures are often used by the various agencies, and bad guys are always on the lookout for such tactics.

  The second problem was, in my case, that the AQ boys weren't associating with any of the other inmates accept one . . . the Israeli. Strange bedfellows. Regardless, they all ate together, prayed together, and exercised together.

  And there was still another hill to climb. Al though the media would have us believe that Arabs are dull-witted and daft, the reality is that they are very intelligent. Intelligent enough that I wouldn't be able to just go in and sit down with them. Being American, I was already walking around with the scarlet letter. I probably had a huge bull's-eye on my head.

  I decided that I needed to do a bit of preliminary maneuvering.

  I let it be known, in no uncertain terms, that I was anti-American. The way I approached this was by letting certain people know that I was on the run from the U. S. for being an 'arms dealer,' and that to escape the Government I had joined the French Foreign Legion. Now, I didn't tell everyone about this, just a few people that I had noticed as being rather social with the other inmates and groups.

  Another thing that I decided to do was shoot baskets whenever any of the AQ boys were outside. The units were all self-contained, having a cafeteria, day room, and a recreational area. Our recreational area, referred to as the 'rec yard,' was a large concrete square with a couple of goal posts and a basketball rim. The entire area was surrounded by 18 or 24 ft. high walls, also made of thick concrete. In our yard there was a large black mark on the outside wall where somebody had thrown a bag full of explosives from outside of the prison somewhere. The wall didn't even buckle. Anyway, I confined my activity to shooting at the basketball rim, in this concrete paradise.

  There is a rather common misconception among Europeans that all Americans are good at playing basketball. Well, I defy that by being quite terrible. Ok, I can play defense well enough, and I can shoot from the line; but my outside jumper is garbage, and I can't hit a 3 to save the pope. So while the AQ boys were walking around the recreation yard I was throwing up enough bricks to rebuild the world trade center. I would even try to purposely miss so that the ball would bounce over towards them. My theory was that they would feel obligated to retrieve the ball. They were all very polite. One of them would always bring the ball back to me, placing it in my hands very delicately as if he were handling shock-intolerant high-explosives. I would nod to him and smile, saying, "Merci, merci." I would then turn and throw up another dud. There are all kinds of ways to establish rapport with people . . . this was one of mine. It was just a matter of time.

  When I wasn't missing shots on the rim, I was sitting quietly at a table in our day room. I would read magazines that I didn't think would be perceived as offensive. You know, no naked girls on the front (National Geographic - yes; Maxim - no). I would also make it a point to be studying Spanish language books, dictionaries, etc. My thinking was that your typical devout Muslim extremist would be perplexed that I wasn't the stereotypical American pig. Anyway, it's all nuance. Window dressing so to speak. I just didn't want to give them a reason 'not' to talk to me.

  I was outside one day, shooting like Shaqeal . . . not making anything from the free-throw line. As the AQ boys neared me on their orbit around the yard I nailed one - nothing but net. It was a freakin' sick, sweet nectar, kind of shot! And as I went to retrieve the ball I heard people clapping. I turned around and five or six of them were standing near the free-throw line, giving me a golf clap.

  In French I replied humbly, "After only two million times," and I shrugged. They laughed and then continued along their elliptical path throughout the yard. That might not sound like much, but it was breakthrough number one.

  The next morning came number two. I was sitting alone for breakfast, just enjoying my little packages of cookies along with some coffee that was so full of milk and sugar that Marlon Brando would have floated in it. As I sat there, minding my own business, Jack came and sat down next to me. He introduced himself and then sat across from me. He offered me some of his cookies and I accepted.

  Jack—legal name: Yarrok Asraf—was about 5'9", maybe two-hundred twenty pounds. He was dark complected, balding, and seemed to have gone to seed. He had these large, wandering eyes that seemed to be roving like security cameras. He was the Israeli that I had mentioned earlier. But at this first encounter, all I knew was that he was in tight with the AQ boys.

  We shared a bit of cautious small talk, the kind prisoners who aren't sure of each other have. You have to do that so that you don't end up being friends with some child molester or rapist. But Jack was alright. He had been involved in the misappropriation of two million dollars worth of jewelry and diamonds from one of his businesses in the United States. He also had import/export business in Israel, Morocco, Spain, France, and Gibraltar.

  Just for the record: Import/export is synonymous with organized crime. The only things that really every get exported are drugs, guns, and stolen things. Yeah, sometimes they are surrounded by bananas or coffee; but it's all just a game. And Jack was probably a player if the u.s. was trying to bring him back. I just filed away all of the interesting details and gave him the quick summary of my plight. Bla, bla, bla, the U. S. stuck it too me. He listened intently, nodding every so often as if he already knew my story . . . and not the line that I had put out to the gossipers.

  As we were talking some of the AQ boys started showing up and sitting at their usual table, away from everyone else. Jack excused himself and then went to the AQ boys and talked - in Arabic. A few seconds later they were nodding and he turned and invited me to join them. And that is how the 'al Qaeda breakfast,' as it was later called by u.s. Intelligence agents, began.

  If I could go back to that moment and decide again whether or not to enter their world, knowing what I do now about how it all turned out, and the terrible things that were confided to me . . . I'm not sure if I would. Once you open up a can of worms like that, you can never get the lid on again.

  And there are things that I know, now . . . that I can never unlearn.

  SIX

  I think that it might be interesting if you knew the system that we were using to transfer information from inside the Spanish Prison back to the United States
where people who are much more intelligent and astute as to the value of such information would be ready to analyze whatever fruit our operation would bare. I was certain that my information would make it to people who would interpret it in a timely manner, or turn it over to other people who could do so. I mean, surely after 9/11 we have worked out the kinks in our intelligence agencies abilities to collate and share information ln a way that will be useful to save lives. Well, don't kill the messenger, but . . . nothing has changed.

  Our stealth system was called the Public telephone. Let me further explain. I would gather information in two day bundles (48 hours worth of intel) and transcribe as much as I could onto various legal documents and note paper(papers and documents that I would later smuggle out of Spain). Then I would go to the common area ln our unit where there were two telephones that could be used to make collect calls. That was where about thirty or forty of us would wait in line each day for our turn to use the phone. Now, if you didn't want to make collect calls you could purchase calling card minutes from the Italians - that was their hustle.

  So after I bought a couple of calling cards I started making my information dumps. I would call my attorney on a non-secure, public phone line. And when he answered I stand by for the barrage of questions. I tried to smile and laugh, to seem nonchalant, as I outlined to him what I had learned from my various sources and contacts within the al Qaeda cell that I was slowly being immersed into. I didn't want everyone to know that I was working as a spy for the US Government. Stuff like that gets you killed; and not in a 'fast, lights-out' kind of way. More like a 'were going to start at your knee-caps and work our way up until you go into shock' kind of way. So I was just a certain degree of paranoid as I worked. They say that the best point-man is a paranoid schizophrenic; that's because he won't miss the wire.