They're very clever, emotional creatures he explained. If you killed one in front of other camels, they will gang up on you in the future and try to stomp your head or bite you. For that reason you must separate them from the others if you are to slaughter one for food. Apparently, those camels will hold a grudge forever. I guess camels are a lot like ex-girlfriends in that way.
I wasn't really sure if we were talking about camels, or if this was one of his metaphors. But then, sometimes a conversation is just a conversation. There doesn't always have to be some illusive, ulterior meaning. He was talking about vindictive camels. I was thinking about my short interview. Later, I would be offered a job from him, to work as an instructor at one of the mujahadeen training camps that were being set up in Gambia and Laos. There was even talk of a camp in Mexico, but I think it was only speculation at that point. By now, as you're reading this, I'm sure somethings been set in place. And this was the job I was applying for.
It was a job that I wanted more than anything else in the world. I would, without a doubt, be deeper inside al Qaeda than any other American had. The tactical significance of that is impossible to estimate. See, there are false-flags(double agents) all over the place. But to openly be an American, in my situation, and still slither my way inside the inner-workings of al Qaeda . . . that's an accomplishment.
We sat quietly as the clouds dragged across the sky like giant slugs leaving grey wetness in their wake. It's strange where life takes you. Who knows, somewhere back in America, my friends might be looking at the same sky, getting ready to head to the shopping mall, or to a bar, or to McDonalds for a Quarter-pounder. I was infiltrating al Qaeda.
To each his own.
SIXTEEN
Day by day, minute by minute, I was getting closer to Nasser and his cause. We were talking about everything now. There were still questions that I hadn't asked him, but only because they hadn't arisen naturally in our conversations. He had made it clear that he would like to bring me on-board as an instructor at one of the training camps that were being set up for the new wave of terrorists in training. And there was something else that he wanted me to consider.
"I want to create an intelligence branch of the mujahadeen within Celafia Jihad," he said as we sat outside slowly drinking small cups of coffee so strong that it could pull paint off of a car hood.
Celafia Jihad was the arm of al Qaeda that he was most involved in and devoted to. Roughly translated it would be, 'the celebration of the prophets, teachings, and history, and the calling-to-arms to protect them.' That was the way he had explained it to me, anyway. He told me that his organization was comprised of very intelligent mujahadeen who were very precise in their actions and operations. Highly educated and goal oriented, mature men.
"We are part of al Qaeda, but we are much older, with a longer history," he said as he sipped. "And we must change and adapt as the world does." He smiled and shook his head. "Internet, and computers, and cellular telephones that do everything. I am like a child again."
I asked, a bit shocked, "You don't have a computer?" What was next . . . no television, no radio, no wheel?
"No, not yet. The brothers want me to get one so that we can make e-mails to each other, but I don't know where to begin."
I smiled, "My brother works in computers." I had an interesting idea pop into my mind.
"Really, your brother?"
"My real, I mean, my biological brother." I didn't skip a beat. "I can get you a computer."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, I can get my brother to put together a computer for you. He can mail it to your house in Spain." He had told me about his place in the south of Spain.
"Would he . . . how much would it cost?" He wasn't asking because he was worried about the money. He had plenty of people who would provide money for him at the drop of a dime. He was just being businesslike, and polite.
I told him that it wouldn't cost him anything because my brother gets everything for next to nothing, and that they have spare computer parts just laying around. It would be a personal favor. He shook my hand with both of his. His eyes glowing like a kid on Christmas morning. He then gave me the actual address to his home in the south so that the computer could be delivered.
Later that night I called my attorney. I explained the situation that I had set up. My thinking was that surely the CIA could build a 'special' computer that could be sent to Nasser's home, and used to monitor his actions. It would of course be doctored up so that any activities could be tracked, e-mails copied and sent to some unmarked office in Langley, Virginia.
Certainly we have this technology, and there is no way that the intel guys would pass this opportunity up, right? I mean, the ability to read al Qaeda's e-mail. Seems like a good idea. Fish in a barrel. A no-brainer.
So several irons were in the fire. All sorts of potential opportunities to do some real intel gathering. I knew that we were In. I say 'we' because at that time I thought that I was part of a group effort, with the might and muster of the U. S. Government behind me.
If things worked out right, we would have an American intelligence source at a secret training camps in Africa or Central Asia. We would learn exactly who was communicating with the head of Celafia Jihad, and in turn who was contacting him. Since Nasser had close ties to bin Laden, it seemed like some kind of contact would eventually occur. Even from the prison he could send and receive messages in about 4 days. All of this would be in real time once you had the ability to monitor his computer acti vi ty! And who knows what might come of Nasser's idea to start an intelligence branch?
I have to admit, I was feeling pretty full of myself. What a fine little intelligence agent I had become. I'd like to thank the U.S. Navy, the French Foreign Legion, Robert Ludlum, and the U.S. Justice Department for indicting me. But seriously, I was proud of what I was doing. And I was doing it because I thought it was what an American is supposed to do in a situation like that.
I felt as though I was making up for my crimes by doing this work. You know, balancing out my Karma, or something. I never asked for anything from the Government. I was doing this because, in my mind, anyone who thinks that they can kill Americans and get away with it was sorely mistaken. And I didn't care if I ever got anything in return for my service. It was enough that I had set out on a mission and accomplished it . . . and better than all those Harvard and Yale trained spooks.
The next morning we talked about his idea of an intelligence branch. It would be called the 'Secret Group of al Qaeda.' Ghaib Mujahadeen translates to the 'unseen holy warriors.' Over the next several days we talked about the formation and operations of this new group. There were several items of interest that we discussed.
This group would be younger and more socially capable. They must be able to fit in with modern society. They would be fashion conscious and aware of trends in culture and technology. They would all speak Arabic, French, English, and most likely Spanish - as the ability to function in Central and South America is now very important to a spy, as well as any capable terrorist.
They would be adept at creating false documents to fit whatever situation arose. Usually they would travel under the auspices of the Press corp. They would be trained in the gathering of information and intelligence in all forms (cameras, computers, forensics, its interrogations, etc.) Their specialty would be the handling of after-action investigations, also referred to as postmortems. A cell might set off a device on tuesday, and on wednesday the intelligence branch would come in with the press and document everything. Real, on the scene, usable intelligence that would be studied by men like Nasser to better plan and prepare future strikes.
What, not scared yet? The other objective of this branch would be to carry out the Assassination of individuals on the Fatwa(religious order) list. On that list were people who had so angered the Muslims that top-level priests had ordered the Fatwa of death. People like President Bush and all of his cabinet members were on this list. Enemies to all muslims had a
target on their heads. So they would be well trained at close-quarters combat and all of the other dark skills that make a proficient assassin.
Lets take a look back in history. The original 'Assassins' evolved from inside the Nizari Ismaili Shiite sect during the 11th and 12th centuries. They were a secret group who would kill certain leaders who had tried to persecute the sect. They operated in complete secrecy, anyone who had converted was held to silence, their allegiance hidden. The killings were well planned and strategic, but seemed sporadic to all but a few.
All of their enemies began to fear that they might be next.
Panic and fright spread like wild fire, and the paranoia started to infect all who opposed them. The strategic use of terror and violence that they perpetrated was one of the first organized terrorist campaigns for political power in history. And nobody felt safe.
In the dead of night, or on a crowded street in broad daylight they would strike. They could become anybody as they infiltrated every castle, organization, and gathering. When caught they would blame others around them as being spies to creating doubt and suspicion.
Their targets were uncertain who they could trust. Even their own family members could have been infil tra ted by these Assassins. They were so successful that they brought an end to any pressures against the Ismaili Shiite sect. Everyone was afraid.
And Nasser was going to bring such an idea into the modern era. The Secret Group of al Qaeda was to be, now, what the Assassins were nearly a thousand years ago.
How do you stop an assassin that you can't see? One who might be next to you at the airport, or in a line at the movie theatre, or your bodyguard, or your kid's teacher? Perhaps a mail-man, delivering a letter? A priest? A police officer? A senator? And after a couple of years, how deep will this new group be entrenched? How many of them will have entered our society, their dangerous fingers silently waiting for the next strike?
Will they look like Terrorists?
Will they talk with an accent?
Will they stand over you as your wife delivers your child?
Will they watch as you bleed quietly out, fading into the darkness?
Will they lay a comforting hand on your shoulder as you cry?
Will you know if you are one of their enemies? Or will you just be an innocent bystander, caught in the blast?
In my opinion, this was going to be a very dangerous new addi tion to international terrorism. And I stressed as much during my information dumps back to the U.S. I was worried about the possibilities of this group getting successfully developed . . . again.
But then . . . what do I know,right?
SEVENTEEN
Of all the conversations that Nasser and I shared, there was one in particular which sticks out from the rest. The reason that it holds a special place in my mind, separate from our other discussions, is that it shook the foundation of some of my former beliefs. Things which, until that day, I thought were certainties. Things I could take for granted.
I tried to keep my ideas and views to myself through this entire operation. I didn't want to color the intel that I was reporting, or bias the details in any particular way. The perfect spy would be nothing more than an information conduit; a human coaxial cable that takes noise and transmits it down a line without changing a single beep, buzz, or click. But we humans are relatively incapable of removing ourselves from our work. Much like a photographer at a crime scene, snapping away photos of the grotesque from angles that he finds the most interesting; most telling of the horror. And he thinks he is capturing reality, but he is also tainting it. Skewing it for the next eye that will see those images. And from then on, the reality of that scene is what is left on those photographs . . . but they are but echoes of the crime scene. And that is the danger of Human Intelligence.
The spy must use everything in his arsenal to get close to the targets. He must be clever and cunning, smart and fast on his feet. He must bend and move like a reed in the wind, and not fixed to anything solid, like the oak tree. For when the wind is becoming a hurricane the reed will survive, but the oak will be uprooted, and perish. The spy must do everything in his power to convince the target of his sincerity. And then, when all of that is done . . . he must step back, mentally. He must become only a scribe; a simple recording device. And all this being said, sometimes it is nearly impossible to stay on the sidelines when you are calling the game.
I remember that we were on one of our afternoon rec times.
I had been telling Nasser about my opinion of a book that he had given me to read titled, 'The Five Pillars of Islam.' It was early April, but for some reason it had become almost cold as a blanket of anxious clouds ganged-up on the sun and bullied it into hiding. I recounted to him my ideas on the chapters I had read as the wind began to become aggressive. Gusts would plunge down around Nasser and I, kicking up bits of paper and dust. And there was this eerie whistle as the air sliced through the concertina wire. I could imagine the oxygen molecules being ripped apart by the razors' edges.
Without warning Nasser decided to switch gears a bit. "Tell me about the fat one," he said rather anxiously. He was referring to an ongoing amusement of ours in which I would reenact different episodes of the show Southpark. You know, that terribly crude but funny cartoon with all of those little kids that swear all the time, hate everyone, and their feet don't move when they walk. He thought that my rendition of the different episodes was quite funny.
"Cartman," I answered.
"Yes, Cartman," he replied with a smile.
In many ways Nasser could be just like a small, innocent child. I don't think that they had humor where he grew up. I think you are forced to become an adult at age 6.
As I would recite the different scenes Nasser would laugh until he nearly cried. After several months of this he knew all of the characters quite well. He could even do the voices, of course he would never us any profanity. He liked Carman and Mr. Hanky(the piece of Christmas Poop) the most. It's always nice to share our American treasures abroad.
One time he asked me why we hated the Canadians so much.
The show frequently makes fun of our neighbors to the north. I said that we didn't hate them at all. Then he asked me why the cartoon makes fun of them all the time. I told him that I thought it was about being able to laugh at ourselves, since there is really no difference between Canadians and Americans. He didn't really understand, and I'm not sure that I did either, for that matter.
Perhaps his favorite episode was when Cartman was on his tricycle like a police officer and giving people all acting sorts of guff. Nasser would say, "You will respect my authori-tye," in his best Cartman voice, and then go into near convulsions laughing.
We joked around for awhile and then we walked side by side, quietly in our thoughts, just the hum and howl of the wind as our background music. Strange, the things that bring people together.
As we walked I considered all of the many things we had spoken of in our time together. There had been something that I had wanted to ask him for quite some time. But to do so he had to believe that I had allegiance to him, and not to the united States. But on that day everything just felt right. We might have been the last two people on earth. There is a lot of honesty in solitude.
We had just taken our shoes off, and it was almost like a metaphor for removing the last barriers between us.
"You will be a good Muslim," Nasser assured me softly.
I remained quiet for some seconds. "But I will be a soldier first."
"You can be both," he responded as he took my arm in his. "You will be."
I nodded. "I have a question . . . "
He waited for me to continue.
" . . . I don't understand the point of nine-eleven."
There was a pause, and he didn't seem to shift or change his posture in any perceivable way, but I could see him choosing his words carefully. It was as if he was preparing to explain something to a child; which, I kind of was on these matters.
"If I am
in my country and my people are waging a revolution against an oppressive government . . . let us do this. Let us. It is no business of anyone other than our people. If we start a civil war, what concern is it of the united States?" He looked at me, questioningly.
"None, I suppose. I mean, usually they do it for the sake of stability in the region," I answered.
"What stability? The United States supports corrupt governments allover the world. We try to revolt against our corrupt and evil government and the U. s. supplies them with money and weapons to fight us." He let go of my arm as he continued.
"We appeal to the Americans and to the French or anyone else who will listen, Let us have our war; But the world does not care to listen."
He stopped walking and turned to face me. The wind was strong enough that we had to squint at each other. "If, during your civil war, the Canadians would have joined one of the sides and killed your people, would you ignore this?"
"No," I replied. I hadn't really thought about it that way. leave us alone!'
"Of course not. You would kill the Canadian soldiers. You might try to force them out of the country so that you could have your own civil war, but then what if they continue to support one side with weapons and money?"
It was one of those conversations where he pretty much kept talking and I pretty much kept listening.
"Let-us-have-our-wars!" he said, almost pleading to the sky. It was as if the swirling grey sky above us represented America. A large dominant creature that would never go away; that would refuse to leave them alone. It was always there watching their every move, waiting, plotting.
"If we talk to you and you don't listen, and then we yell at you and you don't listen, and then we show you the pictures of our dead, and you still do not listen . . . " Nasser held up a warning finger, " . . . then you cannot complain when we resort to lighting fires."
Walking Ghost: Welcome to Terrorist University Page 9