But to be wrong meant more than a failure of sophisticated guesswork. Inevitably, Brooke’s ultimate belief—that al Qaeda had targeted Israel—would hold less credence among his peers. He was restless, others might say, still so angry at the screwup in Lebanon that he imagined al Qaeda’s theft of a bomb was related to his aborted work. To lose one’s detachment was a sin in an agency where judgment mattered.
When at last the phone call came, Brooke was still questioning himself.
His contact, Nuri Abbas, was a polite and slender man highly placed in the intelligence agency of the United Arab Emirates. The job had its perquisites, Brooke perceived, including the black Lincoln Town Car in which a driver took them to Jebel Ali Port. Noah Brustein had informed Abbas only that Brooke worked for the CIA, and that the agency believed that this particular dhow might contain important contraband. But Abbas was among the elite security officers in Dubai who knew that a bomb was missing, and some things need not be specified. The agency did not send field agents halfway around the world to chase down guns or heroin.
The discovery of a nuclear weapon, both men knew, would change everything. Brooke would call Brustein; calls at the highest level would follow. A hazardous-materials team was already in the area, ready to deal with the bomb. Brooke’s best guess was that an aircraft carrier from the Fifth Fleet, with more experts on board, was prepared to relieve the Emirates of its unwelcome nuclear cargo. All this would occur without a whisper.
“A dhow,” Abbas murmured with a trace of skepticism. “Very quaint. One might have expected a larger ship out of Karachi, perhaps moving toward the west.”
“True,” Brooke responded. “But I think we’re dealing with a very subtle mind.”
Perhaps Amer Al Zaroor, he thought. He had taped the operative’s photographs to his office wall. Though captured in a ten-year-old image, the man looked elusive, about to disappear. And so he had.
The waterfront at Jebel Ali Port was filled with freighters and tankers. As Brooke and Abbas got out, a setting sun turned the mist hovering over the Gulf deep orange. From this band of color a two-masted dhow emerged, escorted by three boats filled with armed customs officials.
The dhow docked at the end of a pier, the escorts anchored on each side. Brooke and Abbas watched from a distance as the officials marched the crew off to custody. From a distance, none resembled Brooke’s conception of Amer Al Zaroor. There would be time for questions later; the first concern was the cargo.
“Let’s take a look,” Abbas said.
They walked to the end of the pier as customs officials began offloading crates and boxes. The dhow’s hull was commodious; the process long. With mounting edginess, Brooke watched box after box emerge that could not, by their shape, hold a Pakistani bomb. All appeared to contain what their labels claimed—every electronic device known to man. Which was curious, Brooke told Abbas, for an ancient ship from some godforsaken port on the Makran coast.
Abbas smiled tightly, his keen gaze directed at the crates that kept appearing. “The world economy,” he responded. “A truly wondrous thing.” Brooke could feel the man’s tension.
By now the orange dusk was fading into night, and a customs official shone a flashlight on each new crate. None was the right size or shape. As each new crate emerged, the men stacked them in two uneven walls, preserving a pathway to the dhow. “Perhaps there’s nothing,” Abbas remarked. “I’m not sure what to hope for.”
“I am.”
Abbas did not respond. “How many more?” he called out.
“Maybe three,” an official answered.
Abbas gave Brooke a sideways gaze. Then Brooke saw the crate suggested by Ellen Clair’s aerial photographs. Pointing, he said, “It’s that one.”
Abbas issued an order. The seven-foot-long crate placed before Brooke was a rough-hewn construction that someone had stamped as machine parts. The crewmen had groaned beneath its weight. “Tell them to break it open,” Brooke requested.
Abbas turned to him with a questioning look. “It’s not a problem,” Brooke said. “The people who usually handle these things don’t wear spacesuits.” Nonetheless, he understood—the thought of a nuclear bomb at his feet filled him with superstitious awe.
Working swiftly, two crewmen pried open the box. What remained was a gray metal rectangle with latches, its size matching the specifications of the bomb. Brooke flipped back its latches, then lifted open the heavy metal lid.
Inside, someone had crammed countless bags of white powder.
Angry, Brooke ripped one open, wet his index finger, and tasted the contents. But he already knew—heroin.
Dryly, Abbas said, “A small victory in the global war on drugs.”
Or possibly a decoy, Brooke thought—perhaps even a taunt. If so, someone very clever had undercut him, and the argument for Israel as target with it. Unless, as Brustein had intimated, Brooke could delude himself without help.
He stood and thanked Abbas, preparing for his return to Langley.
Al Zaroor sat in the stern of the ship, feeling the ancient vessel forge the dark, trackless sea.
He hated this feeling of helplessness, just as he hated the water. He was out of his element, compelled to trust men he did not know—the taciturn captain, the crew of six Baluchs. His cell phone did not work here. The yawing of the old dhow made him queasy—he had no gift for sailing. Few things terrified him; drowning was one. He did not know how to swim.
The dhow was seaworthy enough, he knew—handsome in its ungainly way, a well-maintained two-masted wooden ship whose design, in the words of its captain, was “older than the faith.” What troubled Al Zaroor far more was the as-yet-unseen presence of the American Fifth Fleet, no doubt prepared to board a suspicious craft. The captain did not know that the crate concealed beneath the TV sets and machine parts contained a nuclear weapon.
Little else would have bothered him. The captain was a small man, whippet thin, whose ancestors had plied these waters for generations. Perhaps they had shipped fruit and spices; their descendant smuggled drugs, gold, and women bound for sexual slavery. Now the man thought he was running heroin and a stranger to Dubai.
There was much in Dubai that Al Zaroor wanted to avoid. A transfer to another craft, immobilizing them for precious hours. The security services friendly to America and the Jews. Perhaps a minion sent by the CIA should their spy planes have fallen for his ploy. But it was hours yet before he would act.
He went below to his spartan cabin. After a time he closed his eyes, feeling the boat’s fitful rocking until he achieved sleep.
When he arose, Al Zaroor discovered that disequilibrium affected his ability to walk. He inhaled, nauseated again, and then ascended to the deck with the halting steps of an old man.
Mist still enveloped the dhow. Seeing him, the captain pointed to the waters ahead.
In the distance, Al Zaroor saw the massive gray outline of what could only be an aircraft carrier. For an instant, he felt defenseless, imagining the huge ship smashing them into splinters. In a voice not quite his own, he asked the captain, “Is this a common sight?”
The captain gave him a quick, searching glance. “Not common, no. But their business here is pirates and Iranians. Not minnows such as us.”
Stomach clenched, Al Zaroor watched the carrier moving toward them, its outline becoming clearer. Perhaps the spy planes had not been fooled; in waters so vast, he did not believe that this encounter was random. “Do they see us?” he asked the captain.
The aircraft carrier loomed larger, still coming toward them. Hand on the wheel, the captain squinted with worry. Then, almost imperceptibly, the prow of the warship seemed to turn away.
In moments it was beside them, perhaps a hundred feet distant. Standing on the deck, a sailor waved to the men on the dhow. Inhaling deeply, Al Zaroor raised his arm in a satiric half salute. Then the carrier receded into the mist.
Spitting, the captain said, “Those devils have no business in our waters.”
Al
Zaroor checked his watch. “I’ve decided to change our plans,” he said calmly. “We’re heading toward Kuwait.”
The captain gave him a long, resentful stare. “That’s hundreds of miles from here,” he protested. “We’ll need more provisions and fuel.”
“Then get them. But nowhere near Dubai.” Al Zaroor’s tone became flinty. “You are to accept my orders as Zia’s. I’ll tell you more nearer to land.”
The captain spat again. But he turned the dhow westward and began the odyssey Al Zaroor had plotted from the start.
* * *
Hearing his proposed target, Zawahiri had shaken his head. “The Zionist entity?” he asked sharply. “Why not its enablers, the Americans?”
Before Al Zaroor could respond, Bin Laden said, “A fair question, Amer. When I selected New York and Washington, I chose the seats of American power.”
Al Zaroor paused to weigh his words. “And yet America survived. It is too vast.” He glanced at Zawahiri, a gesture of deference intended as balm for the man’s festering insecurities. “A single bomb would surely traumatize the Americans. But then they would seek revenge. And the Zionists would still defile our land.”
Bin Laden considered this. “But not if your plan succeeds.”
“That’s why I propose Tel Aviv.” Al Zaroor looked from Bin Laden to Zawahiri and back again. “It will tear out the heart of Zionism. Last year a poll of the Jews revealed that one-fourth would emigrate if the Iranians develop a bomb. Imagine what they’ll do when we annihilate them by the hundreds of thousands, destroying their infrastructure, their economy, and most of all, the romantic myth of their survival in the land they fantasize God promised them. The souls of these survivors would shrivel and die.” He made his voice quieter yet, causing his two listeners to lean forward. “As for our Muslim brothers, they would turn their faces from the Shia of Iran and gaze at us in wonder. It is worth any risk we take.”
Bin Laden fingered his beard. “Including nuclear fallout? The calamity you imagine does not respect borders, and the wind above the Zionists moves east.”
Al Zaroor had anticipated this inquiry, consistent with his leader’s foresight. “That’s true. But the greatest fallout occurs when a bomb does not detonate until it hits the ground, yielding a deadly crop of radioactive debris. A midair detonation will kill many more Jews, yet threaten fewer Arabs.
“Some, of course, will suffer. But probably less than the number of Palestinians and Lebanese killed by the Jews, and surely fewer than the many thousands of Iraqis, Afghanis, and Pakistanis slaughtered by America. And they will have died so that our dream may live.”
“But not in the hearts of the Shia heretics.” Zawahiri’s voice was etched with disdain. “Not this posturing fool who fronts for the Iranian capitalists and clerics, or the great leader of the Lebanese Hezbollah—Nasrallah, the latter-day Saladin who claims to have fought the Zionists to a standstill. They, too, are our enemies, contesting us for the soul of Islam.”
Bin Laden faced him. “What Amer is suggesting, my brother, is that in a single strike we can eclipse them. The specter of the Iranian bomb is symbolic—they do not intend to use it, but merely to deploy it as an emblem of power and a shield to protect their clients, especially the tin soldiers of Hezbollah. By this they mean to spread the Shia apostasy throughout Islam, a more abiding affront to our Sunni heritage than those of Christ or Moses.” He inclined his head toward Al Zaroor. “Their forces are many; ours are fewer. Amer proposes to cast a shadow so large that Iran will cower in its darkness.”
Zawahiri pondered this. “I dream of even more,” Al Zaroor interposed. “A war between the Zionists and Iran, where the death spasms of the Jews consume our Shia enemy. On the brink of extinction, the Zionists will lash out at Iran and Hezbollah in misplaced anger.”
Bin Laden’s scrutiny became puzzled yet probing. “Even if the Zionist leaders know the deed was ours?”
“Their people will demand revenge,” Al Zaroor replied. “But they can’t find us, and the Iranians and Hezbollah have long been their obsession. When have the Jews discriminated among their enemies, or used precision in the taking of Arab lives?”
“It is true enough,” Bin Laden observed to Zawahiri, “and not only of the Jews. The ultimate elegance of our attack on America is that they retaliated by invading Iraq. As for the Zionists, their history is one of excess—deploying Christian thugs to slaughter defenseless Palestinian refugees at Sabra and Shatilah; carpet-bombing Lebanese civilians for decades; responding to Hezbollah’s kidnapping of a few soldiers by invading Lebanon once again. Their psychology of victimhood forever seeks out victims. Why not Hezbollah and Iran?” Closing his eyes, he inclined his head in the attitude of prayer. “For fear of offending Arabs, we could not ourselves murder Shia in vast numbers. But there is a terrible beauty in moving the Zionists to do it. They will seed their Shia killing field with yet more hatred of the Jews.”
“Yes,” Al Zaroor said simply. “It is in their nature.”
Bin Laden’s eyes snapped open. “Still, we must consider the Americans. If we destroy Tel Aviv, the Zionist lobby in America will demand our end by any weapon at hand.”
“And if they do? I wonder if America will be so eager to listen. Or will its people fear they will be next, and turn away from the Zionists at last? Like any nation, America must look to its own survival.” Al Zaroor leaned closer to Bin Laden, speaking in his most seductive tone. “With Tel Aviv in ashes, we can remind America that there are other anniversaries, and other weapons of mass destruction. If our allies take over Pakistan, we could have bombs for the asking. There are loose nuclear materials for sale around the globe—in Russia, North Korea, and Pakistan itself—and soon we’ll be able to make nuclear weapons of our own. We can already construct a dirty bomb that could poison the air and water of an American city so completely that, by comparison, the Gulf oil spill will be as fondly remembered as a food stain on an infant’s bib.”
As though to distance Al Zaroor from Bin Laden, Zawahiri hunched forward to thrust his head between them. “And how would you accomplish these wonders? Or do you imagine it a simple matter to send the Zionists a bomb?”
“I beg your patience,” Al Zaroor responded in the manner of a courtier, “as I endeavor to explain.”
Watching this exchange, Bin Laden repressed the flicker of a smile. With a curt nod, Zawahiri signaled their petitioner to begin.
For the next half hour, without emphasis or inflection, Al Zaroor outlined his plan.
As he concluded, the three men sat cross-legged on the carpet, a map unfolded between them. While Zawahiri studied the map, Bin Laden observed Al Zaroor.
“I’ve left nothing to chance, Renewer. In the last six months I’ve been to all these places, meeting with those we will need. The plan will serve.”
Zawahiri looked up. “Too many men, too many countries.”
“There are difficulties, Ayman. But my plan will make the operation as simple as possible on each leg of the journey. That means using the customary means of transit to move goods from one place to another, whether or not the goods are contraband. Nothing that will look unusual to the locals on the ground, or to America’s spies in the sky.”
Bin Laden placed a graceful finger on the map, tracing a line across countries. “Why this route?”
“For its sheer ordinariness, Renewer. Each leg of the journey has existed since the dawn of time; each means of transportation is used by smugglers countless days a year. No one will expect men with a nuclear bomb to move it as our ancestors did for centuries.” Al Zaroor leaned forward, addressing Bin Laden with quiet force. “We take established routes. We employ smugglers whose survival depends on the reliability of their agents, contacts, and networks of intelligence. When in the water, we use their ships; when on land, we use their vehicles. In either case, the men moving the shipment will be known to the officials they’ve paid to be deaf and blind. These men are seasoned and smart. They, not we, know best how to smuggle contr
aband. Some we used to funnel jihadists and their weapons into Iraq, and to smuggle out the antiquities to pay for them. The Americans did not catch us.” He paused for emphasis. “As to operational security, these men will not know what they’re moving. Nor will those who help in one area know the men in the last one, or the next.”
Bin Laden stroked his beard. “What do these men believe they’re carrying?”
“The same cargo I’ve had them smuggle before—heroin. That shipment reached our intended destination.” He drew himself straighter. “This time I travel with it. At the end, I will dispose of the package myself.”
For a moment the men were silent. Then Zawahiri said in a querulous tone, “Your very presence will give us away. The others involved may be familiar to the authorities. But a foreigner will stand out.”
Al Zaroor nodded. “Though I’m good at languages, accents will be a problem. Nonetheless, my presence improves our chances. Do you doubt my adaptability or quickness of thought? Or that I would rather die than fail or betray you?”
Zawahiri ignored this challenge. “There’s also your chosen path. A route through Gaza is more direct.”
“And riddled with Zionist spies. Faced with such a threat, the Jews would reoccupy Gaza in a heartbeat. It would be their opportunity to decimate Hamas—”
“Still,” Bin Laden interposed, “why do you object to shipping this weapon in a cargo container?”
“Because once we put our package on a ship, we lose all control. And we still must find reliable men to offload it when it reaches port. I make no promises, but this route holds the greatest chance of success.” Pausing, Al Zaroor looked directly at Bin Laden. “There is, however, one more element that would greatly improve our chances. Something you alone can do.”
“And what is that?”
Al Zaroor paused, and then spoke firmly. “You must lie to the Americans. You must tell them the bomb is coming to their shores.”
Bin Laden stiffened. “I’ve said many things to the West, and never once have they listened. But I do not lie, Amer.”
The Devils Light Page 13