by Giles Foden
He could see Zayn now in front of him – could see the stubbly hair on the back of that huge head; it bristled most where his neck bulged over his collar. Sometimes he found it hard to love his saviour. But most of the time Zayn was warm and endearing, looking after him like a favourite son, always making sure he had the best food and equipment.
They’d had many happy days together in Sudan – every Friday visiting the camel market in Omdurman to see the desert tribesmen bargaining, or going to Al Haj Yousif to join the large crowd of spectators for Nubian wrestling. On the way back, they would buy sweet pastries in the souk and stand eating them with sticky fingers, watching the snake charmers coax their swaying animals out of wicker baskets.
Zayn explained many things to him, putting straight what seemed tangled in his head. Once, near the Mogran, the confluence of the Blue and White Niles where it was possible to see a defining line between the two pieces of water, Zayn had put his arm over his shoulder – they were standing on the White Nile Bridge – and told him that his life should be like that now: once you committed yourself to God, your life would never flow in the same direction again.
He said nothing must get in the way of that, especially not women or wealth. ‘You remember what the Koran tells us – how Sheba visiting Solomon saw a shiny surface which she thought was water and bared her legs to swim. And then he told her it was only a reflection in glass and she was covered in shame. Well, that is how you must see the world from now, my little greenfinch: just glass, a reflection … That is what it means to surrender yourself to Allah.’
It was comforting to have a nickname. Arabs always made jokes about his surname meaning ‘the green one’, because he shared it with a legendary figure who came out of the spirit world to help Moses and other holy men. Some people said ‘Salaam aleikum’ to an empty room when they entered it, because al-Khidr lived in the void and had to be greeted. So most of the jokes were about Khaled being not there, or being an empty person. No one had ever called him a greenfinch before.
* * *
BUREAU OF DIPLOMATIC SECURITY – GRADUATING SEMINAR
Guest Speakers:
Altenburg, Morton, Director of Operations (Justice/Counter-Terrorism), Federal Bureau of Investigation, Chairman (Interagency) Counter-Terrorism Group, National Security Council
Kirby, Tom, General, Joint Staff, Department of Defense (Special Operations and Low-Intensity Conflict)
Queller, Jack, Consultant, Middle Eastern Issues (State/Counter-Terrorism), formerly Chairman (Interagency) Counter-Terrorism Group, National Security Council and CIA Senior Ranker
The trainees took to their seats – the moulded red plastic chairs that had been unstacked beforehand and would be restacked at the end. In front of them, raised on a platform and spread with green baize, was a longish table, behind which were the three speakers. One, Queller it must be, sat at a slight angle to the table – on the edge of which, as if laid down like a challenge, rested the flesh-coloured, polyurethane hand of a prosthetic arm.
The course convenor, David Cronin, introduced them.
‘I’m very pleased to welcome here, on the eve of your graduation from DS training, three senior experts. They will, I hope, give you a snapshot of the multi-dimensional terrorist threat affecting US diplomatic interests. First to speak will be Mort Altenburg, the FBI’s chief adviser in this field. I don’t think I’m telling tales out of school when I say he’s seen by some as the main contender to be the next deputy director.’
At this Altenburg, a tall, bespectacled forty-year-old wearing a pale blue suit, gave a wry smile and shook his head in a show of self-deprecation.
Cronin continued. ‘Mr Altenburg will be speaking about intelligence and threat analysis. We are also joined by General Tom Kirby from the Department of Defense. General Kirby has directed a number of counter-terrorism operations around the world – but I can’t tell you too much about these as they’re all classified.’
People laughed, looking at the soldier.
‘General Kirby will speak on the military aspects of diplomatic security.’
Miranda frowned as she considered Kirby. The buzz cut, the hard eyes, the neat lines of the uniform. It was abundantly clear what kind of man he was. Her father, whose word had been like holy writ to her, had told her he always distrusted men who cut their hair too short. She knew it was silly – it would count against half the US Army for starters – but it was hard to forget.
‘Finally I would like to introduce Jack Queller, late of the CIA and the National Security Council’s Counter-Terrorism Group, of which he was Chairman – an interagency role which Mr Altenburg now holds. Having recently taken early retirement, Mr Queller has seen service with a number of agencies and now holds a prime consultancy role in the State Department. He is still rated as the country’s premier expert on Arab affairs, and it is on this subject that he will talk.’
Her gaze settled on Queller. Grey-haired and modest, he looked more like an academic than an intelligence operative. Only a craggy face, and the arm – its unnatural contours clearly visible beneath his jacket – marked him out as unusual.
Or so she thought at first. On closer inspection, there was something unnerving about Queller. She believed herself quite a shrewd person, but the elements of his physiognomy, especially his soft eyes – ashen, like his hair – were quite hard to read. It was, all at once, the face of a man of blood and the face of a man of mercy.
‘First though, Mort Altenburg …’
The FBI man stood up to applause – a sound of frightened pigeons – and began to speak. ‘It is a commonplace to say, with the end of the Cold War and the fall of the Berlin Wall almost a decade ago …’
Miranda was certain she saw Queller give a thin smile. She looked back at the speaker. Altenburg was clearly far less interesting, just another Washington blue-suit guy. But the eager will to power, the commanding sweep his eyes made of the room before he spoke, those chimed – uncomfortably – with something in her. So, she had plans, she wanted to fulfil her father’s expectations: that didn’t mean she had to be pressed out by the Washington cookie-cutter. Hadn’t he always said there was no virtue in sameness – that you always should walk up a different side of the street to everyone else?
She felt as if Altenburg was talking down to them. ‘We all know that a nuclear conflict is less likely these days, and that our country faces other dangers – smaller ones, but no less dangerous for all that. From Damascus and Tripoli to Tehran and Baghdad, transnational groups such as the Abu Nidal organisation can find willing sponsors and supplies of arms. As the Gulf War, Somalia and Bosnia showed, there are also still governments – well, really we ought to call them dictators and warlords – out there willing to challenge the civilised nation states.’
Again Miranda saw Queller’s face change, his expression more disdainful this time. He wasn’t as dispassionate as she’d thought.
‘General Kirby will talk more about taking the battle to these people, as we did with Qaddafi in Libya and Saddam in Iraq. My role here is to alert you, as those who will be taking charge of security in our embassies worldwide, to the threats you might face. People call it international terrorism, but we’re chiefly talking about violent Islamic militancy. This is very different from nationalist separatist terrorism, such as the IRA and PLO. Or from the Marxist–Leninist people … Red Army Faction, Baader–Meinhof, Shining Path. You’ve heard all the names. What I’m talking about elevates a spiritual rather than political program to the position of paramount importance. It’s a pretty twisted spirituality, I grant you, and one that hopes to crush the West and certain Middle Eastern allies, but that is how they see it. How we see it doesn’t matter, not to them. These guys are not killing for a Western audience. They are killing in the name of Allah. Allah will know what they have done. Because of this, so their warped thinking goes, they’ll go to paradise if they sacrifice themselves in his cause.’
Altenburg looked over the faces in the room.
‘Crazy stuff, isn’t it?’
He paused, and then took up his thread again.
‘And it’s coming, this life-and-death struggle. Believe me when I tell you there’s a evil wind blowing through the East. People snigger at the idea of a Holy War, the so-called jihad. But you shouldn’t underestimate that threat. The bombing of the World Trade Center in 1993 was, I’m afraid to say, only the beginning. Last year there were over a thousand threats or incidents from Islamic groups against American interests. We’re expecting many more. It’s just parched grass out there, waiting for the spark, the man from the mountain or the desert about whom those flames will gather …’
Miranda shifted in her seat. She had heard much of this before. It was the kind of stuff they had been fed all year by Cronin. If this was one of America’s leading experts on terrorism, then God help America. She felt sure, if there were so many threats, that a more sophisticated exposition was needed. Another thing her father always used to say was when it looks too simple, that probably means there’s something more complicated under the surface. Altenburg must have known that the situation was complex; it was almost as if there was an element of deliberate parody in the way he spoke and presented his material.
* * *
‘God is one; God is eternal. He has given birth to no one, and no one gave birth to Him. No one is equal to Him …
‘He is the Lord of the east and the west, and there is no God but Him …
‘He created human beings, and gave them language. The sun and the moon follow the course He has ordained. The herbs and the trees bow down in adoration.’
Khaled began to sway with gentle movements, chanting the verses quietly as he did so.
‘He raised up the sky, and set all things in balance. He commanded you not to upset that balance, but to respect it. He laid out the earth for all creatures; and He planted upon it trees that bear blossom and fruit, husks that carry grain, and herbs that emit fragrance. Which of the Lord’s blessings would you deny? He created human beings from dry clay, as a potter creates pots; and He created spirits from the flames of fire. Which of the Lord’s blessings would you deny?’
Khaled emerged from the mosque with an easy spirit. It was all true, what the Book said. No one could doubt it. Unbelievers too would see that one day. There was no need to crack their heads against rocks. Was not the beauty of the Book a testament to its truth? Surely this was a sign for thoughtful people. He knew that many in the West misrepresented the Book out of fear and ignorance, unable to perceive even dimly the mysteries to which it was a righteous guide.
Sometimes, when he felt as calm as an inland sea, as now, as sweet as clarified butter, as now, he doubted al-Qaida and its work. There were other parts of the Koran. Such as that which commands the righteous to shun all those who divide religion into sects. Or that which outlaws intrigue as the work of Satan, who uses it to upset the faithful. The Prophet forbids us to plot in secret, the young man from Africa would say to himself. What we are doing, rather than making us the heirs of paradise, may indeed prevent us from entering it, vast as the sky and earth and watered by running streams as it is.
And then he would remember his parents – exactly as he had found them, with the zigzag slash across their throats, and their heads thrown back on the mat. And confronted by those horrible memories, his mind would clear and become strong again, filled with a hard-edged certainty.
Yet though he felt he knew his destiny now, somewhere deep inside, doubt still fluttered, summoning ensnaring sounds and figures from the mist of memory. Things half blanked out, a residue of fear, an unaccountable oppression. Earlier visits by Zayn, when he was much younger. The passing of money. Conversations in Arabic on the telephone, some angry.
Most disturbing of all was how agitated his father had been in the months leading up to his death. Once during that time, Khaled remembered, he had mentioned the future, in respect of them acquiring another fishing boat. His father had looked him in the eye and said: ‘I have nothing but terror about the future.’
* * *
‘Myself, I favour going in. Dealing with these people. Clamping down on illegal activities, restricting travel, disrupting training, breaking up support cells … bringing suspects to justice whatever the cost. We have to clip their wings; or, better still, wring their necks. I’m talking metaphorically here but – this is the real thing.’
He faltered slightly, before adopting a sterner, more admonitory tone.
‘You realise the danger we face. Of course you do. It’s our job, it’s our duty.’
General Kirby was proving, to Miranda’s ears, to be no more enlightening than Altenburg, saving the entertainment afforded by gung-ho soldier-speak.
‘I don’t make policy on what actions we take or don’t take. That’s for politicians. What I’m concerned for you folks to learn is that you must consider the embassies of the United States as de facto military establishments. Positions that have to be defended. Car bombs, mortars, Molotov cocktails, anti-tank rockets, surface-to-air missiles, close-order assassinations with handguns, rifles and grenades. That is the scope of the threat we are facing. That’s why, as you know, at every US diplomatic institution you’ll find a gunnery sergeant and his MSG, his detachment of Marines. The MSG, the Marine Security Guard, stands at the heart of the defence of our embassies.’
He paused to take a sip of water.
‘But you can’t leave everything to the MSG. It’s down to you to be vigilant. Follow procedures. Never allow uncleared walk-ins. Take note of threat letters, anonymous phone calls, attempts at surveillance. Use the Tempest protection facility on your computers. Encrypt your messages. Shred your classified material. Initiate, every day, alarm-and-react drills. Make sure your X-ray units, your VCR control, and your radios are all in good order. Screen everyone. Because terrorists, enemies of the state, do not necessarily look like murderers. They mask themselves, pass as ordinary. That regular guy, in line for his visa …’
* * *
With prayers over, it was time to make their audience with the Sheikh. The three of them – Khaled, Zayn and Yousef – filed into his tent. It was large and had several sections divided by hanging flaps. Inside one, where the audience was to take place, lamps had been hung and carpets laid out, together with embroidered cushions and round trays carrying small metal goblets of sweet black tea. Several of the Sheikh’s senior lieutenants were already assembled, sitting cross-legged on the carpets or lying stretched out on the cushions. They included Ayman al-Zawahiri, the former paediatrician, leader of Egyptian Jihad; Muhammad Atef, al-Qaida’s military commander; and Ahmed the German, al-Qaida’s cameraman. Zayn was almost as high in the Sheikh’s affections as Ahmed: he was at the core of al-Qaida’s second echelon, followed by Yousef, the bombmaker who even now sat at Khaled’s side.
After making their salaams, all waited in silence for their leader to emerge from his sleeping place, his inner sanctum. Khaled sipped his tea nervously. For a long time they had trained for some kind of mission. Soon they would find out what it was, albeit only in the vaguest terms. Security must be kept tight. Then would come the special training, related to their particular task, which Zayn had warned him could take another two months.
Khaled fiddled with the edge of the carpet, feeling the weave between finger and thumb. He saw Zayn turn his big head, look down, frown. Not sure if he was the reason for the frown, he stilled his fidgeting hand all the same.
Finally, a tent flap moved and a tall, slender figure emerged from the shadows. Well over six feet, he carried a cane and wore a spotless white shalwar kameez: the same long cotton shirt and roomy trousers favoured by many of the Talibs. Watching the great man enter, Khaled wondered whether the cane confirmed rumours of illness. It seemed to him the Sheikh looked in very good health. Bright eyes burned in a long, olive-coloured face. A dark, softly curling beard flowed over his neck and chest. There was, however, Khaled noticed, a fork of grey in it. On the Sheikh’s head was a neatly wrapped blac
k turban. On his feet, as if to say that this heir of paradise was indeed a humble man, were a pair of green plastic flip-flops.
The tent was silent as he moved across it, the lanterns making his shadow loom large against the canvas. The Sheikh sat on a small stool at the back of the tent. In spite of his height and his long thin limbs, he looked diminutive and surprisingly insignificant, sitting with his cane between his knees and one foot crossed over the other. But there was an unmistakable strength behind the modesty. The same was true of the Sheikh’s voice, which, when it came, drew authority from its quietness. He began with an invocation.
* * *
‘God bless America!’
The General sat down to perfunctory applause, and Queller approached the microphone. There was a pause, some amplified fumbling … Cronin adjusting the height. Miranda thought the final speaker looked tired and unwell. He had quite a large frame, but his shoulders had begun to round, and he stooped a little. There were deep lines in his face, as if every service he had done the state were written there. But his soft, pearl-grey eyes were pages from another kind of book, and when he spoke, he spoke softly, too.
‘If there is to be a blaze in the East – and, speaking for myself, I hope that there will not be one – we had better put our hand in the fire while the coals are still smouldering.’
* * *
‘Praise belong to Allah, the Lord of all Being, the All-merciful, the All-compassionate, the Master of the Day of Doom. Thee only we serve; to Thee alone we pray for succour. Guide us in the straight path, the path of those whom Thou hast blessed, not of those against whom Thou art wrathful, nor of those who are astray …’