The Enemy Inside

by William Christie

  The taxi stopped near the Saddar Bazaar, and they walked the streets to throw off any followers. The young man led them into a tiny cupboard of a tailor shop. A nod to the proprietor and they went into the back. The young man pointed toward a changing room. “Strip naked and hand all your clothing out to me.”

  Nimri did as he was told, placing his billfold and identity documents into his shoes and wrapping the shalwar kameez around them. “There is money in the belt,” he said as he handed the bundle through the curtain. He remained standing to wait, none too impressed by the cleanliness of the bench.

  The young man came through the curtain, brandishing an old Pakistani army Walther P38 pistol.

  “If you had not noticed,” Nimri said, “I am not armed.”

  These young ones, unfortunately, had been taught that a sense of humor was not Islamic. He moved sideways to make room for a stockier fellow in a skullcap and full beard who, Nimri immediately noticed, had not bathed in quite some time. He was holding what looked like a handheld radio.

  The scanner was passed over Nimri’s body. They were being very careful. Which was good for all concerned.

  Nimri was left alone again. He knew that if the scanner had detected any radio emissions coming from his body he would have been shot instantly. And now his clothes and papers were being checked.

  No, he was handed an entirely new outfit, complete with shoes that were too tight. But it was not the proper circumstance for complaints. He just hoped he would not have to walk too far. Even his money and documents were in a brand-new billfold.

  He left the tailor shop with the young man again. They walked through the bazaar, the young man checking their backs for surveillance. Not willing to trust his fate to anyone else’s competence, Nimri was doing the same.

  Outside the bazaar a parked car suddenly opened its doors in front of them. Nimri flinched, ready to run, but the young man grabbed his arm and pushed him into the backseat. There was a driver and passenger in the front.

  Nimri was blindfolded and pushed to the floor, a blanket thrown over him. He could have done without the hot, scratchy blanket, not to mention the young man’s foot on his back to hold him down, but he still approved. Not just the precautions, but the fact that they wouldn’t be taking such precautions if they intended to kill him out of hand.

  With little else to do, he tried to keep track of their route. But there were too many turns, and he didn’t know Rawalpindi well enough. Then, from the echoing sound, they were passing through a tunnel. But they stopped, so it wasn’t a tunnel. That was it—an underground garage.

  Nimri was removed from the car and pulled to his feet, still blindfolded. Told to walk, he ended up in an elevator. He couldn’t imagine what kind of apartment building it might be, where a blindfolded man could be led about with no one taking any notice. That was right—an office! An office building at night had no workers, only watchmen who could be persuaded to look the other way.

  Nimri was led down halls and through doorways. Then roughly pushed down into a chair. At least it was padded. The treatment had Nimri’s temper, never too long to begin with, at the boiling point.

  The blindfold was taken away. He was in an office sitting at an oval conference table. The room was warm. Nimri imagined that the air-conditioning was turned down at night, to save electricity. With limited circulation, the room smelled of new carpet and stale cigarettes.

  Blinking at the bright light, Nimri almost failed to recognize the man sitting across from him. When he had last seen Abu Faraj al-Libbi in Afghanistan in 2001, the man had a closely trimmed beard. Now he was several kilos lighter and the beard was untrimmed, the wisps of black hair growing almost up under his eyes, making him look as if he had a skin disease. Together with the hatchet face and the beady eyes, he looked even more like a thug than before. But then Nimri had never cared for the man. Egyptians always regarded Libyans as desert bumpkins.

  Nimri’s mood wasn’t improved by the realization that al-Libbi must be the new al-Qaeda head of operations. He actually did not know for sure who the head of operations was, except that it was not him. That the Americans kept capturing them made it hard to keep track. Under such pressure, the organization had splintered even further into self-contained cells, and few of the old communications links were still active. It had taken weeks for him to receive this summons, and even more time to arrange the travel details. And still he did not have complete knowledge of all the paths the messages had taken.

  “I speak for Abu Abdullah,” al-Libbi announced.

  Nimri was not impressed. It was one thing to use Osama Bin Laden’s code name and claim you spoke for him. It was another thing for it to be true. And the insult! No greeting between brothers at war. No “peace be upon you.” No blessing. Intolerable. But just like a Libyan. No manners whatsoever.

  Nimri merely looked over his shoulder at the two musclemen who had brought him up from the car, as if to ask why they were speaking in front of so many ears.

  Al-Libbi made a curt gesture, and the two left the room.

  Nimri’s own anger had subsided, and it pleased him to see al-Libbi’s rise.

  “I have told you I speak for Abu Abdullah,” al-Libbi repeated.

  “And I continue to hear you say so,” Nimri replied.

  “Abu Abdullah is angry at your failure.”

  Nimri doubted it. Bin Laden knew how many operations failed for every one that succeeded. He would not let the Libyan goad him. “Failure? I penetrated the heart of America, into Washington, D.C., itself, and was within thirty seconds of destroying the Jew Donald Rumsfeld.”

  “And failed,” al-Libbi pointed out.

  “I noticed from the newspapers this morning that Musharraf is still alive,” Nimri countered. And from the way the Libyan reacted he knew the reports had been true, that it had been al-Libbi’s operation. The previous December, right there in Rawalpindi, two attempts had been made on the life of General Pervez Musharraf, the president of Pakistan. In the first, a huge explosive charge was detonated while the president’s vehicle convoy was passing over a bridge. Even the most heavily armored limousine was not proof against a charge of 225 kilos. But it was thwarted by the same thing that had earlier saved Donald Rumsfeld from the explosive-rigged gasoline tanker truck Nimri had placed in his path: a radio frequency jammer that blocked the detonation signal from being sent.

  “A fine idea for an attack, though,” Nimri continued. “How ever did you think of it?”

  Al-Libbi was so furious his mouth was moving though no sound was coming out.

  “The second was well conceived,” said Nimri, almost in the form of a compliment. “You adapted very quickly.”

  Twelve days after the first attempt was defeated, al-Libbi sent a shaheed, a martyr, in a car bomb to ram the convoy. But could not get past the security vehicles to reach Musharraf’s limousine.

  The hollow compliment fell on deaf ears because, of course, the second attempt had also been a failure. “Now you will tell me you counseled against killing the apostate Musharraf,” said al-Libbi.

  “I will not deny it,” said Nimri. “My position was clear.” In response to demands for Musharraf’s head after the al-Qaeda operations chief Khalid Sheikh Mohammed had been captured by the Pakistanis and turned over to the Americans, Nimri had counseled restraint. Under intense pressure from the Americans, Musharraf had moved against only the highest al-Qaeda leaders hiding in Pakistan after the fall of Afghanistan, and rather listlessly at that. After all, Pakistan had helped to create the Taliban in Afghanistan, and used al-Qaeda–trained militants to fight the Indians in Kashmir. When the Americans had attacked al-Qaeda Afghan camps with cruise missiles after their embassies were bombed in Africa, more Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence officers had been killed than al-Qaeda fighters.

  Nimri had predicted that if they tried to kill Musharraf, and failed, he would purge his army and intelligence services of all those sympathetic to al-Qaeda. And there were many who were sympathetic. Al
-Libbi had had no trouble obtaining Musharraf’s top-secret travel itinerary and constantly varying routes. With his personal survival at stake, Musharraf would come after them, no holds barred. And so it had come to pass. After the failed attempts, thousands of brothers had been thrown into jail, including hitherto untouchable army officers. Al-Libbi had a reward of twenty million rupees on his head—$340,000 American. A fortune in Pakistan.

  Nimri was a little surprised that al-Libbi was still in Rawalpindi, though of course policemen were the same the world over. They were hunting him in every corner of Pakistan, because of course he would never be fool enough to remain at the scene of his crimes. So of course that was where he was. Though he actually had no idea, Nimri would not have been surprised to hear that bin Laden was comfortably ensconced in a penthouse apartment around the corner from the presidential palace in Islamabad, rather than the tribal village on the Afghan border the Americans imagined.

  “What became of Kasim al-Hariq?” al-Libbi demanded.

  Nimri had been rather enjoying how al-Libbi had begun full of authority and accusations, and been thrown onto the defensive. Now the sweat began trickling down his own spine. And it was not just the heat of the office. Kasim al-Hariq was a Saudi, one of the old men in bin Laden’s inner circle. “He was captured by the Americans.”

  “It is known he was captured by the Americans. He was captured by the Americans after he traveled to Karachi to meet with you. He was captured by the Americans in the safe house where he met with you, shortly after he met with you.”

  “He was betrayed by Imram Hasan, as you must know.” Formerly Nimri’s assistant. “If I had not left to begin the American operation, I would have been taken too, by God.”

  “Which begs another question. Your operation. You were to have assassinated George Bush during his visit to the Philippines. How then did you come to attack Donald Rumsfeld in Washington?”

  This was why Nimri had come to the meeting believing his life was in jeopardy. “I persuaded Kasim al-Hariq that an attack on Bush was not feasible, given the level of security on his tour of Asia. I offered the alternate plan of attacking Rumsfeld in Washington while the attention of the American intelligence services was focused on Asia. Al-Hariq approved the plan, and released the funding to carry it out. He was captured before he could return and inform the leadership of the change.”

  “He approved the plan?” said al-Libbi.

  “He did. How else would I have received the funding?”

  This was not true. Al-Hariq had come to him with orders to shoot down Bush’s helicopter in Manila with surface-to air-missiles. It would have been a fiasco, but the stubborn old Saudi bastard would not listen to reason. Why should he? He did not have to be the one to execute a hopeless attack. But God had intervened. Only days before, Nimri had learned from a contact in Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence that his assistant had become an informer for the rival Federal Investigative Agency, which was more closely aligned with the Americans. So he agreed to execute the foolhardy plan, took the money, and intentionally left the Saudi in the care of the traitor Hasan.

  But God did not grant him the successful attack that would have made him al-Qaeda operations chief. But God also did not save Kasim al-Hariq from the Americans. So Nimri’s secret was known to no one. Al-Libbi and even bin Laden could suspect all they wished.

  “He approved your change in plan?” al-Libbi repeated.

  At that Nimri knew they had nothing against him. “He approved it. Is it any wonder my operation failed, with him in the hands of the Americans? By God, I was hunted every moment, yet still nearly succeeded.”

  “At the cost of a network in the Philippines, one in Thailand, and an important cell in the United States,” said al-Libbi. “The coordinators for the Philippines, Thailand, and Southeast Asia. All dead or captured.”

  “And all my friends,” Nimri shot back.

  “And you alone escape.”

  “God is merciful,” said Nimri. “God is great.”

  “All praise to God,” al-Libbi replied automatically.

  There was a pause then, which led Nimri to believe that al-Libbi had fired all his ammunition yet hit nothing. He decided to remain on the attack. “I have a plan for another operation.”

  “Where?”

  “America.”

  Al-Libbi shook his head. “Iraq is the decisive battleground. Almost all our resources have shifted to Iraq. Even the European networks have put aside their other work to move young brothers and money into Iraq.”

  Nimri had no trouble reading between the lines of that statement. “I have been in Europe, as you know. The networks have little direction, so they are focusing on Iraq.”

  Al-Libbi’s eyes flashed at the insult. “Iraq is the decisive battleground. Iraq will prepare the next generation to fight the way combat against the Russians in Afghanistan prepared us.”

  “Iraq is the path of least resistance,” said Nimri.

  “This is not true,” al-Libbi said heatedly. “Iraq will be our salvation. The Americans have brought the battle to us, and we will defeat them there.”

  “In ten years.”

  “It took Vietnam ten years to defeat them. Their defeat will be in God’s time.”

  “God’s time, yes,” said Nimri. “But do we, as an organization, have that much time? In ten years we will be nothing.”

  “God will choose the time, and the place, and the form of victory. And the caliph who brings the world of believers together.”

  It was useless, Nimri thought. They could not see past their own noses. Only bin Laden could look into the future and make plans that were not dreams. And bin Laden was now isolated, by necessity out of touch with the organization he had so painstakingly built. “What if the Americans are able to hold their election in Iraq this fall, and their Iraqi puppets take over?

  “We will stop this election, God willing.”

  “As we stopped the election in Afghanistan?”

  Al-Libbi glowered. “Iraq will be different. We will drive out the Americans, and hang their Iraqi puppets from the corner of every street.”

  “If we do, the Kurds and Shia will combine to destroy the true believers, the Sunni. Or the Iraqis will fight their civil war, and whoever wins, even the Sunni, will turn on us. You know the Iraqis.”

  “Our brothers will not turn on us!” al-Libbi shouted.

  “Our Afghan brothers did.”

  Al-Libbi was keeping control of himself, but with difficulty. “You speak nothing but defeatism. What is your plan for victory?”

  Just what Nimri had been waiting for. “The Americans were forced out of Vietnam. What difference did it make to them? Nothing. They were forced out of Lebanon. Did that prevent them from sustaining the Jews and oppressing the true believers? No. Somalia? The same. They are immune to every humiliation. If they are forced from Iraq, will they abandon the house of Saud and their puppets Musharraf in Pakistan and Mubarak in Egypt and Abdullah in Jordan? I think not. This is why we must not succumb to the easy path. We must strike them directly, make them change their minds about keeping their thumb on our world. Their government will never do so, but, hurt badly enough, their people will force their government.”

  Al-Libbi actually put his hands together and applauded Nimri, slowly and with supreme irony. “A beautiful speech. So inspiring. And how do you propose to accomplish this?”

  Nimri did not let al-Libbi see it on his face, but he vowed one day to revenge himself. “Disrupting the Iraq election may, in the end, mean nothing. Why not, instead, disrupt the American election this November?”

  “What did you say?”

  And then Abdallah Karim Nimri told him exactly how to do it.

  Chapter Four

  His head swimming with Arabic, Nasser Saleh decided he needed a break. As he passed by his neighbor’s cubicle he held up his empty coffee mug, making the gesture into a question. Farah was on her cell phone, as usual, instead of translating Pashto. She’d figured it out.
There were only ten Pashto translators in the entire FBI, so Farah did as she pleased. The supervisors rode everyone else, but they pleaded with her.

  She handed him her mug without a pause in her conversation.

  While he was pouring coffee Barry, the supervisor, stuck his head into the break room. “Nasser, how close are you finishing that audio file?”

  “Pretty close, Barry.” He’d learned it was no joke when they said that the “B” in FBI stood for bureaucracy. If you told them you’d be done in an hour, as soon as the minute hand ticked over there’d be three more jobs on your computer.

  He’d been in his senior year at the University of Maryland, considering his options. With a degree in political science, a contradiction in terms if there ever was one, he was looking at some $20,000 a year entry-level gofer job in Washington, that first rung in fighting his way up the political food chain. Or maybe the State Department Foreign Service exam. Every political science major in the country took that.

  Then 9/11 happened, and in the spring he saw the ad.

  He was first generation, his parents had come over from Egypt. His father started as a janitor cleaning offices, and now ran his own small janitorial company.

  Immigrant parents always insisted on the first generation learning the native tongue. They usually felt more comfortable speaking it at home, and they wanted the kids to stay in touch with their roots.

  Learning Arabic from two native speakers wasn’t enough. Nasser’s parents sent him to classes. Which had been like piano lessons when you wanted to go out and play ball. But unlike all his American friends, there was no arguing with his parents. In college it had been an easy language elective, then a dual major that might improve his job prospects. It was actually easier for him than taking English.

  When the FBI advertised it was looking for translators, it had sounded exciting. He took the language tests and they instantly offered him a job, contingent upon receiving a Top Secret security clearance. He wouldn’t be a permanent FBI employee, just a contract worker. Nasser found out later that was because Congress tightly controlled both the FBI budget and the number of employees. The FBI did have linguists as permanent employees, called Language Specialists. But the more Language Specialists, the fewer Special Agents. So all the new hires went on contract.