The Exile

by Adrian Levy

  At dusk on December 27, 2007, after a huge PPP rally in Rawalpindi, Benazir Bhutto drove off through cheering crowds. Her staff commented that the electricity in the area seemed to have been switched off, throwing a pall over everything. As she stood up out of her Land Cruiser’s sunroof to bid farewell to supporters, gunshots rang out. A split second later, a suicide bomber detonated himself beside the car. Bhutto was thrown back into her bulletproof vehicle, hitting her head on the way down.

  Evacuated to a Rawalpindi hospital, she was declared dead at six sixteen P.M.31 Whether she died from a bullet wound or a neck fracture was a mystery that would never be solved, as Zardari refused to allow a postmortem. He squarely blamed Musharraf for her death, claiming that the president had rejected her requests for foreign security contractors and her demands that her domestic security be upgraded. He cited the fact that emergency crews had hosed down the crime scene before the police arrived.

  When the case was eventually unraveled, a filament of it appeared to lead back to Baitullah Mehsud, the new emir of the Pakistan Taliban, who had been encouraged by Musharraf to take out his rival. Although the link was never proven, the fact that most people believed it underscored yet again how the Pakistan Army both thrived on and was corroded by the forces of terror spawning inside the country.

  When the February elections came, widower Zardari, who had previously been known by many Pakistanis as Mr. Ten Percent—a reference to his alleged slice of all contracts awarded during his wife’s two tenures as prime minister—campaigned noisily in the name of his martyred wife, and the PPP swept to power in parliament with a landslide win. Musharraf clung on as president for another six months, but in August 2008, facing impeachment for suspending the constitution and conspiracy charges concerning Bhutto’s murder, a dejected man whose reign had come to define an epoch of terror as much as that of George W. Bush was finally forced from office.32

  March 2008, Block 300, Tehran

  Sulaiman Abu Ghaith was driven to the Afghan border for another phone call, but this time standing in the whistling desert he rang a different number. It was the eldest of his six daughters, who sounded as tearful as he was.

  Did he know that she, her sisters, and her brother had been consigned to their grandparents after their mother remarried, and had been told that their father was dead? “Are you ever coming back?” she wept.

  With the call on an open line, listened in on by the Quds Force and whoever else, all Abu Ghaith could do was promise he would never stop trying to reach them.

  As soon as he got back to Block 300, he took root in the majlis again and commenced another hunger strike, spending his waking hours writing what he described as his “book of regrets,” a scrawl of sorrows that coalesced into an embittered rejection of Osama’s jihad.33 “Those who think that jihad means carrying arms and fighting the enemy are mistaken,” he wrote, pointing to the Sheikh and his lieutenants. “They think that they are right all the time and they are encircled by a bunch of advisers who do not qualify to give advice,” he said, echoing the hundreds of complaint letters Osama had received from the Middle East about Zarqawi. Now all he wanted to do was “stop the chaos” introduced by second-generation Al Qaeda thugs like Zarqawi and his successors. He rejected violence, favoring working to “secure a better life for all who live with Islam and in the Islamic state.”

  He wrote and wrote. Spilling blood was against God’s wishes, he railed, explaining that his only wish was for his book to be published so that his children could see he was a good man.

  Abu Ghaith’s obsessive behavior eventually caused the Iranians to snap. When the guards tried to manhandle him back inside Block 300, a tussle turned into a thrown punch, which degenerated into a fight that exploded into a full-blown prison riot. Egyptians and Libyans ripped up sheets and shattered wooden beds, setting fires, hurling petrol bombs made with secretly stockpiled heating fuel, and daubing anti-Shia messages on the walls. Abu Ghaith’s rage was infectious. Everyone wanted out. Osama’s sons pelted guards with stones. The director of the compound stood in the yard, hands on hips, declaring: “Could you all please calm down.”

  According to the Mauritanian, he “participated in their protest as a sign of sympathy.” When the exasperated director withdrew, Abu Ghaith stomped back into the majlis. Osama’s grandsons acted as lookouts, watching the main gate. “Car!” they shouted, seeing a brand-new Peugeot drive in. Abu Ghaith shot out, armed with “his weapons and tools.” The Iranian driver fled, leaving the keys in the ignition, and Abu Ghaith jumped in, revving the engine and slamming the vehicle into a fence before leaping onto the hood and scratching a message: “This is for your sake, my dear children!” Jumping down, he poured heating fuel on the vehicle before setting it alight. Children stood around whooping.

  That night, General Qassem Suleimani sent somber-faced and neatly uniformed “military judicial officials” into Block 300 to take Abu Ghaith off to Evin prison.

  Then Qassem arrived in person to address Osama’s family and the others. He was furious: “I did my best to serve you,” he told them, incredulous. “I turned a deaf ear to your unrest. I stopped those who wanted to hurt you. But things have gone too far.”34

  Osama’s hotheaded sons boiled over. “We have been illegally kidnapped and concealed in this secret jail,” they shouted, thumping the wall. “For five years we have had no legal rights. We have been prevented from contacting our families. Our children were born and have grown up in prison. Our ongoing incarceration goes against international law.” They said they would rather be prosecuted in open court than remain in this “living cemetery.”

  When Qassem offered to appoint a magistrate to hear the case, everyone calmed down. If this process was truly to be judicial, then the Mauritanian offered to pay $10,000 for the damaged car, so that the slate would be clean when they began.

  Osama’s sons returned to the majlis. After days turned into weeks, they began a series of heated discussions. “We need to get out from under the infidel’s fist,” railed a furious Othman, who suggested they try to contact their father in Pakistan. Ladin pointed out they had tried to do this a hundred times already with no success. Hamzah wanted to sign up for the jihad. His mother, Khairiah, wanted to return to her husband’s side, whatever the risks. Iman and Ladin wished to go to their mother, Najwa, in Syria. However, to make any of these dreams a reality, someone would have to escape.

  Escape. Now that someone had uttered the word, Osama’s sons hesitated. Despite the tough talking, they had been so institutionalized by their long incarceration that they were secretly fearful of the outside world. Perhaps there was a less dangerous option? The safest way might be to get transferred to a place where the security was less stringent and then send a message. Everyone agreed, relieved to procrastinate.

  The next day, the Mauritanian approached the administrators, complaining that Block 300 was too volatile. The fighting got in the way of study and prayer, he said, and the children and women were all suffering from depression. Surprisingly, the Iranians offered alternative accommodation in residential villas outside the complex and took the Mauritanian to visit. But the new apartments had bars on the windows, movement sensors in every room, and a complex electronic gate-locking mechanism, monitored with night-vision cameras. They stayed put.

  Reconvening in the majlis, autistic Saad suggested they should all dress up as women. Military chief Saif al-Adel wearily shook his head. This ruse had been used already, so the Iranians were wise to it. Someone else recommended sending word to Saif’s father-in-law, Abu Walid al-Masri, who lived semi-freely in a government villa elsewhere in Tehran. Saif disagreed. In order to get his deal, his father-in-law had likely agreed to work for the Iranians, which meant no one could trust him.

  Amid the discussions, the Mauritanian pointed out another problem. If everyone ran away, who would care for Fatima, who had no husband and could not travel unaccompanied? A couple of days later he came up with a ready-made solution. Why not marry Fatima to
Sulaiman Abu Ghaith? He could do with the distraction.

  The family agreed, although Fatima had no say in the matter. After Abu Ghaith consented (even though this marriage would be seen from the outside as further evidence that he was still wedded to the movement), the Mauritanian performed a quick ceremony. A muted celebration followed and then everyone sank back into a funk.

  In May 2008, ministry officials arrived on a détente mission, carrying boxes of sweets and cakes. Saad spotted that the gate had been left open, and, speaking fast in Arabic, ordered his nephews and nieces to make a run for it. They hurtled out toward the main entrance, surprising the Quds Force guards, who stood by openmouthed, not wanting to fire on children. Soon they were joined by their mothers, who sat down by the main entrance to the complex, through which they could see the shadows of members of the public strolling by.

  “We want freedom, we want human rights,” the women chanted, exhilarated by their sudden action. The Al Qaeda party remained immovable for the next thirty-six hours. They began shouting to the pedestrians on the other side. Confronted with a top secret cache of Al Qaeda hostages calling out for help, General Suleimani sent in negotiators. Ice creams were handed around for the children and a lavish meal was prepared for the adults, served out on the gravel. Sated, the Mauritanian recommended they negotiate, but Saif al-Adel overruled him, supported by Osama’s sons. After years of stasis, they were in a stronger position than ever before to demand change.35

  The talking lasted for hours with no resolution. Exasperated and deeply worried, the Iranians eventually sent soldiers dressed in black overalls and wearing ski masks. They fired tear gas and pushed the families back toward Block 300. In the melee, women and children were hit with sticks and rifles. Abu Ghaith was beaten unconscious. He and others accused of being ringleaders—including the Mauritanian—were sent to Evin prison as their wives launched a hunger strike.36

  June 2008, Secret Al Quds Detention Facility, Yazd, Central Iran

  Osama’s family was given twenty-four-hours’ notice to pack. Since the Iranians could no longer control their Al Qaeda guests, they would have to be split up. Only Fatima bin Laden, who was now married to Abu Ghaith, and the Military Council stayed behind; the rest were marched onto buses and driven out into the country’s central desert, where the temperature topped one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. After many hours of travel, they pulled up at Yazd, one of Iran’s most historic cities and a center for Zoroastrian culture.

  The bin Ladens’ new home was a huge, sand-colored villa surrounded by a low mud-brick wall. Saad, Othman, Mohammed, and Hamzah, together with their young families, as well as Khairiah and Najwa’s two unmarried children, Iman and Ladin, hurried inside to escape the glare of the sun.

  The Iranian escorts took rooms closest to the main gate. There would be no trips out to Yazd’s stunning central bazaar, with its vaulted ceiling, or to the dazzling blue-tiled twelfth-century grand mosque, they said. Such privileges had been lost as a result of everyone’s recent behavior. Each family unit was asked to provide a shopping list. As they wandered around the villa allocating the rooms, one thing struck them: there were no security cameras at the rear, and only a low wall. They had been moved in such haste that the villa was not ready for them.

  When they learned from news reports that Khalid Shaikh Mohammad and four others were about to go on trial for aiding the 9/11 attacks and would receive the death sentence if convicted, their discussions about escaping resumed with more vigor. Khalid was quoted as saying that he welcomed the death penalty. “Yes, this is what I wish, to be a martyr for a long time.”37 Osama’s family had no such wishes.

  But they would have to move fast, as technicians came daily to upgrade security. Hamzah volunteered to hop over the wall. Khairiah vetoed it. At nineteen, he was too young and would never survive on his own. Besides, his wife, Asma, had just given birth to a baby daughter, who they had named Khairiah, after her grandmother. She needed him here.

  Saad, who at twenty-nine was the nominal head of the household, piped up.38 He would do it in memory of his dead son, he said solemnly as his siblings shook their heads in disbelief. Saad, who couldn’t even tie his own shoelaces, would never make it out. Othman stepped forward. He would go.

  He would head for his father’s “land of jihad” and search for their half sister Khadija, who, as far as he knew, was still living in Waziristan within the tight-knit Al Qaeda group, along with Al Qaeda Number Three Sheikh Saaed al-Masri and their father’s chief spokesman, Atiyah.

  If that failed, he would try to locate Abdullah al-Sindi, a young Saudi courier who had once worked for Khalid Shaikh Mohammad and who Osama’s sons had got to know in early 2002 while in Karachi.39 Back then al-Sindi had networks that straddled the border and reached into Zahidan, a city with a large Arab community. Maybe he was still active?

  The plan felt too rushed and not well thought through. The family retired to discuss it again the next morning.

  That night, Saad sat on the carpet in his room, playing bedtime games with his son, Osama, and two daughters, Asma and Duha, as an idea formed in his befuddled mind. After he put the children to bed and his wife, Wafa, fell asleep, he quietly packed up his laptop.

  In the early hours, when he was sure everyone was asleep, he kissed his sleeping children, climbed out of a window, and slipped over the wall into the desert night. He would rescue them all.

  The alley behind the house was silent. He crouched in the shadows trying to sort through a jumble of thoughts until he realized he had not said farewell to his wife. He climbed back over the wall and crept into the bedroom, waking a confused Wafa. “I am leaving,” he whispered as he kissed her. “I am doing this for you.” Before she could say anything, he climbed out again, driven by a strong desire to prove himself, rewriting his past as the family joker.

  By the time an alarmed Wafa woke other members of the family, he was gone.40

  At first light, a lone taxi trundled along the desert road carrying a young Arab man who would not stop talking. At Kerman, a city two hundred miles to the southeast, the driver dropped him at the bus station. Telling other waiting passengers of his desire to travel to Iranian Balochistan, Saad was put on a bus heading for Zahidan, a place where Othman had said the Taliban still had a secure footing and where members of Khalid Shaikh Mohammad’s old network still lived. During the years they had been incarcerated with Saif al-Adel, Osama’s sons had been made to memorize details for helpful contacts in case they ever got out. But despite his best efforts, Saad could not recall a single telephone number.

  Dusty, confused, and bedraggled, at Zahidan he hung around at the bus station and then a local mosque, unsure of where to go next, until a Sunni family took him in out of pity. When he announced over dinner that he was the son of Osama bin Laden and had been imprisoned by the Iranian authorities for the past five years, the head of the household froze. The city was rife with rumors about a Zahidan-born man who still had relatives living locally but who had become a prized asset for the CIA, to whom he had given up Khalid Shaikh Mohammad in return for a king’s ransom.41

  Locking Saad inside the house, the reluctant host called around the city’s radical Sunni clerics until one of them turned up an old Pakistani cell phone number for Abu Uthman, Al Qaeda’s Pakistan operations chief. When he dialed and a voice answered, he explained the bare bones of the young man’s far-fetched story. Saad bin Laden, if this was who he really was, had escaped an Iranian prison and was insistent that he could not go back. Could Al Qaeda come to collect him?

  Uthman ordered the caller to stop speaking. The line was insecure, and if they could be heard, a drone could see them, too. He told him to sit tight.

  As soon as he finished the call, Uthman sent word to Osama that someone claiming to be his son had turned up in Zahidan. Until they had proof, they had broken off communications, he said. “The link between us and Sa’ad is disconnected for now and we think that the best way for [the plan to continue] is with the people that
he is with (we will call them the West).”42

  Despite Saad’s perilous situation, Abu Uthman could not risk making the journey himself. A local connection would have to be found. There was one Balochi “supporter” in Zahidan he still trusted. Uthman sent him a message that concluded: “May God grant you success so that you can complete the matter and make your hands accomplish good things.”43 This Balochi agreed to ask for help from a Taliban-supporting Zahidan cleric who sheltered the families of several Quetta shura members, including relatives of Mullah Omar.44 In 2002, this cleric had helped facilitate the movement of hundreds of Al Qaeda brothers into Iran; and after Khalid Shaikh Mohammad was sent to Guantánamo Bay in 2006, he had also helped Khalid’s wife and five of his seven children resettle in Zahidan. These days she raised goats and sold trinkets in Zahidan to get by, but her sons, Yusuf and Abed, who had been captured by the ISI in Karachi in 2002 and turned over to the CIA, had never been seen again.

  When the cleric saw Saad several days later, he recognized him immediately. They had met once before, at Mohammed bin Laden’s wedding in Kandahar in January 2001. Over tea, the young bin Laden babbled, insisting that he was going to Pakistan to find his father. When the cleric said this was impossible, Saad became angry. Seeing that he would be unable to stop him, or keep him, the cleric gave Saad a phone and an old Pakistani SIM card and dropped him off at the border point of Mirjaveh. From here, he should get a bus to Quetta, the home of Mullah Omar’s Taliban shura. Someone would be waiting at the other end to guide him, the cleric said, telling Saad not to talk to anyone. The bounty for a bin Laden son was high, he warned, pressing a box of dates into Saad’s hands, something to keep his mind off the road ahead.