500 Days

by Kurt Eichenwald

  Arar had held three business meetings with Almalki, the document said. Blackman cited one lunch that took place at a restaurant as particularly suspicious, since Arar had been seen walking in the rain with Almalki.

  The false weather report, with its illogical connection to terrorism, helped drive the decision to ship Arar to Syria.

  • • •

  The Gulfstream III landed in Amman, Jordan, at about two on the morning of October 9. While the Syrians were willing to hold Arar, they would not take him directly. Their cooperation with the United States—ostensibly an enemy—had to remain a secret.

  Arar was handed over to Jordanian officials. They blindfolded him, chained him with new shackles, and loaded him into a van.

  “Put your head down,” one of the Jordanians said.

  Arar complied. Then the men started beating him on his face and head.

  • • •

  Through a grating above his cell, Abdullah Almalki detected the sounds of a new arrival. The guards searched the man’s bags, asking him to identify various items.

  “That’s Swiss chocolate,” Almalki heard the man say. He recognized the voice. Maher Arar had arrived at Far’ Falastin.

  Almalki listened as Arar asked the same questions he had posed on his first day in this hell. Where was the bed? Where was the pillow? Still so naive.

  It wouldn’t be long, Almalki knew, before he would hear Arar’s screams.

  13

  The first snow of the Russian winter dusted the tree-shrouded hunting lodge at the Zavidovo nature preserve. As a motorcade approached, Vladimir Putin and his wife, Ludmilla, stepped outside onto a porch to greet their visitors.

  The caravan stopped. Tony and Cherie Blair emerged from a limousine and walked toward the Putins. As flashbulbs popped, there were handshakes and airy kisses. The Russian president gestured toward a flag hoisted above the building.

  “I made it a point to meet you under the Russian flag,” he said in practiced English.

  The Putins escorted the Blairs inside for a tour of the house, then settled in an elegant drawing room beside an unlit, ornate fireplace. A group of reporters appeared at the doorway. One of them asked the prime minister what he thought of Zavidovo.

  Breathtaking, he said, and a wonderful place to meet. “I’m looking forward to my talks with President Putin,” Blair said.

  The prime minister had traveled to Russia on this day, October 11, hoping to persuade Putin to support a new U.N. resolution on Iraq. Both Blair and Bush had been lobbying members of the Security Council all week; in a phone call two days earlier, Bush had urged Jacques Chirac, the French president, to support a single declaration threatening Saddam with severe consequences if he failed to comply. But Chirac was wary; he told Bush that he preferred a two-tiered approach, with weapons inspectors returning to Iraq and leaving the question of military force until later. It was the same position that Blair had advanced to the president privately, without success.

  Bush had ceded responsibility for winning over the Russian president to Blair, with good reason—the prime minister had cultivated a strong rapport with Putin, while relations between Russia and America remained frosty at best. If Blair could convince Putin that the U.N. resolution was just as important to the British government as it was to the Bush administration, he thought, it would go a long way toward winning him over.

  To sway Putin to their cause, both London and Washington had assembled their evidence of Saddam’s malfeasance, delivering separate unclassified intelligence reports in the days leading up to the Zavidovo summit. What Blair didn’t know as the two men prepared to square off was the futility of the mission—Putin had already privately brushed off the “Dossier” from Britain and the “National Intelligence Estimate” from the United States as rehashes of old information that he had previously scorned as inadequate.

  The wives headed out of the sitting room, leaving Blair on a couch with Putin across from him in an armchair. Two interpreters stood by while the Russian president continued flaunting his growing proficiency in English with small talk; his fluency wasn’t up to the subtleties of diplomatic discourse.

  In short order, Putin laid out his main message—he wasn’t happy. Almost alone among the Russian leadership, he was dedicated to pursuing a pro-Western policy, he said, but the Bush administration seemed to have no appreciation for his willingness to go out on a limb.

  “This is very important for the West,” he said, “but I feel I am getting very little in return for this from the United States.”

  Blair nodded. “I think Bush gets it, but I’m not sure of some of the others,” he said.

  As the hours passed, Putin repeatedly returned to the same theme. His show of petulance filled Blair with frustration—from the first time he met Bush, Blair had urged the president to display a show of trust to Putin. Now, as he listened to Putin’s carping, he realized his message had gone unheeded. The administration had misplayed its hand by failing to show proper deference to Putin, frittering away its influence over an important player in the war on terror.

  “I understand,” Blair said. “I’ll talk to Bush about it.”

  Not enough. The United States was strong-arming the international community, Putin said, with no recognition of the challenges facing its allies.

  “If there is something the Americans are worried about, they expect the whole world to share their concerns and drop everything,” he said. “But if it is something that the rest of the world is interested in, like the Middle East peace process, they don’t get the urgency.”

  His exasperation didn’t end there. The hypocrisy of the Bush administration in wooing him to join its campaign against extremists, while at the same time impeding his crackdown on terrorists at Russia’s gate, was a wonder to behold, he said.

  “Suppose we act against Georgia, which is a base for terrorism against Russia,” he said. “What would you say if we took Georgia out? Yet the Americans think they can do whatever they like to whomever they like.”

  This wasn’t going well. The Americans’ cavalier treatment of the proud and thin-skinned Russian leader had offended him deeply—and now they wanted him to jump on their bandwagon. Sure, it was Blair who was making the case for the Iraq policy, but Putin knew that the White House had formulated it.

  “I understand,” Blair repeated. “I appreciate your importance and the importance of Russia in these endeavors, and I know President Bush does as well. I’m sorry if this hasn’t been communicated well. Both the British and American governments recognize that Russia must be part of any Iraq policy. We want your thoughts. Again, I will contact President Bush to discuss this, but I know his respect for you and for Russia is the same as mine.”

  Putin nodded, his expression inscrutable.

  Blair discussed the steps under way to formulate a U.N. resolution, adding that, of course, Russian input was indispensable. But time was running out. The dossier sent to Putin only days before made clear the situation’s urgency, he said.

  Impassively, Putin sat back in his chair. “I saw nothing there to support the claims that Saddam Hussein possesses weapons of mass destruction,” he said coolly. “The information from the CIA was not any better.”

  Blair went white. He should have been told this was coming. His staff had failed miserably on this one.

  “We believe there is important data there,” Blair said. “At the very least, it raises significant concerns about Saddam’s designs. It is essential that we make sure about his weapons. That’s why we need the inspectors to go back into Iraq.”

  “I agree,” Putin said. “But I do not see the need for a fresh resolution. The U.N. has already made its demands on Iraq. We just have to make sure that the will of the U.N. is respected.”

  Before Blair could respond, Putin signaled the possibility of compromise. “That does not mean I am ruling out supporting a new resolution in the future,” he said.

  Still, why was Iraq all-important? Putin asked. Islamic extremis
ts were the real danger. The flood of that intelligence had not let up; there were threats in Indonesia, Britain, Spain, the United States, and of course, in Russia. Terrorists linked to al-Qaeda were everywhere. Why was Bush squandering time and resources going after Saddam Hussein?

  “Do you really think that Iraq is more dangerous than this fundamentalism?” Putin asked.

  Blair shook his head. “Course not.”

  • • •

  That same day in Denpasar, Indonesia, three Muslim extremists scooped a granulated explosive into twelve plastic filing cabinets. After months of planning, the men and their coconspirators—all members of the Southeast Asian terror group Jemaah Islamiyah—were working on the final stages of what would prove to be the deadliest terrorist attack since 9/11.

  The targets were two Bali nightspots frequented by American and Australian tourists—Paddy’s Irish Pub and the Sari Club. They had been selected as part of a strategy formulated earlier that year with a senior al-Qaeda operative known as Hambali—rather than striking at well-protected buildings like embassies, they would attack “soft targets” like bars and discos. The first step in the plan took place in August, when two of the extremists robbed a Serang jewelry store. The stolen loot, combined with $30,000 provided by al-Qaeda, was used for safe houses, vehicles, and chemicals for bombs.

  After several days of stirring together the chemicals—potassium chlorate, aluminum powder, and sulfur—the lethal mixture was ready for the filing cabinets. Once the containers were full, the conspirators roped them together with 490 feet of explosive cord and inserted 94 RDX electric detonators. A drawer of TNT was added to serve as a kicker for the explosion.

  • • •

  The next afternoon, Ali Imron, a Jemaah Islamiyah terrorist, pulled his green Suzuki Vitara to the front of the Hotel Harum. Waiting for him outside were two young men barely out of their teens, known by the aliases Iqbal and Jimi. They climbed in and Imron drove away, heading to the Denpasar safe house on Pulau Menjangan Street. There, over the next few hours, his passengers would be taught how to blow themselves up.

  The sons of rice farmers, Iqbal and Jimi were achingly poor and uneducated men who had grown up in tiny wooden huts with no electricity and no running water. They had few possessions and little hope for a better future. But they found solace in Islam and, like many young men in their town of Malimping, had been swept up by the calls to jihad. Imam Samudra, one of the Jemaah Islamiyah plotters, promised that they could trade their earthly misery for the joys of paradise if they martyred themselves by murdering unbelievers. The two young men excitedly told Samudra that they had both dreamed of having visited Afghanistan and embraced bin Laden, who asked them if they wanted to die as martyrs. Their tale left Samudra with no doubt. These devotees of the faith were meant to be the suicide bombers for the Bali attack.

  The plan required two vehicles, and both were parked at the Menjangan safe house—a white 1983 Mitsubishi L300 van and a Yamaha FZ1R motorcycle. All but the van’s front seat had been stripped out, making room for the filing cabinets jammed with explosives. To ensure that the van could not be linked to them, the terrorists had ground down the vehicle identification numbers—commonly known as VIN numbers—stamped onto the chassis and the engine.

  The motorcycle had been purchased the day before to transport a much smaller bomb that would be detonated on a street beside the American consulate. That explosive wasn’t expected to kill anyone; instead, it was meant as a message to the United States that its policies were responsible for the carnage at the nightclubs.

  Imron brought Iqbal and Jimi inside to explain the plans for that night. They would drive the van to Kuta, the nightlife capital of Bali, then park outside of the Suri Club. Jimi would remain in the vehicle, and Iqbal—wearing a six-pocketed vest filled with TNT—would walk into Paddy’s and blow himself up. Survivors were sure to run for the exits while the revelers across the street at Suri would be lured outside by the commotion. Then Jimi would detonate the van; the large bomb would tear apart partiers on the street and—hopefully—destroy both nightclubs, murdering everyone inside.

  Jimi and Iqbal were thrilled. To be martyred in such an attack was an honor, one that they prayed would be a call to arms for all Muslims.

  • • •

  The motorcycle headlight illuminated small trees that lined a curb on Hayam Wuruk Street in Denpasar. Ali Imron rode with one hand on the handlebars and the other clutching a plastic bag containing TNT, a Nokia 5110 mobile phone, and human excrement.

  As Imron approached the American consulate, he flipped a “kill” switch he had installed the previous day on the Yamaha motorcycle. The engine sputtered and died, just as he had planned. He leaned toward the curb, pretending to fiddle with a stubborn motor, and tossed the plastic bag onto the adjacent footpath. It looked like any other unremarkable piece of roadside trash.

  Pulling himself back up, he hit the switch again and revved the engine. He drove off, back to the safe house where the Mitsubishi van was ready to deliver its deadly cargo.

  • • •

  That night, Blaine Pecaut lay down and slid on a pair of headphones. The young American had just finished washing up in his room at the Cempaka Hotel Kuta and was taking a moment to relax after a full day of surfing. Earlier, he had eaten dinner with two friends and three British surfers they had just met—Marc Gajardo, Hannabeth Luke, and Melanie Cohen. Over their meal, the Britons suggested that they all go partying at the Sari Club nearby. While his two friends said they were too tired, Pecaut agreed to join the others.

  But exhaustion caught up with him. He fell asleep and didn’t wake up when his new acquaintances knocked on the door. Getting no answer, the group left without him and walked the five minutes to the nightclub.

  • • •

  The usual bumper-to-bumper traffic filled the one open lane on Legian Street in Kuta’s buzzing central strip. A swirl of bright lights and pounding music punctuated the laughter of young tourists as they barhopped past vendors hawking knockoffs of high-end clothes.

  At about eleven, the bomb-laden Mitsubishi van was driving down Raya Kuta Street and reached the Legian intersection. Ali Imron turned right onto the clogged street. The van moved slowly, weighed down by the one-ton bomb. Coming to a stop, Imron left the driver’s seat and Jimi took the wheel. Behind them in the cargo area, Iqbal was slipping on the vest loaded with TNT.

  Imron got out and glanced around, looking for a fellow conspirator named Joni Hendrawan, also known as Idris, who was supposed to have ridden the Yamaha motorcycle there. He spotted Idris at the side of the road, ran over, and jumped on the back of the bike. Then, as the two men roared off, Idris fumbled for his cell phone. He was preparing to call the Nokia 5110 mobile phone that was wired to the bomb lying on a curb near the American consulate.

  • • •

  Jimi stepped on the gas, nudging the van inch by inch down Legian Street. A taxi followed closely behind, ferrying a Japanese couple, Kosuke and Yuka Suzuki. It was their honeymoon.

  • • •

  The rhythms of Eminem’s “Without Me” pumped through speakers inside the Suri Club as lights flashed in sync with the music. The place was packed with more than three hundred people drinking, dancing, and shouting over the ruckus. At the bar, several members of the Kingsley Amateur Football Club from Perth were in high spirits on their first night of a vacation to celebrate a successful season.

  One of the team members, Corey Paltridge, jumped onto the dance floor and launched into an air-guitar impression of Angus Young, the leader of the Australian rock group AC/DC. His friends laughed as other revelers backed away, giving the twenty-year-old room for his performance.

  A few feet away, a teammate named Bradley McIlroy was sitting with three Swedish girls. One of them, who said her name was Joanne, seemed particularly interested in him, and McIlroy slid his arm around her.

  Two friends from Melbourne, Shelley Campbell and Belinda Allen, had been in the Sari Club for only a few mi
nutes before they heard that two professional soccer players from Australia—Michael Martyn and Jason McCartney—were across the street at Paddy’s. Shelley knew Jason, and suggested to Belinda that they head over to say hi. The two women started to make their way out when Belinda stopped.

  “I need to go to the toilet,” she said.

  Belinda moved through the crowds toward the ladies’ room, and Shelley followed. They both went inside. Eminem’s hip-hop song faded to an end and was replaced by the pop-disco rhythm of Cher’s “Believe.” Marc Gajardo, the thirty-year-old British surfer who had walked from the Cempaka Hotel with his girlfriend and another woman, made a face of mock disgust.

  He leaned in to speak to his girlfriend, Hannabeth Luke. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I really can’t dance to this.”

  Marc headed for the door, grabbing a chance for some fresh air. Outside, a white Mitsubishi van pulled in front of him. The door opened and a man wearing a heavy vest stepped out, then crossed the street toward Paddy’s.

  • • •

  Inside, Natalie Gould was standing at the bar, just a few feet away from her longtime friend Nicole McLean. The two had been in Bali for only four and a half hours, and Paddy’s was their first stop of the evening.

  Near the center of the room, the two members of Australia’s professional football league, Michael Martyn and Jason McCartney, were nursing a couple of beers. They had been at the bar for fifteen minutes.

  An Indonesian man wearing a vest made his way through the crowds, passing Michael and Jason. He thrust his hand into his pocket and flicked the switch.

  • • •

  A burst of current flowed through electrical wires in a nanosecond, simultaneously reaching multiple detonators. The impulse vaporized thin wire filaments inside the blasting caps, setting off an explosive charge. Each solid molecule of TNT was converted into fifteen molecules of hot gas and powdered carbon. The blast expanded at a velocity of more than twenty-nine thousand feet per second, creating a percussive wave that could tear apart everything in a sixty-foot radius.