Lately, Northwood found himself wishing to expand his relationship with Hanadi. He found the solicitor attractive both intellectually and physically, and she seemed to like him, as well. The fact that she was some twenty years younger bothered him not in the least. He still managed select relationships with his female graduate students, and had a very high regard for himself in that area. Idly, he wondered if she would be interested in his guided tour of the Underground.
The activist tactics he envisioned at that initial meeting incorporated no violent acts whatsoever. He was a firm believer in the power of the written word.
Hanadi herself was very sincere about the release of the prisoners, and had every intention of participating in their legal activities toward that end. She was a strong believer in the rule of law, and the effecting of change through legal avenues. She was employed by an old firm in London, whose four senior partners were QC’s and heavily involved in the legal battles of the left. Their approval was tacit, and she was very concerned with impressing them, as she held the motivations of the firm in the highest regard. She was also a devout Muslim, and sincerely felt that the religion of Fawwaz and Eidarous was at least one of the reasons they were being held, if not the principal one. She also had family members in Palestine and her parents were living in Lebanon. She maintained close contacts with them, and traveled to see them at least twice a year. They, too, would have enormous approval of her if she were to obtain the prisoner’s release; and substantial approval would be voiced even were she to try and ultimately fail. To Hanadi, her family’s approval and recognition of her was of equal importance to, and perhaps the result of, her religion. She had been known in law school as one of the most sincere and passionate believers in the law, never developing the somewhat cynical attitude of many of her contemporaries.
She, too, had no intention of committing any violent actions. The thought of doing anything illegal at all would have run counter to her nature. She did have family members who, perhaps, felt differently, but she herself was a firm and solid believer in the rule of both Islamic and secular laws.
Imad was concerned with three goals from the outset: obtaining the power behind the scenes, which he had achieved by becoming the treasurer, chief of staff, and field commander; recruiting one or more non-Muslim participants, which he had accomplished by voting the professor into the chairmanship; and most importantly, establishing a cover organization for his more active operations. This third goal was well on its way, and needed only the recruitment of his soldiers. His motivation regarding the prisoners in Belmarsh Prison was their utility to his cause. He was a terrorist, although one without portfolio at this time. He, too, had relatives in other countries: Saudi Arabia, the United States, the United Kingdom, France, Germany and Egypt. Most were uncles and cousins, and several would have been hard put to recognize him in a crowded room. All of them would offer their help if asked.
He was committed to violence from the very beginning. He believed in the effectiveness of explosives and automatic weapons.
The last subject for the evening was introduced by the new chairman. “Do you suppose we need code names?”
The tone of his voice told Imad that code names would appeal strongly to Northwood. Imad was careful not to scoff. He, after all, was already operating under an alias. “I think code names would be fine,” he said, fully aware that his ‘cell members’ would very likely be using their own email addresses and their own telephone numbers to communicate messages with their ‘code names,’ rendering them pointless in any practical sense. He was also aware, although he would have been hard put to elucidate it, that his acquiescence to a rather childish behavior would make him even more effective within this little cell when the time came.
Hanadi liked the idea of the code name, considered that it could ad a unique flavor to their proceedings, and also agreed. She, herself, fully intended to acquire a new email account under an assumed name.
“I’d like to use Marwan,” said Northwood, quite seriously. “As a tribute to the 9/11 hijackers.” Marwan al Shehhi had been the hijacker who had piloted United Airlines Flight 175 to its doom, and Northwood liked the sound of Marwan.
To himself, Imad felt that the martyred al Shehhi would not have approved. But if this token Englishman wanted to do this thing, he would not object.
Hanadi considered for a moment. “I would choose Ayat,” she said. “For personal reasons.” Ayat Akhras had been an 18 year old girl who had blown herself up at a bus stop in Jerusalem. She had been a friend of one of Hanadi’s cousins, and Hanadi had met her on her last return to her paternal home. She had been shocked and very saddened by this event, but found to her surprise that she admired the commitment of the young woman.
Neither Northwood nor Imad knew this information, although Imad knew instantly who Ayat Akhras had been. He and Northwood did not press her regarding her personal reasons. Hanadi had let it be known in many ways that she was a very private person.
There remained Imad. “I shall keep Imad,” he said. He smiled. “Also for personal reasons.”
Robert Northwood found that slightly irritating. His “man of mystery” façade had been trumped by an actually mysterious man. He did hope that Hanadi, or Ayat as she would now be known in their circles, would ignore that.
The meeting adjourned after an agreement was reached to meet weekly, in varied locations. It was an informal, friendly and innocuous beginning; constructed by two amateurs and a professional. It is of interest that this was the last time that the group would meet on such relaxed terms.
July 5, 2003
A Compound near Wana, Pakistan
The house was small, but clean and well kept. The chief occupant was known, even in the village, as ‘the Man in the House.’ His name was not spoken, although there was absolutely no doubting who he was, and no doubting the loyalty of each and every villager. Their caution was for the sole purpose of preventing any chance of the name of the man to be overheard by any visitor to their village in the mountains. He never stayed more than a week, and this was his fourth visit in a year.
There were three al-Qaeda–linked compounds in the hills near the village; a training facility that had been a small farm and which dealt exclusively with the design and packaging of explosives; the small safe house that contained ‘the man’ and his small group; and the furthest from the village and on the only road into the place, was an isolated series of small huts that contained the security group who protected the residents of the small safe house. The village, in turn, was near the town of Shakai, about 25 kilometers west of Wana, the largest town in South Waziristan. South Waziristan was part of a Federally administered Tribal area on the Pakistani/Afghan border. The actual border was a mater of some conjecture, and was described in various intelligence documents as “permeable.”
The tall man, who had made the long, arduous and at times extremely dangerous trek from Kabul, closely pressed by US Forces, had enjoyed relative peace for the last year. Although the invasion of Afghanistan by the US in October of 2001 had not been anticipated, by February of 2002, the man and his followers had been able to consider themselves relatively secure. The American aircraft surely were not about to drop their bombs on Pakistani soil, or even an area that might be Pakistani. As for their Special Operations troops, he was always concerned, but not worried. The local tribesmen were very alert, and he had friends in the Pakistani Military Intelligence service.
He was seated on the floor, at a small table, signing and recording documents that were to be taken out this afternoon by courier. He glanced up at his visiting brother-in-law.
“This . . .” He glanced again at the paper before him, making certain that he had the title correct, “. . . London Islamic Reform Movement for the freedom of Khaled al Fawwaz and Ibrahim Eidarous?” He looked back up. “Is there truly a need for this Movement?”
“Not a need,” said his brother-in-law, who had read the correspondence from London over an hour ago. “A use, I think. T
hey are led by one of some reliability, who has had training. Imad Imadhi.”
“The engineer?” The man remembered him as having great potential use for the organization, but he had not been considered sufficiently reliable to be accepted into the fold.
“Yes. There are also members of the educated class, who are either born in Britain, or who are at least citizens. They are requiring some little funding, which could be provided by assets on hand in London. All that is required is that they undertake an operation. If they succeed, it is a benefit. If they fail, and their identities revealed, it is also a benefit because they will shock the British.”
The man thought. “I remember Imad. Yes. An electrical engineer is a very useful thing to be. And a native born Englishman linked to our goals will be upsetting, I’m sure.” He smiled. “So. Then they should undertake this action they propose. It is one in keeping with their name. Allah willing, they will succeed.”
Both men were silent for a few moments. “There are the five in Belmarsh Prison. Attention could be drawn to their plight by this. They have no need to coordinate with other cells. It is a stand-alone operation. It is a way for Imad to prove his worth.”
The tall man considered, and then said, “It needs to divide, if possible.”
“They say they propose a hostage,” said his brother-in-law.
“Their demand should be high. The immediate release of the five. They are to be taken to the Egyptian Embassy.” He smiled thinly. “Let that be the Egyptian’s dilemma.”
“Excellent.” The brother-in-law smiled. “Should we suggest an American hostage? Any additional strain between the Americans and the British . . .”
“Notify Hjaer that there will be a diversionary operation. Give him the adopted name of the group. When he hears of them, he will know that we have given them our guidance, that they act for us, and that he will not need to concern himself with their activities.”
Hjaer was their senior operative in London. Hjaer was a very busy man.
Each document was completed, signed, and given to a courier, one Hamid Rama, a bona fide member of The Harkat-ul-Mujahideen. In the course of his long and dusty journey, he walked the fifteen or so kilometers to Wana, arriving late in the evening. From there the next day, he rode in the back of an old Volkswagen pick-up that was headed to Bannu. Those 138 road kilometers took an entire day, as they had two flat tires on the journey. From there, he traveled another 350 kilometers by bus to Muridke, an Arab financed suburb of Lahore where he and his fellow terrorists had many, many friends. He had now traveled more than 500 kilometers from Wanna. At Muridke, he handed the small packet to another courier, who began his own 1,000 kilometer route to Karachi. The shipment of the parcel from the small village on the Afghan border would take eight days. Once in Karachi, the message was transcribed and posted on an Arabic language website which would only exist for ten days. At the same time, an innocuous email was sent to an address in London, with the childishly cryptic sentence: “I intend to purchase the goats on the 23rd.” That was the date when the recipient should check the website. The original document was then placed on an ageing steamship, and would arrive in Australia in about a month. From there, it would be sent via the Royal Mail to its recipient in London. It would be received as confirmation not only of an operation, but of a deep and binding confidence. It was a confidence that was not to be betrayed.
Chapter 3
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Ashburnham Road
London, UK
At the time Emma Schiller was sitting with her friends at the Gatehouse Pub, Robert Hastings Northwood, known to his terrorist cell members as “Marwan,” was in his flat on Ashburnham Road, looking out the window, and wishing he were alone. He glanced at the VCR above his television. The blue numerals of the clock said 9:55 PM.
“She should be at the tube station about now,” he said, shifting his gaze back to the street below. He was in his forties, thin, and of medium height. He had close, curly black hair and there were those who assumed him to be Jewish at first glance. That amused him no end, and he encouraged it.
His new partner in this wild enterprise, who was sitting in the overstuffed chair in Marwan’s flat, nodded. “Then we should have our call in ten or fifteen minutes, no?”
“We should, yes.”
“Good.”
This new partner, known to Marwan only as “Mr. Kazan,” was a squat individual, in his sixties, dark complexioned with a full head of grey hair, and a bushy salt and pepper moustache. His only truly remarkable feature was a pair of uncommonly large ears. Marwan had met him on two prior occasions, the first of which had been only the previous week, when Mr. Kazan had been introduced to the committee by the engineer Imad as being his ‘mentor,’ and who would now assume leadership of their committee.
Northwood/Marwan had protested, and had been told very clearly that it would be in his best interests to adapt quickly. That had been very much a surprise, and would have had him fleeing for his life if he hadn’t been so profoundly surprised, and if Hanadi hadn’t been there. He trusted Imad to an extent, but he wanted desperately to impress Hanadi, and she seemed to accept the change in leadership with no objections at all. Besides, this Kazan fellow was obviously too old to be of a personal interest to Hanadi. What could be the harm? As his sister had once told him, he sometimes let his thinking be done by the wrong organ.
Marwan/Northwood had originally proposed this plan, if it could be termed such, a few weeks ago. It had started out as mere conversation, something with which to pass the time until Hanadi joined them. He had said to Imad, while they were having coffee in a restaurant across the street from Hanadi’s law firm, that the way to attract the attention of the establishment to the seriousness of a group seemed to require the taking of a hostage. He proposed this in an ironic way, but the distinction seemed lost on his companion.
Imad seemed very receptive to the concept, and expanded the scenario, saying that it should be an American hostage. “That could serve a useful purpose. Let everyone know it’s the Americans who are . . . responsible, in a general sense. Nobody here would take it personally, if it was an American. If it was an American, so what?”
“Of course,” said Northwood, hurriedly, “we wouldn’t want to go to jail for years. So it should be a staged affair.”
“Staged?”
“The hostage would agree to be taken, and would then reveal it as a more of a dramatization than an actual crime.”
“We should ask Hanadi about that,” said Imad. “But keep going. I like this.”
“Well, I suppose we could videotape the hostage . . . with some suitable slogan in the background. Muss up his hair, you know . . . make him appear distressed. Read a statement. Off camera,” he added hastily. “Demand the release of several of the Belmarsh prisoners. Then, next day or two, expose it as a hoax. No harm done. A teleplay, in a way. Theatrical, you know.” He mused for a moment. “Art, really,” he said, distracted by the thought.
“Who would you take as a hostage? Do you know some Americans?”
“What? Oh, indeed. Of course. I have a good half dozen in my classes right now. Graduate students. Doctoral candidates. Not kids. In their late twenties or early thirties.”
“How would an American agree to do this? They can’t have much interest in our people at Belmarsh.”
“I can be most convincing,” Northwood had said. He would cringe at that memory in retrospect.
Imad gave him a skeptical look. “Would you have someone in mind?”
Succumbing to what he would later refer to as the Henry Higgins syndrome, Northwood glanced around the room, and his eye fell on Emma Schiller at a table some distance away.
“I could persuade her,” he said.
Imad followed Northwood’s gaze. “Which one?”
“The smallish young woman in the corner, with the blond man. She’s wearing a red sweater,” said Northwood, looking back toward Imad.
“You think so?”
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br /> “I do. That’s an American named Miss Schiller. Emma Schiller. She’s just one of my students, and a randy little thing at that. I could,” he’d said, with great confidence, “persuade her to do many things.” He gave Imad a knowing look. “It would be a pleasure.”
“Truly?”
“Oh, certainly. Without a doubt.” A night at his flat, he thought. Perhaps a trip to his sisters’ in the lake country, for deep political discussions while naked under the down comforter. “Easiest thing in the world,” he said. A man, after all, needed to play to his strengths.
Robert Northwood had not discussed that “plan” with Imad again, until after the introduction of Mr. Kazan into the group. When Imad had outlined the hostage plan in front of Mr. Kazan, Northwood had started to backpedal. He’d never actually thought of doing it. And they certainly weren’t talking about using the down comforter approach.
The implications were not pleasant.
Imad then outlined a somewhat different plan, in which the girl Emma would be taken before she agreed to cooperate.
“I’m sure you can persuade her later,” he’d said, with a strange, tight smile. “We have the greatest confidence in you.”
“Absolutely not.” Northwood explained that, without her pre-cooperation, the entire hoax concept would be jeopardized.
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