That was just one of an almost endless series of planned terrorist operations over the years, many of which the CIA prevented. In 1998, the CIA learned that al-Qaeda was set to launch a new attack against an American embassy, this time in Tirana, Albania; the plotters were identified and snatched up. That same year, the agency disrupted terrorist plans by Turkish extremists connected to bin Laden; the men, who were arrested, had hoped to crash an airplane filled with explosives into the tomb of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the leader of the Turkish war of independence, during a government ceremony marking his death. Still, counterterrorism officials knew the odds were not with them. There was always too much worrisome information flooding in too fast. To stop al-Qaeda’s relentless operations, the intelligence community had to be successful every time. The terrorists had to be successful only once.
Now the evidence of a potential attack was as stark as it had ever been. Cofer Black, the chief of the Counterterrorist Center, had already accompanied Tenet and other CIA officers to the White House to sound the alarm. The Federal Bureau of Investigation had detected the emerging threats; the National Security Agency was picking up a disturbing increase in the amount of “chatter” among terrorists and their sympathizers. But the warnings engendered no coordinated, government-wide response, no sense of urgency to match the reaction to the millennium threat. No orders to strain budgets to the limit. No instructions to step up support for the Northern Alliance, the American-backed fighting force in Afghanistan that was battling al-Qaeda and the Taliban for control of the country. A gathering danger to the homeland was being met with a collective yawn.
On July 9, a Monday, the center’s top officials gathered in a basement conference room at headquarters to gauge the hopelessness of their dilemma. They knew the awful reality of what was coming—a massive terrorist attack, potentially on American soil. They knew, too, that they had a shield against the outcry that was bound to be hurled their way in the aftermath of a terrorist onslaught. Critics might rail that the Counterterrorist Center had fallen asleep at the switch, but the group’s records would prove otherwise—Cofer Black had retained a trove of classified PowerPoints that his team had presented in repeated briefings to senior government officials, all of them warning in dire terms of the impending disaster. His people were putting together another one at that moment, in a last attempt to get the message across that the administration was slumbering though an emergency.
Yet they knew, despite that proof of their diligence, the politicians would still make them the scapegoats if the worst happened. Not so much for their failure to collect intelligence, but for their failure to persuade the White House to listen.
As the meeting unfolded, one official offered a suggestion. “You know, if we were smart, we would rotate out of here and they can bring some new guys in to ride this thing down. ’Cause it’s going to be really, really bad.”
From the head of the table, Black waved away the idea. “Sorry, I don’t think we can do that,” he said. “First of all, we’d have to find somebody that’s capable of coming in here quickly, and I don’t think that’s likely.”
He flashed a smile. “Nobody’s more qualified than us to ride this thing down.”
Everyone laughed uneasily.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
Two months
“You’re not going to believe this!”
Tom Pickard, the acting director of the FBI, was fuming as he stormed into the office of Dale Watson, the top FBI official in charge of counterterrorism. It was about one o’clock on the afternoon of July 12 and Pickard had just returned from briefing the new attorney general, John Ashcroft, on the status of the FBI’s most pressing items.
The opinion within the FBI of Ashcroft had rapidly soured, and every few days brought another “you’re not going to believe this” story. He refused to allow security agents to check the locks and alarms in his house, or even to lay their eyes on his family members, whom they were duty-bound to protect. Then, in May, as the CIA was warning of a potential attack, Ashcroft had released a department-wide statement of his top priorities, and it hadn’t even mentioned terrorism. Pickard and Watson had been flabbergasted.
Despite Ashcroft’s apparent indifference, Pickard tried to hammer home the magnitude of the terrorist threat almost every time they met. But at this latest briefing, Pickard told Watson, the attorney general had gone off the rails.
“I was telling him about the high level of chatter, and how it suggested something big was about to happen,” Pickard told Watson. “And then he interrupted me and said, ‘I don’t want to hear about that anymore.’ ”
“What?”
“He didn’t want me to talk to him about al-Qaeda or the threats. He said there was nothing he could do about that.”
At that point the analysis indicated that any attack would occur overseas, but still. Investigating a strike on American interests, anywhere, would fall to the FBI. Americans would certainly die. All of the law enforcement machinery in the Justice Department—the FBI, the INS, the Border Patrol, the Marshals Service—needed to be oiled and ready. Why couldn’t Ashcroft grasp the obvious?
“I told him he should sit down right now and talk to George Tenet so he could hear from him right away about what was happening,” Pickard told Watson.
He had tried getting in Ashcroft’s face, and pushing back as much as he could. “But it didn’t work,” Pickard said. “He doesn’t want to hear about it.”
Orlando, Florida
One Month
The customs agent was at a loss. Since the Saudi had come to her booth minutes before, nothing had gone right.
The traveler had arrived that day, August 4, at Terminal A of the Orlando International Airport aboard Virgin Airlines flight 15 from London. He walked to customs and, after a short wait, presented his passport, declaration, and arrival-departure form.
But the documents had been filled out incorrectly, and the agent was struggling to solve the problem. The visitor, Mohammed al-Qahtani, didn’t speak English and was combative. The agent decided to refer him to another inspector, who could bring in a translator.
Just past 5:30 that afternoon, Qahtani was sent for further questioning to José Meléndez-Pérez, a twelve-year veteran. He’d often dealt with Saudi travelers and was accustomed to helping them straighten out problems with entry forms. This, he figured, wouldn’t be difficult.
Quickly, he realized how wrong he was. Qahtani’s dark, angry eyes frightened him. His body language conveyed pure arrogance. He seemed consumed by hate.
Before working as a customs agent, Meléndez-Pérez had spent twenty-six years in the military, and to him, Qahtani looked like a soldier. He was dressed in black, with short hair and a thin mustache. He appeared to be very strong.
Meléndez-Pérez shuffled through Qahtani’s paperwork and saw more problems—there was no return airline ticket, and no listed hotel reservation. This was suspicious. The agent requested an Arabic interpreter, and was soon questioning Qahtani.
“Mr. Qahtani, why are you not in possession of a return airline ticket?”
“I don’t know where I’m going when I leave the United States,” he snapped in Arabic as he jabbed his finger toward the agent’s face.
Meléndez-Pérez stepped back. Is this guy a hit man? Such hired guns often improvised their travel plans as they went along. On the other hand, Meléndez-Pérez thought, maybe he had watched too many gangster movies. Either way, Qahtani’s answer wasn’t reassuring. The agent tried again.
“A friend of mine is arriving in the United States at a later date,” Qahtani said. “He knows where I’m going. He is going to make the arrangements for my departure.”
“Do you know when your friend is arriving?”
“Three or four days,” Qahtani said with a sneer.
Moving on.
“What’s the purpose of your trip?” the agent asked. “And how long are you staying?”
“I’ll be vacationing and traveling throug
h the United States for six days.”
“Why would you be vacationing for only six days, and spend half the time waiting for your friend?”
Qahtani threw out a dismissive response. Meléndez-Pérez changed subjects.
“Where are you going to be staying?”
“Hotel.”
Again, nonsense. “With you not speaking English, and without a reservation, you’re going to have a lot of trouble getting around Orlando.”
“I have a friend waiting for me upstairs.”
“All right,” Meléndez-Pérez said. “What’s the name of your friend?”
Qahtani thrust his chin forward in defiance. “No one is meeting me.”
A contradiction—in a matter of seconds.
“So, this goes back to what I asked before,” Meléndez Pérez said. “How are you getting around Orlando?”
“I have to call my friend. Then he’ll pick me up.”
Meléndez-Pérez tried to show no reaction to what he knew was a stream of lies. “All right, give me your friend’s name and number.”
“No!” Qahtani barked. “It is none of your business!”
The interview went on for an hour and a half. A search turned up $2,800, hardly enough for a six-day vacation plus a hotel room and return airfare. Qahtani said a friend was bringing him more money—a friend he hadn’t known long.
Meléndez-Pérez suppressed a smile. Someone this guy barely knew was going to shell out hundreds of dollars for his airline ticket? Another lie. The agent asked if Qahtani would consent to being placed under oath. The Saudi agreed.
Meléndez-Pérez swore in Qahtani and asked his first question.
“I won’t answer,” he replied brusquely.
The interpreter translated the words, then looked Meléndez-Pérez in the eye. “Something’s wrong here.”
The agent nodded. That was clear. He would not allow Qahtani into the country.
Meléndez-Pérez explained his decision to his bosses. They authorized him to put the man on a plane back to London. The agent returned to Qahtani and told him that he was being turned away and advised that he voluntarily withdraw his application for admission.
Qahtani responded in fury. “I am not about to pay for a return ticket!”
Meléndez-Pérez nodded. “No problem,” he said. “We’ll place you in a detention facility overnight and tomorrow we will make the necessary arrangement to get you a plane ticket so you can go back where you came from.”
When the words were translated into Arabic, Qahtani’s face fell. All right. He would withdraw his application.
Arrangements were made for the return flight. Just before departure time, Meléndez-Pérez summoned another inspector, and the two of them escorted the Saudi to his gate. As he was about to board, Qahtani turned and glared at the two inspectors.
“I’ll be back,” he growled, his first English words since his arrival.
Qahtani, an al-Qaeda operative assigned to help fellow terrorists seize and crash commercial airliners, stormed onto the plane. Outside the terminal, Mohammed Atta, the leader of the plot, waited in vain for the arrival of the twentieth hijacker. But Qahtani would never return.
Bloomington, Minnesota
Twenty-six days
The air was stale and warm inside the interrogation room at the St. Paul field office of the Immigration and Naturalization Service. Two rumpled federal agents—Harry Samit of the FBI and John Weess of the INS—sat across from a moonfaced, heavyset French citizen named Zacarias Moussaoui. He had been arrested the previous day for overstaying his visa, but the charge was mostly a pretext for holding him; the agents believed he might be a terrorist.
An official at the Pan Am International Flight Academy in Eagan had called the FBI to report suspicious behavior by Moussaoui. He had never made a solo flight but wanted to be trained to fly 747s. He paid wads of cash just to use a flight simulator. And he was Muslim.
When they arrested Moussaoui, the agents questioned his roommate, Hussein al-Attas, who told a frightening story: Their suspect had talked about killing civilians for jihad and proclaimed his willingness to become a martyr for Islam. Then, when the agents first questioned Moussaoui, he had played the fool, claiming not to know where he worked, what he did for a living, or how much he was paid. He was carrying thousands of dollars in cash that he said had been given to him by associates whose names he didn’t know. And even as he was being questioned, he begged the agents to let him finish his flight lessons.
This time, the pleading had resumed as soon as Samit and Weess walked into the interrogation room. Moussaoui promised to answer all of their questions, but only if they allowed him to continue his training. Once he finished, he would gladly come back for deportation.
“Not now,” Samit replied. “Too many questions still need to be resolved.”
Let’s discuss the money again, he said. How was it that Moussaoui couldn’t identify the people who sent him so much cash?
“I’ve told you about that!” Moussaoui shouted.
He spluttered angrily that he was being treated unfairly. Then he tossed out the name of the men who had financed him—Ahmed Atif and someone named Habib from Germany. Weeks would pass before the agents proved Moussaoui was lying about his supposed benefactors.
There was something else, Samit said. During his initial interview, Moussaoui had mentioned conducting Internet searches for flight schools. A laptop computer had been recovered among Moussaoui’s things. “Would you allow us to search that computer?” Samit asked.
“No. I won’t permit that.”
That was his right, Samit responded. But now, he said, he wanted to tell Moussaoui a few things.
“Your story doesn’t add up,” Samit said. “You haven’t given us a satisfactory explanation for why you’re in the United States, or why you came here for flight training. The reasons you give don’t make any sense.”
He leaned in. “We know you’re an Islamic extremist, Mr. Moussaoui. We know you talked about violence before. We know you’re planning something. I want you to tell us what your plot is and who you’re working with.”
Moussaoui stiffened. “My training is just for fun. I am not a terrorist. I’m not part of a terrorist group. I don’t have any contact with terrorists.”
Samit’s gaze bored in. “Mr. Moussaoui, we know you’re involved in a plot, a plot involving airlines,” he said.
“I want to remind you, you are in custody. And if anything happens, you will be held accountable by the United States, by the American people.”
Moussaoui stared at Samit in silence.
Minneapolis, Minnesota
Fifteen days
FBI supervisors in Washington wouldn’t authorize an investigation of Moussaoui. There wasn’t enough information to justify a search warrant, they said, or to push through an application under the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act—FISA. Finally, Samit’s boss, Greg Jones, called Michael Maltbie, the supervisory special agent in Washington who was blocking the case. Tempers flared.
The FISA application—in fact, the whole case—was built on air, Maltbie argued. “What you have done is couched it in such a way that people get spun up.”
“Good!” Jones replied. “We want to make sure he doesn’t get control of an airplane and crash it into the World Trade Center or something like that.”
Ridiculous, Maltbie scoffed. “That’s not going to happen.”
Takhar Province, Afghanistan
Two Days
As the first cool nights of fall approached, the American-backed Northern Alliance was struggling in its fight against the Taliban and al-Qaeda. The change of weather punctuated the end of a failed summer offensive by the force led by Ahmad Shah Massoud, the alliance’s most important commander and Afghanistan’s only credible threat to bin Laden. An attempt to capture the city of Taloqan, lost to the Taliban in 2000, had flopped. American support was inadequate, but Massoud still made a show of bravado, promising his fighters that they would soon tak
e Kabul.
Amid the strategic planning, a phone call came in that puzzled Massoud. The Taliban and al-Qaeda were building up forces on the front line, he was told, but were not pushing forward to the north. Then Massoud learned that Taliban communications had been intercepted, instructing the units not to attack yet. It was as if the Taliban and al-Qaeda knew that something big was about to happen.
As this turn of events was unfolding, two journalists—Karim Touzani and Kacem Bakkali, who both carried Belgian passports—were pestering Massoud’s top officers to arrange for an interview with the military leader. They said that they had traveled from London to document Islam in Afghanistan. After three weeks of waiting, on the night of September 8, the men begged for the meeting to take place within the next twenty-four hours. After that, they would have to leave for Kabul.
Just before lunch the next day, Massoud agreed to get together with the men for their interview. He motioned to his friend Masood Khalili.
“I want you to sit with me, and translate,” he said.
The visitors, who had turned unusually quiet, set up their camera on a table in front of Massoud. “I want to know your questions before you start recording,” he said.
The men agreed, but their words had to be translated from French. Touzani brought out a blue pen and started scribbling: Why are you against Osama bin Laden? Why do you call him a killer? If you take Kabul what will you do with him?
After writing down fifteen questions, Touzani handed the notes to Khalili, who translated; eight of the queries were about bin Laden. That struck Khalili as odd, and he glanced over at Massoud. There were five worry lines on his forehead, instead of the usual one.
500 Days: Secrets and Lies in the Terror Wars Page 3
