Walking Ghost: Welcome to Terrorist University

by Nicholas Black

  He explained to me, after a wanted to sound like a Canadian, few english lessons, that he or at least an experienced traveler. He said that they had people in Quebec, Canada, and that he could go there without too many problems. I was farily certain that he was an operator, relatively low on the al Qaeda totem pole. I imagine that we'll find his DNA on some largescale explosive device sometime in the future. He was just one of those hands-on, clever kind of guys. The nice man down the hall who can fix anything. A very polite, capable terrorist. He was a devout Sunni Muslim, and there was no doubting that he would do whatever was asked of him. Calm, quiet, and methodical. That pretty much equals dangerous. And there was something else about him that stuck out in my mind: He was already dead. What I mean is that he was cold and resolved in his actions. He accepted, probably long ago, that he would die for his faith. The Samurai say that one must live in this manner, as though he were already dead, in order to excel ln your calling as a warrior. Mohammed had died, in his mind, long ago. The issue was foreclosed.

  He was without fear . . . a walking ghost.

  We began studying together after the morning 'al Qaeda breakfast.' We'd usually work for about 30 or 45 minutes until the questions started. He wanted to know where I grew up, and what I studied in school. It almost goes without saying that a good person goes to 'university.' Life is the continuous pursuit of education. Almost every terrorist I ever met had a college degree or five. He was interested in what I thought about my time in the Navy; my experiences in the French Foreign Legion; and about my political views. I always stayed right in the middle of the road with my answers. He asked me about religion. I explained to him that I was undecided, but that I was open to anything that 'felt' right. He wanted to know about my favorite music, my favorite football team, and my favorite ice-cream. At first glance, one might think that he was asking all of these questions because he wanted to be my friend, or because he was fascinated in the American way of life, like so many other non-Americans. But none of that mattered to him. He was checking me out. He was determining if I was somebody he could trust, or a spy - who would have to be killed in a very public way so as to send a warning out to others. Trust me or kill me, that was it. Try walking that tightrope.

  So I told him the truth, or enough of it so that when they checked out my story they would not have to filet me later. An angry American mercenary on the run from the law was the angle I played. And really, I didn't mind the Q and A sessions. It was just like a job interview, accept that instead of working for a company with a 401K, I was applying to a firm with AK47's and c- 4. Jihad is the new Microsoft. Good news was that they hired from wi thin! I answered him directly, joking every now and again, keeping it light. I maintained good eye contact, no shifty eye movements, limited physical gesturing, hands folded ln front of me. None of the obvious deceptive signs.

  A couple weeks of this went by and then the questions changed in their tone. And something else happened: another one of the AQ boys started to join us for our Question time. We'll call him Nebar. And once he started showing up the questions took on a more tactical angle. They wanted to know about my experience with small arms (pistols, small machine guns), and about hand-to-hand combat. When the questions got to be military oriented (my experience in the US Navy, and French Foreign Legion), Nebar seemed to be the one leading the questions. When the questions were technical, it was Mohammed who did the asking. When I answered they would look at each other briefly and' then turn back to me. Pretty soon we were having group discussions with all five of the AQ boys. And oddly, Jack was not invited. Or perhaps he had been uninvited. I'm not sure, and I didn't ask. Whatever the case was, we were now having discussions on all sorts of things from business to science; military strategy to comedy. It became an open dialogue.

  And I think that I was finally making it in. My Russian and English buddies told me to be careful not to get labelled as a terrorist by the Screws(prison term for guards, or functionarios). I told them that I was just having fun, pretending that I was a 'real' bad guy. But if I was to tell you the truth, I wanted the AQ boys to take me in. I needed to become one of these guys. That was the only way that I was ever going to get close to anybody and anything valuable.

  If you want to understand a terrorist, much less catch one . . . you must become one. I had the resume; I just hadn't finished the interviews, yet. But each day I was getting closer. Each call I made to my attorney was more detailed. I was closing in on something. I just didn't know what.

  And then the screws told me to pack my stuff.

  NINE

  We had just gotten through collecting some money and a television from a guy who had a bit of an outstanding debt. I was acting as a translator on this particular deal.

  The Russians, when they get angry, seem to lose their ability to properly enunciate in Spanish. And though I only spoke a bit of the native tongue, it was better than an irate psychopath from St. Petersburg. So I would mediate the collection negotiations, and my English friend James would help fill in the gaps here and there. We all made a good team. And basically, if we came knocking on your door . . . you did something to get us there. When we showed up there wasn't any talk about 'if' there was a debt, only how much was owed, and how it would be satisfied. It hardly ever got really violent. But then, I'm probably not the right person to judge what the baseline for violence is.

  So we're coming back down after our little negotiation, making sure that not too many people saw what happened, and I hear my name being butchered over the intercom. James and I look at each other quizzically, and then hear my name again. The first thing that popped into our heads was that there was some problem with my last cellmate. He was a Columbian guy who liked to smoke in the room. I had made it clear, in a rather non-verbal way, that he was not to be living in that cell by the end of the day.

  "Fucking grass!" James said, an affectionate term the English use for a snitch or a rat. As in 'Snake in the grass.'

  I nodded. Most likely he had grassed me up to the guards while we were sorting out this other debt related matter upstairs.

  He and I finished our business with our Russian partners and then headed to the center of the unit where we would talk to the screws (guards) through a couple of inches of plexiglass. As we approached, one of the screws waved me toward a small panel that they could slide open to hand people their mail.

  "Tu vas a ir a Modulo quatro," he said. You're going to go to Modulo(unit) four.

  That's the high-crimes/special management unit. That's where they put the dangerous guys. The killers, the psychopaths, the terrorists. All the best parts of the prison environment all together in one unit that is locked down almost all the time. No fun. No freedom. No more al Qaeda breakfasts.

  James started to argue in Spanish, but the guard just held up a sheet of paper with some red stamps on it and some unintelligible Spanish bureaucratic babble.

  "You're fucking dangerous, Jay," James said with an odd glare. I shrugged. He sure knows how to make a guy feel special.

  I figured that my background in the military, or as a professional fighter might have finally made its way to people in the prison who didn't want me to 'freak-out' or cause more trouble. Or maybe my Columbian cellmate had grassed me up. Whatever the case was, I had 20 minutes to gather up all of my personal belongings and be ready to transfer.

  As we turned, Jack was there asking what was going on. He then approached the screws and asked them the reason for my transfer, but the guard just gave up and walked away shaking his head in frustration. Jack wanted me to fight this thing. What thing? There was nothing to fight. I was on my way to Modulo 4. I was now considered a dangerous inmate, and would be treated as such.

  I went to my room and gathered my stuff: a large camouflage bag with all of my clothes and various notes and court papers. I headed back down and shook hands with all of the Russians. Then James and I shook hands and he gave me some contact numbers. Jack was there too, and in his outstretched hand was some cash. I di
dn't feel right taking it, but I accepted the money anyway. And then the AQ boys came down. They gathered around me and took their turns thanking me for all of the help. Mohammed then pulled me aside and Nebar joined him. In a hushed voice he said, "When you get where you're going, find Nasser." There was a palpable amount of reverence as they said his name. They continued, "Tell him that you are a friend of ours." And with that they nodded, shook my hand, and quickly scampered away.

  Three things popped into my mind as possible explanations for my relocation. One: I'm just a really dangerous guy, and the Spanish didn't want me in the population with non-violent people. Like, for example, that little Columbian grass that was being relocated from my cell. Maybe. Two: That the U.S. intelligence guys had somehow gotten me switched to a unit to get closer to somebody higher up on the hierarchical ladder within al Qaeda. It was a possibility. And three: That somehow Mohammed and Nebar had affected my relocation to get me closer to somebody named Nasser. I didn't know which was more likely. Even as I write this there is compelling information to support all three theories. Whatever the case, I was now going to be in a whole new world. At that moment, I realized with total clarity, that this was for real. If I messed up now . . . well, you know the deal.

  One of the screws started slapping the plexiglass and pointed to a large cage door that I was to wait by. I nodded to everybody and then headed off toward the gate. Another gate grinded to a close behind me, leaving me alone in this large, square room of green concrete and just the slightest smell of musty coffee sewn in on some molecular level. Everything got quiet. A few seconds later the entire panel in front of me started to move to the left. As it disappeared into a recess ln the wall I was motioned again to head out.

  Like a rat in a maze I was moved from one room to the next, then down a hall, then two more green rooms. Five minutes later I was being strip searched for weapons.

  Welcome to Modulo 4.

  "Watch what you say in here," one of the screws said in Spanish. "The people here can become violent and hurt you. Even kill you."

  That's a sword that cuts both ways.

  TEN

  The welcoming that I received in the High Crimes/High Security unit was less than warm. They call it 'Preventivo' in Spanish, but we call it 'Modulo 4.' It's the last place that you end up in Valdemoro prison.

  In this unit, as it was explained to me, we were always being watched . . . studied. We were only out of our cells for 2~ to 3 hours a day, and that was if we were on our best behavior. Our meals were served through a small hole in the door with a sliding metal panel. The cells were located on the second and third floors of the unit. All of the cells were single-man and stale. describe it.

  The floors were painted green. The toilets were part of those sink-toilet combos made of stainless steel by some large factory in North Korea. The heating was handled through the floor - when it was cold out the floor heated up. Nifty. Each room had three, thin rectangular window panels that could be opened to reveal the 'yard' below. The windows were only about 4 inches wide, so there was no danger of you slipping out into the night. Not that there was anywhere to go if you did.

  The yard was even better. In the hour or two that you were allowed to visit: you would be surrounded by a thick concrete wall that went about 24 feet into the air. Above the edge of the wall were several rows of stretched concertina wire sharp enough that flies and birds didn't dare land on its razor edges. It frequently made swiss cheese out of the soccer balls that were unlucky enough to make their way that high.

  Not that there were ever enough people for a soccer game anyway; only half of the 4O-man unit was allowed out at the same time. Lonely doesn't quite describe it. Of the twenty people in my group, only about five or six of them were physically able to play any kind of sports. Several of them were never allowed out of their cells.

  About half of them were on a perpetual Thorazine or Methadone shuffle. That's where the drugged-out recipient of said pharmaceutical shuffles his feet back and forth all day long between dosages of his drug. Sometimes these zombies will slide along until their shoe soles are completely worn through and their feet are leaving bloody skid marks on the concrete. Basically, these junkies are just walking themselves to death. Remember, this isn't an American prison. Things work differently. You're alone here.

  Of those who were not medicated, the rest were a whole different kind of dangerous. In my group were 4 ETA (Basque Separatists), 2 Israeli Ecstasy traffickers, 2 Italian drug/cigarette traffickers, 2 Mercenaries, 1 Moroccan hit man, 1 French Crime boss, and 3 al Qaeda detainees that included a

  certain high-ranking Imam named . . . Nasser.

  Oh yeah, and me.

  During the first week I was confined to my cell. I guess that they do this to calm the new guys down; make them appreciate any privileges that might be given to them at a later time.

  Once that week was up I was allowed to leave my cell once a day. Each day the 'recreational' time would alternate from morning to afternoon. During that time you were allowed to communicate with the other few inmates; grab a cup of coffee or a snack from a tiny commissary cart that would appear behind a barred window for a couple of minutes each day; work-out in the tiny little square of a rec yard; or take a shower. My routine was to get my cell cleaned as quick as possible and then head down to the yard. From there I would do calisthenics for about an hour and then head to the showers. I made this my 'system' until I learned who everyone was.

  I didn't want to immediately introduce myself to Nasser for several reasons. First, I wasn't sure who he was, and I didn't want to seem like a spook asking around for an al Qaeda shot-caller. They had probably been dealing with intelligence agents for some time now, and were getting quite adept as sniffing them out. Second, I was trying not to get killed by any of the other dangerous people that I was now living among. My little hunt for al Qaeda was only one part of the equation. I also needed to know who everyone else was; know my enemies and my allies. You must understand your culture; the rules of your society! no matter how large or small it may be. I kept quiet until I had the lay of the land.

  The first guy that I met was Pasquale, an Italian mercenary who had started his criminal career as a Fascist Terrorist with the Italian Red Brigade. After a few trash-can bombs and a few shootouts with the police, he had to leave Italy. He decided to hook up with some Americans who were planning a coup attempt ln the South American country of Chile. Some guy named Allende was running for President and the U. S. thought it better if their guy Pinochet would be in power. The 'company' had tried to rig the election, but you know how democracy can sometimes be? You give the people a chance and they'll bite you in the ass. The people spoke loud enough that the CIA couldn't get Pinochet elected. So the fallback plan was an overthrow. A rather common motif for the U.S. when dealing with South and Central American politics. Anyway, Pasquale joined that little gig, and then headed back across the drink and ended up making his way int.o Lebanon. He was the chief of security for the Armenian Christians' sector in Beirut. This was in the early '8 Os when the city was being constantly pounded by the USS New Jersey f parked a couple of miles off-shore.

  From there he spent some time as a Colonel with the Croatian Army doing ethnic 'cleansing' and that kind of thing. Then he turned to swat-style bank robberies and extortion. Anyway, he had an exciting life full of twists and turns, and along the way he stopped off in Spain where he was grabbed by an INTERPOL team that had accidentally gotten a hold of him while looking for some other people. So: naturally, he and I hit it off.

  Pasquale and I started working out on the yard, stretching, shadow-boxing, shooting the basketball. Things to keep us occupied. It was nice to be around a guy who shared similar interests. Warfare for the sake of the fight, no political or religious undertones. Loving the bullet because it is pure and simple, and never deceives you. Once he and I had gotten used to each other, he started giving me the run down on who the other prisoners were. He carried himself like a seasoned pro. />
  As it turned out, this unit (Modulo 5) was almost exclusively for people who were wanted in other countries. Some of them, like the al Qaeda guys, were claiming 'Hazard Politic' status(political Refugee), and were trying to fight their extraditions. Others, like the Israelis and the Italians, were just trying to go to the country with the cleanest prisons and the nicest food service. None of them would probably ever see the outside of a prison unless they could buy their way out of trouble. Though, that was not entirely impossible because they were all well connected.

  After a week or two I was introduced to Farid. He was a French crime boss who had property and businesses allover Spain and France. He was wanted for the conspiracy to murder about 20 or 30 competitors in France. Farid was Algerian/French, whose family had started several restaurants in Marseilles and Aubagne. He was heavily into Arms and Drug Trafficking. He assured me that basically, he was a nice guy. He made it clear that everyone that he ordered killed had it coming. And under that rather loose definition I suppose that we all have it coming.

  He was quite certain that upon his return to France that he would beat the charges because nobody would ever testify against him. People don't talk about 'Fa-fa.' And really Farid was a likeable guy. He was about 5' 10", dark complected with black curly hair. He was educated and a very inspiring person to talk to. Full of energy and very self confident, everything he spoke about was with spirit and enthusiasm. Nothing was boring to him. Nothing was unimportant. He seemed to find a lesson in everything. He started to join us and we would discuss current events and 'real politic.'