by Jinkang Wang
After a long time, the shorter man said, “It’s a pity all our rations are gone too. We’ll have to replenish when we get to the bottom. Let’s go on.”
They started walking, but Mohammad was rooted to the spot. The shorter guide looked inquiringly at him, while the taller one pushed him roughly. Mohammad pointed down with a shaky finger, and said in a trembling voice, “My briefcase.” Then, pointing at the taller man, “He jostled me.”
The leather case was on an outcrop about eleven yards down, and although that wasn’t far, it wouldn’t be easy retrieving it from such a steep surface. The tall guide stared viciously. “When did I jostle you? Anyway, that’s your bag, if you want it, go get it yourself.”
Mohammad lay flat on the ground, looking over the edge, but could see no way down that wouldn’t end in a fatal plunge. He looked back beseechingly at the shorter guide, who’d been kinder to him along the way. The man was angry too, glaring first at Mohammad and then at his colleague. But finally he produced a length of fine rope and tied one end around his waist, fastening the other to a protruding rock. He instructed them, “You two, hold on tight to this. Whatever happens, don’t let go!”
Mohammad rushed over and gripped the rope with the taller guide. The short man carefully climbed down, reaching the briefcase just as he was about to run out of rope. Bracing one leg against the cliff face, he turned his body sideways and stretched his arm as far as it would go, barely reaching the handle. He tied the suitcase to the end of the rope, then pulled himself up, hand over hand.
Mohammad shed tears of gratitude as he got the briefcase back unharmed. He wanted to fling himself to the ground and kiss the short man’s tattered boots.
Before they knew it, they were out of the clouds, and a short while later, they could see sunlight on the ridge. The landscape transformed completely after that point. Bright sunshine spilled onto the snowy white slopes, each more than ten thousand feet high. The sun warmed the air, and the path grew more level. A day’s walk brought them through the Kandiwal Valley. They only rested for a short while at noon, but had nothing to eat, and were ravenous by the time they reached a village that evening. The short guide negotiated with an old man in the Afghan language, renting them a broken-down old hut and a pile of food, plus a tattered woolen blanket for Mohammad. They were starving and exhausted, and after wolfing down their dinner, quickly fell asleep.
The next morning, after breakfast, the shorter guide produced a length of black cloth. “I’m sorry. From now on, you’ll have to wear this blindfold.”
Mohammad felt a stab of joy. They must be close to their destination, and this arduous trek would soon be at an end. He smiled. “Go ahead. But—won’t it be hard for me to walk?”
“No problem, we’ve found you a horse. It’s waiting outside.”
Sure enough, there it was, a scrawny creature. Mohammad let them cover his eyes, then mounted it, and happily set forth.
They walked another whole day. To the man blindfolded on the horse, north, south, east, or west had no meaning, and he could only tell whether they were going uphill or down. If the air grew warm and he heard water, then they must be in a valley, while colder temperatures and the horse’s breathing growing labored meant they were going through a mountain pass.
The next day, there were more people on the road. From their voices, it sounded like a Pashtun area. That night, someone helped him off the horse, then led him forward as he stumbled on stiff legs. The two guides exchanged a few words. They sounded more relaxed than before, so Mohammad knew they really had arrived. They brought him into what must have been a cave, because the guide sometimes pushed down on his head so he had to stoop. He heard voices up ahead, and the guides spoke to other people from time to time. This was quite a deep cavern. He guessed they’d walked two or three hundred yards before coming to a halt. The guides spoke in low voices for a bit, then someone else said in Arabic, “Remove his blindfold.”
This accent was familiar, and Mohammad was certain the speaker came, like himself, from a North African country. When the cloth was removed, Mohammad blinked in the light. They were in a small alcove within a larger cave. On a ledge sat a man of about forty, with a long black beard. His head was wrapped in a kaffiyeh, his Arab-style robe an immaculate white, gleaming in the surrounding gloom. Two AK-47s, their barrels crossed, were mounted on the cave wall behind him. Also to his rear was a simple bedroll, spread on the stone floor, with a small table at its head, made of what looked like cardboard. On it were a copy of the Koran, an atlas, a gleaming IBM laptop, and a handheld video camera. These last two gadgets seemed at odds with their surroundings, and it wasn’t apparent where they could be charged. Mohammad guessed they must have just finished shooting a broadcast, the sort that was always being shown on Al Jazeera. No wonder this man was so neatly dressed, the guns behind him a familiar backdrop. As for power, they must have a generator somewhere.
There was another person behind the first man, scrawny and wearing a Pashtun-style longga, also sporting a black beard. He was younger, somewhere between thirty and thirty-five. The light was too dim for Mohammad to make out his face.
The two guides silently withdrew from this inner cave. The man in the kaffiyeh pointed at the ground before him, indicating that the visitor should sit. There was a low ledge there, on which had been spread a straw mat. Mohammad walked over and sat cross-legged. Now he could see the man’s face much more clearly, and looked carefully for signs that it was Hamza. Al-Qaeda’s leaders were secretive in their movements, and there were no photographs in the outside world of the number three in command. The only reliable information was that he had vitiligo. Now Mohammad studied him closely, and sure enough, there were prominent white marks across his face and neck. What left him doubtful, though, was that this man had only one eye, and when he’d gestured for his visitor to be seated, he’d used not a hand but a silvery hook. Perhaps he’d only recently acquired these disabilities, and word hadn’t gotten out yet? In order to be sure, he asked, “Is this person in front of me the honorable Mr. Abu Faraj Hamza?”
“Yes,” said the man flatly. “Speak freely.”
Mohammad paused to clear his mind, and Hamza continued. “I only agreed to see you because of someone we both respect and know to be trustworthy, a Pashto tribal elder. But he kept mum when it came to the question of where you’re from. Of course, we can easily guess: the person who sent you is that odd creature, the one who loves riding camels, living in tents, and keeping female bodyguards?”
Mohammad pretended not to have heard these rude words. “As for where I’ve come from, that ought to be kept secret. This has to be the first condition of our talk today.”
Hamza nodded. “We’ll keep your secrets, you don’t need to worry about that. Your master was once a great hero. His infamous airplane bombing made infidels all over the world quake in their boots. He had nothing to fear then! But now, he’s no more than a pitiful lapdog, wagging his tail and begging for infidel scraps. Did you know, he actually spoke out against 9/11! What a knife in the back.”
Mohammad smiled bitterly. “I know. That was already in the works before I set out.” He could sense great enmity from Hamza, so decided on a different tactic. “You’re quite right, we’re a bunch of cowards. It’s because we’re a snail, with a shell on our backs, and we couldn’t bear for it to be smashed by the Americans. Besides”—he indicated the crudely made bed—“I couldn’t deal with such hardship. I wish I could, but I don’t have it in me. So we had no choice but to bow to the Americans. But deep down, our beliefs haven’t changed, and we hate the Western devils just as much as before. I’ve come here today to demonstrate our sincerity with a small gift.”
He’d done such an efficient job of tearing himself down that Hamza was left with nothing to say. Instead, he smiled at the visitor. “All right, I won’t give you a hard time. Anyway, it’s not everyone who’s brave enough to be a martyr. But here’s a warning for you to give your master: he can wag his tail all he likes,
but the Americans still might not let him off. When they’ve finished dealing with Afghanistan and Iraq, they might reach out and crush you too.”
“I’ll pass that on.”
“Fine. Let’s have a look at this gift.”
Mohammad was at ease now. “I have a question first. Is this the virologist I asked you to bring along?”
The third man nodded, still silent. By way of introduction, Hamza said, “He graduated from Duke University, majoring in global health, with a focus on infectious disease. Good enough?”
“And you brought the cooler too?”
This time it was the young man who answered. “Yes.”
Mohammad set the briefcase in front of him, and before opening it, he spoke: “As you know, biological warfare is the poor man’s ideal weapon. Think about it. You don’t need modern factories, expensive facilities, or funding, and you don’t need to worry about a B-2 plane dropping a bomb on you. Bacteria and viruses proliferate in the human body, so your enemies are also your factories, a perfect example of waste recycling, no need for electricity, raw materials, or wages. If you’re able to infect one, you’re able to kill hundreds of thousands, even millions—far more than your human bombs could ever achieve! We’ve been at work for fifteen years now, creating these, though it’s a shame we’ll never get to use them. Our leader has given orders for the whole lot to be destroyed, both the weapon stocks and equipment. Of course, it’d be a pity to really destroy everything, so we’ve saved a few seeds, to give to those who might make use of them.”
Hamza looked at the briefcase on Mohammad’s lap, his smile a little suspicious.
“Honored Mr. Hamza, please don’t doubt my sincerity. To be frank, we’re doing this not just for your sake, but also for ours. Just as you said earlier, as long as you keep making life difficult for the Americans here, they won’t have the capacity to deal with us. Is that honest enough?”
“All right, I don’t doubt your sincerity. Hand it over.”
Mohammad opened the case, and a plume of white mist emerged. Nestled among the remaining dry ice were three firmly sealed glass vials. Mohammad explained: “Here, these are three different biological agents, all viruses. The first is Lassa fever, a fierce sort of hemorrhagic fever. There’s no inoculation for it to date. The only flaw is that it’s more susceptible to antivirals, but we’ve bred this strain to be sufficiently resistant. The second is Ebola, an even more vicious hemorrhagic fever, transmittable through the air and by contact. No vaccine or treatment, with a death rate of over ninety percent. Its disadvantage is that it’s not infectious enough. The third virus is smallpox, which should need no further introduction. It’s extremely transmittable, with a high death rate, and has killed more people in history than any other virus. You could say it’s the biggest murderer of humanity. The only problem is that the medical world has studied it more thoroughly, and there are strong, effective vaccines against it. Still, ever since the world stopped cowpox inoculation in 1978, immunity has all but vanished in the general population, and the current stocks of vaccine wouldn’t be able to withstand a large-scale outbreak. The strain I’m giving you now is virulent, more than able to withstand current medical technology.”
He closed the container and handed it over. “As for which of these you choose to press into service, or if you decide to use all three, that’s up to you.”
The young man behind Hamza came over and took the bag. “May I ask, did you take part in the research yourself?”
“Yes, I did. And I should mention that I, too, studied in the United States, at the UC Davis School of Medicine. You can imagine how much it hurt me when the order came to destroy my work. Oh yes, I almost forgot.” He asked for the briefcase back, opened it, and found a velvet pouch in one corner. “This contains eight hundred South African diamonds, all high-quality white ones. Low carat, to make it easier for you to exchange them for cash on the black market. Their total value is more than eighty million American dollars; even on the black market, you should get more than sixty million. Just a token of our appreciation. Call it seed money for your biological warfare venture.” Opening the pouch, he pulled out a couple of the stones. “And I have a personal request. Two days ago, there was an accident at the Kandiwal Pass, and this case almost fell off a cliff. My guide, Tamala, rescued it. I’d like to give him these two diamonds in thanks.”
At first Hamza and the young man were quiet, making Mohammad feel ill at ease. After a stretch of chilly silence, Hamza gestured for the young man to fetch the shorter guide. Tamala came in, looking curiously at Hamza, and then at the visitor. Mohammad handed over the diamonds, repeating what he’d just said. He’d expected the guide to be overcome with gratitude—the diamonds were enough for him to live on for the rest of his life. Yet Tamala shook his head, stating flatly, “I have no use for these toys. The Americans will start their war soon, and for all I know, I’ll be heading to paradise any day now.”
Mohammad stood with the diamonds in his right hand, at a loss. Hamza nodded in satisfaction, and after the guide had left, said to his visitor, “I’ll take those diamonds. Thank you for your generosity, particularly as we’re aware your funds are limited. You’ll be due to pay the infidels a huge sum in compensation, won’t you? Two billion, seven hundred million American dollars.”
Mohammad could hear the mockery in Hamza’s voice, which added to his humiliation. Hamza added, “I accept both your gifts. Of course, this isn’t charity. We’re standing in for you, teaching them a ‘lesson from above.’ Don’t worry, we’ll keep your visit secret. Tomorrow, the same two guides will bring you to Chetallali in Pakistan.” He smiled. “You’ve had a hard time, these last few days, but you’ll be leaving this sea of troubles soon. Go have a rest now. The guides will show you where.”
Mohammad hadn’t expected such cold treatment after his arduous journey. Hamza watched him depart in awkwardness, and after he was gone, muttered, “Clown.”
The young man, Zia Baj, said nothing, but carefully moved the three sealed glass vials to a new cooler, then buried them in dry ice. A long cry rose from outside—the evening call to prayers. The two men went out, and joined their comrades in bowing three times in the direction of Mecca. Mohammad was among the crowd, but they ignored him. Back in the cave, Hamza asked, “Baj, what do you think of this present?”
“The man has a point,” replied Baj. “Biological weapons can be very effective, as much as any atom bomb. For us, they truly are the perfect means of attack.”
Hamza sat cross-legged on the straw mat and was silent for a while. “Take the viruses with you, and the diamonds too,” he said somberly. “You don’t need me to tell you how bad the situation is. Our neighbor to the east has completely submitted to the Americans, sealing the Pakistan-Afghanistan border. To the west, Omar might surrender at the last moment, handing us over as a Christmas gift to the Americans. Even if Omar remains loyal, the Taliban’s rifles are no match for the West’s precision bombs. I might be sent to paradise at any moment, or forced to flee this place, and lose contact with you. So don’t wait for orders from here. I’m putting you completely in charge of organizing and executing this plan. Do a good job, and avenge our dead brothers! Take revenge for my hands and eye. You have to succeed, Baj. I believe in you.”
“I won’t let you down,” said Zia Baj calmly.
Hamza smiled, and looked at the young man out of his remaining eye. He’d known Baj for five years now, ever since he’d attended Derunta training camp near Jalalabad in Afghanistan, where there’d been three Westerners: two British, and Baj from America. All three were university students, ethnically Pashtun, from families who’d settled abroad two generations ago and were now completely Westernized. Hamza had at first been skeptical of the trio, with their Western designer clothes and chewing gum, but after a month of training, he saw them become dependable warriors.
“When you leave tomorrow, you should also head back home via Pakistan. They might not be able to seal the border against us, but as
time goes on, it will get harder and harder to pass. Are you going straight back to the States? You’ll have to find some way to get this box through, US Customs is especially vigilant with travelers from Pakistan or Afghanistan.”
“Don’t worry, I have a plan.”
“Good-bye, then, my son.” Hamza rose and hugged Baj, kissing him on the cheeks before walking him to the cave entrance.
At dawn the next morning, a line of four people departed the cave. The two guides were in front, then a blindfolded Mohammad on the scrawny horse, and finally young Zia Baj, the cooler in his backpack. Weak winter sunlight spilled across the craggy, desolate mountain road. This would be Baj’s path from now on. He said nothing along the way, remaining so silent that Mohammad wasn’t even aware it was Baj behind him, only sensing from the footsteps that there was an extra person, but not daring to ask who, listening suspiciously. Two days later, before Mohammad’s blindfold was removed, Baj quietly said good-bye to them. He went back to his father’s ancestral home and stowed the box safely away, before returning to the States with two assistants he’d chosen for himself.
September 2002—Henan-Hubei provincial border, China
On Saturday morning, Jin Mingcheng and his wife slept late, as usual. They’d only been married a few weeks, and the novelty hadn’t worn off yet. When Mei Yin phoned at nine o’clock, Jin was flustered. Ms. Mei said she was driving over from Wuhan that morning, and would arrive in Xinye County within half an hour. Jin put down the phone and shouted for his wife to get his special outfit ready, they were about to receive an important visitor. He quickly washed up and got dressed, then rushed out without eating anything. His wife said no matter how urgent his work was, he should still have some breakfast, and Jin replied, “Who has time for food? Let me tell you, if everything goes to plan today, your man is no longer going to be the deputy head—they’ll drop the ‘deputy’ for sure. That’s kind of a big deal, don’t you think?”
