The Pakistan Conspiracy, A Novel Of Espionage

by Francesca Salerno

  Al-Greeb’s first order of business was to perform a ritual ablution with a bowl of water in preparation for prayer. His driver had laid his prayer mat, an expensive ‘Bellini’ design from the 17th century, facing toward the Kaaba in Mecca, a direction that was conveniently indicated by a discreet brass arrow imbedded in a tile on the floor.

  After the asr or afternoon prayer, he put on a pair of leather sandals and sat on a verandah overlooking the ocean.

  Yasser al-Greeb had spent the last twenty-four hours, while Ayman al-Zawahiri’s tape was being played world-wide, on a personal pilgrimage to the Coptic monastery dedicated to St. Anthony, in the breathtaking mountains around Al-Zaafarana. The principal church at the monastery, one of five, was near an oasis, surrounded by feathery date palms.

  Though Al-Greeb usually avoided contact with Christians or Jews, the monastery provided a special exception. It had been constructed upon St. Anthony’s death in 356 AD, some 266 years before the emigration of the Prophet Mohammed from Medina to Mecca, which marks the beginning of the first year of the Islamic calendar.

  Since he had walked the earth centuries before the Prophet, Al-Greeb considered St. Anthony, who had lived in a cave near the monastery as a hermit, a forerunner or herald of the enlightened religion that was to come after him, and thus a kind of pre-Islamic holy man. His life and writings were thus a legitimate object for study and meditation.

  Al-Greeb had been discreet and used his visit to Al-Zaafarana as the occasion for a personal retreat, for private prayer and meditation on the eve of completion of the great task he had undertaken in the service of the Prophet. None of the white-bearded Orthodox Coptic priests, in their sweltering black robes, had even noticed the slim and silent Arab who seemed so studious and intellectual, almost in a daze, so deep was he in contemplation.

  Al-Greeb had pondered the three great principles of warfare enunciated by Salah ad-Din Yusuf bin Ayyub, the conqueror from Tikrit who became ruler of Egypt and Syria. Saladin, as he was known to the Crusaders, shared freely his philosophy with Guy of Lusignan and Richard the Lionheart, but these benighted leaders had not grasped it.

  ‘Win without fighting by avoiding strength and attacking weakness.’

  ‘Strike where the enemy is most vulnerable.’

  ‘Use deception to confuse your foe.’

  Yasser al-Greeb closed his eyes and let the gentle sound of the breeze off the Red Sea and the splashing of the small waves caress his consciousness.

  He had long ago perfected his grand strategy; there was nothing he could change in that now, nor would he want to. But what of tactics? Were there any last minute changes to be made? He focussed on the sound of the waves and the breeze. He could hear and feel his breath moving in his chest. He could discern, in the deep stillness within, the beating of his own heart. It was in this state that he made himself open to Allah. It was by leaving this earthly world that he found the new world, a world of light, a plain ablaze with the wisdom of the Prophet, a place where so few were granted admittance.

  ***

  Like many of the Western journalists in Port Tawfik, Kate, Brigadier Mahmood, and Keven Smyth gravitated to the Red Sea Restaurant on El Riad Street. It occupied the sixth floor of a seven-storey hotel opposite a neglected wharf. It served an excellent sea bass caught that morning in the Red Sea and grilled in butter and lemon juice, washed down by ice-cold Egyptian Stella brand beer, considered by connoisseurs to be among the finest.

  In addition to simple but delicious fare, the restaurant offered a commanding view of the harbor and Canal, so the anxious newshounds could keep an eye on the Aegean Apollon, still at anchor at the rear of the long-delayed convoy to Port Said, while they sated their hunger.

  “Let me run something by both of you,” Kate offered when the enormous platter of grilled fish was brought smoking from the grill.

  “Did you know that the Egyptians invented beer?” Smyth commented, taking a deep draught of the golden brew.

  “Yes, actually I did know that,” Kate said. “Can we focus for a second?”

  “I think Kate wants to talk business,” Mahmood said, eating a tender morsel of fish. “This is outstanding, by the way.”

  “We’ve never discussed the relationship between Al-Greeb and Al-Zawahiri,” Kate said. “Is he a team player who accepted Al-Zawahiri’s leadership after OBL’s death as chief executive of Al Qaeda, or is he one of those rebellious ‘Number Twos’ who is looking for his own personal elevation to Numero Uno?”

  “I have met with him four times in the last decade,” Mahmood said. “And I would say that he is a leader, not a follower, with a kind of intense zeal that does not lend itself to channeling by another. He clearly accepted Sheikh Osama, but he had little contact with him and regarded him almost as a mythic figure, a kind of embodiment of a mythical Muslim warrior. With Al-Zawahiri, he has had extensive personal contact as his physician. He has been treating him for a variety of illnesses, including, possibly, a venereal disease. Under these circumstances, he likely sees him as vulnerable and weak. It makes me think of that saying of Montaigne, ‘no man is a hero to his valet.’ Al-Greeb has been Al-Zawahiri’s valet, if you will, and likely knows all his failings and frailties.”

  Kate listened to this analysis carefully, hanging on every word.

  “And yet here we see Al-Greeb undertaking a mission which, if successful, will create for Al-Zawahiri a reputation that will eclipse that of OBL. Does that make sense?”

  “I’m not so sure the right way to analyze Al Qaeda is through the personal ambitions and quirks of its leaders,” Smyth said. “They have proven themselves to be disciplined and strategic in their thinking.”

  “But some of them, especially the zealous ones, have pursued personal agendas,” Mahmood said. “Look at Abu Musab al-Zarqawi in Iraq. He was his own man, off the reservation when it came to obeying instructions from the home office.”

  “So, that leads me to my question—what if Al-Greeb set Al-Zawahiri up? What if there is no bomb aboard the Aegean Apollon because Al-Greeb took it off?”

  “To do what?” Smyth asked.

  “To kill people,” Kate said. “To kill lots and lots of people.”

  Chapter 38 — Islamabad

  Mort Feldman read the two-page report from the Egyptian GIS and a supplementary analysis that Olof Wheatley’s CTC had passed on to Islamabad Station with the compliments of Israel’s Mossad. The Egyptian spooks reported that a preliminary search of the Aegean Apollon had revealed nothing suspicious aboard the vessel except trace radiation in an empty intermodal container, the sort of residual emission that might be left as a kind of echo or signature of a nuclear device present at some time in the past. It was not clear whether the container had been contaminated recently, in another location, or aboard another ship, and the radiographic analysis probably could not shed further light on those questions.

  Though it had so far been impossible to physically take the ship apart, as it would eventually be necessary to do, the search results were credibly reinforced by the questioning of the captain and crew, using means that, while acceptable in Egypt, would have contravened proscriptions against duress and torture in the United States.

  The captain, a Lebanese master merchant sailor of many years professional experience, admitted to helping cover up three murders and dispose of two bodies, but claimed that he knew nothing about a nuclear device. He gave a credible account of the ship’s voyage from Karachi onward, with stops at Bharuch and Djibouti—where the ship’s name had been changed from Nippon Yoku-Maru to Aegean Apollon—Jeddah, Aqaba, Eilat, and Suez.

  The report from Mossad dismissed allegations made by Ayman al-Zawahiri as the delusions of a man unhinged by years in hiding, the deaths of OBL and most of his other senior comrades in arms, and multiple illnesses, some of them psychiatric. The Israelis speculated that Al Qaeda might be undergoing some sort of terminal implosion, as a star in the heavens does when it dies, signaling the end of the group as an international agen
cy for terror and the humiliation of Ayman al-Zawahiri as a leader of global jihad.

  The real danger and present threat, the Israelis pointedly maintained, lay in Iran. This analysis was similar to that of several prominent American think tanks.

  “Yeah, I’m looking at them now,” Feldman told Olof Wheatley on the secure line to Washington in response to a question about the two documents. “The Israelis don’t want us to take our eyes off the ball, obviously.”

  “The ball being the Iranian nuclear research sites at Natanz and Esfahan,” Wheatley said. “That was my take also.”

  “It’s not like them to discount a nuclear threat, even a crazy one,” Feldman said. “I’m surprised at how laid back they seem to be.”

  “I agree. But the Egyptians are right there on the scene. If, two days after they started looking over that ship and questioning her crew, they say there’s nothing to it, then there must be nothing to it.”

  “So, what are the alternative theories? You’re not buying this ‘Al Qaeda has just imploded crap’ are you?” Feldman asked.

  “Actually, the mood here in Washington has been on an emotional roller-coaster. No one got any rest for 36 hours after the Al-Zawahiri tape hit the airwaves. The White House was panicking. Now everyone has taken a deep breath and many think it was just some sort of hoax.”

  This told Feldman that Wheatley did in fact buy into the ‘end of Al Qaeda’ line.

  “I talked to Kate Langley earlier today,” Feldman said. “She is still in Suez with Brigadier Mahmood. She is of the view that a Soviet tactical nuke was aboard that vessel and that Yasser al-Greeb offloaded it for some other purpose.”

  “A nuclear device that the Russians won’t admit that they’ve lost,” Wheatley said acidly.

  “Can you blame them? The old Soviet officers are all gone. Why should the new regime take responsibility for losing a bomb that likely was obsolete before Yeltsin took power?”

  “OK Mort, but we’re chasing our tails here,” Wheatley said. He was substantially annoyed that Kate Langley was reporting in to Feldman instead of to CTC—contrary to what he had ordered her to do. She worked for him, not for Feldman.

  “Look, for what it’s worth to you,” Wheatley said, “I have an Armageddon sort of scenario that Hendryk Warsaw and some of his brainier colleagues at Liberty Crossing cooked up. I’m sending it to you now. Take a look at it and tell me if it suggests anything to you. And bear in mind that I’m not sure this AQ thing is going to be your prime focus much longer. We may need to spend more time on the Iran problem. That’s clearly what the President wants us to do.” Olof Wheatley rang off, his focus on whatever new thing was getting the attention of his masters on Pennsylvania Avenue.

  Feldman’s assistant brought in a three-page document moments later. It was titled Apocalyptic Nuclear Scenarios in the Middle East and had something to do with ‘triggers for catastrophic conflict’ and ‘religious targets that could foment wider acceptance of jihadist ideals’—more useless speculation from staffers who spent too much time chewing on lead pencils in ivory towers, Feldman thought, the misguided staff work of Clowns In Action, an embarrassment to real men on the front lines like himself. He yelled for his secretary and when she yelled back, he ordered her to forward the three pages of material to Kate Langley at Suez.

  ***

  Colonel Ehsan Akram, chief of staff to Brigadier Mahmood, was at his desk on the top floor of the four-storey counterintelligence building in the ISI compound at Aabpara in Islamabad. He had been in constant touch with his boss since the latter left Pakistan on an unmarked jet belonging to Al Qaeda. He was grateful that Yasser al-Greeb’s most recent adventure had had little impact on Pakistan, as Pakistan’s links to terrorism were something that brought, in Akram’s opinion, little credit to the military. Al Qaeda propaganda played mainly to grievances of ordinary Pakistani citizens. Pakistan’s relationship with Al Qaeda, Colonel Akram often said in private, was almost as complicated as Pakistan’s relationship with America.

  As Mort Feldman was chatting with Olof Wheatley about events since Ayman al-Zawahiri announced acquisition of a nuclear bomb on worldwide television, Colonel Akram was preparing to telephone Brigadier Mahmood. What Akram wanted to bring to Mahmood’s attention was a strange report from Peshawar, from lower level Al Qaeda functionaries, indicating that the organization was in the process of undergoing, or had already experienced, a reshuffling of senior leadership, perhaps even a coup d’état. It appeared that Al-Zawahiri had been marginalized and perhaps overthrown. What was unclear was the connection between these rumors and the bizarre events unfolding in Suez, where an Al Qaeda-owned freighter carrying a nuclear device was now being reported to be free of such weapons.

  “Brigadier, it is Akram here, at your service,” the colonel said respectfully. He was speaking through a regular telephone that transmitted to a Blackberry device that was considered secure.

  “I hope to wrap up here soon, my dear colonel,” Mahmood said from Suez, “and return to HQ at once.”

  “That will be good, sir, but I wanted you to know of a report we have seen here that Ayman al-Zawahiri has been experiencing some trouble, perhaps as a result of the failure in Suez.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “It is claimed he has lost his position as leader of Al Qaeda. One of our sources, a man whose name you would recognize, has quoted him as saying that ‘I have been betrayed by him whom Gabriel will cast into hell from the octagonal mosque.’ That is a strange statement, is it not sir?”

  “This is said to be a direct quote from Al-Zawahiri?”

  “Yes, sir, a direct quotation. Do you have any idea what it means?”

  “Read it to me once again, Akram,” Mahmood requested urgently.

  “The quote is ‘I have been betrayed by him whom Gabriel will cast into hell from the octagonal mosque.’”

  “That is odd indeed, Akram. For the life of me, I cannot think of any ‘octagonal mosque.’ It is against all the principles of Islam.”

  “I agree. Perhaps it has no meaning, or the reference to ‘octagonal’ is a metaphorical one. Perhaps we should wait for corroboration?”

  “What else have you learned about Al-Zawahiri’s alleged overthrow?”

  “Not very much. It is all from a single source, which is problematic. Let me send you the report I have written, Brigadier, it is not very long.”

  “Yes, you do that. And Akram, let me ask you this. Have you shared any of this with our friends at the American Embassy?”

  “No, Brigadier. No one but with the Director General right here.”

  “Good,” Mahmood said curtly. “Let’s keep it that way.”

  ***

  Alice Carulla was going to miss Islamabad and Pakistan. Her stay had been too short. Though she loved Washington, there was a certain cachet attached to being required overseas on a special mission, and she had discovered also that she enjoyed the pared-down operating style of Mort Feldman’s CIA shop compared to the paper-producing factory that was HQ. It was a pleasant contrast to the Byzantine ways of official Washington. She had discovered that she was comfortable living overseas. She didn’t mind having a desk in a hallway, though she would have enjoyed Islamabad more had Kate Langley been with her instead of in Suez.

  Before leaving the office and packing her bags, Carulla called Kate to see if there were any last-minute chores she could undertake for her.

  “Can’t believe they’re sending you home already,” Kate said, genuinely surprised at how quickly CIA had written off Al-Greeb and Al-Zawahiri and the continued need for Carulla in Islamabad. Soon, she too would probably be back at her desk in the CTC, chasing down whatever rumors had Olof Wheatley in a tizzy that day.

  “I’m not,” Carulla said. “There was pressure to analyze Iran’s nuclear sites even before I left. Please feel sorry for me hunched over my desk scrutinizing tiny images of reactor shielding with a magnifying glass.”

  Kate enjoyed using Carulla as an intellectua
l sounding board. She was reading a recondite piece of analysis out of the National Counterterrorism Center at Liberty Crossing that Mort Feldman had forwarded to her that morning.

  “Say, did Mortie send you the ‘Apocalyptic Scenarios’ paper today?” she inquired.

  “Nope. He doesn’t even know I’m still here,” Carulla said.

  “Pretty weird stuff. This is the only job in the world where being an expert on nuclear devices and an authority on religious history can be useful on the same day.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Well, listen to this: I’m reading from this paper about apocalyptic scenarios. ‘According to Islamic tradition, the Rock of Moriah is the spot from which the Prophet Mohammed ascended into Heaven accompanied by the Archangel Gabriel. Jews also regard the Foundation Stone beneath the Dome of the Rock, along with its surroundings, as the holiest site in Judaism. Just as Muslims pray toward the Kaaba at Mecca, the holiest site in Islam, Jews pray toward the raised stone platform on which the Dome of the Rock stands. Jews have traditionally regarded the location of the stone as the holiest spot on earth, the site of the Holy of Holies in the period when the Temple stood. The Jewish tradition does not have information regarding the exact location of the Holy of Holies, but most scholars believe it is somewhere in the area of the raised platform.’”