The Miracle of Yousef: Historical and political thriller

by Gonçalo Coelho

  Yousef and Sheik were eating (and at the same time gazing at the dancing girl between mouthfuls of delicious Arab food), when the faithful disciple disclosed that his wife was pregnant.

  “Pregnant?” asked the Sheik taking in the news, and for several seconds leaving Yousef in suspense. “Well, I have always wanted to meet your charming wife! Why not ask her to join us for dinner tomorrow in this very place?”

  Yousef felt relieved.

  “Indeed I shall. I shall speak to her. By the way, we’ve been here before, and she was actually the one who suggested that we meet here today. It struck me as a good idea.”

  “Most certainly. Excellent choice! You know, I have met her family and they are truly very honest, decent people. You’ve made a good choice.”

  “Yes, I think so too,” said Yousef, placing his fork in his mouth, although he only knew Nadia’s mother and grandmother, and that just slightly, from a visit he had paid them the last time he was in Jeddah, a visit that was now remote in his mind. He had gotten to know more about her family in recent years through things she told him from time to time; and also because she regularly phoned her family back in the kingdom.

  “And what is she thinking of doing with her life? I mean, surely she’s thinking of continuing with her studies, isn’t she?”

  “She registered for a course in dramatic arts. Theater, film, that sort of thing...”

  “Dramatic arts? In our country that would be impossible.” And after a brief pause, “But it’s true, I am fond of movies.”

  “Yes, and there is theater and cinema in a number of Arab countries. She promises she will behave and dress modestly, none of those roles that show a lack respect for Islam.”

  “Good, surely you must know what you’re doing.”

  “Yes. I don’t see any problem.”

  “Do you know what? I don’t think there’s a problem, either. You’re well aware that I’ve always been fond of movies. I have a sense that I will enjoy meeting and speaking with her. We will have a wonderful dinner tomorrow. A pity I came without any of my wives,” observed the Sheik regretfully, for he had three wives.

  It was only after the meal was over that Omar Rasoul Sharif touched upon the main reason that had brought him to New York. Before starting to talk he looked around and even then, made a point of keeping his voice low.

  “Are you sure we can speak freely here?”

  “Yes, we can.”

  “Even so, let us speak softly. Well, as you know, the United States expelled Sadam’s troops from Kuwait, bombed Iraq and now will not leave its bases in Saudi Arabia on the pretext that they are necessary to monitor air space, though it is known that there are military bases in Qatar and other places in the region that would serve perfectly well for this purpose. The Arab countries do not know how to unite to solve their internal problems, and as a result, the United States takes advantage of this to increase its power and vile influence, and now they’ve dug in their heels on our sacred peninsula. Just as foreseen, we rolled out the red carpet for them to come in and now they’ve come to stay. To Bin Laden this is a tremendous source of grief, a tremendous provocation.”

  “I can imagine. And what has he been doing lately?”

  “He’s moved to Sudan for good, took along his four wives and seventeen children. He was very well received there. They gave him a hero’s welcome. He’s building major highways for the country, an airport, he’s developing a tremendous enthusiasm for agriculture. He has companies producing nearly all the food there: cattle, honey, peanuts, acacia gum, who knows what else…”

  “Could it be that he’s letting himself be seduced by this new life and … forgetting about everything else?” Yousef hazarded.

  “Only if he were not who he is, or at the very least, if the United States were to withdraw from Saudi Arabia. Now then, I don’t believe it’s possible to alter either a man’s nature or expansionist American policies. Furthermore, while he is managing and expanding his businesses in the Sudan, he is keeping Al-Qaeda alive. He has training camps there, loyal advisors, and he offers recruits to the organization a pay bonus, medical care and free housing. He and I are made of the same fiber. I know that he will always be a man who is very concerned about the future of the Arab world. He will never give up in his fight against the western oppressors.”

  “And I am also of that fiber.”

  “Of course. I know you are.”

  “Am I to go to Sudan next, then?”

  “No. You must stay here in New York, all the more so now that your wife is pregnant. However, first of all, it is my duty to advise you that you must be more careful in your conduct in society and your actions for the accomplishment of your next mission. It is even most fitting at this time that your wife should be so well assimilated into this society as you say.”

  “This has to do with London, doesn’t it?”

  The Sheik looked around once again before addressing the Bishopsgate attack.

  “I do not consider it a total failure. After all, a car was blown up and a policeman was killed. Besides, the organization was very pleased with the tremendous daring of the attack.”

  “Really?” Yousef swelled with pride.

  “The daring of the attack was impressive to all of us. Even to me, I must confess to you. And it was I who indicated the target. Up until now no one had ever tried anything so ambitious on western soil. Tell me something: now that some time has elapsed, do you have any idea what went wrong?”

  “No matter how much I rack my brain, I cannot imagine that Hassan turned on us, so I’m convinced it was one of the men he hired who snitched. There was a leak. I don’t see any other hypothesis. Perhaps it was indeed precisely those two Englishmen who drove the truck full of explosives to the target on the day of the attack. Whatever it was, I do not believe that Hassan was directly guilty. Guilty of negligence, maybe, but that doesn’t matter anymore now. He must be in paradise as he deserved.”

  “Yes, may God bless his soul. Well, I also went digging into the matter and I discovered a few things that it is important for you to know. For instance, the name of the policeman you killed in London was Geoffrey William Washburn.”

  “Yes, I also found out his name from my own inquiries.”

  “What you surely do not know is that he belonged to an FBI anti-terrorist division, and it was this Washburn, in coordination with the English police, who managed to infiltrate someone among Hassan’s trusted contacts. That was how he managed to thwart the attack. That was the man you killed. It is worth noting that this FBI anti-terrorist division has never yet even heard of Al-Qaeda, or if it has, it went in one ear and out the other, that’s what I discovered. They underestimate us. And all the better. As of now, no one in the FBI believes there are organized Arab cells capable of orchestrating attacks either in the United States, England or anywhere else. Fortunately, they underestimate us, just as they underestimate Bin Laden. But this Agent Washburn was different and it happens that he had a faithful apprentice as obstinate as his teacher. His name is Frank Borelli. Remember this name. He is looked upon as a kind of stubborn ghost within the FBI, and he seems sworn to avenge Washburn’s death. He works practically on his own within the FBI, without much support, but occasionally, he manages to arrange cooperation with international police forces, convincing them that some major attack is imminent. That’s what happened in London, although in this case, the credit all goes to Washburn.”

  “Which means that I’ve got this Agent Borelli stalking me…”

  “Correct.”

  “How did he get to me?”

  “Descriptions provided by the man who infiltrated your scheme in London, dogged investigation of thousands of lists of passengers who traveled out of the country that day (and which he must have gone over countless times until his eyes ached), forensic investigation, hunches and deductions, and who knows what else… As I say, he is stubborn. What I do know is that he does not have any concrete evidence against you, otherwise he would have t
ried to arrest you. There is just one thing that he knows: that you live under a false identity. But, to give you an idea of what he’s like, to him this hardly amounts to anything. He doesn’t want to arrest you or give himself away over so little. He prefers to remain lurking in the background, just waiting for you to make a serious mistake that will let him get to those who are behind you, and then have the pleasure of catching you once and for all. Or of killing you. This is why things are going to have to work differently for the next attack. You will simply develop the plan to take out the target, and someone else will put it into practice. So avoid exposing yourself too much. Live the life of a good American. And a good Samaritan. Give yourself over to social and family life. Your wife will be an ace in the hole for you at this stage of the game.”

  “Could it be that you no longer trust me?”

  “Perish the thought. Of course not. I know it was not your mistake. It was Hassan’s, may God have mercy on his soul. He chose the wrong people to work with and let Agent Washburn thwart the attack, with consequences we’re all familiar with. Alaoui paid with his life, and on that day, so did Agent Washburn. You did well. Now listen: this Frank Borelli knows that you met often with Hassan. He suspects that you planed the Bishopsgate attack, and is convinced that it was you who shot Agent Washburn in London, but he did not find the slightest trace of evidence that actually places you there in Bishopsgate at the time of the attack. He couldn’t get any court in the world to convict you. Don’t worry too much, I’m just telling you to stay sharp. Lead a sober and austere life. Under no circumstances should you talk about our cause on the phone, and avoid exposing yourself. Remember that he is the only one who is obsessed with you, the rest of the FBI has other priorities. I am certain that he does not have adequate means to shadow you and listen in continuously twenty-four hours a day, but he does have his resources, and if we make one false step, he could find us out.”

  Yousef became thoughtful but was not shaken.

  “I’m not afraid of him. Let him try to catch me.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I will be careful.”

  “Having said this, here is the next target. Impressive and very big, by the way.” The Sheik put a piece of paper in Yousef’s hands who unfolded it and read: The Twin Towers. Then he stuck it in the flame of a candle on the table, letting the paper vanish into ashes, spreading the strong smell of burning. The two men’s gazes were drawn to the flame. “Now, pay attention. You will be approached by someone from the Muslim Brotherhood. They will send a westerner or Latino to talk to you. You will do things in such a way that you do not run any risk. You must know that there is a cell of ours in formation right here in New York, but it is better that you avoid it. Never visit them, nor do you want to find out where they are. All you have to do is deliver your plan and go on with your life normally, without attracting attention. I don’t want anyone working with you.”

  Yousef gave his assent.

  “Let’s get out of here,” the Sheik said. “This smell of burning is making me nauseous.”

  Sheik Omar paid and the two men stepped out into the cold air of Manhattan. Yousef looked across the street and caught a glimpse of a man leaning in the doorway of a building, shrouded in a dark overcoat with his hands in his pockets and a hat with the brim pulled down over his eyes. It was a figure that nearly melded completely with the shadows of the night, except that his eyes caught Yousef’s, who saw them more distinctly than all the rest of his profile. It was a fixed stare, cold and determined. Could this be Agent Borelli? He preferred to avert his eyes from the shadow and joined Sheik Omar getting into the limousine pulled up at the curb.

  10

  New York

  1993-96

  Full of determination, Yousef conceived an ingenious plan for the attack on the World Trade Center. This was then developed and perfected by a small team of other Arab conspirators, and was put into practice on the ground by a man of the same name born in Kuwait, though of Pakistani family, who went by the name of Ramzi Yousef.[8] This was the man who set off the bomb. He would subsequently come to hatch other dreadful plans involving putting bombs on commercial planes and assassinating famous figures such as Pope John Paul II, or President Bill Clinton. He would be condemned to life imprisonment by a New York court in 1998. The judge would say to him then, “Mr. Yousef, you are a virus that must be locked away […] “You adored not Allah but the evil you had become. I must say as an apostle of evil, you have been most effective.”

  To which Ramzi Yousef replied: “Yes, I am a terrorist and proud of it as long as it is against the U.S. government.” He was sentenced to two hundred and forty years in prison, and the judge recommended that he be placed in solitary confinement. But that would only be in 1998. Let us go back to 1993.

  Shortly before the attack on the World Trade Center, Ramzi Yousef had sent provocative letters to the New York newspapers in which he made three specific demands: the end of all American aid to Israel; the end of all diplomatic relations between the United States and Israel; and for the United States to put a stop to any and all interference in the internal political affairs of the Middle East. At 12:17 p.m. on February 26, 1993, Ramzi Yousef caused a massive explosion of a car bomb made of urea nitrate and hydrogen in the underground parking lot of the North Tower of the World Trade Center. The explosion opened a crater sixty meters wide, leaving six dead and 1,042 wounded. Even so, it did not fully accomplish the intended aims of the bombers, who meant for the explosion to cause the North Tower to lean over and smash into the South Tower, thus knocking them both over with a single blow, which would give rise to a very high number of casualties and financial losses.

  Agent Frank Borelli, partly because he was concentrating too much on Yousef (not on Ramzi but on the main character in this story), proved totally powerless to stop the catastrophe – as did the FBI as a whole, in fact.

  Yousef, the Saudi and central character in this story, followed on TV the attack based on his initial plan, always in the shadows, hidden beneath his convenient cover of tolerant Arab moderate, family man and New Yorker now perfectly in step with the ideas of the city and country where he lived, just as he had been ordered by Sheik Omar. He wasn’t even in New York on the day of the attack. He took the opportunity to travel to Florida with his wife who was several months pregnant, escaping the harsh New York winter. Both of them had appreciated the mild environment of warmth in the southern United States from the first time they went there. So that it was from a hotel room with a sweeping view of the greenish blue sea on Ocean Drive in Miami Beach that he watched the images of the attack on the American news channels. They spent the ensuing days strolling along Ocean Drive, enjoying the strong, bright sunlight, followed by days of clear sky, limpid waters, the constant cherished presence of Nadia and the growing baby at his side, the magnificent mysteries of the city of Miami, the sweet anxiety of knowing the he would soon be a father.

  To Nadia’s delight, after the attack on the World Trade Center, her husband did not receive any instructions to leave New York, so that what now lay ahead was the serene prospect of being able to continue with their lives on a stable footing in the city that Nadia loved, for several more good years, though Nadia entertained the secret hope that it would be forever. She loved New York as she had never loved any other city, not even Jeddah, the town where she was born and lived the longest, but which she would always associate with a very murky period in her life. Staying in New York meant that both she and Yousef could continue with their studies without further difficulties, have and educate their son, maintain their now precious daily and weekly routines, and ultimately go on with their lives without having to face a move to a new city, that is, without having to face a new upheaval in their lives.

  Just a few months after the attack on the World Trade Center, Nadia came home with a look of radiant joy. She had gotten a small part in a movie. She would appear on screen for less than one minute, but for her it was a tremendous career opportunity, i
n a role in which they happened to need a pretty young pregnant woman. Despite her pregnancy, Nadia became more beautiful with each passing day, a beauty that had come to light since London when she began to go without the veil and her black abaya. However, it was only in New York that she began to make frequent use of certain cosmetics and makeup products, very sober ones, as well as certain clothes that, without being very daring, made careful and delicate combinations, fully in good taste, that revealed the beauty and femininity of her slender body, well-formed and always adorned by her sparkling blue eyes. Yet while her appearance counted heavily in her favor, the fact that she was Muslim and very modest added an attractive aura of mystery and exoticism to her image. Nadia was also capable of being naturally very expressive. She could, in fact, play any role, so much so that, over time, she became increasingly accustomed to speaking English with a natural New York accent.

  It was in the summer of 1993 that the first child of this young Saudi couple arrived, whom they called Mohammed, after the Prophet. There was no way to go back to Jeddah and have their son on Arab soil, so Mohammed ended up an Arab born in New York, and neither the first nor the last. Nadia was extremely pleased with the medical care. Given the number of births of babies of all races that take place in New York, the hospital Nadia and Yousef went to was perfectly prepared for the birth of Mohammed, and for all the respective care and traditional Muslim rituals. Thus, the first thing the baby heard, beyond his own convulsive crying and any words exchanged by the doctors and nurses, was the Adhan “the call to prayer.” It was Yousef who whispered into the left ear, then the right ear of his newborn son that God is supreme, there is no God but God and that Mohammed is the Prophet of God. In order that the first taste the baby tasted would be sweet, Yousef bit a date and gave a little of the juice for his son to taste, passing his finger wet with juice over the tongue of the tiny being, a custom that, it is said, goes back to the Prophet himself. On the seventh day the baby had chosen for him the name that we already know. On the same day, his hair was shaven, a sign that this new human being was a servant of God, and the baby was circumcised. To complete the Muslim tradition for this busy day, Yousef went to the butcher and bought the equivalent of meat for two sheep (the more exact tradition would be for Yousef to sacrifice two sheep himself, and if it had been a girl instead of a boy, then he would have had to sacrifice one sheep), which he then offered to neighbors and friends.