Yousef became so efficient that he rarely spilled his own blood. He managed to take dozens, hundreds of lives at a single blow. It’s easier to take lives than to save them. Or to save souls. The work of a doctor is harder than that of a murderer because death is certain, with or without bullets, with or without bombs, with or without missiles, with or without warships, with or without nuclear bombs. Speeding up a death is simply speeding up the human failure that death represents. Prolonging a life or relieving suffering, that’s an accomplishment. But Yousef did not move along these paths, thinking as he did, as do all who engage in violence and mayhem, that the world was already violent and inhuman on its own, and this violence and inhumanity, mixed with the oppression imposed on the Arab world, that had ravaged and disgraced it since the days of Western colonialism, were factors that justified making this world into an even worse hell until the enemy was beaten. At this stage, Yousef also set about helping to create armed cells in different parts of the globe. He would repeat the ideology that the United States was the oppressor and it was necessary to inflict losses on it until it withdrew from the Arab world once and for all, and until it ceased to assist the Zionist presence in Palestine. He advocated the same need for tireless, arduous struggle against Israel. Despite this, he always worked alone and independently, under the sole supervision of Sheik Omar, who was evidently satisfied with the growing accomplishments of his protégé. In the course of his attacks, abductions and murders in the latter half of the 1990’s, Yousef achieved constant successes, each one followed by a subsequent flight into the shadows, even under the very nose of the FBI, and particularly Agent Borelli, the man assigned to catch him, whose work was attracting increasing resources and attaining ever greater importance.
Yousef’s nightmares, meanwhile, were becoming more and more frequent, occurring several times a month. After an attack they were especially harrowing and overwhelming. Always that recurring desert and those accursed red butterflies!
The historical setting of the 1990’s was also propitious for the ideology that Yousef espoused. The bombardment of Iraq at the end of the Gulf War was seen by extremists (and others) as one more instance of western interference in the affairs of the Arab world. The United States was perpetuating its presence at military bases in Saudi Arabia. Israel was taking military action against its Arab neighbors in the region, always ensuring that every year, for each Israeli dead at the hands of Hamas, there would be on average at least three dead Palestinians. In this way it avenged itself, and its enemies were taught a lesson. This was the State of Israel’s predominant foreign policy to achieve stability and peace in the Middle East with its neighbors, Lebanon and Palestine. Even now at the dawn of the 21st century, even after decades of failure at resolving the conflict, even now successive Israeli governments persisted in following exactly the same path, just as on the other side its enemies persisted in imposing on their people a permanent situation of sacrifice of human life in the name of their radical ideology, without a glimmer of humanity. What Yousef and his ilk most wanted was to confront Israel on the ground, in a door-to-door war in Palestine, or better yet, confront the United States and defeat it once and for all in Afghanistan, the same sacred ground where they had defeated the Soviets. This became the design of Al-Qaeda. If harassed, the United States would come to Afghanistan, and when that day came, the united Arab world in its entirety would revolt and come together in a single vast army that would defeat the United States once and for all, just as had happened with the Soviet Union. And that would bring about the fall of Israel.
In 1998, Al-Qaeda accomplished the attack on the American embassies in Nairobi and Dar-es-Salam. The United States retaliated by firing missiles from the Red Sea into Sudan, and in Central Asia, into the Khost region in Afghanistan, hoping to get Bin Laden, who managed to escape unharmed because, unaware of the attack, he chose on that day for trivial reasons to go to Kabul. With the failure of the American strikes – presumptuously entitled Operation Infinite Reach – the image of Bin Laden would be strengthened as a figure symbolic of resistance to overbearing and arrogant American power, enhancing his reputation abroad even in the very places where he himself had brought about the spilling of civilian blood, such as Nairobi and Dar-es-Salam.
It would be useful to step back a moment to summarize certain historic facts. At this stage, Bin Laden had lost his Saudi citizenship and been forced to abandon Sudan, after openly criticizing King Fahd of Saudi Arabia in a blunt manifesto in 1995, in which he challenged the sovereign, asking him: How dare you call upon the people to conserve energy when everybody sees how your magnificent palaces are illuminated and air-conditioned all day and all night? Do we not have the right to ask you O King where did all those amounts go? You don’t have to answer if you knew the rate of transactions and bribes that you and the influential princes earn.” Inevitably, he also referred to the American military presence in the country: It is not reasonable to keep one’s silence about transforming the nation to an American protectorate to be defiled by the soldiers of the Cross with their soiled feet in order to protect your crumbling throne and the preservation of the oilfields in the kingdom.[11] To top it off, he advised the sovereign to abdicate the throne as his best and most sensible option under the circumstances. Bin Laden ended up being expelled by Sudan and was stripped of his vast wealth, being forced to move to Afghanistan, the only country in the world that would take him in, and where the Taliban, who enjoyed Saudi and Pakistani support, were making progress. Bin Laden and the Taliban were forced to get along with each other. As for the Taliban, in addition to imposing a completely pitiless form of summary justice, they had sought to restrict completely any kind of entertainment and curtail the freedoms of women. Under their dominion, Afghan women were forbidden to work or study. Prohibitions were imposed on a wide variety of items, from masks to parabolic antennae, music to cinema, video players to nail polish.
By the end of the 1990’s the amount of blood spilled globally by Yousef had grown tremendously. He had become entirely heartless, and there was not even the slightest possibility either in his own reckoning or that of those who knew him best that he might ever have occasion to change.
12
Las Vegas
March 1999
Yousef was now a widely traveled man, and now he took yet another trip, this one very special, to go see a boxing match in Las Vegas, America’s amusement park, at the MGM Grand Garden Arena. The Caribbean Hurricane was defending his championship title won over three years earlier. As the second largest hotel and resort in the world, the MGM Grand was ostentatious even by Las Vegas standards, with more than five thousand rooms in the brand new, glittering main building, with more than thirty storeys and even featuring its own rivers and water falls (and of course, a huge casino with an area of more than 15,000 square meters). On that day the Arena, with a seating capacity for 17,000 spectators, was sold out.
A boxing match of this magnitude had the power to captivate Yousef’s attention almost completely. Within his own mind, jam-packed as it was with dreadful plans and conjectures, he was able to see the beauty of boxing after a fashion, the attacking blows, the dodges, the beauty of the suffering and sacrifice required to endure slamming punches and stand one’s ground and fight. On that night Yousef was going to see the great Colombian boxer who had impressed him since the days when he lived with Nadia in New York, the great Caribbean Hurricane. He rarely spent money on himself beyond what was strictly necessary – money meant as little to him as compassion at this stage – but that night he decided to splurge, and he bet heavily on the Hurricane. He already knew the life story of this boxer, a born fighter who had had to battle ferociously against life’s adversities, abandoned by his mother as a baby on the doorstep of an orphanage, who nonetheless, with his talent as a boxer and tenacity in the ring, had prevailed in the battle of life. Yousef admired the Colombian’s ability to turn life’s hard obstacles in his favor, sublimating his capacity for sacrifice and increasing th
e vigor, speed and efficacy of his punches to dynamite his adversaries in the ring. After the fashion of the Hurricane, Yousef also imagined that he had learned to transform controlled rage into a terribly powerful weapon. This was why he enjoyed learning about how the Hurricane had taken a beating from life and had managed to fight until he was able to seize the wealth and glory of this cruel world with the strength of his fists. Yousef saw himself reflected in every punch of the Hurricane as a black vigilante squeezing the trigger to wipe out one more apostate, one more enemy, forcing through the corrections the world required.
On that night, Yousef, who had already won for himself fame as a man who was absolutely pitiless and of very few words, dressed in a long, black leather coat and black turtle-neck, headed towards the dressing room where the Hurricane was getting ready to defend his world title. He walked with authority, coldness and assurance, slipping through the dimness in such a way that no security guard confronted or even noticed him, not daring to get in his way. With the passing of the years Yousef had turned into a truly fearsome figure. He was tall, slender, pale and grim. His movements, moreover, were terribly silent. It was rare even to notice him approaching as, invariably dressed in black, he walked by easily, undetected in the shadows. On the other hand, if someone saw him and accosted him, the fearsome visage and harsh gaze prompted an immediate doubt in the other as to whether it was worth disturbing this character who looked like death incarnate. Usually he walked with his head cast down, and when he took the trouble to look someone in the eyes, he would blast the person with his gaze, as though training a blazing spotlight on his prey.
Yousef found the Hurricane seated on a long bench dressed for the fight. He wore blood-red shorts, his gold champion’s belt, and red gloves completely enveloping both fists. On his ebon-dark body at 80-kilos, all the muscles on his torso and arms stood out, well-developed and solid. Sitting hunched over, his elbows on his knees, chin on the back of his gloves and eyes shut, he tried to concentrate on the approaching fight and empty his mind of all else. He asked God to give him wisdom, and promised himself that he would give his best in the ring. He knew he had all it took to defeat his opponent as long as he never let his concentration waver, never let his vast spirit of sacrifice flag, knew how to dodge and throw his mighty punches intelligently, at just the right moment, and never lost his calm and confidence. With his eyes closed, immersed in these thoughts, the champion sensed the entry of a foreign presence. He snapped his eyes open, ready to be annoyed. Seldom was he intimidated by anyone at all, yet when he turned and saw the bizarre figure of Yousef behind him, barely one step away, he shuddered. It was as though the ambient temperature had suddenly gone ice cold. In his inimitable way, Yousef then planted himself in front of the Hurricane, simply staring at the floor without uttering a word.
“What’s going on? One of Brown’s dirty tricks?” asked the Hurricane alluding to his opponent that night. “How did they let you get in here, moron?” The Hurricane got to his feet and raised his fists in fighting position. “I guarantee you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life!”
Yousef remained impassive. He confined himself to flashing his terrible gaze at the Hurricane. Those better acquainted with that look would see it was less charged than usual. The Hurricane, however, had no way of knowing this, so he kept his fists raised.
“I’m not here to kill you. If I wanted to, I already would have done so, and your fists would not have been able to stop me. Apart from that, I know you’ve got a way with your fists, so I think I’d avoid a fist fight with you. If it came to that, I’d use something like this.” Yousef indicated an automatic pistol in his waistband. Then he took his eyes off the Hurricane, looked back at the floor and spoke in a voice laden with gravity.
“You may think of me as one of your admirers, a fan who, like you, understands the great power a man can avail himself of in this life if he knows how to handle it.”
“What are you talking about? Be very careful with that gun, this place is crawling with security guards.”
Yousef totally ignored these words.
“I’m speaking of the special power that is only known by those who have experienced the deepest abyss, the blackest sea, the most dreadful purgatory, and have escaped from them, becoming a man who is super-powerful in the process. I know that is the power that enables you to win each fight you get into.”
Three tall, hefty security guards in suits and black ties burst into the dressing room, ready for action at a signal from the Hurricane. The latter, however, reflected, and quite correctly, that Yousef was the one in control of the situation. If he wanted to, he really would have killed him already with the gun at his waist, and he could still very well do so. For this reason, he raised his gloved hand, wide open, signaling to the three security guards to hold still, and then nodded, indicating the exit to the three tall heavy men. They were initially confused but ended up leaving after a second glance of confirmation from the Hurricane. The Colombian had also perceived that he was not in the presence of an enemy. He knew how to read enemies. If life had taught him anything it was that there were just a few gazes he could read with confidence, and Yousef’s gaze of deep blackness was one of them. Why? Because more than anything else, such a man was terribly sincere. Violently sincere. And indifferent to everything. Except for the convictions that blinded him, for which he would give his very life, and which had already taken over his soul.
“I knew you were a sensible man,” said Yousef, as he confirmed the departure of the security guards.
The Hurricane decided to change his tactics.
“So you’re one of my admirers? I thank you for coming to tell me so in person, but let’s not waste time on this because in less than five minutes I have to go into the ring. Say what you have to say.”
“Don’t worry, I know you’ll win anyway, unless they kill you. I just wanted to tell you before carrying out another important mission I’ve been charged with, that you have become a great source of inspiration to me. I see you often in my mind when I squeeze the trigger or detonate a bomb, I see your figure as a boxer in the ring, throwing one of your terrible right hooks into your opponent’s face, and he’s spitting blood and toppling to the mat.”
This man is completely out of his mind, Luis reflected.
“You should know that what you say makes me sad. I’m very sorry.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the Hurricane realized their heavy significance and braced himself mentally for the worst, that is to say, for his interlocutor to fly into a rage. If he had another chance to choose the thrust of the conversation, he would definitely not go in that direction again. Yousef raised his fearsome black fighting gaze at the dark, strapping body of the Colombian with an explosive look of impending lightning.
“So you think you win fights for reasons different than mine? Perhaps you think that now. Perhaps you are weaker today and will lose this fight, for that very reason. Perhaps you are losing bit by bit the great power you derive from that vast and mighty wrath within you over everything that has happened in your life. But of this much you can be sure: it was that which gave you the power you needed to win all those fights you’ve won so far, and certainly to get out of the street, out of the poverty and disgrace that once engulfed you. It was that which transformed you into a smashing tempest and gave you everything you have.”
Furtive images flickered through Hurricane’s mind of the first fights he had won, in and out of the ring. He remembered the powerful feeling that swept through him as he unleashed his rage in violent blows on the face and torso of opponents who one by one had fallen at his feet over the course of his life. These images were followed by an inner confusion, loss of concentration, complete disorientation. When the Hurricane came to himself, Yousef had vanished. All that remained was a deep cavity of silence in which the Caribbean Hurricane now felt himself to be imprisoned.
He lost the fight that night, and a few days later decided to withdraw from the ring indefinitely.<
br />
13
As a result of its recent attacks crowned with success, Al-Qaeda was stronger than ever, and its plans were increasingly ambitious. The next big step was to perpetrate a large-scale attack inside the United States – to wound the great beast in its lair, to lure it irresistibly to Afghanistan where its defeat would be certain. Sheik Omar called upon Yousef, who longed to come up with a plan to knock down the World Trade Center once and for all, seeking his collaboration to expedite the delivery of a plan. In response, he helped to conceive a daring and ambitious plan that involved redirecting commercial planes to smash into the Twin Towers. It was Yousef’s first involvement in an attack including the participation of suicide bombers. Together with other members of the organization, he worked to bring the plan into being, flying back and forth to Malaysia, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Spain and the United States, to establish contacts, offer suggestions or technical advice and make deliveries of money as needed. Going from conception to execution required two years, in which the suicide attackers entered the United States and, due to the negligence of the CIA, which knew who these men were and did not pass the information along to the FBI, they were not stopped in time to prevent the catastrophe on American soil.[12] Senator Thomas Kean, President of the 9/11 Commission, after releasing the report compiled by this same commission would clearly state in 2004 that Presidents Bush and Clinton “were not served properly by the intelligence agencies of this country.”[13] However, it was not only the Presidents who were badly served by their intelligence agencies, it was the American people themselves, with tragic consequences. The aforesaid commission also makes it clear that “none of the measures adopted from 1998 to 2001 disturbed or even delayed the progress of the al-Qaeda plot.”[14]
The Miracle of Yousef: Historical and political thriller Page 20
