Nimri stopped at a run-down brick house. He had never been to this one before. The neighborhood was mainly Moroccan, but this house was Chechen. In striking contrast to the rest of the façade, the front door was new and solid steel.
Nimri did not bother to knock. They knew he was standing there. He braced himself, as he always did before dealing with the Chechens. They were serious men. Ferocious fighters and implacable foes for whom every insult had to be avenged. They lived by blood feud, which, once entered into, could last for centuries with each new generation swearing to prosecute it. What a Chechen swore a Chechen did.
The door opened, Nimri nodding to the Chechen with the pistol stuck in his belt. He did not miss the Kalashnikov rifle propped up in the corner behind the door.
Once past the guard, Nimri found himself embraced by another young Chechen.
“Abdallah,” the Chechen exclaimed. “Assalam alaikum.”
“Walaikum assalam,” Nimri replied. Peace be upon you also. “How are you, Lecha?”
“Well, very well. And you?”
“Well also. How is your uncle?”
“He waits to receive you.”
“He is too kind.”
The house was swarming with Chechens. Nimri had grown up in such a house in Cairo, but unlike most Arabs he was a natural loner and had never liked it.
Weaving their way through the throng, they passed a room that caught Nimri’s eye. At first he just glanced, but the sight made him stop. A long table with bags of yellowish white powder on one end. Chechens wearing surgical masks were emptying them into large bowls and mixing in other white powders. At the end of the table others were weighing smaller amounts on scales and loading it into smaller bags.
Nimri was privately appalled. Not by the heroin, of course. The river of drugs began in Afghanistan, flowed through Central Asia, and into Russia. The Chechens handled a great deal of the business in Russia, and transshipment into Europe. Belgium was a favorite entry point.
No, it was not the drugs. Anything that weakened the infidels was permissible, as long as the Faithful did not indulge. It was that, instead of a safe house, the Chechens had brought him to this place where they did this business. It was incredibly insecure. But then they were always reckless. The only saving grace was that Chechens kept such business within their own clan groups. So betrayal was uncommon, and penetration next to impossible. No matter his misgivings, of course he could say nothing. He was a guest, and it would be an insult.
Lecha of course noticed his interest. “Business is good.”
Nimri only grunted and kept walking.
He was ushered into a large room, with fine carpets and many chairs. A room for meeting, receiving guests, and doing business. A man waited at the head chair. A small man, but packed with lean muscle. Bald at the top of his head, the hair at the side cropped close the scalp like a prisoner. A hawk’s beak of a nose, and burning black eyes.
Arbi Temiraev had come to Antwerp after breaking with the Riyad us-Saliheyn Martyrs’ Brigade, the largest of the Chechen resistance groups fighting the Russians. He maintained that it was because they were not Islamic enough. Nimri suspected tensions between the domestic Chechen fighters and those, like Temiraev, who had trained with al-Qaeda in Afghanistan. When the Russians had invaded Chechnya the world had offered sympathy. But only al-Qaeda had offered money, weapons, training, and brother fighters to battle the Russians. To the Chechens it became a blood debt. But later there was tension. Most of them were only interested in killing Russians, while al-Qaeda fought jihad, holy war, against all infidels everywhere.
Then again, Temiraev might have come to Belgium in the aftermath of a clan dispute. The only thing that could cool the heat of a Chechen clan feud was a temporary truce to kill Russians.
Temiraev rose and embraced Nimri warmly. “Peace be upon you, my brother.”
“And upon you also, my brother.”
“Sit, rest. My house is yours.”
They spoke in Arabic. Nimri had no Russian, and Temiraev’s French was poor.
Nimri followed the forms. Chechens were strict about courteous and formal public behavior. “I am grateful for your hospitality.”
Properly hooded and gowned women brought a silver tea samovar, glasses, and plates of cookies. Neither Nimri nor Temiraev spoke a word to them, though Temiraev watched intently to make sure the serving was done properly. When it was, the women and Lecha were dismissed and the door closed.
“God be praised, you look well and strong,” said Nimri.
“You look tired,” Temiraev observed. “We have not seen you.”
Nimri of course would never have mentioned it, except he needed to make the point that the proposal he had brought was not from him alone. “I have been abroad.”
“Oh?” The disinterest was feigned but not unexpected.
“To Pakistan.”
“If I am not mistaken,” said Temiraev, “it has been some time since you visited there. A pleasant trip?”
“Very. I saw the family.”
Temiraev knew that Nimri’s family, what was left of it, was in Egypt. So he also knew which family Nimri was speaking of. “Really? And how is the family?”
“God be praised, still strong.”
“God is great, my brother. This news is welcome. Because there has been much talk that the family is no longer strong, I am sorry to say.”
“I can report with pleasure this is not the case.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” Temiraev replied, without a great deal of conviction.
“We spoke of upcoming business.”
“We?” Temiraev repeated politely.
“The Libyan.”
“The Libyan?” Temiraev said in disbelief. “It is the Libyan?”
“It is.”
Temiraev made a sound of disgust. “It should be you.”
“That is a matter of no importance. I received approval for my business.”
“From the Libyan?”
Nimri smiled. “I understand your surprise. No, he desires me far from Pakistan and his own position. And if God calls me during this business, the Libyan will shed no tears.”
“Do not sell yourself short, my friend. God grant you old age, but upon hearing the news, the Libyan may well commission a celebration.”
“Not if he has to pay the bill for it,” Nimri replied.
Temiraev laughed appreciatively, slapping the arms of his chair. “Good, very good. Now tell me about this business of yours, which is why you have come.”
“Oh, I have come only to see my old friend and taste his well-known hospitality after too long a time,” Nimri said quickly. “My business will not interest you.”
A sudden change in mood, eyes flashing. “Why not?”
Nimri knew he was on dangerous ground, even seeming to impugn a Chechen’s courage. “Oh, you have your business here, my friend,” he said lightly. “It appears you are successful. My business is abroad. I will most likely not return.”
“Martyrdom? You?”
“If I am martyred, then I pray God receive me to Paradise. It is not my intention to become a martyr, but the business is very hazardous.”
“You think that frightens us?”
Nimri chose every word with exquisite care, having seen for himself what lay beneath the veneer of Chechen ritual courtesy. “Of course not, my friend. Your courage is known to me. It is known to all.”
“You think that because we handle the Tozhu, the Horse, that we have lost our yajtza?”
Nimri did not know the Russian prison slang word for testicles, but Temiraev’s meaning was perfectly clear nonetheless.
Temiraev sprang up from his chair. “Come with me.”
Nimri felt sudden alarm. One never knew when one had pushed a Chechen too far, except when it was too late. But of course he could do nothing but follow. There was no other way out of that house.
Temiraev led him to the back, to another steel door with a massive padlock that he unlocked. Then d
own creaking wooden stairs into a basement. It was cold and damp, and smelled strongly of mildew. Antwerp stood beside the North Sea, and all its old basements were damp.
Instead of the open space Nimri had been expecting, the cellar was blocked off by fresh brickwork. A narrow hallway, obviously new brick walls, and a line of metal doors. Dim light from low-wattage bulbs dangling from the ceiling.
Something unknown, something just barely touching his senses, made Nimri feel incredibly uneasy.
Temiraev unlocked another padlock on one of the doors, threw the bolt, and pulled it open. He flicked on a light switch.
Nimri leaned into the open doorway, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the brighter light. Then he jumped back in alarm.
It wasn’t just the overwhelming stench of urine, feces, and vomit. It was the naked body hanging upside down from the ceiling, the rope around its feet tied to a hook.
Odd the details that caught one’s eye at such a moment. The legs were a different color than the body. Nimri held his breath against the smell and looked closer. By God, all the skin from the feet to the thighs had been cut away. What he was seeing were red muscles. He took another step backward before remembering he had to control himself before Temiraev.
Just in time, hands on both shoulders moved him out of the doorway. Temiraev passed by and into the room. Looking for something else to look at, Nimri noticed that the walls and ceiling were covered with thick dark padding, like life preserver material.
Temiraev gave the body a kick. What Nimri had thought was a dead body moaned. By God, it was still alive.
Temiraev threw a few more kicks, as if he were practicing on a boxing bag. The moans turned to screams, and the noise backed Nimri out into the hallway.
Finally noticing this, Temiraev bent over and whispered something in Russian into the dangling man’s ear. Then he joined Nimri in the hallway, bolting and locking the door.
“Russian,” Temiraev said with a pleased smile. “Federal Security Bureau. We found out the agent he was running, and persuaded him to call for their next meeting at a bar owned by some friends of ours. We watched, hidden, as his security checked it out before the meeting and left. Then he arrived.” Temiraev grabbed Nimri’s upper arm. “You should have seen the pig’s face when we all walked in a few moments later. The pair covering him were still out in the street. We left them there like the fools they were, wondering what had happened.”
Hearing the rest of the story, Nimri did not ask why they did not simply cut the Russian’s throat then and there, instead of wrapping him in a carpet so they could take him out the back and remove his skin at their leisure. He knew how Chechens felt about Russians.
There was also a lesson in it. Belgium was so hospitable because its security service, the Sûreté de l’Etat, was spectacularly ineffective. They had no right to even tap telephones. Unfortunately that ineffectiveness allowed other, more aggressive services, like the Russians and the Americans, to operate freely.
As they made their way back up the stairs Nimri glanced at the other doors in the cellar, wondering what was behind each of them.
Returning to the audience room, Temiraev shouted something in Chechen. Just what soon became clear. As they were settling back down another woman brought a bottle of vodka in an ice bucket, a loaf of black bread, and pickled cucumber.
Temiraev gestured toward a glass as the vodka was poured. Of course Nimri shook his head but said his thanks. Alcohol was haram, forbidden.
The Chechens were not good Muslims. This was known. It was said that they had originally embraced Islam out of characteristic defiance, because it was associated with resistance to Russian conquest. And Russian conquest in the Caucasus was not just something of the past two centuries.
Temiraev toasted Nimri’s health in Russian and threw down a shot.
Nimri drained his now cool glass of tea. Anything to put some moisture back into his mouth.
“Now you see that I have not become soft,” Temiraev stated.
“I never doubted it, my friend. Not for a moment. But my business is not with the Russians.”
“Americans?”
Nimri nodded.
“Did we not fight them together in Afghanistan? Did they not shed the blood of my clan with their bombs, the cowards, instead of fighting like men? Is there not a debt that must be paid?”
“All these things I know, my brother,” Nimri replied. “But it was not for me to speak them. I desired to hear you speak them to me.”
“Am I not under obligation to you? When the American bomb hit the bunker, was it not you who dug me out and returned me to life, all praise to God in His mercy? And did we not both bury my sister’s son Islamov in that place, with our own hands?”
Nimri remembered the day. The idiot Taliban digging their trenches and bunkers in Kandahar, as if fighting World War I. The American planes so high up they were only tiny streaks of white contrail across the sky. And then the earth erupting without warning, the bombs with eyes dropping on each bunker in succession, leaving the positions looking as if they had been turned over by a giant’s spade. God had been with him that day. He had been inside the bunker but awoke outside, deaf but still living.
“I remember all these things, my brother,” Nimri told him. “But understand that you are under no obligation this day. None. I do not invoke it.”
“You are a true Arab, my brother,” said Temiraev. “You will not come to the point unless I take your skin. And perhaps not even then. Now tell me this business of yours with the Americans.”
Temiraev was right, the time had come. Nimri laid out his plans. In detail.
Temiraev heard him out impassively. “And your role in this?”
Nimri had been waiting for that. The al-Qaeda chiefs sent others off to execute their plans. But he had a different reputation. “Beside my fighters, as always. As before. As in Afghanistan. I would not have come here otherwise.”
Temiraev closed his eyes and thought for a very long time.
Nimri poured himself some more tea and waited patiently.
“There will be fame in this,” Temiraev said finally. “Great fame.”
Nimri only nodded. They were all God’s instruments. Every one of them fought for a different reason—it was only important that they fought. Temiraev loved to fight. And to see himself, and have others see him, as a great battle leader meant that he needed constant battle. Trapping a Russian agent in a comfortable European city was a poor substitute. The young brothers fought to be part of something big and important. And of course there was the thrill of living a clandestine life as a servant of God while others were condemned to normality. One traveled the world, lived undercover, planned attacks, built bombs. Much more exciting than selling shoes. Again, how they came into it was not important. It was that they embraced jihad. God was great.
Temiraev closed his eyes again and thought some more. “We will need forty men. At least.”
“We may need forty men, my brother, but we will take fewer than twenty.”
“Not enough.”
“Every extra man is a risk. They cannot all travel together. Even two of our brothers on the same airplane, even if they are not sitting together, will cause if not a panic then at least suspicion.”
“I see. So therefore none of them can know anything until the attack.”
Nimri was glad he did not have to make an issue of that and risk another insult. “None but you and I, my brother.”
“I see the necessity, but it will make things difficult. Each man will have to travel in foreign lands by himself. There are good fighters, and there are men who can do this. Fewer who can do both. How will we travel?”
“Several brothers, who knew nothing and still know nothing about the mission, have done detailed work in preparation and reconnaissance. Each a piece, in isolation. Only I know how they all come together. Over the course of a month, we will take flights to Brazil.”
“Brazil?”
“Yes. Our mistake befo
re was to use countries friendly to the Americans to launch operations. The Philippines. Thailand. Pakistan. It made it easy for our enemies. The new leftist government of Brazil is not inclined to work with the Americans. They were infuriated when the Americans insisted on fingerprinting and photographing Brazilian citizens who traveled to America. I doubt they will allow the Americans to conduct operations against us. This means only a few American secret agents. They worry me not. The odds will be even. We will treat them like your Russian.”
“Yes, I see it now.”
“Each brother will be met at the airport and taken to a safe house,” said Nimri. “New documents and flights to Mexico. All I require are passport photographs for each of our fighters. I will make all preparations here. All the documents, tickets, and flights. Then I will fly to South America and prepare the way there. On my signal, the movement will begin.”
“Direct flights? That will make it easier for the less experienced.”
“No, my friend. There must be as many connections as possible. To make tracing our routes all the more difficult.”
“Very well. How will we enter the United States?”
“I will not even tell you that, my brother. But we will enter, and we will strike them to the marrow of their bones.”
“How will the operation be financed?”
It was ever the same, Nimri thought. The Chechens were fighters, but they were also businessmen. They were willing to die fighting, but not to open their purses. “The operation is fully financed, my brother.”
“The Libyan?”
Again the tone of surprise. “From him a small part of what is required.”
“It must be the smallest part.”
“It is,” said Nimri. “But the old way of centralized financing and disbursement is no longer safe or secure. Neither are the charities by which our brothers around the world supported us. Now our wealthy brothers in the Gulf no longer send their contributions to the center. Each of us who continue in an operational role have made contact with a few of these rich brothers, and they have become our personal patrons. They give us access to personal accounts of theirs, relying on us to use the money well.”
The Enemy Inside Page 8
