Wassenberg was approaching meltdown. Although the Professor had not disclosed his appointment as a scientist at USAMRIID in the article, there would be many in the Surgeon General’s office who would know him. Not only was this Muslim scientist profoundly wrong in his thinking, for which Wassenberg had already decided he would be disciplined severely, but to have this sort of open criticism of the West by a member of his own staff might put that elusive first star even further out of reach. With his blood pressure rising to a dangerous level, he continued to read Imran Sayed’s final paragraphs. Religion is an accident of birth, and if you were born in Pakistan, as I was, you were taught from a very young age to believe in Muhammad’s ascension into heaven from the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem. If you were born in this country and you are a Christian, you are taught to believe in Christ’s ascension a short distance away, from his tomb near Calvary over which the Church of the Holy Sepulchre now stands. Muhammad and Christ, peace be upon them both, had much in common. Both called for justice, equity and compassion. Instead of fearing difference moderates on both sides need to embrace it, and celebrate the diversity of culture we have inherited. Unless the growing influence of Islamic, Christian and Jewish fundamentalists is marginalised, along with their differing but unshakeable beliefs that they alone have the only answer to our salvation, our future as a species is bleak.
‘Crawshaw! I want that motherfucker Muslim scientist in my office immediately. Immediately, d’yer hear!’
At the far end of the sprawling compound Captain Crawshaw was sweating profusely in the half-light of the dawn, struggling to put one boot in front of the other, mercifully out of hearing of his incandescent Colonel.
CHAPTER 24
ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
A s the British Airways 747 taxied after landing al-Falid caught a glimpse of the faded blue ‘Islamabad International’ sign above the low white building that served as the gateway to Pakistan’s capital. The airport was shared with the Pakistan Air Force Chaklala Transport Base, and al-Falid had mixed emotions as he watched two American-made F-16 fighters roar down the main runway. The jets’ single afterburners blasted a long orange fire trail behind them, the green and white decals of the Pakistan Air Force on the fuselages and the white crescent and star of Pakistan on the tail fins clearly visible. One day, al-Falid thought resentfully, we will not need your aircraft. One day we will be making our own and pan-Islam will stretch across Europe and Asia, and across the Pacific to the Americas. The world’s aircraft, along with everything else, will be made by Muslims for the benefit of Islam. al-Falid silently thanked Allah, the Most Merciful and the Most Gracious, that such a day was fast approaching. al-Falid spotted the CIA agent immediately. This one was standing way too close to the baggage carousel, nervously scanning the passengers arriving to pick up their bags. It looked like the young man was on his first assignment in the field. He was wearing black wrap-around sunglasses and al-Falid judged him to be in his mid-twenties, about 175 centimetres tall, with a long oval face and very short, blond hair. al-Falid sensed that, behind the sunglasses, their eyes met and the American infidel immediately looked away. ‘Never make eye contact’ would be in the manual, al-Falid thought wryly. After a few minutes, with the baggage carousel remaining obstinately stationary, al-Falid turned abruptly and walked up to the newsstand at the far end of the terminal. After he had bought a copy of the Pakistan Observer, he turned back to find that the American infidel was only 30 metres away looking at the departure screens. Suspicions confirmed, al-Falid moved back towards the baggage carousel. This was not going to be too difficult, al-Falid thought, but then his mood changed abruptly as he checked his BlackBerry to find that he had an email. Most communications were sent via innocuous blogger sites on the internet, and he made a mental note to remind his cell leader in the city targeted for the first warning attack that the Americans, along with their British and Australian counterparts, could now read emails with ease. Authorities reacted to TCDD and community worries. Half-life a concern. Normal activities suspended and no longer able to use them as cover. Cork in bottle approach will be limited and will need to concentrate on HEAT for surface attack.
Conscious of being watched by the CIA agent, al-Falid kept his expression neutral as he deleted the incriminating message. The authorities’ decision to cease normal activities, the activities which would have provided his cell in the target city with the perfect cover for delivery of large amounts of explosives for the first of Kadeer’s warning attacks was a blow, but canny operational planners like al-Falid always allowed for the unexpected. The email had suggested his alternative plan be put into operation. Several high explosive anti-tank rockets had been acquired from the infidel’s own forces and they would now be used in the major manoeuvre. The fishing boat al-Falid had purchased would have to be reconfigured to deliver its part in the attack on the surface, although time was running out. al-Falid knew the schedule of the supertanker off by heart, and two of the tugs would already be preparing to leave their base for the long voyage to the target. As the baggage carousel rumbled into life, al-Falid pondered the change in plan. The anti-tank missiles would have to be accompanied by a bigger shaped charge, but that had been allowed for and al-Falid was confident that the welding operations could be carried out in broad daylight. That sort of activity was perfectly normal around a boatshed and it might still be possible to position smaller charges on the bottom. If the charges on the bottom were also successful the disruption to the target would be complete. al-Falid’s eyes narrowed at the memory of the long hours he had spent poring over the map of the infidel’s city. The cork in the bottle might yet be possible, he thought, as he moved to collect his battered suitcase.
Amon al-Falid had chosen a large hotel off Gomal Road, not far from the huge Shah Faisal Mosque at the base of the majestic Magalla Hills. The hills overlooked the thoroughly modern capital of Pakistan which had been moved from Karachi in the late 1950s. High-rise buildings separated by wide, tree-lined avenues gave a false image of a stable, prosperous and peaceful Islamic nation. Many of the large hotels had loading docks staffed by Muslims and al-Falid’s hotel had a member of the Faith who had been only too happy to help. The day after his arrival al-Falid had been quite content for the American infidel to follow him to the Islamic University where al-Falid had perused documents on Islamic architecture, but today he planned to visit the arms traders in Darra Adam Khel. His first visit eighteen months ago to the dusty, lawless outpost in the foothills of the Hindu Kush, where you could buy anything from an AK-47 to the most sophisticated weapons the international arms black markets had to offer, had been highly successful, and the resources for the second and third of Kadeer’s warning attacks were in position in various parts of the world. Today he would complete the purchases for the first attack. Like the last visit, his visit today was something that had to be kept from the infidel at all costs. al-Falid carefully eased back the window curtain. The young CIA agent was keen. Not yet 7 am, and already he was sitting in a battered Suzuki Potohar parked across the street. Probably thinks it is non-descript and unobtrusive, al-Falid thought contemptuously. Every so often, the infidel would look up from his newspaper and glance anxiously towards the hotel entrance. Well, he was in for a very long day, al-Falid mused, as he headed down to the basement and the loading dock.
Already the temperature had reached 40°C and it was going to be one of those very hot and humid days the sub-continent was renowned for. al-Falid allowed himself a rare smile. The trip out of the hotel in among the big calico laundry bags belonging to the Hyderabad Laundry Company had been quite comfortable, and he had then changed into a loose-fitting shalwat kameez, the traditional flowing robes of the Pashtuns. He was now in the passenger seat of the laundry company’s four-wheel drive Toyota that was speeding towards the Afghan border. Two of Khalid Kadeer’s fighters were in the back of the Toyota with their AK-47 Kalashnikovs, loaded with two full magazines taped together, between their knees. Following close behind was a t
ruck from the same company with six more of Kadeer’s bodyguards. The two heavy metal suitcases in the back contained US$10 million in non-sequential $100 bills, and both Kadeer and al-Falid were determined that it would not fall into the wrong hands. The money had come from one of al-Qaeda’s global charities, for which the Hyderabad Laundry Company in Islamabad was just a front. al-Falid had become an expert in hiding money trails and not all the banks in Islamabad were what they seemed. al-Falid felt a surge of satisfaction as the avenues of Islamabad gave way to the Indus River Valley, then two hours later, to the Peshawar valley. To the north he could pick out the hazy foothills of the Hindu Kush, and if Allah, the Most Kind, the Most Merciful was willing, the money in the back of the Toyota would soon be exchanged for sophisticated American-made weapons that would be used for the glory of Islam. Fleetingly he wondered about the young CIA agent and he allowed himself another smile.
Bill Crawford looked over his newspaper and glanced at his watch, nervous that he might have blown his very first assignment. It was mid-afternoon and there was still no sign of the target. Could the man have slipped out through another entrance, he wondered, and then he reassured himself. That wasn’t possible. There were only two exits from the hotel, either the main revolving doors or out of the loading dock that fronted on to a dusty side alley, and he had positioned himself so he could see both. The only movement at the loading dock had been a four-wheel drive laundry truck and that had been hours ago. With the temperature still hovering around 40°C and the air thick and oppressive, he started the Suzuki again in a vain attempt to get some relief from an air conditioner that was way past its use-by-date. His thoughts drifted back to the States where he’d left his young wife Natalie and three-month-old daughter Tabatha, and he wondered when he would see them again.
The Toyota came to a halt at the border to North-West Frontier, the Pakistani province that bordered Afghanistan, where the law of the gun was paramount, and where not even the Pakistani military held any control. The dirty sign read ‘Attention: Entry Of Foreigners Is Prohibited Beyond This Point’. Despite the Pakistan Office of Home Security permit produced by the driver, the guard appeared agitated, but when al-Falid produced his Egyptian passport the guard relaxed and the gates were opened with a fisted salute.
‘ Allahu Akbar! God is Great!’ Even among the Urdu and Pashto speaking tribes the Muslim war cry in Arabic bridged a multitude of languages.
An hour and a half later, they reached the outskirts of Darra Adam Khel and they were challenged again, this time by Kalashnikov-wielding Pashtun tribesmen. After another brief exchange of words between them and al-Falid’s driver, and another cry of ‘ Allahu Akbar! God is great!’ the Toyota was allowed into the dusty main street of the town. al-Falid’s driver headed for the crowded and noisy market at the far end. Had the Pakistani government been serious about hunting down the Taliban who had fled from the US forces in Afghanistan, they would not have had any trouble finding a sizeable number of them on the streets of Darra Adam Khel, all easily recognisable in their robes and turbans. The air was hot and heavy, and the smoke from charcoal-burning braziers on which the store holders were cooking spiced meats hung thickly alongside the hashish and exhausts of the tuk-tuks. Eventually they came to a dirty canvas bazaar in the centre of the market. Pictures of Osama bin Laden and Mullah Omar were fixed to either side of the entrance to the tent, and two Pashtun tribesmen stood in front, their ubiquitous Kalashnikovs at the ready. After a word from one of Kadeer’s bodyguards al-Falid was quickly ushered inside. al-Falid nodded with approval as he was shown four long, green metal boxes, one of which was open. Nestling on the grey moulded foam inside was an olive-green tube about 1.5 metres long and 14 centimetres wide. Smaller boxes holding the grip stocks for each missile were stacked separately. The stingers were going to be used in the first of Khalid Kadeer’s warning attacks. This batch of missiles would facilitate just one small but essential part of the overall plan, and al-Falid already knew that the infidel’s forces had been training for just the sort of assault Kadeer had ordered him to mount against one of the world’s most beautiful cities. The infidel’s training exercises had been faithfully reported and well publicised in the target city’s media. al-Falid smiled grimly at the infidel’s foolishness. The media coverage was undoubtedly a political ploy to convince the city’s population that everything was under control, but the infidel’s political arrogance had provided al-Falid with a very good idea of what his men might face. Although the infidel’s soldiers were among the best in the world, they were only lightly armed. He now knew that the more heavily armed tugboats would be absolutely critical in neutralising the city’s police and the military.
The arms dealer offered al-Falid a battered armchair and then excused himself to count the cash from the two trunks that had been unloaded from the back of the truck. Out here in the wilds of the border area nothing was taken for granted.
The arms bazaar at Darra Adam Khel had become one of the CIA’s and the Pentagon’s worst nightmares, but it was a nightmare of their own making. The sale of sophisticated arms had its genesis in the United States’ support for Osama bin Laden and the Mujahadeen, the Islamic holy warriors in Afghanistan, many of whom held to very austere forms of Islam. Afghanistan was one of the poorest countries on the planet, and in the nineteenth century the British and the Russian empires had competed for control of a geography that was dominated by some of the highest and most inhospitable mountain ranges in the world. In December 1979, with the British out of the picture, the Soviets were fearful that Islamic Mujahadeen factions hostile to the USSR would gain power. The Soviets invaded Afghanistan and installed a puppet government in Kabul. The United States immediately threw its massive firepower behind the freedom fighters, as Ronald Reagan preferred to call Osama bin Laden and the Mujahadeen, arming them with large numbers of some of the most sophisticated small arms available, including the stinger missiles that could down any aircraft that was flying below 10,000 feet. When the Soviets withdrew in 1989, yet another army defeated by the mountainous Hindu Kush, Afghanistan had been once again bombed back into the Stone Age. Over a million of its citizens were killed and millions more fled to Pakistan and neighbouring Iran. The United States withdrew, leaving the opium fields and the rest of the country to disintegrate as the warlords turned on each other in fierce inter-tribal fighting, paving the way for the appearance of the Pakistani-supported Taliban who emerged from their madrassas, the austere Islamic schools that operated in the no-go border areas of Pakistan’s North-West Frontier Province. More importantly for Khalid Kadeer and al-Falid, in the vacuum left by the United States over 500 of the feared stinger missiles that had been supplied to the Mujahadeen had gone missing, and now, for a price, they were available in Darra Adam Khel.
A young boy brought a tin mug of green tea and while the arms dealers counted the stacks of US$100 bills, al-Falid sank back into the armchair, grateful for a small respite in what would be a very long and complex campaign. His mind went back to the time he had been in the very same tent, eighteen months before, at the time the Churchill, the Montgomery and the Wavell were leaving Rotterdam, each bound for Karachi. Back then, al-Falid’s first visit to Darra Adam Khel had gone surprisingly smoothly and fifteen of the stinger missiles had been purchased. The purchase of the tugs had also been a masterstroke. al-Falid’s assessment that tugs were only subjected to cursory customs inspections, if at all, had turned out to be correct. The weapons al-Falid had just purchased for the first warning attack beneath Eternity would be now moved to Karachi where they would be collected by the Montgomery and the Wavell. The third tug, the Winston Churchill had been assigned to putting resources in place for a later warning. Slowly but surely the entire plan was coming together.
Khalid Kadeer had chosen the target cities with great care, betting that none of the huge spy satellites belonging to the United States would be focused on any of them. The Great Satan, Allah be praised, had played into his hands.
CHAPTER
25
THE OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON DC
T he secret service agent outside the entrance to the Oval Office in the West Wing nodded politely to Jerry Buffett, one of the President’s most trusted advisors on domestic and foreign policy. The Reverend Buffett was a frequent but unpublicised visitor to a White House where regular prayer sessions and the word of the Lord held sway.
‘Jerry, come on in,’ President Harrison said, getting up from behind his desk and taking the evangelist warmly by the hand. ‘Dan Esposito, you know,’ he said, as his advisor also proffered a hand in welcome.
‘Thank you, Mr President, thank you.’ Despite the relaxed rapport and an absolute trust between them, Jerry Buffett always stuck with protocol. Unless they were alone or in prayer and he was asking God to bless the Presidency, he never addressed the President by his first name. ‘These are difficult times, Mr President, but a lot of folk are praying for you and we all think you’re doing a first class job,’ he added encouragingly.
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