by Aimen Dean
I also had personal reasons for wanting to relocate. My brother Moheddin had just been released from jail. Once upon a time he had helped a Palestinian resident in Saudi Arabia reach Afghanistan – in those days an honourable calling that brought a family respect. After 9/11, the man had returned home and blown himself up – killing an American – in Khobar.18 For that long-forgotten connection, Moheddin spent nine months in prison.
After serving his sentence, Moheddin had been expelled to Bahrain. I wanted to see him; we had not seen each other for five years. I also wanted to see what I might do to protect him from himself. If he were to become more active in militant circles, what might politely be called a ‘conflict of interest’ could pose a real dilemma for me. But at the same time his contacts could put me on a fast track to intelligence about al-Qaeda’s plans in the Gulf.
It was ethical torture, and my employers knew it. On a bright October morning in 2002, I received a call from someone identifying himself as George. He was one of MI5’s psychologists and he wanted to talk. Part of his job was to watch for agents and assets who were under stress or confronted with doubt.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘But I’m in the middle of packing. I’m not even sure I could find the teapot.’
George turned out to be a tall and strikingly handsome man in his early forties. Funnily enough he had more than a passing resemblance to George Clooney, though his accent was more northern England than New England. His empathy soon changed my generic image of his profession.
Unmoved by the state of my apartment, he found a place to perch.
‘So, Bahrain,’ he began. ‘Will it be a little awkward with your brother?’
The subtext was obvious: can we trust you? Family or the Firm?
‘I think it will work out,’ I said, more out of hope than expectation. I felt he noticed the uncertainty in my voice. ‘At least I can try to keep him out of jail,’ I added with a touch of black humour.
‘There’d be nothing wrong if you feel a bit conflicted,’ George said. ‘That’s just human, healthy. Nobody is asking you to spy on your brother.
‘I want to be straight with you,’ he went on. He was leaning forward and watching me closely. ‘There are some in the service who are worried about all this “with us or against us” bullshit. Bush and bin Laden are both at it and we accept it might – just might – introduce . . .’ he paused to find the right expression, ‘issues for some of our agents.
‘I think we all accept that you are with us for the right reasons. It’s not money; it’s not revenge. It’s conviction and your hatred of wanton violence. Fair?’
‘Fair,’ I said. I suddenly wished that he’d been with me when the dour Scotsman in Islamabad had challenged my bona fides.
‘Even so, you are headed to a place where for some informants it would be tempting to rejoin the cause. We need to do due diligence, and that’s why I’m here.’ I nodded. But he could see I was restless and anxious. ‘Look, you need to understand that you have a very unusual story. You’ve been through more in your twenty-four years on this earth than the vast majority of mankind ever see.’
He quizzed me about Bosnia and being in the Afghan camps. Without even realizing it, I was soon pouring out every last detail – my narrow escapes, my doubts, the strain of working undercover.
‘For God’s sake,’ he said – more in astonishment than exasperation – ‘a week before your seventeenth birthday you were dragging bodies down a hill in Bosnia, slipping in pools of blood and expecting to meet your maker at any second. That’s not normal for a teenager. It damages you, whether you know it or not.’
There was a long pause, the sort he was probably used to and I found excruciating.
‘Do you have anyone you can confide in – a partner? Have you ever had one?’
I could tell he was fishing.
‘No – my career path sort of precluded that.’
He could tell from my tone, which verged on scornful, that he had struck a nerve. The discipline required of being a jihadi and then a spy had helped me deal with both temptation and the melancholy of being single, but the truth was that I badly wanted a companion with whom to plan a life.
‘Has it occurred to you that you might be stifling your sexuality?’
I wasn’t ready for that and reacted angrily.
‘Oh great,’ I said. ‘I’m about to depart for a mission that’s not exactly risk-free, and you want me to think about whether I’m gay. Sure, I come from a culture where men and women simply don’t mix, where sexuality is repressed, but looking at the birth rate they do apparently get together at some point. And one day, I will leap at the chance if the right woman comes along. It will also be my last day working for British intelligence.’
I couldn’t tell whether George thought my protests a little too loud. But he laughed and swiftly changed the subject.
‘Goodness. You are in your early twenties. I can scarcely remember my early twenties. And I certainly didn’t know a fraction of what you know, nor did I have a fraction of your experiences. You’re not exactly a late starter. And, believe me, the Service will be very happy if Miss Right doesn’t appear just yet.’ Another long pause. The low timbre of a passing truck vibrated through the building. ‘How are you sleeping?’ he asked.
‘Honestly, like a baby,’ I replied. ‘Ever since I was seven I’ve listened to the radio or cassettes to lull me to sleep. Anything: history, fiction, biography. I didn’t learn the kings and queens of England to prove my loyalty to the Service. I learned them to get to sleep.’
‘Oh shit,’ he said with a smile, ‘now we’ll never know whether you are going back to the dark side.’
I burst out laughing.
‘But seriously,’ he said, ‘the fact that you give your brain something entirely different to chew on every night is important. It’s helping you not to have nightmares about some of the things you’ve witnessed, in Bosnia for example, and some of your very own close shaves.’
Two days later, a package arrived in the mail. It was a Sony Discman, with best wishes from George. We were destined to be friends and allies. George would help me through some dark times in the years to come.
Despite his worries, MI6 was enthusiastic about my moving to the Gulf and regarded Bahrain as an important conduit between Saudi Arabia and Iran (where some in al-Qaeda’s upper echelons had taken refuge). The authorities in Bahrain had a lenient attitude towards conservative Sunnis and Salafis – and there were more than a few al-Qaeda sympathizers among them. The royal family and a minority of Bahrainis were (and still are) Sunnis and controlled the levers of power, while the Shia majority simmered and fumed (and still does).
MI6 believed it was safer for me to operate in Bahrain than Saudi Arabia because British and Bahraini intelligence had a long and tight relationship. While MI6 would not have dreamed of telling the Bahrainis I was a British spy, they worried that if I reconnected with my al-Qaeda circle in Saudi Arabia it would be difficult to get a message to Saudi security services not to kill me.
Even so, I needed a good explanation if I was to relocate. British intelligence helped me concoct one from, of all places, Paddington Green Police Station in west London.
An MI5 official met me there and took me into an interview room. I called my brother Omar.
‘I’m in trouble,’ I said to him after the usual salutations. ‘The police have detained me because of some of the people I know here.’
‘What did you expect?’ he asked, with scant sympathy. It was just the response I was hoping for. ‘I’ll get a visa and come to help. I bet you don’t have a lawyer, or any money.’
‘Just wait till I find out what’s going on,’ I said. ‘But it’s become impossible to survive here. All my friends have been put in jail or deported. People look at me as though I have a bomb strapped to my chest. Someone asked me whether I was here to study flying!’
Had Omar checked the number, he would have discovered that it belonged to a London police station.
‘They let me go,’ I told Omar, ‘but it’s enough. I’m coming home.’
The moist warmth of Bahrain was a shock to the system after the brisk autumn breezes in London. It felt strange to be back in the Arabian Peninsula after so long away, my hometown just twenty miles across the King Fahd Causeway linking Bahrain and Saudi Arabia. Apart from that week being questioned in Qatar, this was my first return to old stamping grounds.
I had left Khobar as a starry-eyed sixteen-year-old. Now, at the grand age of twenty-four, I was a veteran agent of British intelligence. And I was back in the field. The thought sent a shiver of adrenalin through me. London had made me stale. Now I was on my own again, and there was no margin for error. I had to immerse myself in the persona of a jihadi striving for revenge against the West and Saudi Arabia. But I also had to be patient.
Moheddin and Omar greeted me at the airport. We embraced and were all embarrassed by the tears. My oldest brothers had both changed so much physically; I was almost alarmed to see the first flecks of grey hair around Moheddin’s temples. Even Omar’s suave looks were beginning to do battle with the creases of ageing. But they were in good spirits, and it felt like a family reunion.
On the way to Moheddin’s home we drove past the brightly lit hotel bars and nightclubs along Exhibition Road and the al-Juffair district. These places were allowed to serve alcohol to non-Muslims, put on shows by go-go dancers, and were popular with American sailors from the Fifth Fleet based in Bahrain, as well as with Saudi men coming across the causeway for brief escapes from their puritanical existence.
‘I see why it’s called Exhibition Road,’ I said, making a show of displeasure. Even among family it was necessary to keep up appearances.
Moheddin’s residence in the Sunni neighbourhood of east Riffa was a world away from the carnal lure of Exhibition Road. He had taken over the first floor of a three-storey villa next to a beautiful mosque lit by floodlights. We dined long into the night, catching up on family stories, the exploits of cousins and nephews, memories of our mother. It all felt so long ago.
‘It’s high time that we find you a wife,’ Moheddin said to me, a mischievous smile on his lips. ‘My wife has several good candidates in mind.’ But she was in Saudi Arabia; she regarded Bahrain as a den of debauchery.
‘First I need to figure out my plans,’ I replied with wholehearted non-commitment. There was no way I could marry a Saudi or Bahraini woman and lead a double life – pretending to be a teacher or academic while spying for Britain. Ever since I’d been recruited as an agent, I’d decided that celibacy was the only option, though George had exposed the raw nerve of loneliness that had begun to eat away at me.
In any case, I hadn’t the faintest idea how to make the right moves in female company. I had less small talk than a Cistercian monk. Call it the price of dedication to jihad: you didn’t get to meet, let alone form any relationships with the opposite sex. In fact, it had always been seen as a virtue in the camps. A jihadi could not devote himself to the cause as a married man. In Afghanistan, few fighters had a family in tow. Some had left wives and children at home; the vast majority were determinedly single and awaiting martyrdom. Only then – surrounded by the virgins of paradise – would we give up celibacy. This perspective was common throughout al-Qaeda, though it would be turned on its head with the emergence of the Islamic State, where sex slaves were permitted and young girls were enticed from Europe to Syria. More than once I reflected that repressed attitudes towards the opposite sex stoked the anger and alienation of so many jihadis.
Moheddin had rented two apartments in the villa and insisted I live in the one above his. I was very willing to accept the offer. It helped that the apartment was modern and comfortable and looked out onto palm trees, a rare privilege in the humid concrete jungle of Manama. But it also made it easier for me to keep tabs on him.
We spent many hours filling in the gaps of the past few years. I finally told him about my oath of allegiance to bin Laden; he was wide-eyed. For all he knew, that oath was still very much in force. I was struck by Moheddin’s anger at the world. He recounted in greater detail his arrest and time in jail in Saudi Arabia. He had only been released a few weeks before my arrival. His wife and children would come across the causeway from Khobar most weekends to see him. He raged about the prospect of US forces invading Iraq and I worried that he was edging towards some rash action.
‘I understand why you feel so angry,’ I told him late one night as we sat on his balcony, ‘but if you decide to do something you should at least wait until the kids can stand on their own feet. They need you now, even if they only see you once a week.’
He was already hanging out with the wrong crowd. I just didn’t want him leading it.
Sunni militancy thrived in mosques around the sprawling capital. I attended some of the more radical places of worship to get a feel for the mood. I did not advertise my presence but waited for opportunity to come my way. Within just a few weeks, thanks to someone I met through Moheddin, it did. And it was no accident.
His name was Akhil and he was a chemistry teacher.* A Saudi in his mid-thirties, Akhil was working in Bahrain. He was balding and slightly overweight, with a forgettable face but intense, excitable eyes. He had fought in Afghanistan in the early 1990s.
‘You must have dinner with me. I know a great place on Exhibition Road,’ he told me.
Days later we were sharing grilled lamb and Bukhari rice. But I sensed this was not just a social event; Akhil had something to ask me. As the plates were cleared away he leaned forward his eyes searching me.
‘Are you by any chance also known as Abu Abbas al-Bahraini?’ he asked quietly.
‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘that was the name I took in Afghanistan.’
‘Were you by any chance working with Abu Khabab on certain programmes?’ Akhil continued.
I had to tread carefully. I hardly knew this man.
‘I knew Abu Khabab, yes,’ I whispered.
‘So you are aware of something called a mubtakkar?’
He now had my full attention.
‘Yes, I am,’ I responded, and as casually as I could gave him the barest details about the device.
‘I have an urgent message from your friends in Saudi Arabia who are looking for you.’
The friends turned out to be none other than Khalid al-Hajj, with whom I had travelled to Bosnia and the Philippines, and Yusuf al-Ayeri, my Smurf-hating instructor in the Khobar Islamic Awareness Circle. It was difficult to fathom that a single Scout troop could have produced so much trouble.
The last time I had seen Khalid had been in Afghanistan in the spring of 2001. He had subsequently travelled to Yemen before being smuggled into Saudi Arabia, where he was helping build the al-Qaeda network. I recalled the expression on his face that afternoon on the shooting range in Afghanistan, when he had promised revenge against the Saudi state.
In tones barely audible amid the restaurant chatter, Akhil continued.
‘We have your notes from the mubtakkar. But we can’t understand your handwriting.’
His tone was intensely serious, but the remark was almost absurdly funny.
‘That’s understandable,’ I replied, enjoying a moment of light relief in what was now an alarming conversation.
Akhil slid a stack of papers with diagrams and formulae across the table. Not smart tradecraft, I thought to myself, unable to observe our fellow diners.
‘Have we got it right?’ he asked.
‘Let me look,’ I said, shielding the papers from view.
They had. Akhil knew his chemistry, and I could not lie to him for that very reason.
‘You get an excellent grade for your tests,’ I said cryptically. ‘In fact, a hundred percent.’
A week later we met again at the same restaurant.
‘Abu Hazim [Khalid al-Hajj] sends his Salaams,’ he said with a smile. ‘He wonders if you could join
them in the desert.’
That would not be possible, but not for the reasons he thought. I told Akhil that the Saudis might be looking for me; it would be foolish to try.
‘I have great news,’ he went on, his eyes glowing. ‘Our brothers built the mubtakkar in the desert. There was a successful test.’
How he loved being the go-between, at the centre of the web.
I had to slow the process down, find out more, but at the same time appear enthusiastic. For a second, I wished I had taken drama classes.
‘That’s great news,’ I said. ‘But Akhil,’ I went on with all the solemnity I could muster, ‘this device belongs to five people, the five of us who developed it in Afghanistan.* It was designed for a specific purpose, its use to be cleared at the highest level. You can’t just go ahead and use the mubtakkar in Saudi. In fact, it was agreed it would never be used in a Muslim country.’
This wasn’t true, but I was confident he would not know any better.
‘I assure you that this is not for use in Saudi Arabia,’ he replied.
I was momentarily lost for words. It implied that targets had been identified or at least discussed, most likely in the West. I let his answer hang in the air, scooping up some rice with my fork.
‘I’m reassured,’ I said.
I resisted the urge to ask any more questions. Let information drip out in the course of the conversation. And Akhil was full of information – a good chemist, but a naive operative.
‘When you guys were developing the device did you ever talk about the sarin attack in Tokyo?’* he asked.
‘Yes.’
His eyes flitted conspiratorially. For a moment he looked like a squirrel.
‘Remember I asked you to confirm that cyanogen chloride was 2.47 times heavier than air?’ Now he was into his chemistry teacher mode. ‘How will that affect how quickly it spreads in the ventilation of a subway system? Should we use it or hydrogen cyanide?’ he asked.
