Retribution (8 page)

CHAPTER 9

 

P
arker checked the computer at 5:58
A.M
. Two more minutes until Moncrief contacted him. If there was one thing he knew about the gunnery sergeant, it was that he'd never be late.

Bing.
The computer chimed at exactly 6:00
A.M
.

Two faces came in on a split screen. One was Moncrief. The other was a man, seemingly in his mid-fifties, wearing modern, stainless metal glasses with small rectangular lenses. He wore a wool turtleneck that was black and in sharp contrast to his milky-white complexion. If Parker had to guess, he would imagine the man was sitting behind his computer in a flat somewhere on the outskirts of Paris.

“This is my friend Ludwig.” Moncrief had seemingly the same cigar in his mouth from the day before. Parker suppressed a chuckle. Only Moncrief would be chewing on a cigar at six in the morning. “We served together when I was attached to the IDF several years ago.”

“Hello.”

“I understand from my friend Moncrief that you have an interest in Yousef al-Qadi.” The man on the split screen spoke English with a Dutch accent.

“Yes, indeed. What can you tell me?”

“Several years ago we intercepted a telephone call between Mohtashemi-Pur and an unknown person.”

“I know that name. But I can't place it.” Parker said.

“Mohtashemi-Pur was the interior minister in Tehran. He was talking to this unknown person about the transfer of some eleven million dollars to an Ahmed Jibril.” Ludwig spoke in a clear, methodical voice without referring to any documents. It struck Parker that Ludwig must be a very good spy. A good spy always knew the details—and how to present them.

“I know that name as well. Ahmed Jibril.” Parker had attended the trial of the Lockerbie conspirators. The evidence included several intelligence reports.

“Yes, the head of the PFLP-GC. The Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.”

“Can you connect the dots for me?”

“Yes. After the transfer of the funds, the Libyan PFLP-GC purchased some seven hundred pounds of Semtex from a corporation named Omnipol. It was the same Semtex that was in the Toshiba radio that brought down Pan Am Flight 103.”

“I see.” Parker leaned forward in his chair. His body became tense as he heard the words being spoken.

“Also, Ali Muhammad al-Megrahi was a member of the PFLP-GC.”

That was one name that Parker didn't have to struggle to remember. In the trial that followed the downing of Pan Am 103, he saw the little man sitting in the dock. He looked like a college student with long, curly hair and ink-dark eyes framed by similar colored eyebrows. Unlike a college student, however, he hadn't a speck of kindness in him. Like some few men, al-Megrahi surely had no mother and must have been born to the fate of an orphan, for if he had a mother he would have some capacity to comprehend the true brutality of his acts. Parker studied him for days. A few years in prison and then he was set free. It took the cancer years to catch up to him. Some thought that with the death of his protector, Mu‘ammar Gadhafi, an overdose of morphine had done what the Scots had not been willing to do. He had received what 270 souls had not. A simple death.

Parker raised a hand to interrupt. “Do you have any idea why al-Megrahi was released?”

Moncrief cut in. “Skip, you don't want to know.” He wiped his hands with a stained white rag.

“We believe it was part of a play being made by certain Western forces, but the intelligence can only a play guessing game at this point.” Ludwig seemed to enjoy being indirect.

“Translate
Western forces
for me?”

“Well, the best person to ask may be Mr. Scott.”

Parker lost patience with the extent to which Ludwig would avoid directly answering the question.

“So the CIA wanted al-Megrahi out.”

“Yes.”

“What about this Omnipol?”

“That's the interesting part.” Ludwig's eyes shifted around as if he was looking to make sure the room was clear.

“Yeah, you gotta hear this,” Moncrief chimed in on the video conference.

“Omnipol is a Czech company based in Prague. It is one of the world's largest suppliers of arms. It is, by far, the largest supplier of Semtex, and the Semtex they supplied had a certain chemical trace to it. But that's not the important part.”

“Okay?” Parker prompted.

“We believe it is owned by Yousef 's cousin, Ali bin Saleem, who is the secretary of the council that will select the next king of Saudi Arabia.”

CHAPTER 10

 

T
he night before the meeting, the village had been in an uproar. The brothers of the woman named Medi had suspected for several weeks that she was meeting her lover in his two-roomed home, tucked well into a wash in the hills just outside the village of Kawas in western Pakistan. Medi, of the Mahmoond tribe, was barely out of her teens, and stupid. Both her brothers had warned her repeatedly.

A neighbor who lived up the trail had heard moaning as he passed the mud stucco and thatched-roof hut just after sunset. A man from the village representing the elders went there the following morning and found the walls covered in sprays of blood—the floors as well. He stepped into a puddle of black, congealed blood, which stuck to his shoes like molasses. Flies swarmed around the room, occasionally landing on his cheek, even as he brushed them aside. The bodies had been pummeled with bricks found nearby, covered in the same sticky blood. Both of her brothers owned up to the crime. No arrests followed.

Yousef had heard of the incident. He knew better than anyone that their cultural laws ran deep. A sister or daughter who committed adultery was stoned to death. He was concerned, though, that it drew attention to the village and threatened to compromise the meeting place.

“Are we late?” He looked at his watch again while the truck, jumping back and forth like a porch swing, slammed into another pothole. The road was meant more for the mule-pulled carts than for a four-wheeled vehicle.

“No,” said the driver, his hands gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles turned white against his dark skin. The truck slowed for a pack of ragged, emaciated dogs that had gathered at a crossroad, then followed the other road up into a gulch. No more than a stone's throw away, he saw men gathered in their black-and-white-checkered turbans, smoking their cigarettes. Apparently, this was the road that led up to the murders.

The Americans have a better chance of breathing life back into those two dead bodies,
Yousef thought,
than of changing these people.

The death of some young man or woman as a martyr in a suicide bombing was insignificant. And with the monies given to the martyrs' families, the supply was endless and unstoppable.

He thought of the two bodies with the blank stare of death, their heads deformed by the beatings. He thought of the fragments of broken bricks embedded in her forehead. Her round, brown eyes fixed in an eternal stare.

“Hate,” he muttered. Hate was the limitless raw energy fueling this Muslim nuclear reactor. Hatred combined with deep, pitiful poverty. A simple breach of culture or tradition, or even an inappropriate word, could set off waves of hatred which, in this part of the world, transformed swiftly into violent action.

The truck pulled into a three-walled hut just outside the village. The thatched roof would hide the vehicle from the UAVs and satellites that were constantly patrolling the skies of western Pakistan.

From the hut they would walk the remaining miles. The road quickly became steeper and was cut in two by several washouts that a man could stand in up to his knees. A wind brought up a choking cloud of dust that hung in the air, causing Yousef to cover his face with his turban.

After several miles they climbed up the final hill and crossed over into another valley, which had an orchard of short, stumpy apple trees. The twisted brown trees with their canopy of green leaves stood in stark contrast to the rocky hillsides on both sides. A ditch of a stream cut through the grove, the obvious source of the water that kept the trees green. There, near the end of the row of trees, was another mud-brick house. Several guards with AK-47s stood watch in front of the hut.

“
As sala'amu alaikum,
” Yousef yelled to the party as he approached.

“
Walaikum as sala'am,
” the oldest guard said with a wave of his rifle, knowing Yousef both by sight and reputation.

He pointed to a path near the side of the hut and Yousef followed, traveling down a short hill to a tent beneath the trees. Its walls were rolled up, as the staggering heat of the day would have made a closed tent unbearably hot. The fabric of the tent was a strange, thin material that had a metal reflection to the bottom side.

Yousef reached up and touched the material. It felt like paper-thin copper, no thicker than a sheet of aluminum foil.

“It protects us from the infidels' eyes.” The older guard was pointing to the sky.

There, seated on several rugs, their legs crossed like Boy Scouts at a campfire, were three men, one of whom he recognized. The other two were strangers.

“
As sala'amu alaikum,
” Yousef said again.

“
Walaikum as sala'am,
” said the older, gray-bearded, thick-spectacled man as he pushed up his glasses on his round nose. He was a cousin to a cousin of the House of Saud. A physician by training, he was considered a reliable messenger whom the elders respected. The doctor smiled at Yousef like a mentor at his student. He had known Yousef since he was a toddler.

These meetings were very rare. It had been several years since Yousef and the doctor had been together in one spot, their last having taken place in Paris. Although this meeting was much closer to the danger of the American troops and more recently the Pakistan Army's intrusions into the region, the valley near Quetta was considered safe. The Sherani clan of the Pashtun tribe took great pride in protecting their guests. From the time of Muhammad, it had remained a basic tenet that one must receive into his tent the guest and protect him. Yousef remembered from his youth the tale of Bu Zaid. A hero of the Bani Hillal tribe, Bu Zaid slaughtered his last camel so as to provide food for his guests. With the loss of his last camel, he would starve, his family would starve, but his guest would be cared for. And so it was written.

“Yousef, I want you to meet these two brothers, Malik Mahmud and Mohagher Iqbal.”

Yousef had heard of both men. Mahmud was a leader of a Muslim group called the Free Aceh Movement. It was known in Malaysia as GAM. GAM's small force was dedicated to establishing a Muslim state in Aceh, a province of Indonesia. More important, the guerilla army was feared by the world because they were at the chokehold of the western Pacific called the Strait of Malacca. The large vessels would pass within easy reach of the armed marauders. More than sixty thousand ships passed through the strait every year.

Iqbal was a leader of the Moro Islamic Liberation Front, a group that was better run than Mahmud's crowd. Thanks to the Front, there were certain areas in the southern Philippines where the Philippine army would refuse to go. The soldiers knew that Iqbal's soldiers often beheaded their prisoners, always an effective strategy.

Yousef had been told to expect two strangers at the meeting. He guessed the purpose.

“Have a seat, brother.” The doctor sat at one end of the rug and dominated the meeting. The doctor was and always had been—even back to the war with the Russians several decades ago—the voice of the movement.

Yousef sat at his side, legs folded, with pillows on each side. “Our assets now exceed six billion in Saudi riyals. We have more than thirty sources that are indirect and, of course, several that are direct in funding the mujahideen fighters,” he told the doctor.

The doctor nodded. “What are we able to pay the martyrs' families at this time?”

“At least one hundred thousand riyals,” said Yousef. “The Al-Aqsa Fund has had the direct support of the Saudi royal family, and has provided at least half of those monies. Other generous donators, such as the bin Laden family, have provided the remainder.”

He updated them on the Atlanta strategy he'd recommended to Masood.

The doctor nodded again. “You will receive additional funds, which will be allocated for the direct benefit of our brothers here from the Philippines and Indonesia. It has been decided that we must help make our Muslim family stronger, worldwide.” The doctor was suggesting a worldwide, coordinated, and well-financed Muslim movement.

“I have a condition.” Yousef unfolded one of his legs as he spoke.

“Brother?” The doctor turned his ear toward the younger man. He had lost much of his hearing, due to old age and having been too close a witness to several wars.

“I will not give money to anyone who has not shared blood with me. They needed to fight with us.”

“What do you suggest?”

“These men need to serve with our brothers in the TTP.”

The Pakistani Taliban had been the host and protector of Yousef since the Soviet army had been their enemy.

“I agree.” The doctor didn't hesitate.

Yousef knew neither of the guests would not object. It would bring them honor to fight beside their brothers and sisters against the Americans. It would also build a lifelong loyalty, as well as create a broader net for his followers.

“You have been successful in both growing the funding and keeping it discreet. You will be given one hundred million dollars for each of these two groups as a principal investment, and with your past record of growth, you will be able to provide funding for their efforts for years to come.”

The plan was simple. Yousef was to become the stockbroker for worldwide terrorism. The two guests smiled at Yousef.

“Brother,” Iqbal said. “We understand that you have gotten over a ten percent return the last five years, even in these economic times.”

Yousef shrugged and nodded.

“We are grateful for your support, brother.”

Iqbal seemed to be one of those men who was easily misjudged. He didn't need degrees of higher education. Yousef could immediately tell why his men followed him. Iqbal was bright and articulate.

“Yousef, let me talk to you privately for a moment. My brothers, if I may ask you to step outside.” The doctor was getting old, and it was more and more an inconvenience for him to rise up off the carpeted floor of the tent. Yousef knew that the guests would not mind. For the last several years, they had lived off the land, saving every round, taking weapons from the dead of the soldiers sent out to hunt them down. Now, they would have funding to buy new weapons.

When only the doctor and Yousef remained in the tent, Yousef spoke first.

“We have the cell,” he said in a low voice. He did not feel comfortable discussing the details, even around their trusted guests. “One from Danish Abad had been chosen and is learning now.”

“And?”

“My Chechen has made a trip to America.”

“This is the one that found out about the woman in Doha?”

“Yes.” Yousef whispered. Only three men could have the common knowledge of all and the doctor needed to know the least. “I know the Americans' weakness. I have found a hole in their defense.” Yousef pointed to the space in front of him, as if there was an imaginary map of the United States.

“And?” The doctor let his eagerness show in his expression.

It had always struck Yousef as odd that a brilliant man such as the doctor, who had been trained by the best in medicine in both Egypt and the United States, would be so comfortable with a project that would kill thousands. “This will be devastating. It will break the back of their will.”

“Good.”

“They will pull back from our world. They will retreat in shame.”

The Americans had withdrawn some, but no one believed that they would ever truly leave Afghanistan. Their president had promised it, but it was a lie. Yousef 's plan needed everyone to leave.

“And with that withdrawal you will soon have your state,” the doctor said.

“Allah's will!”

“No, this will be Yousef 's will.”

Yousef smiled at the compliment.

“The one from Danish Abad was chosen at birth. We will rename her village in her honor.”

“You will activate the cell once you have what you need?”

“Yes, from this.” Yousef held up a cell phone. It was not the one that would be used, but a similar twenty-dollar cell phone would initiate the mission that would be remembered by every person on the planet. It was remarkably simple. Yousef would use a Motorola V180 with a special Pakistani SIM card and only one number in it. It would be activated only once—and used only once. He would dial a number, put in the text code, and press Send.

“Good. And Allah will protect you.”

“Yes.”

“Allah and our brothers, the Sherani!” the doctor said.

“Yousef, you have been a good warrior.” The doctor sounded like the father that Yousef had always wanted but never had.

“Yes.”

“God understands.”

“This jihad will be remembered.” Yousef was no different than the many other warriors. He began this journey because of a loss.

“I remember seeing you at that store in Riyadh. What was it?”

“Lamsa.”

“Yes, you were buying her an
abaya
.” The black floor-length
abaya
was made of silk. “Was it her first?”

“Probably, yes.” Yousef thought the doctor was asking too many questions. It didn't really matter now.

“Sira, that was her name, wasn't it?”

“Yes.” Yousef decided to break off the conversation. “When will I see you again?”

“She couldn't have been more than twelve, maybe thirteen.”

The doctor didn't take the hint.

His niece was only twelve when she died. She was not supposed to have been on Iran Air Flight 655. She was returning from a visit to her mother's family. She was only a child, meant to be safe while being raised in Riyadh.