Sting of the Drone

7

“I hate this city,” the older Arab said.

“You hate everything. That is why it so difficult for you to recruit new followers,” Bahadur replied.

“We love Islam and we have no problem recruiting. We have enough people in America to do the attacks,” the younger Arab added.

“Then why do you need us?” Bahadur answered. “If al Qaeda is still so strong, why us? Why don’t you do the attacks in America without us?”

The older Arab looked Bahadur in the eye for a moment before replying. “We have learned not to expose our men in America. Too many have been lured into thinking they were talking to brothers, getting an assignment, a mission, only to be arrested by the FBI. The new people we have do nothing to risk being identified. They do not visit Islamist Web sites. They go only to the regular mosques. They buy no guns, no bomb material. They do no planning of missions. They wait. Our men will do the missions, but we need someone else to be the controllers, to set up the operations.”

Bahadur hoped no one had followed the Arabs to this small appliance store in the Jamshed district of the sprawling city. Qazzani gang spotters were out in the neighborhood looking for signs of surveillance.

“How did you find those people?” Bahadur asked.

“Our friends in the U.S., the Ikhwan, they are often teachers, or bankers, or doctors. They look for young men who want to do a special Jihad. They send them out of America for vacations, never an Islamic country. Trinidad, Brazil, Mexico. There we meet them. We test them. Those who pass, we instruct on how to wait without attracting attention. Then they go back.”

The younger man looked to the older Arab for confirmation that he could give more detail and then added, “Some of them we appoint as a cell chief. Each cell chief knows five to ten other men. The men know only their cell chief, but each one of them we give a special code word of his own. We give it when they pledge loyalty to al Qaeda. If someone recruits them to do a mission, if he does not say the code word, the men know the recruiter is FBI.”

“We need you to build the bombs, to survey the targets, to coordinate the attacks,” the older Arab said, “but we have good people.”

“These people, they are all Arabs?” Bahadur asked.

“No, very few. Some are Somalis. Some Nigerians, but my friend,” the younger Arab smiled, “all are Americans. Either they were born there or they became citizens. No visas needed. They all have American passports.”

Bahadur was beginning to think that perhaps Rashid Qazzani was right to take this contract from al Qaeda. They did need help, but not for everything. In the decade after 9/11 al Qaeda had gone underground in America. They had used good security procedures, cells in which most members knew only a few others. They were long-term sleepers who did nothing to attract attention. The Qazzanis would activate some of the networks, give them explosives, assign them targets, and leave before anything happened. For this simple task, they would get most of the special reserve fund that AQ Central had been building over the years, three hundred million euros.

“And they will all die for you?” Bahadur asked.

“No, most will not,” the older Arab admitted. “This is a new generation. They will not be suicides.” He lowered his head and his voice. “And they will want some money, maybe one million dollars each.”

Bahadur smiled. “That will be in addition to our fee. Unlike you, we do what we do for money, not for Allah.” Suiciders were erratic, too much trouble, he thought. People who worked for one million dollars would be more reliable. And if they died in the blast anyway, or later when they came for the money, then that million might be something he could keep personally.

“Very well,” the older Arab replied. “At least make zakat with some of the money.”

“We do, but we have our own charities.” Bahadur laughed.

The older Arab stared at him and then said, “I am told to offer you the names of some of our friends in the ISI, brothers who will assist you in fighting the drones. Some have quit the ISI, but still have connections; others are still on active service. We trust them. A few of them knew about Abbottabad.”

He handed Bahadur a small notebook, code names and contact procedures. “Those at the beginning are the ones in the U.S. The ones in red at the end are the Pakistanis, the ISI. Loss of these names will mean men die.”

Bahadur took the small green moleskin. “For us, this is business, but do not worry. We are very good at business.”