The Afghan

CHAPTER 8

Operation Crowbar’s first task was to choose its cover story so that even those working inside it would not know anything about Mike Martin or even the concept of infiltrating a ring inside Al Qaeda.

The “legend” chosen was that it would be an Anglo-American joint venture against a steadily growing opium threat coming out of the poppies of Afghanistan, to the refinery kitchens of the Middle East. Thence, the refined heroin was infiltrating the West, destroying lives and generating funds for further terrorism.

The “script” continued to the effect that Western efforts to shut off terrorism’s supply of funds at the level of the world’s banks had driven the fanatics to lean to drugs-a cash-only crime method. And finally, even though the West already had powerful agencies like the U.S. DEA and British customs engaged in the fight against narcotics, Crowbar had been agreed upon by both governments to be a specific, one-target operation prepared to use covert forces outside the niceties of diplomatic courtesy to raid and destroy any factories found in any foreign country turning a blind eye to the trade.

The modus operandi. Crowbar staff would be told as they were reassigned, involved using the highest tech known to man, both to listen and to watch, in order to identify high-ranking criminals, routes, storage facilities, refineries, ships and aircraft that might be involved. As it happened, none of the new staff doubted a word of it.

This was just the cover story, and it would remain in place until there was simply no further use for it, whenever that would be. But after the Fort Meade conference, there was no way Western intelligence was going to place all its eggs in the Crowbar basket. Frantic, though ultradiscreet, efforts would continue elsewhere to discover what al-Isra could possibly refer to. But the intelligence agencies were in a quandary. Between them, they had scores of informants inside the world of Islamic fundamentalism, some willing, some under duress.

The question was: How far can we go before the real leaders realize that we know about al-Isra? There were clear advantages to letting Al Qaeda believe that nothing had been harvested from the laptop of the dead banker at Peshawar. This was confirmed when the first mentions of the phrase in general conversation with Koranic scholars known to be sympathetic to extremism drew only courteous but blank responses.

Whoever knew about the real significance of the phrase, AQ had kept that circle extremely tight, and it was quickly clear it did not include any Western informants. So the decision was taken to match secrecy with secrecy. The West’s countermeasure would be Crowbar-and only Crowbar. The project’s second chore was to find and establish a new and remote headquarters. Both Marek Gumienny and Steve Hill agreed to get well away from London and Washington. Their second agreement was to base Crowbar somewhere in the British Isles.

After analysis of what would be needed in terms of size, lodgings, space and access, the consensus came down firmly on the side of a decommissioned air base. Such places are usually well away from cities, contain mess halls, canteens, kitchens, and accommodation aplenty. Add to that hangars for storage and a runway for the landing and departure of covert visitors. Unless the decommissioning had been too long ago, refurbishment back to operational requirements could be quickly accomplished by the property-maintenance division of one of the armed services-in this case, the Royal Air Force. When it came to which base, the choice fell on a former American base, which the Cold War had planted several dozen of on British soil. Fifteen were listed and examined, including Chick-sands, Alconbury, Lakenheath, Fairford, Molesworth, Bentwaters, Upper Heyford and Greenham Common. All were vetoed. Some were operational, and service personnel still chatter. Others were in the hands of property developers; some had had their runways plowed up and returned to agriculture. Two are still training sites for the intelligence services. Crowbar wanted a virgin site all to itself. Phillips and McDonald settled upon RAF Edzell, and secured the approval of their respective superiors. Although the sovereign ownership of Edzell base never left the RAF, it was for years leased to the U.S. Navy, even though it is miles from the sea. It is actually situated in the Scottish county of Angus, due north of Brechin and northwest of Montrose, on the southern threshold of the Highlands. It lies well off the main A90 highway from Forfar to Stonehaven. The village itself is one of a thinly scattered number spread over a large area of forest and heather, with the North Esk flowing through it. The base, when the two executive officers went up to visit it, served all their purposes. It was as remote from prying eyes as one could wish; it contained two good runways with control tower, and all the buildings they needed for the resident staff. All that would be added would be the golf-ball-shaped white domes hiding listening antennas that could hear the click of a beetle half a world away, and the conversion of the former USN Ops block into the new communications, or coinms, center.

Into this complex would be diverted links to GCH(^Cheltenham and NSA Maryland; direct and secure lines to Vauxhall Cross and Langley to permit instant access to Marek Gumienny and Steve Hill; and a permanent “feed” from eight more intel-gathcring agencies from both nations, prime among them the yield from America’s space satellites, run by the National Reconnaissance Office in Washington.

With permission granted, the “works and bricks” people from the Royal Air Force went on a “blitz” assignment to bring Edzell back into commission. The good folk of Edzell village noticed that something was afoot, but, with much winking and tapping of the sides of noses, accepted that once again it would be hush-hush, just like the good old days. The local landlord laid in some extra supplies of ale and whiskey, hoping that custom might revert to the way it used to be before decommissioning. Otherwise, nobody said a thing.

While the painters were running their paintbrushes over the walls of the officers’ quarters of a Scottish air base, the office of Sicbart and Abercrombie, on a modest City of London street called Crutched Friars, received a visit.

Mr. Ahmed Lampong had arrived by appointment following an exchange of e-mails between London and Jakarta, and was shown into the office of Mr. Siebart, son of the founder. Had the London-based shipping broker known it, Lampong is simply one of the minor languages of the island of Sumatra, whence his Indonesian visitor originally came. And it was an alias, though his passport would confirm the name and his passport was flawless.

So also was his English, and in response to Alex Siebart’s compliments he admitted that he had perfected it while studying for his master’s degree at the London School of Economics. He was fluent, urbane and charming; more to the point, he brought the prospect of business. There was nothing to suggest he was a fanatical member of the Islamist terrorist organization Jemaat Islamiyah, responsible for a wave of bombings in Bali.

His credentials as senior partner in Sumatra Trading International were in order, as were his bank references. When he asked permission to outline his problem, Mr. Siebart was all ears. As a preamble, Mr. Lampong solemnly laid a sheet of paper in front of the British ship broker. The sheet had a long list. It began with Alderney, one of the British Channel Islands, and continued through Anguilla, Antigua and Aruba. Those were just the As. There were forty-three names, ending with Uruguay, Vanuatu and Western Samoa.

“These are all tax-haven countries, Mr. Siebart,” said the Indonesian, “and all practice banking secrecy. Like it or not, some extremely dubious businesses, including criminal enterprises, shelter their financial secrets in places like these. And these”-he produced a second sheet-“are just as dubious in their way. These are merchant shipping flags of convenience.” Antigua was again up front, with Barbuda, Bahamas, Barbados, Belize, Bermuda, Bolivia and Burma to follow. There were twenty-seven in this list, ending with St. Vincent, Sri Lanka, Tonga and Vanuatu.

There were African hellholes like Equatorial Guinea, flyspecks on the world map like Sao Tome and Principe, the Comoros and the coral atoll Vanuatu. Among the more enchanting were Luxembourg, Mongolia and Cambodia, which have no coast at all. Mr. Siebart was perplexed, though nothing he had seen was news to him. “Put the two together and what do you come up with?” asked Mr. Lampong in triumph. “Fraud, my dear sir, fraud on a massive and increasing scale. And, alas, most prevalent of all in the part of the world where I and my partners trade. That is why we have decided only in future to deal with the institution renowned for its integrity. The City of London.” “Very kind of you,” murmured Mr. Siebart. “Coffee?” “Cargo theft, Mr. Siebart. Constant and increasing. Thank you, no, 1 have just had breakfast. Cargoes are assigned-valuable cargoes-and then vanish. No trace of the ship, the charterers, the brokers, the crew, the cargo-and, least of all, the owners. All hiding among this forest of different flags and banks. And far too many of them highly corrupt.”

“Dreadful,” agreed Siebart. “How can I help?”

“My partners and I have agreed we will have no more of it. True, it will cost a bit more. But we wish to deal in future only and solely with ships of the British merchant fleet flying the Red Ensign, out of British ports under a British skipper and vouched for by a London broker.” “Excellent.” Siebart beamed. “A wise choice, and of course we must not forget full insurance coverage for vessel and cargo by Lloyd’s of London. What cargoes do you want shipped?”

Matching freighters to cargoes and cargoes to freighters is precisely what a shipping broker does, and Siebart and Abercrombie were long-standing pillars of the City of London ’s ancient partnership, the Baltic Exchange. “I have done my research well,” said Mr. Lampong, producing more letters of recommendation. “We have been in discussion with this company; importers of high-value British limousines and sports cars into Singapore. For our part, we ship fine furniture timbers like rosewood, tulipwood and padauk from Indonesia to the USA. This comes from North Borneo, but would be a part cargo, with the remainder being sea containers on deck with embroidered silks from Surabaya, Java, also bound for the USA. Here”-he laid down a final letter-“are the details of our friends in Surabaya. We all agree we wish to trade British. Clearly, this would be a triangular voyage for any British freighter. Could you find us a suitable UK-registered freighter for this task? I have in mind a regular and ongoing partnership.”

Alex Siebart was confident he could find a dozen suitable Red Ensign vessels to pick up the charter. He would need to know vessel size, price and desired dates. It was finally agreed that he would supply Mr. Lampong with a “menu” of vessels of the needed tonnage for the double cargo and the charter price. Mr. Lampong, when he had consulted his partners, would provide desired collection dates at the two Far Eastern ports and the U.S. delivery port. They parted with mutual expressions of confidence and goodwill.

“How nice,” sighed Alex Siebart’s father when he told him over lunch at Rules, “to be dealing with old-fashioned and civilized gentlemen.” If there was one place that Mike Martin could not show his face, it was Edzell air base. Steve Hill was able to call into play that array of contacts that exists in every business, “the old boys’ network.” “I won’t be at home most of this winter,” said his guest at lunch in the Special Forces Club. “I’m going to try to see a bit more of the Caribbean sun. So I suppose you could borrow the place.”

“There will be a rent, of course,” said Hill. “As much as my modest budget can afford.”

“And you won’t knock it about?” asked the guest. “All right, then. When can I have it back?”

“We hope to be there no longer than mid-February. It’s just for some seminars.

Tutors coming and going, that sort of thing. Nothing… physical.” Martin flew from London to Aberdeen, and was met by a former SAS sergeant whom he knew well. He was a tough Scot who clearly had returned to his native heather in his retirement.

“How are you keeping, boss?” he asked, employing the old jargon for SAS men talking to an officer. He hefted Martin’s kit bag into the rear, and eased out of the airport car park. He turned north at the outskirts of Aberdeen, and took the A96 road in the direction of Inverness. The mountains of the Scottish Highlands enveloped them within a few miles. Seven miles after the turn, he pulled left off the main road.

The signpost said simply: KEMNAY. They went through the village of Monymusk and hit the Aberdeen-Alford road. Three miles later, the Land Rover turned right, ran though Whitehouse and headed for Keig. There was a river beside the road;

Martin wondered whether it contained salmon or trout, or neither. Just before Keig, a side road turned across the river and up a long, winding private drive. Round two bends, the stone bulk of an ancient castle sat on a slight eminence looking out over a stunning vista of wild hills and glens. Two men emerged from the main entrance, came forward and introduced themselves. “Gordon Phillips. Michael McDonald. Welcome to Castle Forbes, family seat of Lord Forbes. Good trip, Colonel?”

“It’s Mike, and you were expecting me. How? Angus here made no phone call.” “Well, actually, we had a man on the airplane. Just to be on the safe side,” said Phillips.

Mike Martin grunted. He had not spotted the tail. He was clearly out of practice.

“Not a problem, Mike,” said the CIA man McDonald. “You’re here. Now a range of tutors have your undivided attention for eighteen weeks. Why not freshen up, and after lunch we’ll start the first briefing.”

During the Cold War, the CIA maintained a chain of safe houses right across the USA. Some were inner-city apartments for the holding of discreet conferences whose participants were better not seen at the head office. Others were rural retreats such as renovated farmhouses, where agents back from a stressful mission could have a relaxed vacation while also being debriefed, detail by detail, on their time abroad.

And there were some chosen for their obscurity, where a Soviet defector could be held in the kindliest of detention while checks were made on his authenticity, and where a vengeful KGB, working out of the Soviet Embassy or consulate, could not get at him.

Agency veterans still wince at the memory of Colonel Yurchenko, who defected in Rome, and was amazingly allowed to dine out in Georgetown with his debriefing officer. He went to the men’s room and never came back. In fact, he had been contacted by the KGB, who reminded him of his family back in Moscow. Full of remorse, he was daft enough to believe the promises of amnesty and redefected. He was never heard of again.

Marek Gumienny had one simple question for the small office inside Langley that runs and maintains the safe houses: what is the most remote, obscure and hard to get into or out of facility that we have?

The answer came from his real estate colleague in no time at all. “We call it ‘the Cabin.’ It is lost to the human race, somewhere up in the Pasayten Wilderness of the Cascade range.”

Gumienny asked for every detail and every picture available. Within thirty minutes of receiving the file, he had made his choice and given his orders. East of Seattle, in the wilds of Washington State, is the range of steep, forested and, in the winter, snow-clothed mountains known as the Cascades. Inside the borders of the Cascades are three zones: the National Park, the logging forest and the Pasayten Wilderness. The first two have access roads and some habitations.

Hundreds of thousands of visitors go to the park every year while it is open, and it is riddled with tracks and trails, the former viable for rugged vehicles, the latter for hikers or horses. And the wardens know every inch of it. The logging forest is off-limits to the public for safety reasons, but it, too, has a network of tracks along which snarling trucks habitually haul the felled tree trunks to the delivery points for the sawmills. In deep winter, both have to close down because the snow makes most movement almost impossible. But east of them both, running up to the Canadian border, is the wilderness. Here, there are no tracks, one or two trails, and only in the far south of the terrain, near Hart’s Pass, a few log cabins.

Winter and summer, the wilderness teems with wildlife and game, the few cabin owners tend to summer in the wilderness, then disconnect all systems, lock up and withdraw to their city mansions. There is probably nowhere in the USA as bleak or remote in winter, with the possible exception of the area of northern Vermont known simply as “the Kingdom,” where a man may vanish and be found rock solid in the spring thaw.

Years earlier, a remote log cabin had come up for sale, and the CIA bought it. It was an impulse purchase, later regretted, but occasionally used by senior officers for summer vacations. In October, when Marek Gumienny made his inquiry, it was closed and locked. Despite the looming winter and the costs, he demanded it be reopened, and that its transformation begin. “If that’s what you want,” said the head of the real estate office, “why not use the Northwest Detention Center in Seattle?”

Despite the fact he was talking to a colleague, Gumienny had no choice but to lie.

“It is not just a question of keeping an ultra-high-value asset away from prying eyes, nor of preventing him from escape. I have to consider his own safety. Even in supermax jails, there have been fatalities.” The head of safe houses got the point. At least, he thought he had. Utterly and completely invisible, utterly and completely escape-proof. Totally self-contained for at least a six-month period. It was not really his specialty. He brought in the team who had devised the security at the fearsome Pelican Bay supermax in California.

The Cabin was almost inaccessible to start with. A very basic road went a few miles north of the tiny town of Mazama and then ran out, still ten miles short. There was nothing for it but to use skyhooks and use them extensively. With the power invested in him, Marek Gumi-enny commandeered a Chinook heavy-lift helicopter from McChord Air Force Base south of Seattle to be used as a cart horse.

The build team was from Army Engineers; raw materials were purchased locally with state police advice. Everyone was on a need-to-know basis, and the legend was that the Cabin was being converted into an ultra-high-security research center. In truth, it was to become a one-man jail.

At Castle Forbes, the regime started intensively, and became more so. Mike Martin was required to change out of Western clothes into the robes and turban of a Pashtun tribesman. His beard and hair were to grow as long as the time allowed.

The housekeeper was allowed to stay on; she had not the slightest interest in the laird’s guests, nor did Hector, the gardener. The third remaining resident was Angus, the former SAS sergeant who had become Lord Forbes’s estate manager, or “factor.” Even if an interloper had wished to penetrate the estate, he would have been most unwise with Angus on the prowl.

For the rest, “guests” came and went, save two whose residence had to be permanent. One was Najib Qureshi, a native Afghan, former teacher in Kandahar, refugee given asylum in Britain, naturalized citizen and translator at GCHQ Cheltenham. He had been detached from his duties and transferred to Castle Forbes. He was the language tutor and coach in all forms of behavior that would be expected of a Pashtun. He taught body language, gestures, how to squat on the heels, how to eat, how to walk and the postures for prayer. The other was Dr. Tamian Godfrey; midsixties, iron gray hair in a bun at the back, she had been married for years to a senior officer in the Security Service, MI5, until his death two years earlier. Being “one of us,” as Steve Hill put it, she was no stranger to security procedures, the cult of need to know, and had not the slightest intention of mentioning her presence in Scotland to anyone ever.

Moreover, she could work without being told that the man she was here to tutor would be going into harm’s way, and became determined he would never slip up because of something she had forgotten. Her expertise was the Koran; her knowledge of it was encyclopedic, and her Arabic impeccable. “Have you heard of Muhammad Asad?” she asked Martin. He admitted he had not. “Then we shall start with him. Born Leopold Weiss, a German Jew, he converted to Islam and became one of its greatest scholars. He wrote probably the best commentary ever on al-Isra, the journey from Arabia to Jerusalem and thence to heaven. This was the experience that instituted the five daily prayers, keystone of the faith. You would have had this at your madrassah as a boy, and your imam, being a Wahhabi, would have believed totally that it was a real, physical journey and not just a vision in a dream. So you believe the same. And now, the daily prayers. Say after me…”

Najib Qureshi was impressed. She knows more about the Koran than I do. he mused. For exercise, they wrapped up warmly and went walking the hills, shadowed by Angus, quite legally equipped with his hunting rifle. Even though he knew Arabic, Mike Martin realized what a staggering amount he had to learn. Najib Qureshi taught him to speak Arabic with a Pashtun accent, for Izmat Khan’s voice, speaking Arabic to fellow prisoners in Camp Delta, had been recorded secretly in case he had secrets to divulge. He did not, but for Mr. Qureshi the accent was invaluable because he could teach his pupil to imitate it.

Although Mike Martin had spent six months with the muj in the mountains during the Soviet occupation, that was seventeen years earlier, and he had forgotten much. Qureshi coached him in Pashto, even though it had been agreed from the start that Martin could never pass as a Pashtun among other Pashtun. But mostly, it was two things: the prayers, and what had happened to him in Guantanamo Bay. The CIA was the principal provider of interrogators in Camp Delta; Marek Gumienny had discovered three or four who had had to do with Izmat Khan from the moment of his arrival onward.

Michael McDonald flew back to Langley to spend days with these men, draining them dry of every detail they could recall, plus the notes and tapes they had made. The cover story was that Izmat Khan was being considered for release under the NFD rules-no farther danger-and Langley wanted to be sure. All the interrogators were adamant that the Pashtun mountain warrior and Taliban commander was the hardest man in detention. He had vouchsafed very little, complained not at all, cooperated to the minimum, accepted all the privations and punishments with stoicism. But, they agree, when you looked into those black eyes you just knew he would love to tear your head off. When he had it all, he flew back in the CIA Grumman and landed right at Edzell air base. Thence, a car took him north to Forbes Castle, and he briefed Mike Martin.

Tamian Godfrey and Najib Qureshi concentrated on the daily prayers. Martin would have to say them in front of others, and he had better get them right. There was one ray of hope, according to Najib. He was not a born Arab; the Koran was only in classical Arabic and no other language. A one-word slip could be put down to mispronunciation. But for a boy who had spent seven years in a madrassah, one entire phrase was too much. So with Najib rising and bowing, forehead to the carpet, beside him, and Tamian Godfrey, due to her stiff knees, in a chair, they recited and recited and recited.

There was progress also at Edzell air base where an Anglo-American technical team was installing and linking all the British intelligence services and those of the USA into one nexus. The accommodation and facilities were up and running. When the U.S. Navy was in residence, the base had had, apart from housing and workstations, a bowling alley, beauty salon, delicatessen, post office, basketball court, gym and theater. Gordon Phillips, aware of his budget, and with Steve Hill breathing down his neck, left the fripperies much as they were-defunct.

The RAF shipped in catering staff, and the RAF regiment took over perimeter security. No one doubted the base was becoming a listening post for opium traffickers.

From the USA, giant Galaxies and Starlifters flew in with listening monitors that could and would scan the world. Arabic translations were not imported, because this would be handled by GCHQ_ Cheltenham and Fort Meade, both of whom would be in constant secure contact with Crowbar, as the new listening post had been coded.

Before Christmas, the twelve computer workstations were established and brought onstream. These would be the nerve center, and six operators would hover over them day and night.

Crowbar Center was never devised as a new intelligence agency of its own, but simply a short-term, “dedicated”-that is, single-purpose-operation, with whom all British and U.S. agencies would, thanks to John Negroponte’s blanket authority, cooperate without stint or delay.

To assist in this effort. Crowbar’s computers were fitted with ultrasecure ISDN BRENT lines, with two BRENT keys for each station. Each had its own removable hard drive that would be taken out when not in use and stored in a guarded safe. Crowbar’s computers were then linked directly into the communications systems of the head office, or HO, the term for SIS headquarters at Vauxhall Cross, and Grosvenor, the term employed for the CIA station at the U.S. Embassy in Grosvenor Square, London.

To seal the operation from any unwanted interference, the Crowbar address for its communications was hidden under a STRAP3 access code, with a bigot list limiting those in the know to a very few senior officers indeed. Then Crowbar began to listen to every word spoken in the Middle East, in the Arabic language and in the world of Islam. It was only doing what was already being done by others, but the pretense had to be maintained. When Crowbar went operational, it had one other access. Apart from sound, it was interested in vision. Also piped into the obscure Scottish air base were the images the National Reconnaissance Office was picking up from its KH-n “Keyhole” satellites over the Arab world, and the yield of the increasingly popular Predator drones, whose high-definition images from twenty thousand feet went back to the American Army Central Command, or CENT-COM, headquarters at Tampa, Florida.

Some of the more penetrating minds at Edzell realized that Crowbar was ready and waiting for something, but they were not quite sure what.

SHORTLY BEFORE Christmas 2006, Mr. Alex Siebart recontacted Mr. Lampong at his Indonesian company office to propose one of the two general cargo freighters registered in Liverpool as suitable for his purpose. By chance, both were owned by the same small shipping company, and Siebart and Abercrombie had chartered them before on behalf of clients who had been amply satisfied. McKendrick Shipping was a family business; it had been in the merchant marine for a century. The company chief was also the family patriarch, Liam McKendrick. who captained the Countess of Richmond, and his son, Sean, captained the other. The Countess of Richmond was eight thousand tons, flew the Red Ensign, was moderately priced and would be available for a fresh cargo out of a British port by March 1.

What Alex Siebart did not add was that he had warmly recommended the contract to Liam McKendrick if it came their way, and the old skipper had concurred. If Siebart and Abercrombie could find him a cargo from the USA back to the UK, it would make a very nice and profitable triangular voyage for the spring. Unbeknownst to either man, Mr. Lampong contacted someone in the British city of Birmingham, an academic at Aston University, who drove himself to Liverpool. With high-powered binoculars, the Countess of Richmond was examined in detail, and a long-range lens took over a hundred pictures of her from different angles. A week later, Mr. Lampong e-mailed back. He apologized for the delay, explaining that he had been up-country examining his sawmills, but that the Countess of Richmond sounded exactly right. His friends in Singapore would be in touch with details of the cargo of limousines to be brought from the UK to the Far East. In truth, the friends in Singapore were not Chinese but Malaysians; and not simply Muslims but ultrafanatical Islamists. They had been put in funds out of a new account created in Bermuda by the late Mr. Tewfik al-Qur, who had deposited the original monies, before transfer with a small private bank in Vienna that suspected nothing. They did not even intend to make a loss on the limousines, but to recoup their investment by selling them once their purpose had been served.

Marek Gumienny’s explanation to the CIA interrogators that Izmat Khan might be coming up for trial was not untrue. He intended to arrange exactly that, and to secure an acquittal and release.

In 2005, a U.S. Appeals Court had decreed that the rights of prisoners of war did not apply to members of Al Qaeda. The Federal Court had upheld President Bush’s intention to order the trials of terrorist suspects by special military tribunals. That, for the first time in four years, gave the detainees the chance of a defense attorney. Gu-mienny intended that Izmat Khan’s defense would be that he had never been in Al Qaeda, but a serving Afghan Army officer, albeit under the Taliban, and had nothing whatever to do with 9/11 or Islamist terrorism. And he intended that the court should accept that. It would require John Negroponte, as director of National Intelligence, to request his colleague Donald Rumsfeld, as secretary of defense, to “have a word” with the military judges of the case.

Mike Martin’s leg was healing nicely. He had noted when he read Izmat Khan’s slim file after the concordat in the orchard that the man had never described how he had acquired the scar on the right thigh. Martin saw no reason to mention it either. But when Michael McDonald arrived back from Langley with the more copious notes over Izmat Khan’s numerous interrogations, he had been concerned that the questioners had pressed the Afghan for an explanation of the scar and never received one. If the existence of the scar was by any chance known to anyone inside Al Qaeda and Mike Martin bore no such scar, his cover would be “blown.”

Martin had no objection, for he had something in mind. A surgeon was flown from London to Edzell, and then by the newly acquired Bell JetRanger helicopter to the lawn of Forbes Castle. He was the Harley Street surgeon with full security clearance who could be relied on to remove the occasional bullet and say nothing more about it.

It was all done with a local anesthetic. The incision was easy, for there was no bullet or fragment to be extracted. The problem was, make it heal in a few weeks but look much older than that.

The surgeon, James Newton, excised a quantity of tissue beneath and around the incision to make it deeper, as if something had come out, and created a concavity in the flesh. His sutures were large, clumsy, unstraight stitches, drawing the edges of the wound together so that they would pucker as they healed. He sought to make it look like the work done in a field hospital in a cave, and there were six stitches.

“You must understand,” he said as he left, “if a surgeon looks at that, he will probably spot that it cannot be fifteen years old. A nonmedical man should accept it. But it needs twelve weeks to settle down.” That was in early November. By Christmas, nature and the body of a very fit forty-four-year-old had done an excellent job. The puffiness and redness were gone.

CHAPTER 9

“IF YOU ARE GOING where I think you are going, young Mike,” said Tamian Godfrey on one of their daily hikes, “you will have to master the various levels of aggressiveness and fanaticism that you will be likely to encounter. At the core is self-arrogated jihad, or holy war, but various factions arrive at this via various routes and behave in various ways. They are not all the same by a long chalk.”

“It seems to start with Wahhabism,” said Martin. “In a way, but let us not forget that Wahhabism is the state religion of Saudi Arabia, and Osama bin Laden has declared war on the Saudi establishment for being heretics. There are many groups way out on the extremist wing beyond the teachings of Muhammad al-Wahhab.

“He was an eighteenth-century preacher who came out of the Nejd, the bleakest and harshest part of the interior of the Saudi peninsula. He left behind him the harshest and most intolerant of all the many, many interpretations of the Koran. That was then; this is now. He has been superseded. Saudi Wahhabism has not declared war on the West, or on Christianity; nor does it propose indiscriminate mass murder of anyone, let alone women and children. What Wahhab did was leave behind the seedbed of total intolerance in which today’s terror masters could plant the young seedlings before turning them into killers.” “Then how come they are not still confined to the Arabian peninsula?” asked Martin.

“Because,” cut in Najib Qureshi, “for thirty years Saudi Arabia has used its petrodollars to fund the internationalization of its state creed, and that includes every Muslim country in the world, including the place of my birth. There is no reason to think any of them realized what a monster was being set free or how it would be diverted to mass murder. Indeed, there is ample reason to believe now, a bit late in the day, that Saudi Arabia is terrified of the creature it has funded for three decades.”

“Then why has Al Qaeda declared war on the source of its creed and its funding?”

“Because other prophets have arisen, even more intolerant, even more extreme. These have preached the creed not simply of intolerance of anything not Islamic, but of the duty of attack and destruction. The Saudi government is denounced for dealing with the West, permitting U.S. troops on its holy soil. And that applies to every secular Muslim government as well. For the fanatics they are all as guilty as Christians and Jews.”

“So who do you think I shall be meeting in my travels, Tamian?” asked Martin.

The scholar found a stone the size of a chair and sat down to rest her legs. “There are numerous groups, but two are at the core. Do you know the word salafi?”

“I have heard of it,” admitted Martin.

“These are the back-to-the-beginning brigade. They really want to restore the great golden age of Islam. Back to the first four caliphates, over a thousand years ago. Wild beards, sandals, robes, rigorous Sharia’ah legal code, rejection of modernity and the West that brought it. There is no such earthly paradise, of course, but fanatics were never deterred by unreality. In pursuit of their manic dream Nazis, communists, Maoists, followers of Pol Pot, have slaughtered hundreds of millions, half of them their own kith and kin, for not being extreme enough. Think of Stalin’s and Mao’s purges-all fellow communists, but butchered for being backsliders.”

“When you described the salafis, you were describing the Taliban,” said Martin. “Among others. These are the suicide bombers, the simple believers; trusting their masters, following their spiritual guides; not very bright but completely obedient, and believing that all their deranged hatred is going to please the mighty Allah.”

“There are worse?” asked Martin.

“Oh, yes,” said Tamian Godfrey, resuming her walk but directing the party firmly back toward the castle, whose tower could just be seen two short valleys away. “The ultras-the real ultras-I would designate with one word: takfir. Whatever it meant in Wahhab’s day, it has changed. The true salafi will not smoke, gamble, dance, accept music in his presence, drink alcohol or consort with Western women. With his dress, appearance and religious devotion, he is immediately identifiable for what he is. From an internal security point of view, identifiability is half the battle.

“But some will adopt every single custom of the West, however much they may loathe them, in order to pass as fully Westernized and therefore harmless. All nineteen of the 9/11 bombers slipped through because they looked and acted the part. The same with the four London bombers; apparently normal young men, going to the gym, playing cricket, polite, helpful, one of them a special needs teacher, smiling constantly and planning mass murder. These are the ones to watch.

“Many are clean-shaven, barbered, groomed, dressed in suits, educated, with a good degree. These are the ultimate; prepared to become chameleons against their faith to achieve mass murder for their faith. Thank heavens, here we are; my old legs are giving out. Time for the midday prayers. Mike, you will utter the call and then lead us in prayer. You may be asked to later. It is a great privilege.”

Just after the New Year, an e-mail was sent from the office of Siebart and Abercrombie to Jakarta. The Countess of Richmond, with a full cargo of crated Jaguar sedans for Singapore, would sail from Liverpool on the first of March. After unloading at Singapore, she would proceed in ballast to North Borneo to take aboard the hold cargo of timber before turning for Surabaya for the deck cargo of crated silks.

THE CONSTRUCTION crew working inside the Pasayten Wilderness was finally and deeply grateful when the job was done by the end of January. To keep up the work rate, the men had chosen to overnight right on the site, and until the central heating came on stream they had been extremely cold. But the bonus was large and tempting. They took the discomfort and completed on schedule. To the naked eye, the cabin looked much the same but larger. In fact, it had been transformed. To cope with a staff of two officers, the bedrooms would suffice; for the extra eight guards to accomplish twenty-four-hour-a-day surveillance, an extra bunkhouse had been added, and a dining hall beside it. The spacious sitting room was retained, but a recreation room, with pool table, library, plasma TV and ample DVD selection, had created yet another extension. Both were built of insulated pine logs.

The third extension appeared to be built with the usual uninsulated, rustic logs. Its exterior walls were, in fact, clad only with split tree trunks; inside, the walls were reinforced concrete. The whole penitentiary wing was impregnable from without and escape-proof from within. It was reached from the guards’ quarters through a single steel door, with food service hatch and spy hole. Beyond this door was a single but spacious room. It contained a steel bed frame deeply embedded in the concrete floor; it could never be moved by bare hands. Nor could the wall shelving, also embedded in the concrete.

There were, however, carpets on the floor, and heat came from baseboard-level grilles that could never be opened. The room also had a door opposite the spy hole, and the detainee could open or close it at will. It led only to the exercise yard.

The yard was bare save for a concrete bench in the center away from the walls. The walls were ten feet tall and as smooth as a pool table. No man could get anywhere near the top; nor was there anything that could be propped against the wall or stood on.

For sanitation, there was a recessed area off the sitting room bedroom containing a single hole in the floor for bodily functions and a shower whose controls were in the hands of the guards outside. Because all the new materials had come in by helicopter, the only visible exterior addition was a landing pad under the snow. Otherwise, the Cabin stood in its five-hundred-acre plot, surrounded on all sides by the pine, larch and spruce, even though the trees had been cut back to a hundred yards in every direction.

When they came, the ten guardians of probably the country’s most expensive and exclusive prison were two middle-grade CIA men from Langley and eight junior staffers who had completed all the mental and physical tests at the Farm training school and were hoping for an exciting first assignment. Instead, they got a forest in the snow. But they were all fit and eager to impress.

The military trial at Guantanamo Bay began just before the end of January and was held in one of the larger rooms in the interrogation block, decked out now for its judicial purpose. Anyone hoping for a half-mad Colonel Jessup or any of the histrionics portrayed in A Few Good Men would have been sorely disappointed. The proceedings were low-tone and orderly.

There were eight detainees being considered for release as of “no further danger,” and seven were vociferous in stating their harmlessness. Only one maintained a scornful silence. His case was heard last. “Prisoner Khan, into what language would you like these proceedings to be translated?” asked the colonel, flanked by a male major and a female captain, presiding on the dais at the end of the room under the seal of the United States of America. All three were from the U.S. Marines legal branch. The prisoner was facing them, hauled to his feet by the Marine guards flanking him. Desks set facing each other had been allocated to prosecuting and defending attorneys-the former military, the latter civilian. The prisoner shrugged gently, and stared at the female Marine captain for several seconds; then he let his gaze come to rest on the wall above the judges. “This court is aware that the prisoner understands Arabic, so that is the language the court chooses. Any objection. Counselor?” The question was to the defending attorney, who shook his head. He had been warned about his client when he took the case. From all he had heard, he was convinced he had no chance. It was a civil rights-based appearance, and he knew what the surrounding Marines thought of white knights from the civil rights movement. A helpful client would have been nice. Still, he reasoned, the Afghan’s attitude at least got the attorney off the hook. He shook his head. No objection. Arabic would do.

The Arabic ‘terp advanced and positioned himself close to the Marine guards. It was a wise choice; there was only one Pashtun interpreter, and he had had a rough time with the Americans because he had coaxed nothing out of his fellow Afghan. Now he had nothing to do, and saw the approaching end of a quite comfortable lifestyle.

There had only ever been seven Pashtun at Gitmo, the seven wrongly included among the foreign fighters at Kunduz five years earlier. Four had gone back, simple farm boys who had renounced all Muslim extremism with considerable enthusiasm; and the other two had had mental breakdowns so complete that they were still under psychiatric care. The Taliban commander was the last one. The prosecuting counsel began, and the ‘terp uttered a stream of sibilant Arabic. The gist was that the Yankees are going to send you back to the slammer and throw away the keys, you arrogant Taliban shit. Izmat Khan slowly lowered his gaze and fixed on the terp. The eyes said it all. The Lebanon-born American reverted to literal translation. The man might be dressed in a ludicrous orange jumpsuit, shackled hand and foot, but you never knew with this bastard. The prosecutor did not take long. He stressed five years of virtual silence, a refusal to name collaborators in the war of terror against the USA, and the fact the prisoner had been caught in a jail uprising in which an American had been brutally stomped to death. Then he sat down. He had no doubt of the outcome. The man would have to remain in custody for years to come. The civil rights attorney took a little longer. He was pleased that as an Afghan the prisoner had absolutely nothing to do with the atrocity of 9/11. He had been fighting in an all-Afghan civil war at the time, and had nothing to do with the Arabs behind Al Qaeda. As for Mullah Omar and the Afghan government sheltering bin Laden and his cronies, that was a dictatorship of which Mr. Khan was a serving officer but not a part.

“I really must urge this court to admit the reality,” he wound up. “If this man is a problem, he is an Afghan problem. There is a new and democratically elected government there now. We should ship him back for them to deal with.” The three judges withdrew. They were away for thirty minutes. When they returned, the captain was pink with anger. She still could not believe what she had heard. Only the colonel and the major had had the interview with the chairman of the Joints Chiefs of Staff and knew his orders. “Prisoner Khan, be upstanding. This court has been made aware that the government of President Karzai has agreed that if you are returned to your native land, you will be sentenced to life imprisonment over there. That being so, this court intends to burden the American taxpayer with you no longer. Arrangements will therefore be made to ship you back to Kabul. You will return as you arrived: in shackles. That is all. Court rises.” The captain was not the only one in shock. The prosecuting attorney wondered how this would look on his career prospects. The defending counsel was feeling slightly light-headed. The ‘terp for one panicking moment had thought the mad colonel would order the cuffs taken off, in which case he, the good son of Beirut, was going straight out of the window.

The British Foreign Office is situated in King Charles Street, just off Whitehall, and within easy glancing distance of the window across Parliament Square outside of which King Charles I was decapitated. As the New Year’s holiday slipped into memory, the small protocol team that had been set up the previous summer resumed its task.

This was to coordinate with the Americans the ever more complex details of the forthcoming 2007 G8 conference. The 2005 meeting of the governments of the eight richest states in the world had been at Gleneagles Hotel in Scotland, and it had been a success up to a point. The point however had been, as always, the roaring crowds of protesters that presented problems which each year got steadily worse and worse. At Gleneagles, the Perthshire landscape had had to be disfigured by miles and miles of chain-link fencing to create a complete cordon sanitaire round the entire estate. The access road had had to be fenced and guarded. Led by two fading pop stars, the call had gone out for a million protesters at world poverty to march though Edinburgh close by. That was just the antipoverty brigade. Then the antiglobalization cohorts had thrown their flour bombs and waved their placards.

“Don’t these yo-yos realize that global trade generates the wealth with which to fight poverty?” asked one angry diplomat. The answer: Apparently not. Genoa was remembered with a shudder. That was why the idea out of the White House, who would be hosting 2007, was acclaimed: simple, elegant, brilliant. A location sumptuous but utterly isolated: immune, unreachable, secure, totally under control. It was the mass of detail that concerned the protocol team-that, and the advancement to mid-April. Something about the U.S. midterm elections. So the British team accepted what had been agreed and announced, and got on with their administrational task.

Far away to the southeast, two huge USAF Starlifters began to drop toward the sultanate of Oman. They came from the East Coast of the USA, with one midair refueling by a tanker out of the Azores. The two aerial juggernauts came out of the sunset on the Dhofari hills, heading east, and asking for landing instructions at the Anglo-American desert air base of Thumrait. In their cavernous hulls, the two giants contained an entire military unit. One had the living accommodations, from flat-pack, skilled-assembly hutments to generators, air-conditioning, refrigeration plants, TV aerials and even corkscrews for the fifteen-person technical team. The other cargo aircraft carried what is called “the sharp end.” Two pilotless reconnaissance drones, Predators, along with their guidance and imaging kit and the men and women who would operate them.

A week later, they were set up. On the far side of the air base, out of bounds to nonunit personnel, the bungalows were up, the air conditioners hummed, the latrines were dug, the kitchen cooked; and under their hooped shelters, the two Predators waited until their mission should be given to them. The aerial surveillance unit was also patched through to Tampa, Florida, and Edzell, Scotland. Someday, they would be told what they had to watch-day and night, rain and shine-photograph and transmit back. Until then, men and machines waited in the heat.

Mike Martin’s final briefing took a full three days, and it was important enough that Marek Gumienny flew over in the agency Grumman. Steve Hill came up from London, and the two spymas-ters joined their executive officers, McDonald and Phillips.

There were only five of them in the room, for Gordon Phillips operated what he called “the slide show” himself. Rather more developed than the slide projectors of yesteryear, this projector threw up picture after picture on a high-definition plasma screen in perfect color and detail. At a touch on the remote, it could close in on any detail, and bring that detail up in magnification to fill the screen.

The point of the briefing was to show Mike Martin every last piece of information in the possession of the entire gamut of Western agencies concerning faces he might meet.

The sources were not just the Anglo-American agencies. Over forty nations’ agencies were pouring their discoveries into central databases. Apart from the rogue states- Iran, Syria and the failed states like Somalia -governments across the planet were sharing information on terrorists of the ultra-aggressive Islamist creed.

Rabat was invaluable in targeting its own Moroccans; Aden fed in names and faces from South Yemen; Riyadh had swallowed its embarrassment and provided columns of faces from its own Saudi list.

Martin stared at them all as they all flashed up. Some were face-on portraits taken in a police station; others were snatched with long lenses on streets or in hotels. The faces’ possible variants were shown: with or without beard; in Arab or Western dress; long hair, short hair or shaven. There were mullahs and imams from various extremist mosques; youths believed to be simple message carriers; faces of those known to help with support services like funds, transport, safe houses.

And there were the big players, the ones who controlled the various global divisions and had access to the very top.

Some were dead, like Mohammed Atef, first director of operations, killed by an African bomb in Afghanistan; his successor, serving life without parole; his successor, also dead; and the believed present one. Somewhere in there was the doctorly face of Tewfik al-Qur, who dove over a balcony in Peshawar five months earlier. A few faces down the line was Saud Hamud al-Utaibi, new head of AQ in Saudi Arabia, and believed very much alive. And there were the blanks, the outline of a head, black on white. These included the AQ chief from Southeast Asia, successor to al-Hanbali, and probably the man behind the latest bombi ngsof tourist resorts in the Far East. And, surprisingly, the AQ chief for the United Kingdom. “We knew who he was until about six months ago,” said Gordon Phillips. “Then he quit just in time. He is back in Pakistan, hunted day and night. The ISI will get him eventually…”

“And ship him up to us in Bagram,” grunted Marek Gumienny They all knew that inside the U.S. base north of Kabul was a very special facility where everyone “sang” eventually.

“You will certainly seek out this one,” said Steve Hill, as a grim-faced imam flashed on the screen. It was a snatched shot and came from Pakistan. “And this one.”

It was an elderly man, looking mild and courtly; also a snatched shot, on a quayside somewhere, with bright blue water in the background; it came from the Special Forces of the United Arab Emirates in Dubai. They broke, ate, resumed, slept and started again. Only when the housekeeper was in the room with trays of food did Phillips switch off the TV screen. Tamian Godfrey and Najib Qureshi stayed in their rooms or walked the hills together. Finally, it was over.

“Tomorrow, we fly,” said Marek Gumienny.

Mrs. Godfrey and the Afghan analyst came to the helipad to see him off. He was young enough to be the Koranic scholar’s son.

“Take care of yourself, Mike,” she said, then swore. “Damn, stupid me, I’m choking up. God go with you, lad.”

“And if all else fails, may Allah keep you in His care,” said Qureshi. The JetRanger could only take the two senior controllers and Martin. The two executive officers would drive down to Edzell and resume their mission. The Bell landed well away from prying eyes and the group of three ran across to the CIA Grumman V A Scottish snow squall caused them all to shelter under waterproofs held over their heads, so no one saw that one of the men was not in Western dress.

The crew of the Grumman had tended to some strange-looking passengers, and knew better than to raise even an eyebrow at the heavily bearded Afghan whom the deputy director of operations was escorting across the Atlantic with a British guest.

They did not fly to Washington but to a remote peninsula on the southeast coast of Cuba. Just after dawn, on February 14, they touched down at Guantanamo and taxied straight into a hangar whose doors closed at once. “I’m afraid you have to remain on the plane, Mike,” said Marek Gumienny “We’ll get you out of here under cover of dark.”

Night comes fast in the tropics, and it was pitch-black by seven p.m. That was when four CIA men from “special tasks” entered the cell of Izmat Khan. He rose, sensing something wrong. The regular guards had quit the corridor outside his cell half an hour earlier. That had never happened before. The four men were not brutal, but they were not taking no for an answer, either. Two grabbed the Afghan, one round the torso with arms pinioned, the other round the thighs. The chloroform pad took only twenty seconds to work. The writhing stopped, and the prisoner went limp.

He went onto a stretcher and thence to a wheeled gurney. A cotton sheet was placed over the body and he was wheeled outside. A crate was waiting. The entire cell block was devoid of guard staff. No one saw a thing. A few seconds after the abduction, the Afghan was inside the crate. It was not badly equipped, as crates go. From the outside, it was just a large timber box such as are used for general freight purposes. Even the markings were totally authentic.

Inside, it was insulated against any sound emerging. In the roof was a small, removable panel to replenish fresh air, but that would not be taken down until the crate was safely airborne. There were two comfortable armchairs welded to the floor, and a low-wattage, amber light.

The recumbent Izmat Khan was placed in the chair that already had restrainer straps fitted to it. Without cutting off circulation to the limbs, they secured so that he could relax but not leave the chair. He was still asleep. Finally satisfied, the fifth CIA man-the one who would travel in the crate-nodded to his colleagues, and the end of it was closed off. A forklift hoisted the crate a foot off the ground and ran it out to the airfield, where the Hercules was waiting. It was an AC-130 Talon from Special Forces, fitted with extra-range tanks, and could make its destination easily. Unexplained flights into and out of Gitmo are regular as clockwork. The tower gave a quick “Clear to take off” in response to the staccato request, and the Hercules was airborne for McChord base, Washington State. An hour later, a closed car drove up to the Camp Echo block and another small group got out. Inside the empty cell, a man was garbed in orange jumpsuit and soft slippers. The unconscious Afghan had been photographed before being covered and removed. With the use of the Polaroid print, a few minor snips were made to the beard and hair of the replacement. Every fallen tuft was collected and removed.

When it was over, there were a few gruff farewells, and the party left, locking the cell door behind them. Twenty minutes later, the soldiers were back, mystified but incurious. The poet Tennyson had got it right: Theirs not to reason why.

They checked the familiar figure of their prize prisoner, and waited for the dawn.

The morning sun was tipping the pinnacles of the Cascades when the AC-130 drifted down to its home base at McChord. The base commander had been told this was a CIA shipment, a last consignment for their new research facility up in the forests of the wilderness. Even with his rank, he needed to know no more, so he asked no more. The paperwork was in order, and the Chinook stood by. In flight, the Afghan had come round. The roof panel was open, and the air inside the hull of the Hercules fully pressurized and fresh. The escort smiled encouragingly, and offered food and drink. The prisoner settled for soda through a straw.

To the escort’s surprise, the prisoner had a few phrases in English, clearly gleaned over five years’ listening in Guantanamo. He asked the time only twice in the journey, and once bowed his face as far as it would go and murmured his prayers. Otherwise, he said nothing.

Just before touchdown, the roof panel was replaced, and the waiting forklift driver had not the slightest suspicion he was not lifting an ordinary load of freight from the rear ramp of the Hercules across to the Chinook. Again, the ramp doors closed. The small, battery-powered pilot light inside the crate remained on, but invisible from outside, just as all sounds were inaudible. But the prisoner was, as his escort would later report to Marek Gumienny, like a pussycat. No trouble at all, sir. Given that it was mid-February, they were lucky with the weather. The skies were clear but freezing cold. At the helipad outside the cabin, the great twin-rotored Chinook landed and opened its rear doors. But the crate stayed inside. It was easier to disembark the two passengers straight from the crate to the snow.

Both men shivered as the rear wall of the crate came off. The snatch team from Guantanamo had flown with the Hercules and up front in the Chinook. They were waiting for the last formality.

The prisoner’s hands and feet were shackled before the restraining straps were removed. Then he was bidden to rise and shuffled down the ramp into the snow. The resident staff, all ten of them, stood round in a semicircle, guns pointing. With an escort so heavy they could hardly get through the doors, the Taliban commander was walked across the helipad, through the cabin and into his own quarters. As the door closed, shutting out the bitter air, he stopped shivering. Six guards stood round him in his large cell as the manacles were finally removed. Shuffling backward, they left the cell, and the steel door slammed shut. He looked round. It was a better cell, but it was still a cell. He recalled the courtroom. The colonel had told him he would return to Afghanistan. They had lied again.

IT WAS midmorning, and the sun was blazing down on the Cuban landscape, when another Hercules rolled in to land. This also was equipped for long-distance flying, but, unlike the Talon, it was not armed to the teeth, and did not belong to Special Forces. It came from MATS, the Air Force transport division. It was to carry one single passenger across the globe. The cell door swung open. “Prisoner Khan, stand up. Face the wall. Adopt the position.”

The belt went round the midriff; chains fell from it to the ankle cuffs, and another set to the wrists, held together in front of the waist. The position permitted a shuffling walk, no more.

There was a short walk to the end of the block with six armed guards. The high-security truck had steps at the back, a mesh screen between the prisoners and the driver, and black windows.

When he was ordered out at the airfield, the prisoner blinked in the harsh sunlight.

He shook his shaggy head and looked bewildered. As his eyes became accustomed to the glare, he gazed round and saw the waiting Hercules, and a group of American officers staring at him. One of them advanced and beckoned. Meekly, he followed across the scorching tarmac. Shackled though he was, six armed grunts surrounded him all the way. He turned to have one last look at the place that had held him for five miserable years. Then he shuffled up into the hull of the aircraft.

In a room one flight below the operations deck of the control tower, two men stood and watched him.

“There goes your man,” said Marek Gumienny.

“If they ever find out who he really is,” replied Steve Hill, “may Allah have mercy on him.”