Authors: David Hagberg
Soldier of God (15 page)
The Ritz-Carlton, Doha rose from the shores of the Persian Gulf in the capital city’s prestigious West Bay Lagoon like a beacon in the night for the newly enfranchised rich—the rich of not only the Arab world, but also the West, especially the U.S., Japan, and Germany. The Ritz, the Inter-Continental adjacent to the Aladdin’s Kingdom that was Qatar’s only amusement park, and the fantastic Sheraton known as the “Pyramid of the Gulf,” were new, as was just about everything else in the small nation of only eight hundred thousand people.
Beneath a barren, hostile terrain of sand, rock, and gravel bordering Saudi Arabia lay untold wealth in oil reserves, as well as one-eighth of the world’s known natural gas. Technically there were no poor people here. But less than seventy-five years earlier, almost everyone on the tiny peninsula was a Bedouin—a nomadic person of the desert whose only possessions were his camels, his tents, his family, and his honor. Little or nothing of that past remained to be seen; all traces had been obliterated by buildings, by pavement, or by the shifting sands.
Lights from the hotels and other tall buildings reflected in the still waters of the bay in multicolored profusion, but the narrow rocky beach was empty except for two men, one of them dressed in a business suit and waiting near a jet black Mercedes E350 parked beneath a palm tree at
the downtown marina. Huge multimillion-dollar yachts were tied up at the docks, and the only sounds were from the distant traffic at the Arch Roundabout. The night was warm and humid, a slight haze softening the stars overhead.
the downtown marina. Huge multimillion-dollar yachts were tied up at the docks, and the only sounds were from the distant traffic at the Arch Roundabout. The night was warm and humid, a slight haze softening the stars overhead.
The other man, Imad Najjar, sat in the darkness on his Vespa beside an advertising kiosk fifty meters away from the car, watching the man he was supposed to meet. He was young, only nineteen, and until an hour earlier when he had begun smoking hash, he had been filled with fear. But now he was flying, like a bird with wings, far above even the range of a Kalashnikov rifle. He was dressed in blue jeans, a UCLA Dept. of Athletics tee shirt, and Air Jordans. His hair was cut very short, and a four-day stubble darkened his narrow face that was all planes and angles.
His eyes were alive, and he could see for ten million kilometers with perfect clarity. He could even see his own death, and it was as if a great joy awaited him in Paradise.
Imad had to laugh. That was the line they had fed him and the others last year in the training camp outside Drosh in the mountains of northwestern Pakistan. But he had been westernized by his father to expect—and feel comfortable with—money and the gadgets and comforts it could buy, so he never bought into the Muslim fundamentalist mumbo jumbo.
Bin Laden had not been up there in the camps, and the rumor was that the Americans had killed him in one of the first raids in the war in Afghanistan. But the mujahideen instructors had been filled with the holy zeal; this was a
jihad
, a striving against the Western infidels.
jihad
, a striving against the Western infidels.
Some of the students had swallowed the idea, but they were mostly the losers. West Bank Palestinians, Cairo slum kids, a few spoiled Saudis, angry Iranis, and the odd lot that included one seriously screwed-up kid from Chicago or Seattle or someplace like that.
But there were women in the camps, and good hash, and the promise of money to the right boy or girl doing the right thing for the cause, at the right time and against the right enemy. A suicide bombing on an Israeli target—say, a bus in downtown Jerusalem or even Tel Aviv—would net the bomber’s family thirty-five thousand dollars or more—paid in U.S hundred-dollar bills, which Imad thought was ironic as hell.
He checked his wristwatch. He was five minutes early. The bastard could wait for him. Nobody was going to say that Imad was an ignorant
Bedouin, anxious to prove his conviction to the cause. Tonight was nothing more than another simple delivery, for not much money.
Bedouin, anxious to prove his conviction to the cause. Tonight was nothing more than another simple delivery, for not much money.
His parents had immigrated to Saudi Arabia in the seventies, and his father had gone to work for Bin Laden Construction, working on the holy places at Mecca and Medina, and becoming wealthy in the process. Imad went to the best private schools, first in Riyadh and then the King Abdul Aziz University in Jeddah, where Osama bin Laden himself had gotten a degree.
Imad was one of the rich kids who flew up to London or Paris whenever the urge struck them. After graduation, their parents told them, things would change. So while in university they were expected to study as well as have fun.
He took another toke on his bomber joint, cupping the glowing tip in his palm.
Construction was boring. Acting the part of the international terrorist was exciting. So long as his father’s money continued to flow, Imad figured he could attend classes from time to time; go on sabbaticals, as he thought of them, to places like Pakistan and Iran; and run the occasional mission when it was convenient and interesting.
Having a little extra money he’d earned himself was a plus. And when he returned to school from one of his missions, he got a lot more respect, not only from his professors, but from the liberated girls.
Life was good. Insha’allah.
He took another hit, then carefully snuffed out the glowing tip, pinched the end, and stuffed the roach in a side pocket of his backpack, before he started the rental motor scooter and slowly putt-putted to his contact.
The man at the Mercedes was much older and much better dressed than Imad was. He was slightly built, sloping shoulders and long legs. And he was intense; his eyes continually darted toward the marina entrance as if he expected someone to show up at any moment.
“My name is Achmed.”
“I am Imad. And before you ask, no, I was not followed. I made sure of it.”
Imad had worked with a different cutout each time, but they all
seemed to be alike in their nervousness, as if they expected the CIA to jump out of the shadows, guns blazing. This one was no different.
seemed to be alike in their nervousness, as if they expected the CIA to jump out of the shadows, guns blazing. This one was no different.
He had seen the change in practically everyone since the September eleventh attack on the U.S., and the American invasion of Afghanistan and Iraq. Iran was probably next because of Tehran’s defiance over the nuclear question. Pakistan was coming under increasing fire from the West, and North Korea was skirting the edge of disaster.
On top of all that, the rumor on the street was that al-Quaida was preparing another spectacular strike on the U.S. mainland. This time it would be more personal than 9/11.
“Americans should never feel safe anywhere in the world, especially not in their own homes,” his professor of economics had emotionally told his class two weeks ago.
The feeling that Damocles’ sword was about to fall had infected the entire region. In cities from Riyadh to Islamabad ordinary people were stockpiling food and water. Hospitals were hoarding medicines. Police units were sticking close to their barracks. And the Arab press in general was less strident in its attacks on Westerners.
But watching CNN and some other Western media outlets, Imad couldn’t see that anyone in Washington or London was picking up on the obvious signals that the Muslim world was holding its collective breath.
“This is not a game,” Achmed warned sharply. He took a VHS tape from the car and handed it to Imad. “People’s lives, including your own, will depend on how well you do tonight. We have long memories of who our friends and our enemies are.”
Imad realized that the man was frightened. “I’ve done these things for the cause before. Nothing will go wrong tonight. I’ll deliver this to the Al Jazeera studio, and in the morning I’ll be on the first flight back to Jeddah.”
“I was told to expect someone older.”
“I think they wanted someone like me—someone anonymous—for this kind of delivery,” Imad said.
“You’re a rich man’s son.”
Imad looked pointedly at his cutout’s Mercedes. “Exactly,” he said. “Which here in Qatar makes us anonymous.”
Achmed’s expression darkened, and his eyes darted to the highway as a noisy diesel truck passed. “If you fail, your body will be identified, and there will be unnecessary attention.”
Imad laughed. “No chance of that happening. My father would disown me, just like Osama’s family disowned him. We’re both criminals.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Osama bin Laden was like a god.
Achmed held out his hand. “I’ve changed my mind. Give me back the tape. I will get someone else to deliver it.”
Imad stuffed the tape in the waistband of his jeans. “I’ll do it, no problem.”
“It is important.”
“What about my money?”
Achmed slowly shook his head. “Make the delivery first; then come here. I’ll wait for you.”
“I’m not doing this for my health, man.”
Achmed laughed disdainfully. “That’s exactly what all of us are doing. You will either be a part of the
jihad
or you will be one of its targets. The choice is yours.”
jihad
or you will be one of its targets. The choice is yours.”
Through his drug-induced haze Imad realized that he might have gone a little too far. He nodded modestly. “Just be here when I get back.”
“Someone will be waiting for you at the east entrance. Do not talk to him. Do not look him in the eye. Just hand him the tape, turn around, and leave. Do you understand?”
Imad nodded again, and he took off without looking back. This whole gig was starting to feel bad in his mind. For the first time since he had started dabbling in the struggle, his fears were not being suppressed by the hash. Achmed was one of the crazy ones. Imad saw it in his eyes. Mujahideen, they called themselves: warriors for God. Those types would just as soon kill you as look at you.
Tonight he was backed into a corner. He had to deliver the tape to the television network. There was no turning back. But he didn’t have to go back for his money, nor did he have to accept any other missions. It’d be his luck that next time they would want him to be a suicide bomber.
Learn by example, his father said. Either take up the construction business and become a multimillionaire. Or take up arms and live in a cave in Afghanistan.
Imad decided that he was claustrophobic after all.
He followed the broad Corniche Boulevard as it gracefully curved away from the waterfront toward the Bin Omran District where the U.S. Embassy had put up its new building. To the right was the upscale New District, where the American new chancery was located, and farther out the city’s tall buildings quickly gave way to residential neighborhoods, and suddenly, as if cut off by a switch, the city ended and the desert began.
Traffic was light, with only the occasional delivery truck or private car, but Imad was getting spooked. He was convinced that someone was watching him. Unseen eyes somewhere in the darkness were monitoring his progress to make sure he didn’t screw up.
He wanted to be anywhere else except here in Doha. But he could not turn back. They would kill him if he did.
He decided that when he got back home he would go up to Riyadh and tell his father everything. Together they would figure out how to get him out of the mess that he was in.
The Al Jazeera studios were in a small, nondescript building on a tree-lined street in one of Doha’s more fashionable districts of professional offices and expensive homes set behind painted walls. Qatar was safe, but these days everyone in the Middle East felt more comfortable sleeping nights behind tall walls.
The only outward signs that betrayed the studio’s purpose were a rooftop bristling with satellite dishes and a Qatar Army Humvee parked in front. The studio’s front and side entrances were barricaded by sandbags.
Imad couldn’t see any soldiers when he made his first pass and turned the corner at the end of the block, but he knew they were there. Watching. Waiting. Over the past few years there had been a number of attacks on Al Jazeera bureaus and its correspondents.
The television network was underwritten in part by the Qatari government, so the army had placed guards at the home studios. If there was going to be any further trouble, it would not be here in Doha.
The problem, as Imad saw it, was that if he stopped at the east entrance and tried to deliver the tape, the army guards would first demand to see his identification. That was something he did not want to happen. He did not want his name listed on some roster of suspected terrorists when it was discovered he had delivered a tape for al-Quaida to the studio.
Yet he could not toss the tape in a trash can and go home. Al-Quaida would find him and kill him.
He turned around in the middle of the block and stopped. The Vespa idled softly in the balmy night air. How had he gotten himself into this situation? What had once seemed like a lark now seemed to be a terribly dangerous enterprise. He wanted to be done with it and get out of there.
The tape was like a brick of hot lead against his belly. Achmed said to hand it to a man who would be waiting at the east entrance. But there were soldiers there, behind the sandbags.
Imad suddenly gunned the Vespa and accelerated down the street. He had to slow down for the corner, but then he accelerated again.
A soldier stepped out from behind the Humvee and raised his hand.
Imad cranked the throttle full open, the Vespa’s engine buzzing like a million bees. At the last possible moment, he maneuvered around the soldier and yanked the videotape out of his jeans. As he passed the east entrance, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a shadowy figure in the doorway six or seven meters away.
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