The Hidden Assassins (19 page)

‘Exactly, and nobody knew that there were three separate cells with active plans, who were prevented from carrying out their attacks by MI5,’ said Pablo. ‘All those cells were sleepers, dormant until they received their instructions in January 2005. Every member of the cell was either a second—or third-generation immigrant, originally from Pakistan, Afghanistan or Morocco, but now British. They spoke perfect English with regional accents. They all had clean police records. They all had jobs and came from decent backgrounds. In other words, they were impossible to find in a country with millions of people of the same ethnicity. But they
were
found and their attacks
were
prevented because MI5 had a codebook to help them.

‘When they were searching some suspects’ properties after a series of arrests made in 2003 and early 2004 they came across identical editions of a text called the
Book of Proof
by a ninth-century Arab writer called al-Jahiz. Both editions had notes—all in English, because the accused didn’t have a word of Arabic between them. Some of the notes in each copy were remarkably similar. MI5 photocopied the books, replaced the originals, released the accused and set their code-breakers to work.’

‘And when did they share that information with the CNI?’

‘October 2004.’

‘So what happened with the London bombings of 7th and 21st July 2005?’

‘The British think they stopped using the
Book of Proof
after the May 2005 elections.’

‘And now you think you’ve discovered a new codebook,’ said Falcón. ‘What about the new copy of the Koran found on the front seat of the Peugeot Partner?’

‘We think they were going to prepare another code-book to give to someone.’

‘The Imam Abdelkrim Benaboura?’

‘We haven’t finished searching his apartment,’ said Pablo, shrugging.

‘That’s taken some time.’

‘The Imam lived in a two-bedroomed flat in El Cerezo and almost every room is full, floor to ceiling, of books.’

‘I don’t feel any closer to knowing why you want to recruit Yacoub Diouri.’

‘The jihadis are in need of another big coup. Something on the scale of 9/11.’

‘But not as “small scale” as a few hundred people killed on trains in Madrid and the underground in London,’ said Falcón, not quite able to stomach this level of objectivity.

‘I’m not diminishing those atrocities, I’m just saying that they were on a different scale. You’ll learn about intelligence work as you do it, Javier; you’re not in the trenches, seeing your friends getting killed. It has an effect on your vision,’ said Pablo. ‘Madrid was timetargeted, with a specific goal. It wasn’t a big, bold statement. It was just saying: This is what we can do. There’s no comparison to the operation that brought down the Twin Towers. No flight or hijack training. They just had to board trains and leave rucksacks. The most difficult
aspect of the operation was to buy and deliver the explosives, and in that we now know they had considerable help from local petty criminals.’

‘So what is the big coup?’ asked Falcón, uneasy at this breezy talk of death and destruction. ‘The World Cup in Germany?’

‘No. For the same reason that the Olympics in Greece was untouched. It’s just too difficult. The terrorists are competing with specialists who have been planning security at these events for years. Even the buildings are constructed with security in mind. The chances of discovery are increased enormously. Why waste resources?’

Silence, as the Mercedes tyres ripped over the tarmac towards the airport, which was smudged out by the early-morning haze.

‘You don’t know what it is, do you?’ said Falcón. ‘You just know it’s coming, or maybe you “feel” it’s coming.’

‘We have no idea,’ said Pablo, nodding. ‘But we don’t just “sense” their desperation, we know it, too. The design of the Twin Towers attack was to generate a fervour in Muslims all over the world, to get them to rise up against the decadent West, which they feel has humiliated them so much over the years, and to turn on their own dictatorial leaders and corrupt governments. It hasn’t happened. The disgust level is rising in the Muslim world at what the fanatics are prepared to do—the kidnapping and beheading of people like the aid worker Margaret Hassan, the daily slaughter of Iraqis who just want to have a normal life—these things are not going down well. But the demographics of the Muslim world lean heavily on the side
of youth, and a disenfranchised youth likes nothing better than a demonstration of rebel power. And that is what these radicals are in need of now: another symbol of their power, even if it’s the last bang before they die out with a whimper.’

‘So what has this bomb in Seville indicated to you?’

‘The fact that hexogen was found is a cause for concern and, judging by the level of destruction, it was not a small quantity. Just the use of this material, which the jihadis have never used before, makes us think that the design was
not
to frighten the population of Seville, but something bigger,’ said Pablo. ‘The British have also revealed that local sources have heard talk about something “big” about to happen, but their intelligence network has picked up no changes in any of their communities. We have to remember that, since the July 7th London Underground bombings, those communities are more aware, too. This makes MI5 and MI6 think that it will be an attack launched from the outside, and Spain has proven to be a popular country for terrorists to gather and plan their campaigns.’

‘So how are you expecting Yacoub Diouri to help you?’ asked Falcón. ‘He doesn’t do much business in England. He goes to London for shopping and the two fashion weeks. He has friends, but they’re all in the fashion industry. I’m assuming, by the way, that you want Yacoub to act for you because he’s
not
involved in international terrorism, but that he might have contacts with people whose involvement in these activities he is unaware of.’

‘We’re not going to ask him to do anything unusual or out of character. He attends the right mosque and
he already knows the people we want him to make contact with. He just has to take it a step further.’

‘I didn’t know he attended a radical mosque.’

‘A mosque with radical elements, where it is possible, with a name like Diouri, to become “involved”. As you know, Yacoub’s “father”, Abdullah, was active in the independence movement, Istiqlal, in the fifties; he was one of the prime movers against European decadence in Tangier. His name carries huge weight with the traditional Islamists. The radicals would love to have a Diouri on their side.’

‘So you know who these radical elements are?’

‘I go to church. I’m a moderate Catholic,’ said Pablo. ‘I don’t have much time to get involved in church-related business or socialize with other members of the congregation. But even I know all the people who hold strong views, because they can’t keep them in and they can’t disguise their history.’

‘But you can have powerful convictions and have enthusiasm for radical ideas without being a terrorist.’

‘Exactly, which is why the only way to find out is to be involved and get to the next level,’ said Pablo. ’What we’re trying to find is a chain of command. Where do the orders come from to activate the dormant cells? Where do the ideas for terrorist attacks originate? Is there a planning division? Are there independent recce and logistical teams who move around, giving expert help to activated cells? Our picture of these terrorist networks is so incomplete that we’re not even sure whether a network exists or not.’

‘Where are the British in all this?’ asked Falcón. ‘They’re expecting another major assault from the outside. They must know about Yacoub from his trips to London. Why haven’t they tried to recruit him themselves?’

‘They have. It didn’t work,’ said Pablo. ‘The British are very sensitive to anything that happens in southern Spain and North Africa because they’re in the middle, with their naval base in Gibraltar. They are aware of the potential for attacks, like the explosive dinghy launched at the USS
Cole
in Yemen in October 2000. They have sources in the ex-pat criminal communities operating between the Costa del Sol and that stretch of Moroccan coast between Melilla and Ceuta. The nature of the drug-smuggling business is that it is cash heavy and requires access to efficient money-laundering operations. Other criminal communities are inevitably involved. Information comes from all angles. When we told the British that hexogen had been used in the Seville bomb yesterday, it resonated with something they already knew, or rather something they’d heard.’

‘Did they tell you what that was?’

‘It needs to be corroborated,’ said Pablo. ‘The most important thing, at this stage, is to find out whether Yacoub is prepared to act for us. If he’s already turned down the Americans and the British, it could be that he’s not interested in that sort of life, because, believe me, it is very demanding. So let’s see if he’s a player and take it from there.’

The car had arrived at a private entrance to the airport, beyond the terminal buildings. The driver talked to the policeman at the gate and showed a pass. Pablo dropped the window and the policeman looked in with his clipboard. He nodded. The gate opened. The car drove into an X-ray bay and out again. They drove beyond the air cargo area until they arrived at a hangar where six small planes were parked. The car pulled up
alongside a Lear jet. Pablo picked up a large plastic bag of that morning’s newspapers from the floor of the Mercedes. They boarded the jet and took their seats. Pablo flicked through the newspapers, which were full of the bombings.

‘How about that for a headline?’ he said, and handed Falcón a British tabloid.

THE SECOND COMING? COUNT THE NUMBER OF THE BEAST: 666 6 JUNE 2006

Casablanca—Wednesday, 7th June 2006, 08.03 hrs

The plane touched down just after 8 a.m. Spanish time, two hours ahead of Moroccan time. They were met by a Mercedes, which contained a member of the Spanish embassy from Rabat, who took their passports. They were driven to a quiet end of the terminal building and after a few minutes they were through to the other side. The Mercedes drove to where the rental cars were parked. The man from the Spanish embassy handed over a set of keys and Falcón transferred to a Peugeot 206.

‘We can’t have an embassy vehicle turning up at his residence,’ said Pablo.

The diplomat handed over some dirhams for the tolls. Falcón left the airport and joined the motorway from Casablanca to Rabat. The sun was well up and the heat haze was draining the colour from the dull, flat landscape. Falcón sat back with the window open and the moist sea air baffling over the glass. He overtook vastly overloaded trucks farting out black smoke, with boys sitting on top of sheet-wrapped bales, their legs hooked around the securing ropes. In the fields a
man in a burnous sat on a bony white donkey, which he tapped and poked with a stick. Occasionally a BMW flashed past, leaving a flicker of Arabic lettering on the retina. The smell was of the sea, woodsmoke, manured earth and pollution.

The outskirts of Rabat loomed. He took the ring road and came into the city from the east. He remembered the turning after the Société Marocaine de Banques. The tarmac gave out immediately and he eased up the troughed and pitted track to the main gate of Yacoub Diouri’s walled property. The gate-man recognized him. He swung up the driveway, lined with Washingtonian palms, and stopped outside the front door. Two servants came out in blue livery with red piping, each wearing a fez. The hire car was driven away. Falcón was taken inside to the living room, which overlooked the pool where Yacoub swam his morning lengths. He sat down on one of the cream leather sofas, in front of a low wooden table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The servant left. Birds fluttered in the garden. A boy dragged a hose out and began spraying the hibiscus.

Yacoub Diouri arrived, wearing a blue jellabah and white barbouches. A servant set down a brass tray with a pot of mint tea and two small glasses on the table and left. Yacoub’s hair, which he’d allowed to grow long, was wet and he now had a close-cropped beard. They embraced with an enthusiastic Arabic greeting and held on to each other by the shoulders looking into each other’s eyes and smiling; Falcón saw warmth and wariness in Yacoub’s. He had no idea what was readable in his own.

‘Would you prefer coffee, Javier?’ asked Yacoub, releasing him.

‘Tea is fine,’ said Falcón, sitting on the other side of the table.

Falcón’s question was humped up in his mind. He felt an unaccustomed nervousness between them. He knew for certain now that Spanish directness was not going to work; a more spiralling, philosophical dynamic was called for.

‘The world has gone crazy once again,’ said Diouri wearily, pouring the mint tea from a great height.

‘Not that it was ever sane,’ said Falcón. ‘We’ve got no patience for the dullness of sanity.’

‘But, strangely, there’s an unending appetite for the dullness of decadence,’ said Diouri, handing him a glass of tea.

‘Only because clever people in the fashion industry have persuaded us that the next handbag decision is crucial,’ said Falcón.

‘
Touché
,’ said Diouri, smiling and taking a seat on the sofa opposite. ‘You’re sharp this morning, Javier.’

‘There’s nothing like a bit of fear for honing the mind,’ said Falcón, smiling.

‘You don’t look frightened,’ said Diouri.

‘But I am. Being in Seville is different to watching it on television.’

‘At least fear provokes creativity,’ said Diouri, veering away from Falcón’s intended line, ‘whereas terror either crushes it or makes us run around like headless chickens. Do you think the fear people experienced under the regime of Saddam Hussein made them creative?’

‘What about the fear that comes with freedom? All those choices and responsibilities?’

‘Or the fear from lack of security,’ said Diouri, sipping
his tea, enjoying himself now that he knew Falcón was not going to be too European. ‘Did we ever have that conversation about Iraq?’

‘We’ve talked a lot about Iraq,’ said Falcón. ‘Moroccans love to talk to me about Iraq, while everybody north of Tangier hates to talk about it.’

‘But
we
, you and I, have never had the
original
conversation about Iraq,’ said Diouri. ‘That question: Why did the Americans invade?’

Falcón sat back on the sofa with his tea. This was how it always was with Yacoub when he was in Morocco. It was how it was with Falcón’s Moroccan family in Tangier; with all Moroccans, in fact. Tea and endless discussion. Falcón never talked like this in Europe. Any attempt would be greeted with derision. But this time it was going to provide the way in. They had to circle each other before the proposal could finally be made.

‘Almost every Moroccan I’ve ever spoken to thinks that it was about oil.’

‘You learn quickly,’ said Diouri, acknowledging that Falcón had acquiesced to the Moroccan way. ‘There must be more Moroccan in you than you think.’

‘My Moroccan side is slowly filling up,’ said Falcón, sipping the tea.

Diouri laughed, motioned to Javier for his glass, and poured two more measures of high-altitude tea.

‘If the Americans wanted to get their hands on Iraqi oil, why spend $180 billion on an invasion when they could raise sanctions at the stroke of a pen?’ said Diouri. ‘No. That’s the facile thinking of what the British like to call “the Arab street”. The tea-house huffers and puffers think that people only do
things for immediate gain, they forget the urgency of it all. The invention of the Weapons of Mass Destruction pretext. Haranguing the UN for more resolutions. Rushing the troops to the borders. The hastiness of the planned invasion, which made no provision for the aftermath. What was all that about? Where was Iraqi oil going to go? Down the plug hole?’

‘Wasn’t it more about the
control
of oil in general?’ said Falcón. ‘We know a bit more about the emerging economies of China and India now.’

‘But the Chinese weren’t making a move,’ said Diouri. ‘Their economy won’t be larger than America’s until 2050. No, that doesn’t make sense either, but at least you didn’t say that word that I have to listen to now when I go to dinners in Rabat and Casablanca and find myself sitting next to American diplomats and businessmen. They tell me that they went into Iraq to give them democracy.’

‘Well, they did have elections. There is an Iraqi assembly and a constitution, as a result of ordinary Iraqi people taking considerable risks to vote.’

‘The terrorists made a political mistake there,’ said Diouri. ‘They forgot to offer the people a choice that didn’t include violence. Instead they said: “Vote and we will kill you.” But they had already been killing them anyway, when they were walking down the street to get some bread with their children.’

‘That’s why you have to swallow the word democracy at your dinners,’ said Falcón. ‘It was a victory for the “Occupation”.’

‘When I hear them use that word, I ask them—very quietly, I should add—“When are you going to invade
Morocco and get rid of our despotic king, and his corrupt government, and install democracy, freedom and equality in Morocco?”’

‘I bet you didn’t.’

‘You see. You’re right. I didn’t. Why not?’

‘Because of the state security system of informers left over from the King Hassan II days?’ said Falcón. ‘What
did
you say to them?’

‘I did what most Arabs do, and said those things behind their backs.’

‘Nobody likes to be called a hypocrite, especially the leaders of the modern world.’

‘What I said to their faces were the words of Palmerston, a nineteenth-century British prime minister,’ said Diouri. ‘In talking about the British Empire he said: “We have no eternal allies and no perpetual enemies. What we have are eternal and perpetual
interests
.”’

‘How did the Americans react to that?’

‘They thought it was Henry Kissinger who’d said it,’ said Diouri.

‘Didn’t Julius Caesar say it before all of them?’

‘We Arabs are often derided as impossible to deal with, probably because we have a powerful concept of honour. We cannot compromise when honour is at stake,’ said Diouri. ‘Westerners only have
interests
, and it’s a lot easier to trade in those.’

‘Maybe you need to develop some
interests
of your own.’

‘Of course, some Arab countries have the most vital interest in the global economy—oil and gas,’ said Diouri. ‘Miraculously this does
not
translate into power for the Arab world. It’s not only outsiders who find
us impossible to deal with—we can’t seem to deal with each other.’

‘Which means you’re always operating from a position of weakness.’

‘Correct, Javier,’ said Diouri. ‘We behave no differently to anyone else in the world. We hold conflicting ideas in our heads, agreeing with all of them. We say one thing, think another and do something else. And in playing these games, which everybody else plays, we always forget the main point: to protect our interests. So a world power can condescend to us about “democracy” when their own foreign policy has been responsible for the murder of the democratically elected Patrice Lumumba and the installation of the dictator Mobutu in Zaire, and the assassination of the democratically elected Salvador Allende to make way for the brutality of Augusto Pinochet in Chile, because they have no honour and only interests. They always operate from a position of strength. Now, do you see where we are?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘That is another one of our problems. We are very emotional people. Look at the reaction to those cartoons which appeared in the Danish newspaper earlier this year. We get upset and angry and it takes us down interesting paths, but further and further away from the point,’ said Diouri. ‘But I must behave and get back to why the Americans invaded Iraq.’

‘The half of my Moroccan family that doesn’t think it was about oil,’ said Falcón, ‘thinks that it was done to protect the Israelis.’

‘Ah, yes, another notion that seethes in the minds of the tea drinkers,’ said Diouri. ‘The Jews are
running everything. Most of my work force thinks that 9/11 was a Mossad operation to turn world opinion against the Arabs, and that George Bush knew about it all along and let it happen. Even some of my senior executives believe that the Israelis demanded the invasion of Iraq, that Mossad supplied the false intelligence about weapons of mass destruction, and that Ariel Sharon was the commander-in-chief of the US forces on the ground. Where the Jews are concerned, we are the world’s greatest conspiracy theorists.

‘The problem is that it is their rage at the Israeli occupation of Palestine that blinds them to everything else. That fundamental injustice, that slap in the face for the Arab’s sense of honour, brings up such powerful emotions in the Arab breast that they cannot think, they cannot see. They focus on the Jews and forget about their own corrupt leadership, their lack of lobbying power in Washington, the pusillanimity of almost all dictatorial, authoritarian Arab regimes…Ach! I’m boring myself now.

‘You see, Javier, we are incapable of change. The Arab mind is like his house and the medina where he lives. Everything looks inward. There are no views or vistas…no visions of the future. We sit in these places and look for solutions in tradition, history and religion, while the world beyond our walls and shores grinds relentlessly forward, crushing our beliefs with their interests. People will look back on the twentieth century and gasp. How was it, they will say, that a race that held the world’s most powerful resource, oil, the resource that made the whole system run, allowed most of its people to live in abject poverty,
while its political, cultural and economic influence was negligible?

‘You know the last people in the world who should be sent to talk to the Arabs are the Americans. We are polar opposites. In becoming an American, part of the pact is to walk away from your past, your history, and totally embrace the future, progress, and the American Way. Whereas, to an Arab, what happened in the seventh century or 1917 is still as vivid today as it was when it first occurred. They want us to embrace a new future, but we cannot forsake our history.’

‘Why is it that, when you talk about the Arabs, sometimes you say “we” and sometimes “they”?’

‘As you know, I have one foot in Europe and the other in North Africa, and my mind runs down the middle,’ said Diouri. ‘I perceive the injustice of the Palestinian situation, but I can’t emotionally engage with their solutions: the intifada and suicide bombings. It’s just a terrifying extension of throwing stones at tanks—an expression of weakness. An inability to draw together the necessary forces to bring about change.’

‘Since Arafat has gone, things have been able to move forward.’

‘Stagger forward…lurch from side to side,’ said Yacoub. ‘Sharon’s stroke signified the end of the old guard. The vote for Hamas was a vote against the corruption of Fatah. We’ll see if the rest of the world wants them to succeed.’

‘But despite all these misgivings,
you
still have no desire to live in Spain.’

‘That’s my peculiar problem. I’ve been brought up
in a religious household and I’ve benefited from the daily discipline of religious observance. I love Ramadan. I always make sure I am here for Ramadan because for one month of the year the workings of the world drift into the background and the spiritual and religious life becomes more important. We are all joined together by it in communal fasting and feasting. It gives spiritual strength to the individual and the community. In Christian Europe you have Lent, but it has become something personal, almost selfish. You think: I’ll give up chocolate or I won’t drink beer for a month. It doesn’t bind society like Ramadan does.’

‘Is that the only reason you don’t live in Spain?’

‘You are one of the few Europeans I can talk to about these things, without having you laugh in my face,’ said Diouri. ‘But that is what I have learnt from my two fathers, the one who forsook me, and the one who taught me the right way to be. That is the difficulty for me in both Europe and America. You know, there’s been a big change here recently. It was always the dream to get to America. Young Moroccans thought their culture was cool, their society much freer than racist-bound Old Europe, the attitude of Immigration and the universities more open. Now the kids have changed their minds. They were attracted to Europe, but now, after the riots in France last year and the disrespect shown in Denmark, their dreams are of coming home. For myself, when I’m alone in hotel rooms in the West and I try to relax by watching television, I gradually feel my whole being dissipating and I have to get down and pray.’