The Enemy Within

Prologue

Chitral, Pakistan, July 21

I t was early in the evening when the buzzer went off, warning him that someone was approaching. The small infrared device he had placed on the narrow mountain path performed its duty. Abu Bahrani Khan crawled out of the mountain cave in which he had been hiding for five days now and took a closer look at the man who slowly moved forward over the rocky and treacherous path, trusting the skill and survival instincts of the small mule carrying him. He followed the man through his binoculars until he was close enough for a good view. This was not one of the men he was waitin g for.

Only two men had traveled this path during the five days he was keeping it under surveillance, both had been smugglers participating in a centuries old trade in this borderland between Pakistan and Afghanistan. They traded everything that was in demand, regardless of law or moral reflections. Weapons, drugs and women, whatever would bring the largest profit, as they had been doing from generation to generation. And whatever law and morals forbid, generally brings the highest profits. No government had ever been able to stop it or even establish a beginning of control over it. This was tribal country and people were loyal to the tribe and to no government. The tribesmen were tough and ruthless and felt no remorse killing anyone who would stand in their way. Loyalty to family and tribe was absolute; treason always found retribution in gruesome torture and horrid death. Abu Khan knew all this very well for he was born in these mountains and had spent half his life there.

This man was different somehow, Abu Khan realized. He looked like a tribal smuggler, but he lacked the confidence of a local mountain man, was more dependent on his mule. A tribesman perhaps, an Afghani, but not from this particular region. The man disappeared in a cave just above the road that was blessed with perfect natural camouflage. Without a doubt he knew of this hiding place, for it had taken Abu Khan a full hour to find it despite detailed descriptions he had received from an informant in the town of Chitral.

‘A scout,’ he concluded without hesitation. It was very unlikely that they would travel without some protective escort, he realized. The scout had been here before and knew the particulars of the hiding place, had probably been in it before once, but he was not a regular to these mountains, for he was insecure of the road. Abu Khan slid forward on his belly to a location he had decided three days ago was the best for observation purposes. He felt that his party was arriving and that it would be long hours of discomfort for him recording their activities.

Fifteen minutes later another scout followed, cautious as the first. He looked around him constantly, passed the cave, came back and approached the hidden cave where he met the first scout.

The two scouts climbed to a higher spot from where they could oversee the path from both the west and east approach. Abu Khan had done the same a few days ago when he established the security of his own chosen hideout. They were unable to see him and his refuge could not be detected from any spot nearby. He was satisfied with his shelter that was perfect for the purpose of observation and listening, but with the scouts in the location they were now, it would be impossible for him to escape in case of an emergency. He had realized that when he decided on this location, but there was no alternative really.

The man who went by the name of Abu Bahrani Khan was an American. His parents’ genes had given him the oriental look, the dark hair, the black eyes and olive skin. His father was a Christian missionary stationed in today’s western Pakistan, around the same mountains where Abu was hiding now, with the impossible mission to convert the local Muslim tribes to Catholicism. He was of Hungarian descent, born though in America, and had these typical dark gipsy looks. But the locals liked him and sensed his sincerity, social commitment and wisdom. When the assistant bishop had come all the way from Madras, India to evaluate his father’s anticipated failure, mass was attended by exactly 226 local men and women, reciting the Pater Nostre and the Rosary in perfect cadence, singing the Agnus Dei in impeccable Latin. But then, to put things in the right perspective, his father, a lay missionary but not a priest, had become family, being married to the daughter of a local clan leader. And around here, a family member would receive all the support he required. They had joked about it ever since at the diner table. His mother’s name was Astarte, for the ancient goddess of beauty and love, and indeed she was pretty with her round, soft face, her tender smile and lively dark eyes that could flash with such an unexpected power, enabling her to control her children and her husband alike with a simple look. Undercover in tribal Pakistan he used his mother’s family name and passed as a traveling merchant from Peshawar. Abu Bahrani Khan’s official name was John Bartok, a name that had not proven helpful to his frail musical talents, and he had abandoned his illusive dreams of becoming a great classical pianist when he was eighteen and left Pakistan for the US to study economy at the University of Illinois, had switched to oriental studies, Arabic, Farsi, Sanskrit and Hindustani and had entered government service upon graduating with a masters. He had visited his parents on an annual basis, which had kept him in touch with the land, its people and local dialects, until they’d died five years ago in a car crash while traveling from Mingaora to Mardan.

The two scouts used mirrors to communicate with others, who were apparently staying behind. Not because they lacked modern means of communication, but to avoid their communications from being picked up by American satellites. Six men appeared on the path, this time approaching from the west. They were divided in two groups, traveling about fifty yards apart. Abu Khan took his binoculars and studied their faces. It were the two men in the middle of each group that got his attention. He whistled softly between his teeth. ‘Both of them!?’ That was more than he had hoped for. He recognized them from photos he had intensely studied for the last few months. His binoculars were mounted on a sophisticated digital camera - basically a Sony upgraded by Langley electronic engineers, fast and soundless - and Abu Khan quickly made photos of the two men. Aariz al-Hassid, the number two of the Mashāllah dismounted and climbed to the cave, while his bodyguard took his horse out of sight. His information had been to expect this man, but he was utterly surprised by the presence of the other man, now climbing into the cave. Saif al-Din, who headed military operations and supposedly ranked number three in Mashāllah’s hierarchy. This meeting was far more important than he had concluded from what his informant had told him.

Abu Khan quickly checked his electronic equipment as he had done over and over again. Upon his arrival he had planted a minuscule microphone in the cave that communicated with a very powerful receiver he had hidden between the rocks next to him and directed to the cave’s entrance. He was sure he would be able to catch every word spoken in there. The receiver was connected to a digital recorder, which in turn was connected to a small transmitter. The recorder was an ingenious device, which automatically encrypted a message and then accelerated it, in effect reducing a five minutes message to a mere second. Even if a message was intercepted it was very unlikely anyone could decode it and a burst transmission of up to three seconds was virtually untraceable. It would also allow him to download pictures and transmit them.

Abu Khan put his headphone on which would allow him to listen in himself, when in the corner of his eye he noticed movement again on the path. Another small outfit was approaching slowly, composed like the earlier arrival of a man accompanied by two guards, one ahead of him and the other protecting the rear. He grabbed his binoculars to study the figure in the middle. He was tall, clearly over six feet, slender with a thin and expressive face, a long wide-nostrilled nose, thick lower lip and a traditional but graying beard. Abu Khan recognized him instantly.

‘Langley will never believe this,’ he thought and took his photo. Like himself, the man who just handed his mount to a guard and climbed the rocks to the cave had received his training from the CIA.

He heard the sound of footsteps on a rock floor. The microphone worked. He sighed relieved and switched the recorder on. The man who was last to enter the cave spoke Arabic. Salam Aleikum. Born to Yemeni parents in Saudi Arabia in the year 1957, he was a very rich, devote, and strictly dogmatic Muslim, a hero to many young muslims all over the world and controversial at least to the muslim moderates; a veteran guerilla fighter who had left for Afghanistan to join the Mujahedeen in their struggle against a Soviet backed marionette government in Kabul in the 1980s, he was financially supported by the US and had received security training by the CIA, in their cynical application of old Chinese political wisdom to consider the enemy of your enemy as your friend. Now he was America’s foremost enemy with a price of twenty-five million dollars on his head. The man’s name was Sab bin Khalid, the ruthlessly efficient leader of Mashāllah, the religiously inspired global terror network.

In his headset Abu Khan heard the scratching sound of moving feet again and he concluded that the other two men were rising upon the arrival of Bin Khalid. They responded to his greeting with a cordial Aleikum Salam. The sound was bad, which irritated Khan tremendously. This was a meeting of the very top of the terrorist organization and he did not want to miss out on anything said or discussed. Damn it. Although agitated, he did not move a limb in his narrow observation post.

It was silent for a while. To reassure himself, Abu Khan checked his equipment again. Sab bin Khalid started a furious monologue that surprised Abu Khan of a man who was such a shrewd and cool operator. You would expect him to be able to contain himself. But on the other hand, he contemplated, it was also authentic. Bin Khalid was sincere in his hatred of the West and truly felt the presence of American troops on the sacred soil of Saudi Arabia as a grave insult to his religious being. His hateful exegesis against the United States, the West and the Jews was frightening as to its content and scary in its tone and even more powerful for the soft spoken voice in which the blunt anger was delivered.

Perhaps the Iranian qualification of Sab bin Khalid as ‘The mad man’ was a quite accurate assessment of the man, Abu Khan reflected.

It lasted a good ten minutes before Sab bin Khalid changed his tone and became rather businesslike, asking questions about resources, especially in America. Then he made two announcements. But he made them in an implicit way, hidden in the context of his words and it took awhile before Abu Khan realized what the man had just said. He did not believe it at first, but when his brain performed a high-speed replay of Sab’s exact words, he knew that his conclusions were sound. Abu Khan was perplexed; John Bartok, the American, was infuriated.

Jesus Christ, the son of a bitch, he said in his breath, immediately followed by an apologetic I am sorry Lord. Not out of piety, for he was not a very religious man, but as a natural reflex, the result of many years of consistent imprinting by his missionary parents. His face had turned pale and he shivered for the brisk chill of the unknown.

Apparently the meeting was over. The sound of many moving feet. The men he had been observing left in a similar way as they had come. Sab bin Khalid left first, followed by Saif al-Din and then Aariz al-Hassid at intervals of fifteen minutes, each man accompanied by two guards and each group leaving in a different direction. Abu Khan checked his watch. Exactly one hour and twenty minutes to go before the next transmission window. Despite his stiffening legs, he decided to wait 45 minutes. It was a security measure in case some of the men would return to check whether anyone had been spying on them and was now retreating. When it was time, he gathered his gear and crawled back from his observation post to his roomier hiding place. He connected his camera to the recorder and downloaded the photos. Next thing to do was to record a short message in the recorder. First he identified himself through his code name. This is Timber wolf. This is Timber wolf. Procedure required for him to indicate the importance of the message. He said Chicago, the highest urgency rate. Then followed date and time and a short explanation of where the meeting had taken place and who the participants had been. He checked his watch again, twenty minutes to go.

It darkened fast now and the quiet of the descending night made him feel lonely. He wanted to go home, longed for his wife and two girls. This was no job for a married man. Although relatively young at thirty five, John Bartok contemplated on retiring, at least as a field officer.

At exactly 21:40 hours Abu Khan unfolded a satellite dish that opened as an umbrella and hooked it up to the transmitter. He pressed the send button and the message went in several burst transmissions. High in the sky, an orbiting satellite would pick up the signal and forward it to the home base in Langley. His colleagues, he knew, would start with establishing his authenticity.

Before he went on assignment to Pakistan, John Bartok’s voice had been recorded on an oscilloscope. That is a machine that reduces the varying tones and rhythms, highs and lows of a voice to a series of lines on a screen. Every human voice is unique and no matter how good an impersonator was in his mimic, there would always be a slight difference. There would be no doubt it was him.

Next they would discuss whether he had perhaps been captured and was broadcasting under duress. But there were pre agreed words and signs such as a cough or a hesitation through which he could warn his listeners that he was in fact not transmitting as a free agent.

They would conclude that this was very unlikely, but not impossible since he had avoided communication for more than a week. In fact, they might send him a message to return to the Embassy in Islamabad for debriefing. He smiled, it was a pleasant thought, for it would also mean a hot bath and a clean bed. And a cold beer, he dreamed.

Abu Bahrani Khan had already decided not to travel at night, for that would be uncharacteristic for his cover and certainly raise suspicion in case he would encounter someone. He had binoculars with night vision capacity and surveyed his surroundings expertly. Convinced he was alone, he wrapped a blanket around him and went to sleep, leaving the infrared device hidden on he road for security.

CHAPTER 1

The White House, July 23

F irst thing every morning the President of the United States is briefed on developments regarding national security, including developments on what is called the war on terror. At least once a week (more often when required by circumstances) the President would meet with his National Security Council. This meeting would take place on July 23 and besides the President, Greg Hirst, the Vice-President would participate as well as Marc Fowler, Secretary of State, Jacquelyne Rime, National Security Advisor, Duncan Staubler, Defense Secretary, Ted Reech, Secretary of Homeland Security, Jack Crowe, Attorney General, Glen Roberts, Director of the CIA, and General Milford, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Urgency, agenda, schedules and threat level would determine who would participate; the group could be larger (including the director of the FBI and sometimes the Deputy Defense Secretary) or sm aller.

The day before President Geoffrey M. Reamer had received some good news about Iraq and he knew it would cheer everyone at the meeting. He was a conservative and religious man who sincerely believed God was guiding him during his presidency and even that God himself had helped him win the election, although he was quite aware that the Democrats had a different explanation for the consternation that had occurred in the decisive ballot in the state of Florida. During grace that morning he thanked God for delivering him two key figures in the former regime of Sadid Hamir. To call him cynical in thanking God for the death of other men would only show a total ignorance on the part of the observer as to Mr. Reamer’s mindset. He did not see a contradiction between fighting terror and evil to the ultimate consequence and his Christian convictions. For Mr. Reamer fighting terror was a true Christian duty and the execution of death in complete congruity with the policies and actions of the God of the Old Testament. To see Mr. Reamer as a Christian fundamentalist was another commonly made misjudgment and oversimplification of his core values and beliefs. He was certainly a conservative Christian but he combined that with shrewd common sense and appreciation for political reality. Actually, he was more moderate than he appeared. The simple fact being that he needed the conservative religious vote and, therefore, paid exaggerate tribute to their convictions. Indeed, he was opposed to, for example, abortion, but he had discussed the issue extensively with his mother, Elizabeth, and his wife, Lana, to comprehend thoroughly the social circumstances of many women seeking abortion and the horrible consequences of an absolute legal ban. As Lana so rightfully had pointed out, a reduction of abortion could only come from improved education. He was also wise enough not to challenge the combined force of his wife and his mother. Only a fool would choose the path of certain defeat.

The meeting was planned for nine o’clock in the morning. For security reasons, the meeting room was always held secret until the last minute. The President had several meetings that day and every meeting would take place at a different location in the White House, chosen at random and literally during the last five minutes before the meeting would start. Security had been intensified since the terror attacks of September 11, 2001 and even the members of his cabinet did not know in advance where meetings were supposed to be held.

They were all waiting for the President to enter the room. The meeting was likely to be short, a half hour, sometimes an hour, but never really longer. If required, they would schedule additional meetings during the day. When he entered they raised and said Good morning, Mr. President.

Normally, he would respond with a sober Good morning, lady and gentlemen. Please be seated. But this time he did not. He just paused for a few seconds and then said, I understand we have some exciting good news from Iraq. Why don’t you fill us in on the details, general.

Yes sir.

General Milford cleared his voice and waited for the president to be seated before he continued.

Our intelligence received a very serious tip as to the hide out of Omar and Quadir Hamir, Sadid’s two sons. As you all know, they are the numbers 2 and 3 on our 55 most-wanted list of Iraqi leaders and they personally embody the very terror and brute suppression of the regime. Yesterday morning at 10:10 a.m. troops from the 101st Airborne Division supported by our Special Operation Forces moved in the building, located in the city of Mosul, and headed upstairs, where according to our information Omar, Quadir, a bodyguard and Quadir’s 14 year old son were barricaded in a safe room surrounded by double-thick bulletproof glass. The four started a heavy gunfire, wounding three soldiers and we had to tactically retreat. Over the next three hours, our troops pounded the house with rockets, grenades and heavy machine-gun fire while Apache helicopter gun ships fired rockets through the roof.

General Milford looked around for a short moment and met the sober and attentive faces around him. They all took the war too serious to cheer individual deaths and none of them regarded the Iraqi war as a personal feud. Although it was good news, their faces were more grim than happy.

At 13:00 hours, he continued, and he just bit his tongue in time not to add that’s 1:00 p.m., what he usually did when civilians where in his audience, but it would have been pompous in this circle of people who were very accustomed to using military time. At 13:00 hours we fired 10 TOW antitank missiles that finally killed Omar, Quadir and the bodyguard.

Congratulations, general, this is good news, I think, responded president Reamer.

Thank you, sir.

Your evaluations, gentlemen and lady, Reamer said. Duncan?

Staubler cleared his throat. He was one of the hawks in the cabinet and had been the driving force behind entering the Iraqi war together with Vice-President Hirst. They were sincerely convinced of the necessity of the war to prevent Sadid Hamir’s regime from developing weapons of mass destruction, which in combination with the regime’s growing relationship with the Mashāllah organization would almost certainly have led to an episode of the utmost cruel terror on a global scale. But starting a war comes with political risks and not every president had the courage to take these. But Geoffrey Reamer did, and he believed he was on God’s mission in fighting evil in the world.

Indeed, it is an important success, Mr. President, he started. It is imperative to capture the Iraqi leadership to install confidence with the Iraqi people that the regime is indeed ousted and in no way able to return to power. We’ve noticed hesitance among the Iraqi to work with us simply out of fear that somehow Sadid and his regime may return and will seek revenge on those whom he will then consider to be collaborators. After years of experiencing the iron grip of the regime one can hardly blame them for being cautious. The deaths of Omar and Quadir are visible evidence that the regime is gone and may also help reduce the guerrilla insurgency against our troops.

That may take some more time though, general Milford added, for I received a report this morning that two more of our soldiers have been killed in ambushes. One soldier was killed and six were wounded when their vehicle hit a mine or a homemade bomb in the same town of Mosul, where we killed the Hamir brothers on Tuesday. Another soldier was killed and two others were wounded when their convoy was attacked near the restive town of Ramadi, west of Baghdad, in the heart of the ‘Sunni triangle’ from where Sadid draws much of his support.

He breathed deeply, then continued that brings the number to 155 of US personnel killed since the war began March 20.

A short and sober silence followed. Statistics have that effect. Even when the losses are actually small relative to the size of the war. They all knew that when you lose your father, your husband, your son, your brother or your mother, your wife, your daughter, or your sister, pain and grief find no condolence in a higher number of total casualties.

Glen Roberts entered the discussion. Those two very certainly are the regime’s chief henchmen responsible for the maiming, torturing and murdering of countless Iraqis and their deaths will contribute to a feeling of relief and in the longer run some confidence in personal safety. I would say that this is a major step in restoring stability in that country, but we at the CIA believe that Sadid is the key person. We should not relax with yesterday’s success but increase our efforts to capture or kill Sadid Hamir, because that and only that will convince the Iraqis that the regime has disappeared.

Good point, the President said, do we have any idea where Sadid is hiding?

We are not sure, sir, replied Glen Roberts, but he may very well hide in and around the same area where we located his sons. The Arabs around Mosul have been very loyal to Sadid partly out of fear that the large Kurdish population may ascend to power. There have been rumors ever since Sadid fled Baghdad that he was being sheltered by Arab tribes in the countryside between Mosul and the Syrian border. And of course he may hide in Tigrit, his home town.

How sure are we that he has not found refuge in one of the neighboring countries, like Syria? Asked Jacquelyne Rime.

We’re pretty sure about that. Our cooperation with the Syrians has much improved, albeit they do not work with us officially, but in my line of work that does not matter. He is not in Syria, Roberts said convincingly.

Reamer said, I agree with your evaluation, Glen, we should not bask in our glory just because of this success, important as it may be in itself. We need to capture Sadid for the Iraqis to feel free and safe. Please stay focused on getting Sadid.

They all nodded in agreement.

Jack Crowe raised his hand. I wonder, Mr. President, he said, whether the Iraqis believe our claim of having killed Omar and Quadir. That seems essential to me if we are to provide some sort of stability in the hearts of the people.

Excellent question, Jack, Glen Roberts responded immediately. You are absolutely right, that is an issue. The Iraqis are mistrusting what we say, and for good reasons. First they are used to dealing with a government that lies and manipulates the truth. So why would we be any different? Secondly, they cannot afford to be wrong when they decide to believe us and then decide to cooperate with us. The fear is still there that Sadid and his murderous sons may come back. It all comes down to the same. Rest assured, the supporters of Sadid will claim it is just a hoax. But I believe our military leaders in Iraq have recognized that issue as well.

General Milford entered the discussion again. Yes, they have. We are all aware of the need to come with convincing evidence. I understand that X-rays have been taken and their dental records have been obtained. Moreover, four senior members of the regime have identified them. In other words, we are convinced; but how to convince the public? General Lopez, commander of the coalition ground troops, has requested instructions as to whether he can release photos of the bodies in an effort to prove to the Iraqi people that indeed Omar and Quadir are dead.

Why exactly is that an issue? asked President Reamer.

It is a moral and legal issue, I would say, Crowe sounded in. The photos, I suppose, are not very pretty…

They are rather graphic, Jack, indeed, interrupted general Milford, I have seen them.

Thank you, that is what I mean, are they the type of photos we want to publish? Legally, we have to consider the Geneva Convention.

Marc Fowler who had been listening all the time now joined the conversation. The Geneva Convention, at least the way we read it, prohibits the publication of images of killed or captured enemy soldiers. When the Iraqis showed photos of our dead in the beginning of the war, we condemned that as a war crime, and we have to consider whether publishing photos of the bodies of Omar and Quadir constitutes the same.

You could argue they were no soldiers, interceded Jacquelyne, neither of them was enlisted in the army and they did not wear uniforms at the time they were killed.

Reamer said, In that case the Geneva Convention would not apply, correct?

Correct, sir.

But the moral issue would still be there, Jack Crowe again.

President Reamer raised his hand and the conversation fell silent for a minute or so. He was clearly contemplating the issue and arranging his train of thought.

The terrifying effect it has on the Iraqi people to believe they are still alive overrides the moral objections, in my opinion. A possible violation of the Geneva Convention concerns me. It would make us look hypocritical and make us vulnerable to foreign criticism. Put some legal brains at work. I want solid advice on the matter within two hours.

What if the result is negative?

Marc, I am sure you employ some very smart lawyers in the State Department.

Yes, Mr. President, we do, the Secretary of State answered with a revered bow as an acknowledgment he got the point.

Greg Hirst, the Vice-President saw a need to make a point. He always had strong opinions and always made clear where he stood. He was liked and disliked for his straightforwardness at the same time. Liked for the clarity of his position, disliked for his inevitable dominance. The most important thing here is to convince the Iraqi people that these torturers are really dead, to reduce their fear and enforce their trust and belief that we will capture or kill Sadid and that this regime is over. The rest of the discussion I consider to be academic.

If I may, I would like to make a comparison that may be helpful here, said Duncan Staubler in an uncommonly and probably deceitful modest voice. The situation in Iraq has strong similarities to the situation in Romania in 1989 when its dictator Nicolae Ceausescu was overthrown and executed. It was not until the people saw his actual body before they believed that the threat and fear his regime posed to them was really gone. As long as the Iraqi people fear for their lives - imaginary or not - they will be psychologically incapable of changing their destiny. Therefore, we have to publish the photos. I do not see another option.

Are you telling us we don’t need legal advice in this matter? inquired President Reamer.

That’s not what I am saying. I am sure we all feel that publication of the photos is required for the reasons I mentioned and the reasons Greg argued. We don’t like the idea, because we are American sentimentalists. In Iran and Saudi Arabia they execute criminals publicly. Middle East television stations, magazines and newspapers regularly run images of dead and dying people, albeit only when they are victims of Israeli military actions, but nevertheless. Indeed, we will be attacked for publishing the photos, but these attacks are hypocritical in light of the standard practice of Arab news agencies and Arab governments. We should be aware of that. The legal advice is very welcome because we may be subjected to criticism from outside the Arab world. What I want to say, in short, is let’s publish the photos and prepare to counter the criticism.

Marc Fowler suggested, We should make it your decision then, Duncan, to publish the photos. His was a clever move. It protected the ones who had reservations and it protected the President. Staubler understood clearly that Fowler was trying to protect both himself and President Reamer, but that made sense under the circumstances. He had no problem accepting.

That being settled, the president addressed Marc Fowler directly in asking, Are there any specific foreign relation issues in regard of the killing of the two Hamir sons that we have not covered yet?

Sir, another potential source for foreign and public criticism, Fowler responded, is whether our troops used excessive force. Some reporters in Iraq have already posed that question and we better be prepared to come with a convincing answer.

What kind of decadent question is that? demanded Jacquelyne. Hers was a good question and only to a certain extent rhetorical.

If it is a decadent question, it is probably a French question, joked Jack Crowe with a serious undertone. They all grinned, but Geoffrey Reamer preferred to take it from a serious angle as well and said to Fowler, Do you anticipate a French challenge here?

I doubt it, honestly. Since their diplomatic offensive to stop our military campaign failed and since we won the war they are backing off and try to reestablish close ties with us. They can hardly afford to be offensive to the US again. At least for the short term, he added wisely.

I am sure it is self-indulgent, Greg Hirst contributed.

I am sure it is too, Marc Fowler said sarcastically, "perhaps they hope for