Well before the dust settled upon the debris of the World Trade Centre, the world heard for the first time the name of a new despot, Osama bin Laden. Before nine-eleven, only the global intelligence community knew of him and his terrorist organisation. Since that fateful day, he has become a household name repeated in every language around the world.
To the global community Osama bin Laden seemingly appeared to spring forth from the murkiness of obscurity to infamy in one incomprehensible, vile act. Even after nine-eleven there happened to be a brief span of time when his true ascendency to mass murderer remained conveniently cloaked in the fog of political intrigue. As is often the case, the history of Osama bin Laden finally seeped out. The world at last knew the truth about him.
The world now knows that the computers of the Central Intelligence Agency at Langley, Virginia carry many files and flags on Osama bin Laden and his organisation. Their complicity and duplicity with him is undeniable and inescapable. The United States of America together with others, including wealthy Saudi Arabia, helped him to finance and create his terrorist organisation. He christened the nascent organisation al-Qaeda, a name now reviled and feared. It simply means “the base,” perhaps alluding to the computer database compiled by the organisation. In time and as predictable as the events in the fictional story of Frankenstein, the financiers lost control of their creation.
Whilst the world community knew little of al-Qaeda, there were several acts of terrorism, widely known to the CIA and others, attributable to it. They commenced, ironically, with the failed first bombing of the World Trade Centre and include amongst others, the fatal attack on the USS Cole whilst moored in the safety of the Yemeni port of Aden.
The origins of al-Qaeda lay back in the early 1980s. The CIA and Pakistan's Inter Services Intelligence Agency, known simply as the ISI, cooperated to form and arm insurgent groups to undermine the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. This ill-conceived invasion became to the Russians, what previously Vietnam had proved to be to the Americans, a costly killing ground and propaganda disaster. Both superpowers engineered a presence in these countries by machination and deception and both were to suffer the same international humiliation.
These newly formed insurgent groups naturally attracted the more radical extremist Muslims from around the world. This simplistic movement to defeat the Soviets soon became a cause for all Islamic Fundamentalists. The Soviets became the suppressors of the Faith and a natural enemy of all Muslims. Osama bin Laden, himself a multi-millionaire, soon found himself key to the aims of the CIA and the ISI. Both quickly recognised his ability to organise and coerce this rabble collection of men into a very efficient guerrilla army. To the Soviet Union, they became a living nightmare, able to penetrate deep behind their lines in small independent groups. Soviet casualties mounted and as the lines of body bags grew, so inevitably did their political will drain.
Osama bin Laden set up training camps in the mountainous region of Pakistan where it conveniently borders Afghanistan. Funds flowed from the United States with no more control than water flows over rapids. No politicians raised objections; a Congressional Committee never questioned the wisdom of the policy. In 1987 alone, sixty-five thousand tons of weapons and ammunition manufactured in the United States reached the insurgents, now conveniently referred to as freedom fighters by the CIA. Over time and after the successful defeat of the Russians, Osama bin Laden aligned himself with the Taliban fighters in Afghanistan. With his financial and logistical support, they eventually gained control of the country and by way of repayment gave him shelter and sanctuary.
The beginning of this most recent chapter in the history of Afghanistan resulted from the political vacuum left by the retreating Russian invaders. After the removal of the last communist President and pressure from the Afghan warlords, power shifted to a transitional Mujahedeen government. This government proved no more democratic or benign than the previous government. Even for Afghanistan, the Mujaddeddi warlords took factional fighting and atrocities to new levels.
With the stage set for the Taliban, based in the Helmand, Kandahar and Uruzgan regions of the country, they emerged as the natural ruling group. The Taliban’s first major military activity took place in 1994. They captured Kandahar City and the surrounding provinces. At this time, the inhabitants widely supported the Taliban. The citizens of the city suffered many atrocities at the hands of the Mujahedeen warlords during their reign. The light casualties inflicted on the Taliban in taking the city reflected their support amongst the population. Their casualties reportedly numbered less than fifty fighters.
In the next three months, the Taliban took control of twelve of Afghanistan's thirty-four provinces. The Mujahedeen warlords often wisely surrendered without a fight, fearing their likely fate if they chose to resist. On September 26th 1996, the capital Kabul finally fell.
Time passed and circumstances changed, it no longer suited Osama bin Laden for the CIA to pull the strings. The terrorist organisation underwent a metamorphosise, which the CIA failed to foresee or recognise. It was not a subtle change, the grubby freedom fighters matured into fully-fledged international terrorists. They exported their vision of social order to wherever the seeds of religious hatred might germinate. Osama bin Laden no longer felt obliged to follow the will of his former paymasters, only the consuming hatred of his own distorted faith.
By October 2001, the Taliban, in shielding Osama bin Laden from the West, became a legitimate target for the West, a focus for revenge after nine-eleven. A simple proposition formed in western society. Eliminate the Taliban and expose al-Qaeda, eliminate al-Qaeda and expose their leader Osama bin Laden, the real target. A simple plan, perhaps too simple, but the politicians in their naivety raced ahead. The United Nations gave approval for a joint invasion of Afghanistan by American and NATO forces. Operation Enduring Freedom began....
Fit and single but now the wrong side of thirty he had known many girlfriends, but never quite settled with any. Back when he left school, he decided to take a gap year before university except one year proved many. He just could not settle; he had no parents, no brother or sister not now.
When an infant he lived in Iran. His father, the editor of a daily newspaper in Tehran, always steered a difficult and perilous editorial policy. Especially when life became cheap as the Shah’s regime lost its once iron grip over the peoples of the country. Any perceived criticism of the regime, or support for the Islamic fundamentalists within the country, provoked a speedy and often disproportionate action by Sazeman-e Ettela'at va Amniyat-e Keshvar, better known as SAVAK. They were the Shah of Iran’s reviled and most feared secret police to whom he gave unrestrained powers. They vigorously eliminated any opposition to the Shah's regime by any means, however repugnant. They were responsible for some of the most blatant and brutal abuses of human rights.
Late on the Sunday evening the telephone rang. Hadi often recalled his father’s conversation, hushed, economical and unusually anxious. His father’s hand shook as he held the receiver to his ear. Thankfully, he sat beside the ornamental telephone table; otherwise, he may well have collapsed from the impact of the shattering news. Hadi’s father knew the caller, an old and trusted family friend employed in the depths of the regime. Even so, the friend feared discovery, but still risked his life. “My old friend, have you thought how wonderful the sky is on these cold winter nights? No of course not, but you can see more stars away from the city where there is no filth, no pollution. Do you follow my thoughts my dear friend? I have read your recent articles; you take an interesting though singularly dangerous editorial line. Alas, my old friend, truth is a dangerous luxury.” Then after a moment of reflection, “I must go now, but let’s hope that we will meet again one day, when you are able to sit with me at a street cafe and enjoy a game of chess. Until then my dear friend, take care. May Allah go with you on your next journey of life.”
“I thank you and understand. May Allah also care for you my dear friend. I fear the future also holds danger for you and your family. Do take care.”
“I have never forgotten your kindness, when I was the one in need, khoda hafez my dearest of friends.”
The line went dead, but for some time he held the handset, consumed by his thoughts. Slowly he let the handset slip from his fingers and fall to the marbled floor where it shattered on the hard surface, perhaps as an ominous prophesy of events to come.
Hadi’s father realised that he faced imminent arrest for his political writings. At last, in a life dedicated to reporting the truth, his opinions and views predictably now strayed beyond the thin line judged acceptable to the regime. He knew detention normally resulted in interrogation by SAVAK and destitution for the victim’s family. The caller spoke obliquely, but the years of friendship enabled Hadi’s father to understand the true nature of the conversation. Even in those dark days before the Islamic Revolution, the regime regularly tapped telephone lines and the friend’s voice might be familiar to one of the listeners.
The tentacles of SAVAK spread into all corners of society. Hadi, too young to remember all the events of that evening, could still recall how his parents huddled together stepping on the broken remnants of the phone. How his father explained in his soft voice to Hadi’s mother the need to flee that evening. To flee before those dreaded black saloons screamed to a halt outside their home. Tears flowed down his mother’s cheeks to drip from her face, as his father held her to him to comfort and reassure her. Hadi could only look on, not understanding the reality of his parents’ situation. His parents slowly calmed. They realised Hadi and his siblings looked frightened, unsure of what danger they may face. Their parents were not prone to such outward emotion.
His parents took the decisions quickly, without argument. They packed only enough clothes for the journey. Whilst his mother sorted and crammed food into bags, his father checked the dimly lit street for the presence of any strange vehicles or the silhouette of a person attempting to hide in the shadows of the night. Thankfully, SAVAK were yet to place observers to watch the house.
His father, reassured, left the house and entered the garage through the side entrance. He brought clothing and food for their journey. In the cool of the garage, there were always stored bottles of drinking water and fortuitously two Jerry cans of fuel, which he just managed to cram into the remaining space in the boot of the family car. He returned to the house and then quickly re-emerged with the family. He purposely decided to leave the television and house lights on. Locking the main door, he hurried the family into the garage. After the family were all safely in the car, he opened the sliding garage doors and drove out, stopping the car in the street. He purposely did not drive straight off, but took the time to close and lock the garage doors. The longer things appeared normal within the house the better. Time bought them distance and the greater the distance from Tehran the more likely they might evade their pursuers. They needed as much time as possible before the alarm.
His father drove the large silver Chrysler quietly down the street before turning on the driving lights. Hadi sat in the rear with his mother and sister. His elder brother sat on the front bench seat beside his father to hold the maps, helping his father navigate. They drove in the silence of fear.
They drove west towards the Turkish border, some seven hundred kilometres distance. The roads made it a slow and perilous journey, becoming more rutted and unattended the further they drove from Tehran. The road switched back and forth to climb the steep gradients. The car climbed and then descended into another valley. The darkness of night passed slowly to the grey light of dawn. They only stopped for the necessities of nature; they ate their modest food and drank water on the move. Even with all the windows lowered in the car, the interior still became unbearably hot. There was little escape. The warm breeze blowing through the car did little to cool the occupants.
The children instinctively felt the fear and danger of the journey. The tension percolated from their parents as they peered through the windscreen to spot the anticipated waving arms at a police roadblock. Hadi’s father continually debated in his mind whether he should stop or run if they happened upon a roadblock. Thankfully, he need not have worried, but the tension remained.
The setting sun, exhausted by the passage of the day fell to the west. With its setting, the fierce heat of the day dissipated, giving way to a cool breeze. As during the previous night, Hadi’s father constantly let his eyes drift to the rear view mirror, much as light irresistibly draws a moth. He could not resist a glance, though always fearful that he might make out the jumping headlights of a pursuit car. He knew that capture would result in the utter destruction of his family, with certain death and burial in an unmarked grave for all of them. Their flight would be enough to prove his guilt and his action by association condemned them all.
It was time to stop again, the family needed to stretch their aching limbs. Hadi’s father took the opportunity to fill the fuel tank with the last of the fuel from the remaining Jerry can. He shook it to convince himself that it was truly empty and then discarded it into the ditch beside the road. There was little point in carrying the empty can, unlike the West, petrol stations were not commonplace in this wild region of Iran. He opened the driver’s door and sat in the car, allowing the door to rest gently against his leg. The courtesy light remained lit. The map lay on the front bench seat of the car. Looking at the map, he tried to estimate the remaining distance to the border. The Chrysler was a thirsty car; he had not bought it for its economy. He frowned, thinking to himself perhaps they might just make it, but he could not be sure. Then leaning out of the car, “Come let’s get going, we must move on. Come Hadi please sit with your mother and sister.”
They resumed their journey. There were no road signs, no distance markers to tell them how far they were from the border, only the odometer recorded the distance travelled. Anxiously glancing down at the fuel gauge, Hadi’s father winced for it again showed its ominous message. The small orange light beside the needle glowed, indicating low fuel.
By fate and without knowing it at the time, they had come to the last settlement before the border. Hadi’s father slowed the car to a crawl. His eyes raw with fatigue, he strained to peer through the windscreen at the few desolate humble stone dwellings that comprised the ancient hamlet. It seemed as if life was extinct, not even the ubiquitous barking dog pulling on its tether to break the silence. Their arrival appeared to go unnoticed. In this region, all human and domesticated life sought sanctuary from the cold of the night.
Hadi's father stopped the car and slid the gearshift into park, taking care to kill the lights. The engine quietly idled to keep the heater working and, for what seemed an eternity to the family, he sat unmoving, quiet and deep in thought. He ached with weariness from the lack of sleep and sitting arched over the steering wheel for so long. He knew that the family’s survival weighed heavily upon his shoulders and that he could not rest, not even for the briefest of moments.
Afraid that he might drift unwillingly into sleep in the warmth of the car, he selected a dwelling with a thin plume of smoke slowly curling from the chimney. Frost had already turned the rudimentary roof white. He turned and leant into his seat so that he faced Hadi’s mother. “I must leave you here with the children and seek help to cross the border. Please be brave my loved one. Do not leave the car.”
She grasped him, not willing to let him go, her face pale with fear. He tenderly reached out for her. She cried softly in his arms and then summoned her inner strength to push him gently away and say, “Go carefully my love. For all our sakes be vigilant, I pray for your safe return. Come back my love, we all need you.”
He softly kissed her on the lips, as he did on their first date and then gently touched each of the children on their cheeks with both his hands. Fighting back the tears that threatened to fill his eyes his hand fumbled for the door lever. “Lock the doors. Keep the engine running for as long as possible, you must all stay warm.” Were his parting words.
They felt the harsh cold of the night as he opened the door. He quickly left the car, quietly shutting the door. He shuddered as he felt the cold of the night air bite into his lungs. The chill easily pervaded his city clothes. For a brief moment he did not move, allowing his eyes to adjust to his surroundings. Then he forced himself to move away from the sanctuary of the car. Everything remained quiet; thankfully, their arrival had gone unnoticed. He slowly approached the dwelling he had viewed from the warmth of the car. As he neared, he could discern the barest suggestion of light showing from under the door. Even when he came close to the door, nothing stirred. No sounds came from beyond the door, not even a dog growling a timely warning to his master.
His breath came in nervous gasps and hung as a chilled cloud in the cold night air. His lungs burned from the cold. The moon shone bright and the sky twinkled. He slowly raised his clenched hand and knocked on the rough wooden door. It proved as simple as tossing a coin to decide whom to ask for help. He needed to know about the border. He knew little of the region, a city boy now out of his depth, standing in an alien inhospitable land far from his life in Tehran. The only things he knew of this region came from his reporting events, especially recent events. These communities showed their collective hatred of the Shah and his regime whenever they could. He knew the family lacked the necessary visas and documents to openly drive up to the border and leave Iran, his only hope lay with these people. The cold gnawed at his body as he waited for what seemed an eternity, his breath forming frosty clouds in front of the door. In his mind, he did not know what to expect. Perhaps his worries might disappear in an instant, as a bullet took away his life. For the family, this wild, almost untamed region of the country, posed as much a threat as the Shah’s secret police, although death might be quicker for them here.
The face of an old man appeared at a small rudimentary opening hatch set into the ancient door. The villager remained protected by a wrought iron grill. A warm, fetid smell came from the open hatch. Hadi’s father spoke quickly, lest the old man close the wooden hatch. This region remained primitive and life came cheap, especially for a stranger. The old man listened, then without warning abruptly closed the hatch.
Hadi’s father felt a sudden sense of despair as his knees sagged, forcing him involuntarily to seek the support of the rough cold stone of the dwelling. He rethought and questioned his actions of the past day. From the moment of the phone call to the present, could he have overreacted, should he have waited to seek confirmation of his friend’s warning? Every minute and every kilometre of their flight, he constantly dwelt on the single fear that the border posed an impassable barrier to their freedom and safety. He could not share his concerns with his wife. The children would listen. Already frightened by their parents’ strange and unusual actions they would surely become hysterical and uncontrollable if they became aware of their parents’ true plight. He tried to remain cheerful but now he struggled to maintain control of himself and the situation.
He felt all hope dissipate from his body, pain flashed through his chest and his bladder felt about to explode. He leaned harder against the stone to stop himself from collapsing to the ground. His strength seemed to sap from his body. He thought of the distance between himself and the warmth of the car. He was no longer sure he could return to the car, his strength now exhausted. He thought perhaps he might just lie down and peacefully sleep in eternity. Although he did not know it, he need not worry. There, in the confusion of his thoughts, came the sound of a wooden locking bar moving on the other side of the door and then an ancient lock turning. The door creaked on its old wrought iron hinges, as it swung open. He found himself illuminated by an ancient copper oil lamp held by the old man’s wife. A sour, warm air escaping from the dwelling engulfed him. The old man appeared behind his wife brandishing an ancient rifle, gained by his father’s father in some long forgotten skirmish. Hadi’s father almost panicked and ran, overtaken by the basic instinct of fear of the unknown. The only thing that stopped him were his legs, they lacked the strength to move. The emotional journey to the border, his fears, the absence of warm food and the lack of thick warm clothing all took a toll on his stamina. He neared the end of his reserves and his knees were buckling, his vision blurring.
The old man recognised the situation and dragged the stranger into his humble dwelling. Hadi’s father, still stricken with fear, collapsed to his knees. Whilst the old man’s wife quickly closed the door, the old man helped Hadi’s father off the floor and across the modest single room dwelling. There two ancient wooden stools, worn smooth by use, rested in front of the open wood fire. The old woman picked up an ancient metal ladle and clucked to herself as she filled a clay bowl with a simple bean and potato soup that simmered in a cast iron pot suspended over the fire. She handed Hadi’s father the bowl and a wooden spoon. The old man went to the corner of the room where a table leaned against the wall. He roughly pulled a lump of bread from the flat loaf that lay upon the table. He turned and tossed the bread to the stranger. Apart from the light from the oil lamp, which again hung from one of the wooden beams that supported the roof, the fire provided the only other light in the room. The earthen floor reflected the hard life of the occupants and their trodden down existence.
When the stranger regained his complexion, the old man silently listened to his story. Finally, he stood and indicated that he must follow him. He led him from the warmth of his dwelling across the village to a larger stone house, the bright moonlight being the only aid to their passage. The old man thumped on the door with the butt of his ancient rifle, his constant companion. The house, as Hadi’s father soon found out, belonged to the village Imam.
The Imam, a man of learning, quickly understood why Hadi’s family now found themselves in his village. He proved to be a sympathetic listener, for he awaited the return of the true leader of his faith, a man who would rid his country of the tyrant who sat on the Peacock throne. In response he muttered, “He’s a tyrant who came to power with the aid of the greedy Yankee Infidels, but his time is almost up he will be soon gone, for Allah has told me so. Our pain will soon be gone; our day of freedom is near.”
The Imam knew that there were ways to avoid the border guards, ways to cross the countryside into Turkey. “Crossing the border is relatively easy,” he said, “it’s just a way of life for the villagers on either side. Although the border dissects our homelands, it proves no hindrance to our movements. It is, my friend, but a line on a piece of paper that Allah does not see.”
The Imam explained that there were guides, “But my friend, as they say, no one does anything for nothing, especially when it might expose their life expectancy to a speedy shortening.”
Fortunately, Hadi’s father’s intuition served him well and encouraged him to save dollars and purchase gold for a rainy day or, as events now transpired, a very chilly night. His political awareness - it came with the job - meant he always kept money and gold in the house ready for the day when he may need to flee.
The family’s safety remained perilous. Discovery would hand them to the local police. Then life after a few phone calls would become very tenuous. None of their friends knew where they were and no one would know the location of their burial. Without the normal custom of drawn-out haggling, he quickly agreed the cost of a guide with the Imam. Hadi’s father was in no position to haggle over a few Rials. How could the strangers know the value of his family?
Relieved, he returned to the car with the old man. He knew the journey ahead held many perils but, even so, he felt an inner relief as he gathered his family and their few possessions. Now they abandoned the warmth and security of the car to return to the Imam’s house. The Imam offered food and tea to the family to fortify them for their coming journey. The villagers knew him as a kindly man, fond of children and of life, even as they knew it.
Shortly afterwards they were joined by a young man in his early twenties, dressed in an assortment of dull brown clothes, his face concealed by a dark bushy beard. He smelt of the animals he tended. The young herdsman proved a good choice; he knew the trails like the back of his hand. He walked the hills as a small boy, chasing his elder brothers as they tended to the herd of assorted goats. Though introduced, no one wanted to remember names, time slipped by, they needed to depart the village and resume their escape. Hadi’s father gave his car keys to the Imam who happily accepted the unexpected gift and his newly acquired consumer status. He could not drive, but Allah would surely guide him in his quest to master the infernal carriage. Hadi’s father turned to the old man and looking him in the face thanked him for his hospitality and quietly put a piece of gold in his gnarled hands as they both shook hands for the last time.
The family commenced the next leg of their journey, a tense twenty hours of stumbling across the rough, unforgiving terrain transcending the border. The cold, sterile, white light of the moon shone down upon them, providing their only aid to see the path ahead. They stumbled and tripped across the rough terrain, their tired feet finding every sharp stone.
Ahead their guide, the herdsman, stopped. He remained still and unmoving, straining to hear any sound and to see any change in the shadows ahead. He waved an arm to signal that they should kneel to reduce their profiles. His keen hearing finally picked up a sound coming from farther along the path. Suddenly from in front, the sound of rocks shifting clearly came to them. The guide sunk ever lower. He strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of what approached. Hadi’s father held his finger to his mouth, in a sign of silence to the family. Their breath misted in front of them from the unrelenting cold. Their hearts raced uncontrollably and the children held each other from fear. “What’s ahead darling? The children are frightened.”
“I don’t know, perhaps an armed border patrol or a mountain cat? Does it really matter? We are virtually defenceless. We have little defence against either, only the guide’s old gun.”
Hadi started to cry. How could he understand their plight? His body shivered from the cold and he yearned for his warm bed. “Papa, Papa!”
His father quickly placed his cold hand lightly across Hadi’s mouth and hugged him in a reassuring brace. “Shush, shush, my son don’t cry, all is well. Don’t be frightened; be brave for your mother and sister.”
The sound of movement carried to them in the wind. The herdsman’s instincts, sharpened from many nights on the hills, proved correct. Something or someone moved ahead of them. The herdsman stepped silently off the track, signalling for them to follow him. They hid below a ledge, lying close to the ground, the cold of the frost chilling their faces. They attempted to hide themselves in the sparse surroundings.
A mountain goat came into view, its nostrils steaming in the cold air. Someone moved, cramp was setting in; the goat timid and surprisingly agile shied away from them and disappeared into the night. The guide signalled for them to be still, he knew something had spooked the animal further along the track.
There again came the sound of rock and gravel disturbed by something approaching. They were now shivering from the cold and unable to bring warmth to their limbs by moving. They could not afford to signal their presence without knowing what now lay ahead of them. Then a shadowy image gradually took shape and slowly materialised into the visible form of four border police. Fed up and cold, they just shambled along oblivious of their surroundings, for them patrols never bore fruit only frozen limbs. The ageing lieutenant could not have cared less. Promotion passed him by many years before. He now only craved his bed and the warmth of his fat wife. He stumbled past the fugitives and then stopped. He turned and moved to the ledge and looked around.
Hadi’s father looked up and could clearly see him. He felt for a stone in the rubble at his feet. Hadi’s father winced at the loud click of the hammer, as their guide cocked his ancient rifle. The lieutenant did not hear the sound, he was too interested in opening his flies. He urinated into the darkness ahead with a loud sigh of relief. The foul smell of his urine drifted in the still air. Steam engulfed the officer. Relieved, he turned and returned to his troop, doing up the buttons of his flies as he went. They heard him shout, “Başlatırken, itler,” and then came the sound of the patrol moving off. Their grumblings faded as they disappeared back into the darkness of the night. The troop never knew how close they might have come to death.
The family stayed where they were, the cold biting into their bones. Eventually the guide decided it was safe to move on. They slowly stood. Their limbs ached, stiff with the cold. They stamped their feet and beat their arms in an attempt to get their blood flowing and to get warmth back into their bodies. Hadi’s father carried him. He slept on his father’s shoulder, totally exhausted.
At last, the greying sky to the east heralded another day. They were surviving on their last reserves, cold and hungry. Slowly the warmth offered by the rising sun touched their backs, to give them the strength to carry on.
As the sun progressed across the sky their guide, who spoke little during their escape except to give directions, gave them the welcome news that they safely stood within the land of Turkey. With what seemed to them to be their last strength, Hadi’s parents hugged each other and then kissed the children as they gathered them into their arms. Unrestrained tears streamed down their faces. They could not speak and just hugged each other even closer sinking slowly to their knees. The guide waited patiently. He had moved off some distance to give the family at least the pretence of privacy, but now he returned to the family sensing the moment to be right. He spoke softly, “The directions for the next leg of your journey are simple.” His advice sincere, “You must move off and as a matter of urgency secure yourselves shelter for tonight. Do not wait until sunset. You may not have enough time to find suitable shelter. You must not stay outside during the night. It is too dangerous. Apart from the cold, there are the wild animals.” In one final touching gesture, he gave them the last of his food. “May Allah be with you and keep you safe.”
With that last blessing they parted, the guide returning the way they had come, the family turning in the opposite direction. The family were now travelling across Eastern Anatolia, by far the largest and most rugged region of Turkey. All around them were the peaks of extinct volcanoes and lava flows - they were in an area of sparse population. Hadi’s father had wisely pocketed the map from the car before leaving the village. They needed to navigate to the town of Van.
America once contained the Wild West - Turkey retained the Wild East. Although they successfully evaded the border patrol to leave Iran, they were now in the region of Turkey renown for its bandits and lawlessness. There existed little employment and crime gave the only guaranteed fulltime occupation. To the locals, murder happened to be just a waste product of crime, a necessity of life.
It took many more exhausting days before the family reached the questionable civilisation of Van, the ancient Urartian capital. The city lay beside Lake Van, the largest and deepest in Turkey, formed in an instant by the massive explosion of the Nemrut volcano.
By the time the family entered Van they matched well with the locals. Their clothes were in tatters, dirty, stained and torn. The city dwellers no longer looked out of place in this impoverished community. They blended well with their surroundings.
In town, the family found primitive accommodation, a single room in which to rest and recover their strength. The children recovered first, their young limbs regaining their strength quickly. In contrast, Hadi’s parents limped for several days, until their bodies finally recovered. The children explored the surroundings and became fascinated by the local cats, with their long pure white fur and the unusual feature of one blue and one green eye. Hadi befriended a stray young kitten, but still cried at night for the faithful family dog left in Tehran.
Hadi’s father acquired a battered Ford truck. It appeared way past its best though the price would ensure the seller a lifestyle way beyond his wildest dreams. The only good thing about the vehicle lay in its anonymity in a land of wrecks and its lack of appeal to any would-be thief.
Rested, the time came for the family to leave Van. They needed to head for the capital, Ankara, for the friendly sanctuary they sought. Hadi held his newly found feline companion. Eventually, and not a moment too soon, as the truck was losing its battle against wear and fatigue, they arrived at their destination. They were haggard, thin and travel-weary, but glad to be alive. Unbelievably the truck had made it all the way, time and speed not being a high priority. They parked the old truck, its duty, done and crossed the road to number 70 Paris Caddesi, Kavaklıdere. They walked through the imposing gates of the building hopeful of starting their new lives.
They had long ceased to look like an affluent middleclass family, now they looked like the archetypal family of refugees. Unsure, the guard drew his weapon and instructed them to stop, demanding to know the purpose of their visit, “Dur ne bsiness burada.”
“Nous sommes des réfugiés de l'Iran, nous avons besoin d'aide, s'il vous plaît laissez nous entrer,” came back the reply. He was taken aback to be spoken to in fluent French by the bedraggled woman now standing in front of him. To the relief of Hadi’s parents, the guard quickly telephoned the duty officer for instructions.
After a brief and anxious wait an escort arrived and took them from the gatehouse to the main building, only a short walk away. Hadi always remembered the imposing façade with eight columns rising to the roof, from where the drapeau tricolore barely fluttered in the light breeze. They were at the entrance to the French Embassy in Ankara and finally truly safe.
A junior diplomat greeted them and took them to a private room. They welcomed the coolness of the room and quickly recovered their composure. They waited in silence, reflecting on the events that had brought each of them to this place. Refreshments arrived. It was Hadi’s mother who finally spoke for the family. She explained the events that caused them to abandon their former life in Tehran and bring them to their current location. The diplomat listened attentively and occasionally asked for clarification as he took copious notes.
Fortunately for the family, Hadi’s mother, a French citizen, met his father when they were both students in Paris during their carefree late teens. France, since those heady days, gave sanctuary and security to another Iranian political exile, the Ayatollah Khomeini. The Ayatollah, now the self-proclaimed spiritual leader of Iran, was the sworn enemy of the Shah. Unlike Hadi’s father, he now contemplated and plotted his return to Iran and the overthrow of the Shah.
It took time, but eventually the French granted the family refugee status. With temporary travel documents, Hadi’s father finally travelled to France with the children. Hadi’s mother had left Turkey prior to the completion of the formalities for the rest of the family on her French passport, to enable her to establish their new home in Paris. Once there, she quickly found an apartment to rent and furnish in the Strasbourg Saint-Denis district of the Capital.
Hadi’s parents’ previous life in Paris gave them an insight into how they should attempt to restart their lives. The family were used to speaking French in their now boarded up home in Tehran, so it made it easy for them to settle into their new life and culture. Hadi’s father soon found employment with an Islamic newspaper and with the support of a steady income quickly re-established the family’s fortunes. The children settled into their new society and quickly made friends. Life for the immigrant family again took on normality and routine.
They settled into the pleasures of Parisian life, but danger still lurked in the shadows. SAVAK soon took notice of articles condemning the regime. They started to appear regularly in Islamic and French newspapers and magazines, under the pen of Hadi’s father. He soon learnt that the regime remained intolerant to criticism, even from outside the country. At first the family received telephone threats, sometimes-explicit threats, but more often than not just infantile ominous breathing. The real stress came from not knowing which type of call to expect. The level of stress heightened when they began to receive mail, not only threatening Hadi’s father, but also the entire family. Late in the quiet darkness of night the old fears returned. They fitted extra locks and a more secure chain to the apartment door and started to look for signs of tampering with the family car. As a further precaution to stop anything happening to Hadi, the youngest member of the family, they always escorted him when he left the house.
Thankfully, events overtook the perpetrators of this campaign of intimidation and fear. The Shah of Iran abdicated and fled the country on the 16th January 1979 and with his flight came an abrupt end to his reign of terror. The Shah became a pariah; states that once courted him for his petrol dollars when in power now shunned him. Iran fell into havoc with vigilante groups meting out swift justice to all and sundry.
The Shah took up exile in Egypt on the invitation of President Sadat. Over the coming months, he travelled to other countries in an attempt to find a successful treatment for his non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. America, under President Carter, only reluctantly allowed him to enter for treatment but he finally returned to Egypt a broken and dying man. He died on 27th July 1980. The Egyptians held a state funeral for him in the Al Rifa'i Mosque where he lies interned in a tomb to the left of the main entrance. Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, the second Shah of Iran, finally passed into history.
Two days after the Islamic Revolution of February 1979 the family’s adversary General Nematollah Nassiri, the former head of SAVAK, languished in a Tehran prison. After a brief trial, the revolutionary council promptly took him outside the courtroom and summarily executed him by firing squad. To prove the resolve of the new leaders, his bullet riddled body appeared before the world’s media. Although no one doubted his fate or expected clemency, the new leaders proved little different in their own violent ways from the regime of the Shah.
The tyrant and his henchmen, who so callously terrorised Hadi’s family, were gone. The family could walk the streets of Paris and play in the parks without fear. At last, the stillness of night no longer held any threats. The Ayatollah Khomeini’s moment had finally come. He returned triumphantly to Iran where, shortly afterwards, he imposed his own form of tyrannical dictatorship upon the country.
Here perhaps the story of Hadi should have ended, but again fate decided otherwise. On the 3rd July 1988, the USS Vincennes, on patrol in the Persian Gulf to stem Iranian attacks on Kuwaiti oil tankers, mistakenly fired a single missile at a commercial Airbus carrying two hundred and ninety innocent travellers and crew. The Vincennes, a Ticonderoga class cruiser commissioned in 1985, lay in the Straits of Hormuz. The civilian aircraft, an Airbus A300-B2, proved defenceless against the unprovoked attack from such a heavily armed warship. The plane could not detect the missile and certainly could not take any evasive action needed to avoid the impact.
At first, the fortieth President of the United States of America, Ronald Reagan and the Pentagon claimed that the aircraft flew outside the accepted commercial jet flight corridor. Indeed, they claimed that its course took it towards the USS Vincennes in a descending flight path, threatening the ship’s safety as it passed below seven thousand feet. One month later, under duress from the international community, America retracted its fabricated statements and admitted that the aircraft in fact flew within its published flight path and within the normal commercial airline corridor. They also conceded that the aircraft continued climbing from take-off, having reached an altitude of twelve thousand feet when attacked.
To compound international feelings and to add to Hadi’s growing hatred for all things American, the US navy enquiry report absolved the officers and crew of the Vincennes from all blame for the incident. The crew of the Vincennes all received combat-action ribbons and the air warfare coordinator received a commendation medal. His citation referred to his ability to "quickly and precisely complete the firing procedure" of the ship’s weapons systems.
As Iran Air flight 655 fell to the ground, so did Hadi’s entire family. They were flying on flight 655 to enable them to take a connecting flight to return home to Paris. Hadi later often wondered what terror they must have endured as the Airbus plummeted to earth. The family looking at each other, their faces stricken with fear, as the aircraft gyrated down to its final destruction. Perhaps the overhead lockers opened to release the contents as missiles to hit and wound the stricken passengers. For Hadi, time could not erase those thoughts, for he would never know the answer. He could never be at peace with himself. The passage of time would never fade the memory of his wonderful family and the event that took them from him. He could only hope they died instantly, but he would never know.
The family had flown to Iran a few weeks earlier to visit friends and family. It remained unspoken by Hadi’s father but he hoped that he might be able to re-establish the family in Tehran. Life in the country appeared changed beyond recognition, but sadly not for the better. Religious intolerance and a suppression of the freedom of speech and liberty to rival the worst days of the Shah had again become the norm. After the freedoms of Parisian society, both parents received a culture shock when faced with the new Islamic state. Hadi’s father quickly realised that he would never survive the constraints imposed by the new regime’s censorship laws if he returned to writing and his mother, an educated intellectual, could never submit herself to the subservience now imposed by the state on its female citizens.
Fate saved Hadi. He remained in Paris suffering from chickenpox and unable to travel. He recovered with friends of his parents, who thankfully had suffered chickenpox in their own childhood and were unlikely to catch the disease again. However, on the 3rd July 1988 everything changed for Hadi, for on this day he became an accidental orphan. Unaware at first, but sensing tragedy in the faces around him, his carers finally broke the news to him.
His temporary home became his permanent home, his carers his adopted parents. Both loved him, but they were not his parents. They could never replace his lost family; there could only ever be emptiness. The loneliness in him ate at his soul, for comfort and solace he clung to the only link to his past, his white cat with its blue and green eyes. His family were lost to him forever, never to return to his side; there were no graves for him to mourn beside, no closure to his pain and anguish.
Clever and intelligent he never attained what his earlier schooling had promised. He became introverted and faded into himself, lacking a zest for life. He could only remember when his real parents hugged him and helped him with his schoolwork, or answered the many questions his young mind posed. He missed his siblings. Although the youngest, he never missed out on their adventures. His brother played rugby and Hadi had started to play, though his mother thought it a dangerous game. In his youth, he feared neither injury nor accident, as only the young can. He simply enjoyed playing team games so much.
Hadi inherited a sizeable sum of money upon coming of age, partly from his parents’ savings and partly from the endeavours of his attorney in pursuing a claim for their untimely deaths. With the independence offered by his wealth, he decided to travel. Fate decreed it; Hadi had no choice. At last, Iran, the country of his birth and the place of his family’s murder drew him back. From Iran he drifted east, eventually to Pakistan. Time passed and by chance, or fate, he reached the villages of the northwest frontier and there he made his fateful life-changing decision.
In the villages, he met and talked to local tribesmen who intrigued him with their tales of the past and of blood feuds now buried. He slowly learnt to live with them and to gain their acceptance. Gradually he became acquainted with the inner members of al-Qaeda. Once al-Qaeda learnt of his past, they quickly realised they had a ready convert to their cause, it only needed time to convince him. A few discreet questions asked in the right quarters in the West confirmed who he claimed to be and what disaster had befallen his childhood. It proved remarkably easy to convert him to their cause, given his past hurt and constant burning hatred for all things American.
He joined raiding parties into Afghanistan to hit the western forces and rapidly acquired a reputation for his self-control, insight and leadership. His calm mannerism attracted a keen following and soon he conducted small raiding parties of his own. His men fought hard but, unlike other groups, mostly came home. The more they fought the more they gained in reputation, and experience and the larger the group became. He would ruthlessly dispatch the enemy, for he took no prisoners and would not flinch from pulling the trigger himself.
Over time and not by accident, he came to the attention of the general council of al-Qaeda and in particular Ayman al-Zawahiri, the second in command. Within the mind of al-Zawahiri, the embryo of a plan for another major attack against the Infidels grew. If successful, the attack would dwarf the achievements of the 11th September. He reflected on the naive and avoidable mistakes of the past and became even more determined that al-Qaeda must learn from these mistakes. Though he knew in this world of mortals that the gift of success lay in the hands of Allah, he viewed his own meticulous planning as central to the success of the attack. His young Iranian commander, the one they now called the Leader, became central and key to his vengeful plan.
Over many decades, the Colleges of Cambridge have proved a fertile ground for the recruitment of civil servants, especially for the more esoteric specialised branches of government. Sami, a member of a select group who attended Christ’s College, read modern and medieval languages. He came, not by chance, to the notice of a much specialised government department, now housed in a modern green glass building with aerials and receiving dishes showing on the roof. The sole occupant of the building was the British Secret Intelligence Service or SIS for short.
Sami’s father owned a successful business, which enabled him to encourage and finance his son’s private education. The boy proved intelligent, confident and pleasantly outgoing, but, equally important for his future career, he would not stand out in a crowd. He spent several carefree summer holidays at the many residences of his uncles in Pakistan. There he unconsciously gained a surprisingly rich depth of knowledge about his origins, including many of the regional languages and accents. He enjoyed fooling people by posing as a native of the various regions of Pakistan.
SIS quickly recognised Sami as a valuable asset. They turned their well-oiled machine to training, and honing Sami in the skills needed to penetrate and survive in the unstable, often paranoid, atmosphere of intelligence. Sami trained in, as his mentor described it, “all the cloak and dagger stuff,” and more. The trainers at SIS emphasised that his life might become next to worthless if he became complacent and careless. His cover started the day he began his training. As with all good cover stories, his proved simple to comprehend, he now wished to return to his native land. Within this outer kernel of truth lay the seed of deception, he needed to live in Pakistan to perform his duties for SIS.
After passing his training, Sami travelled to Pakistan, ostensibly to set up a business with his uncle. He achieved his initial SIS brief by simply joining extreme political groups. Even though legal, these groups often fronted more extreme organisations and for the plan to succeed he needed to penetrate to the heart of the ultra extreme groups. This, for Sami, proved to be surprisingly easy. His knowledge of the West provided the key to his entrance. These organisations often thirsted for such information and his business connections often proved indispensable in their quest to acquire the hardware of terrorism.
Time passed and Sami gradually gained more credit and status within the various extremist organisations. Eventually he gained access to his real objective, a group so extreme in their religious dogma, as to make murder a convenient way of imposing their beliefs. He now operated freely within the al-Qaeda funded terrorist cells. His skill with languages and his relaxed manner, the same attributes that had attracted the SIS, now attracted al-Qaeda. They recognised his talents, who would not, for he made an excellent front man.
He operated an import and export agency, which now employed several staff. His business partner, one of his uncles, remained completely unaware of Sami’s other life. His business gave him a front of respectability, but more importantly, an authentic means of income and a convincing reason for travel. He met a wide assortment of social, political and military leaders through his family connections. They would all prove useful in time, not only for his expanding business interests but also for his clandestine other life.
He sought out senior clerics and in Pakistan, as in many Islamic states, very little escaped the influence of these men. They were often self-righteous pious men who were able to influence a crowd and sway a community to violence purely on a whim. Often, these holy men could not turn the other cheek, but instead could so easily seek physical revenge for a few written or spoken words not to their liking. Freedom of speech only existed for them and their lackeys. They were powerful friends to have; all they craved was flattery and more power. Without knowing the true nature of Sami’s work, his uncle repeatedly warned him against the dangers of his open association with these fanatics.
Sami gained a reputation for being able to acquire essential items for the terrorist organisations. Little did they know that these items often came from Sami’s masters at SIS! Eventually al-Qaeda gave Sami responsibility for all their logistics needs. Funds for these activities were never a problem. Al-Qaeda approved and funded most of the terrorists’ activities now plaguing the planet.
The prize capture of Abu Zubaydah, the son-in-law of second in command Ayman al Zawahiri, gave the CIA a rich harvest of intelligence. He revealed under waterboarding hitherto unknown details of al-Qaeda’s structure and financing.
The CIA favoured waterboarding, an ancient form of torture, as a means of extracting information from their reticent guests. It left no physical marks, only emotional scars, and they could not have cared less about their guests’ mental state after they had talked. They entered Abu Zubaydah cell and hooded him, it was an unusual hood, as two circular openings left his ears free of the material. He did not resist, it was pointless, hooding had happened several times before, usually when they were transporting him to a new location. They led him from his cell to another area without speaking. He could not tell where they were taking him, the manacles around his ankles made walking slow and painful. At last, a tug on his shoulder signalled for him to stop. There were strange noises around him and then he realised he was being strapped to something behind him. Already alarmed by what was happening, his heartbeat surged as he felt himself lifted and swung horizontal supported by whatever was beneath him. Still no one spoke, the silence added to his anxiety. At last, he heard a voice close by, “Tell me about al-Qaeda Abu Zubaydah, what can you tell me, what do you know?”
Abu Zubaydah laughed at the naivety of the question, “Do you think I will tell on my brothers, I will die first!”
“Die you may, but only when I decide and after you have told me everything I think you know. I own you; for you there is no hope. Believe me the sooner you understand that simple fact the sooner your ordeal will end.”
The cloth covering his face sucked backwards and forwards as he spoke and breathed. At first, only a trickle of water wet the material over his face, making it difficult for him to inhale. The voice came again, “I can wait, you see by the end of today you will tell me everything. You will wish you were dead. Believe me my friend I will always bring you back from death, so that you can experience your misery again and again. You see it is a pleasure for me to see you suffer, I enjoy it.”
Now the trickle became a steam, Abu Zubaydah felt himself drowning. He could not scream or breathe, opening his lips allowed water to fill his mouth. Even his nose blocked with water. He convulsed in his agony.
By the end of the day, Abu Zubaydah was a broken man, he knew to refuse to answer a question was to invite further torture. They left him on the board overnight and periodically returned to smother him yet again with water. His body was numb and bruised from struggling against his restraints, but worse his mind was broken. He longed to sleep, but his inquisitors would not let him. In the end, he screamed with fear just hearing a sound of someone approaching.
He fell into American hands, following a raid on a safe house in Faisalabad, back in March 2002. He disclosed that the terrorists received financial support from Saudi Arabia for their attacks upon the West. This implicitly meant that al-Qaeda’s actions were often with the knowledge of the Saudi royal family. Perversely the royal family also came under the influence of the CIA. In return for their royal patronage al-Qaeda conceded not to attempt to bring down the Saudi royal family by promoting a jihad within the kingdom. It was nothing less than blackmail, though very rewarding nonetheless. Abu Zubaydah even confirmed the role of Pakistan in harbouring al-Qaeda.
Stunning were the confessions of Abu Zubaydah. He acknowledged that both Pakistan and Saudi Arabia knew of al-Qaeda’s plan to strike at the heart of America on the 11th September, only the final details remained unknown. He admitted that al-Qaeda paid little attention to security whilst planning the attack. The training and preparations for the attack on the World Trade Centre were poorly coordinated with an amateur eye for security. The CIA soon realised its own incompetence and the haughtiness of the American internal security agencies blinded them to al-Qaeda’s plans.
The CIA shared their harvest of information with SIS. For SIS it answered many outstanding questions and confirmed intelligence gathered by Sami. More importantly, it confirmed Sami’s on-going allegiance to his masters in London. Sami’s Controller constantly fretted over his continuing loyalty, it was normal given the extended periods of separation between physical meetings. His Controller rarely got to look Sami in the eye and to witness for himself, Sami’s reactions to his questions. It was difficult for him to assure himself of Sami’s continuing loyalty. Likewise, Sami often worried that he might someday become a sacrificial pawn for the good of the greater cause. Given their mutual isolation from each other paranoia could, if uncontrolled, easily become a two-edged sword ready to destroy their trust in each other.
Certain of the information slowly seeped back to Sami, especially if his Controller considered it important for his safety and survival. Oddly enough, too much knowledge could also easily endanger Sami’s life. He constantly needed to remember what he should or should not know. It would be fatal for him to disclose facts that he should not be aware of, but on the other hand, it was useful for him to know of the infighting within al-Qaeda that Abu Zubaydah disclosed. Given the right circumstances, it might be productive for Sami to play the various factions within al-Qaeda off against each other.
More frightening for the SIS was the fact that the CIA now knew of Sami’s existence. From the debriefing notes passed to SIS, they had yet to establish Sami’s identity but it would only be a matter of time. The CIA only confessed to knew of an English born Asian now living in Pakistan and working for al-Qaeda but they knew he was involved in sourcing materials for the terrorists. SIS realised that they would have to inform the CIA of Sami’s true identity one day soon. If they did not then they risked the CIA directly or indirectly, perhaps through a selective leak, taking action to eliminate Sami once they discovered his identity. The real problem for London, and why they agonised, was their distrust of security at Langley. CIA security was notoriously fickle and often subject to whimsical leaks, frequently partisan in nature.
Strangely enough, one such incident was Senator John McCain’s comment whilst campaigning in St. Petersburg, Florida, "Following World War II war crime trials were convened. The Japanese were tried, convicted and hung for war crimes committed against American POWs. Among those charges for which they were convicted was waterboarding." At the time Michael Burrows read the report and thought, how can the CIA be so inept as to allow this information to come into the public domain? Strangely enough, Michael did not seem surprised by the reference to waterboarding within the report.