AFGHANISTAN – FIVE WEEKS AGO
The chief of al-Qaeda intelligence, Baddar Mussan, had been busy. From his bank of battery-powered computers and satellite telephones he had sent out coded messages to a sleeper cell in Manhattan and to one of many operatives in Tripoli. From his mobile base in the caves, with his single aerial elevated through a fissure into the clear mountain air, he could maintain almost instantaneous, unobtrusive communication with the al-Qaeda training camps throughout the region and with a myriad of sleeper cells based in western Europe and the US. How ironic, he thought, that the very satellites, which the US are using to try and find us, are also carrying our messages to volunteers in their own territory. The secret to not being discovered, he knew, was to keep his communications restricted to short electronic bursts of coded, apparently meaningless messages, which would be mere drops of water in an ocean of electronic email, text, satellite and cell phone communications in the region. He knew to keep the messages short to prevent US intelligence getting any fix on transmissions from suspicious locations in the mountains. The camouflage was further deepened by the layers of hundreds of messages sent by dozens of al-Qaeda-affiliated students in the universities of Karachi and Kabul. Most of these deliberately contained key words such as ‘bomb’, ‘bin Laden’, ‘al-Qaeda’, ‘terrorism’, ‘twin towers’, ‘fatwa’, etc., which were electronically tagged by US National Security computers and added to the vast pile for agents to follow up. Most never were.
The first outcome of Mussan’s messages was a burst of photography at locations in Manhattan, New Jersey and Tripoli.
*
NEW YORK – THREE WEEKS AGO
New York, concrete jungle . . . was playing on Takar el Sayden’s car radio as he pulled out of the yard at his food production unit on Basin Street, New Jersey. He accelerated hard to get ahead of a looming forty-foot articulated truck as he started the drive home from the industrial hub of factories and warehouses that cater for the population of the five boroughs of New York.
The sun was shining and life felt good for Takar el Sayden. He had arrived in the US in the 1990s with fifty thousand dollars and a young wife. His father had helped him by buying out his uncle, the main stockholder in Quick ’n’ Tasty, a small restaurant chain with six outlets and one depot. The old man had retired and Takar had brought new energy and vision to the business. Fifteen-hour days cooking in the small factory, and a cleverly expanded menu, had seen Quick ’n’ Tasty grow quickly over ten years. Takar now owned a chain of two hundred and fifty-two eat-in and takeaway restaurants in New York. He had learned the real estate game rapidly too and, after just one or two mistakes, he had discovered that fast food had to be situated very, very close to busy people. That was why he located his stores beside office buildings that housed companies with younger staff profiles, and beside schools and crèches, where stressed-out parents collecting their kids could be easily tempted to take a shortcut to the day’s main meal.
Yep – life was good. The money rolled in and they had their five-bedroom detached house near the coast in New Jersey, with plenty of space for his wife and two beautiful young daughters. The only setback had been the recent murder of his uncle Abdel, during a burglary at the original Quick ’n’ Tasty factory. A kind old man, Abdel had been a great help to Takar.
Takar and his wife Tasha sometimes talked about selling up one day and going home to Libya, before the children got too old. But, for now, there was work to do, dollars to make. Takar’s multiple gold rings clinked as he drummed his way across the steering wheel and into the chorus. It was on the word York that Takar el Sayden felt the cold pressure of the muzzle of a gun in the back of his neck as a voice whispered in his ear, ‘Turn the fuckin’ radio down and keep driving.’
Takar el Sayden’s heart froze but he kept his composure enough to lean forward and turn the volume knob to the left. As he did so, he risked a glance in the mirror and caught a glimpse of a swarthy complexion under short, black, tightly curled hair.
‘Just take my wallet, my car, no problem, but please don’t shoot me,’ he pleaded, realising he was close to soiling himself.
‘Shut up and drive where I say,’ was the response. ‘Act real cool, and you’ll be home eating dinner with your lovely wife and children in a couple of hours. With your wallet and your car. Now, take the West Shore Expressway towards the coast.’
Takar el Sayden gulped. He tried to breathe deeper and slower, but it didn’t help much.
‘You can take my rings too, man,’ his voice croaked. ‘They’re solid gold, real valuable. No problems, just take them,’ he pleaded.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ snarled the voice. ‘Keep the damn rings. Just drive. Here, take the next left, towards Bakersville.’
Terrified, Takar swung left and, after following blunt instructions for another twenty minutes, pulled into a deserted boat yard a half-mile outside Bakersville on the New Jersey coastline. The place looked like a scrapyard for boats, he thought, and then he noticed a few newer models to his left, suspended around their keels on purpose-built stands. He was aware that he was sweating heavily. Christ, this looks like a scene from some kind of gangland murder. What the hell? In all his business dealings, he’d stayed away from any trouble with gangsters or protection rackets.
‘Pull up over there, beside that blue boat,’ said the low voice in his ear. ‘And don’t try anything stupid.’ The speaker emphasised the point by increasing the pressure of the pistol in Takar’s neck. Takar groaned as he killed the engine. The swarthy man, his hand inside his jacket pocket, stepped out of the back, opened the front door and slid into the passenger seat.
The new occupant of the front of the car looked to be in his mid-fifties, of lean build and average height, with a small moustache and some scars on the side of his face. He was dressed in black. The feeling was growing in Takar el Sayden that this was no ordinary stickup.
‘Takar el Sayden,’ the man said, as he looked Takar straight in the eye. ‘I am a member of al-Qaeda and we need your help.’
A shiver of fear ran deep through Takar el Sayden. He knew all about the strength and influence of al-Qaeda, not least in his home city of Tripoli. But what the hell do they want from me in New York?
‘Takar,’ the man repeated, ‘we know all about your family, and your background. We know that your family has a strong love of Islam and that you must be outraged by the sufferings of Muslims at the hands of the Americans.’ The man was right that Takar had been raised in a devout family, but it was also true that his attention to his religion had dissipated steadily as he chased the mighty dollar in New York.
‘I’ll get to the point,’ the stranger continued. ‘Friends of ours need your assistance in Manhattan. You will be helping with an experiment. Our friends wish to see how many of your burgers they can sell to New Yorkers in two years. Your restaurants will be re-branded as BurgerFantastic. Your prices will be about half those of your competitors.’
Takar el Sayden gulped. Even under this pressure he wondered how the hell these guys expected him to turn a profit from selling half-price burgers.
‘My friends will make a top advertising agency available to you and a marketing budget of one hundred million dollars.’
El Sayden’s eyes bulged. One hundred million dollars!
‘You will make your money by selling burgers in vast quantities,’ the man continued, ‘and you keep all of the money. My friends do not want any share of it.’
Takar el Sayden swallowed hard again, his brain was spinning. What the hell is this all about?
‘Also,’ the man went on in his monotone voice, ‘my friends wish to add a new ingredient to the sauce on your burgers. Call it research. We understand that the sauce for all of your restaurants is manufactured overnight at the facility where I, ah, collected you, Takar?’
Takar nodded and added, his voice squeaky, ‘The vans deliver the sauce and all the supplies to the stores before 6 a.m. each day.’
‘Yes, this is where we need your direct help,’ the man said. ‘Every night, as part of the experiment, you must add a bag of a secret ingredient into each vat of sauce as it is blended and before it is put into the containers for each restaurant. The ingredient is completely harmless, I promise you. It will cause no harm to your customers and it has no taste or smell. Every week I will bring a new supply to your depot and check how you are doing. You must never test this powder and you must never tell anyone else about our arrangement. This arrangement will continue for about two years and when the experiment is over you will be paid five million dollars for your help. If any difficulties should arise along the way, you have our word that you will be given ample notice and assistance in bringing your family back to Tripoli. Waiting for you back there will be your five million dollars. Our friends are generous, but also serious. You have our word.’
Takar el Sayden needed no convincing about the power and influence of al-Qaeda. All his instincts told him that this was a man to be listened to.
‘Takar, the recent demise of your uncle, who started your business . . .’
Takar’s eyes widened as a deep chill ran down his spine.
‘That was no burglary. That was to show you that we are serious. So, will you be of assistance to my friends?’
Takar el Sayden nodded, then squeaked out the word, ‘Yes.’
His bladder failed him as the stranger left, satisfied that he had a suitably motivated new recruit in New York.