CHAPTER 42
The village of Durba Khel,
north of Peshawar, Pakistan
“Wait here.” Yousef pointed to a side road behind the mud hut on the single-lane road that passed through the small village of Durba Khel. The road cut north, around a small jut of rocks, to another village called Nahakki. At a fork in the road on the north side of Durba Khel, the right road went toward Nahakki and the left road crossed into a small valley, short of the mountain range, and beyond the mountain range, the Afghan border.
To the south, the road headed to Warsak, and farther south, Peshawar.
They had stopped using cell phones. They were well into the Predator killing zone now, and one misspoken word would result in a strike. Short, quick meetings at times and places picked at random were the only safe routes. Despite the CIA’s repeated efforts, no one had ever broken into the network. No one had ever become admitted to the inner sanctuary of the leadership that hadn’t been back-checked and back-checked and known thoroughly. Many had tried, but at any hint of betrayal, the problem was easily solved.
“Here?” Umarov pointed to the side road that cut through the two mud-brick shacks.
“Yes.” Yousef liked the fact that Umarov said very little. They could travel for hours in the Toyota truck without a word being said.
“Soecu!” Umarov screamed as the little truck swerved to avoid the collision with the Nissan Diesel that cut across their path on the main road, using a curse word he often said in Serbia. A cloud of dust swirled around the two trucks.
Yousef cursed at the freight truck that passed by, nearly missing the smaller one by inches. The Nissan’s horn blared as the driver stuck out his arm and hand from the cab. Called a “jingle truck,” it was covered with brightly painted pictures of horns and yaks and the shapes of naked women, and it had racks of bells and ornate rings welded above the cab’s windows. Rows of chains were welded to the front bumper. The truck was one of thousands upon thousands that had been customized by its owners to serve as a proclamation of the driver’s identity. They were even considered the driver’s bride, many said.
“They always own the road,” Umarov muttered.
“They think they do.” Both Yousef and Umarov’s AK-47s were knocked down to the floorboard up against Umarov’s leg and the gearshift. Yousef picked them up one at a time, rubbing the dust off the assault rifles. Everything was covered with a layer of dust, but the Kalashnikov always functioned. It could be buried in a mud hole for months and still fire. The rifle was made in a knockoff shop in Quetta for less than thirty bucks, but it always fired without fail. He pulled the slide to his rifle to make sure that the weapon had a shell in its chamber.
Another jingle truck passed, this one green and yellow with fringe along the windows. It was much larger than the last, a Mercedes tractor trailer, with more chains. It was covered with bright murals of lakes and mountains and green fields. And the chains, rattling with the movement of the truck, made a sound like hundreds of small bells. The constant ringing was intended to keep evil away.
“Ha!” Yousef let out a loud roar of a laugh. The first truck had missed them by inches. The second truck, with its much larger proportions, would have crushed their small pickup truck. It had been overloaded with cinder blocks stacked well above the cab. Yousef watched it recede down the road, swaying with the weight of the cement whenever the driver steered even slightly from the center of the road.
An absurd but chilling thought struck him.
The new Muslim state could have been stopped by a mere jingle-truck collision. Allah must be protecting us for a reason....
The thought caused Yousef to reach into his pocket to check on the cell phones. He had two, one in each pocket of his coat. The one on the left didn’t concern him. It was a disposable one that he used, only now if needed, to talk to others in Pakistan and Afghanistan. It would be destroyed and replaced every two weeks. The other, in his right pocket, had never been used. A piece of electrical tape was wrapped around the flip phone so that neither he nor anyone else would casually open it. He made sure it was charged every night. There was only one number in the phone’s memory, a long-distance call to Frankfurt. More than enough money was kept in the telephone’s account for the one simple call. No other calls would be made from it so as to ensure that it would never be traced. From Frankfurt, one cell would be activated, which would call two. Two would call four. One ring was all that was necessary. And then the phones would be destroyed.
“There he is.” Another truck, this one a Mazda, beaten up and with no chains for evil spirits, pulled off the road. It had come up from the south. It stopped just short of their Toyota.
“As sala’amu alaikum!” Yousef stood taller than the little man and reached over to give him a bear hug.
“Walaikum as sala’am.” Zulfiqar never smiled, a fact Yousef had quickly gotten used to.
“I have what you have asked for.” Yousef took a plastic bag from Umarov, who had reached behind the driver’s seat. It was full to its limit.
Zulfiqar opened the bag. Wads of hundred-dollar bills were stuffed inside. The United States currency remained the unofficial currency of terror.
“You will find over a hundred thousand.”
Zulfiqar looked around as if worried that another clan or gang would appear. People died for far less than this plastic bag.
“Don’t worry, brother.” Yousef put his hand on Zulfiqar’s shoulder. As he did so, another strange thought came to Yousef ’s mind. His older brother was so similar to Zulfiqar in both looks and mannerisms. Both held their right hand back, using it in true Muslim mannerisms rarely, only to eat their meals in the barehanded fashion. Both men were seemingly taller, but now seemed almost childlike in that they were so much shorter. And both had a broken tooth in their smiles. Yousef ’s brother’s tooth had been repaired years ago with the money that his brother had inherited from their father. Zulfiqar’s tooth, however, remained broken, but it reminded Yousef as to how his older brother’s tooth was cracked. A rock thrown, out of frustration and hate, after a ferocious beating, which only led to another beating. Both the brother and Zulfiqar had one other characteristic in common. Both were hateful men, fully capable of tormenting the weaker or smaller or less resistant. Yousef would use Zulfiqar as needed, but he reminded himself always to remain aware.
“I will have the men ready in two days.” Zulfiqar took a small step back from Yousef as he spoke. He would never remain too close to another for long. The Predators always put a thought in the backs of the minds of those in western tribal provinces.
“Excellent.”
“And you do have the man?”
Yousef knew exactly what Zulfiqar was talking about.
“Yes.”
“And the plans, you have the plans to Kamra?”
“I do.” He turned to Umarov again. “Give them to me.”
Umarov gave him a look. Yousef knew what he meant. The release of plans too early always risked the deadliest threat to an operation: a leak.
“Get them.”
Umarov reached into the truck again. He pulled out a manila envelope and handed it directly to Zulfiqar.
“Midnight in two days. The man in Kamra will be ready when I call. Not sooner, not later.”
“Brother, we will be ready.”
“I will be in the plar.” The cave was a protected site.
“Yes.” Zulfiqar put his hand up to his mouth. He had the habit of rubbing his lips when he was hesitating to say something.
“What is it, brother?”
“This man, is it wise?”
Yousef didn’t think anything was a secret in the mountains of the northwest frontier province, but he had made the point of only a very few knowing about the planned visit of the journalist from London.
“It is important, brother, that we earn more bags like this one.” Yousef poked the bag of money with his finger. “The journalist will help us do that. A movement must have a face. It must have an identity.”
“I understand.”
Yousef knew that Zulfiqar was lying. A man like Zulfiqar could not see beyond the limits of his tribe. He could never have envisioned a plan like Yousef’s, never could have raised the funds or created the cells that were needed to implement such a plan.
“I do need your help with security. I may need the TTP to be available in the next few days.”
“We will have a company of men within easy reach.”
“Brother, the next two days. We will be like clouds dropping much rain.” Yousef ’s quote of Muhammad from the Koran was more than just a metaphor.
“Yes.” Still no smile, but Zulfiqar had a spark in his eyes that Yousef recognized. The old man had become a believer in him.
The meeting ended, the vehicles leaving in two different directions, with Yousef ’s heading up the valley, to the west.
“Stop here.” Again, Yousef pointed to the side of the road, just short of the riverbed, at the mouth to the valley. “You know what you need to do with the other one.”
“Yes.”
The second bag of money was going to Peshawar. It was stuffed with another hundred thousand dollars. It was to be handed to just one person, a woman. She was the badly ill mother of a young man and a much younger daughter. Both the woman and her daughter had developed chills some months ago. They continued to lose weight. The daughter was only a child of twelve, already painfully thin. The mother and her daughter were infected with tubercle bacillus. It was as Yousef had promised that both the mother and daughter would have the money to move to London and receive the treatment needed. The bag also had identification cards and passports that would allow the two ill people to be treated as if they had lived their entire lives in the East End. With some luck, Yousef promised, the two would survive. In return for this gift, the woman’s son, a technician at Kamra, needed only to do one favor.
“I will walk the remainder of the way.”
“Here!” Umarov threw a water bag across the cab. Dehydration remained a constant threat, particularly at this altitude. The valley’s floor was well over ten thousand feet.
“Brother!” Yousef drank from the bag. It would be well below freezing soon. He wore an army coat layered over his salwar kameez, a pajama-like, thick cotton outfit.
“Keep it.”
Yousef slung the water bag over his shoulder, then the rifle.
The cave lay several miles up in the mountains. “I will see you in a day after you pick up our new friend.”
Yousef turned and headed to the northwest. He reveled in this opportunity to be alone. He would follow the riverbed for several miles and then cut up into the mountain ridge. As far as the eye could see, the landscape offered an endless stretch of frigid boulder-strewn rubble. In the cloudless sky, the white-capped peaks of the Himalayas could be seen well to the north. He followed the potholed, twisting, pencil-thin road toward the mountain range.
He also knew that he would be at his safest while he walked alone. The Americans would never take notice of a man walking alone toward the Afghan border region. The tribe of the valley knew who he was and that he must be protected. The man with two cell phones would be an easy target walking alone. A single bullet would prevent the birth of Yousef ’s new nation. He smiled. No one would notice. And no one would stop him.