The bright city lights reflected off the front window of a green Suzuki Mehran as it worked its way through Karachi’s congested streets. Inside the small four-door car, based on a three-decade-old design and sporting nearly the same features as the original version, two men rode in the front in silence. Driving the car was Amir Zahed, whose attention at the moment was split between the American beside him and the traffic. Lonnie Mixell sensed the stiffness in the man’s posture as he gripped the steering wheel. Zahed didn’t yet trust him, and the feeling was mutual. Both men were taking a gamble, one that would cost them their lives if tonight’s meeting didn’t go well.
Three hours after assassinating America’s ambassador to the United Nations, Lonnie Mixell had boarded an Emirates Airlines flight from New York’s JFK International Airport to Dubai, followed by a connecting flight to Karachi, where he had waited expectantly for word from Aleksandr Plecas. After the call was received, Mixell made one of his own, arranging tonight’s meeting. Zahed had picked Mixell up at his hotel, and aside from a short greeting, the man hadn’t spoken, focused instead on navigating the clogged streets. With a population of more than fifteen million and the fifth-largest city proper in the world, Karachi was truly a place where one could get lost in the crowd.
The buildings thinned out as they entered the suburbs, and Mixell sensed they were nearing the end of their journey when the Mehran turned in to a residential area of gated estates. After several more turns, Zahed pulled into a driveway and stopped before a black metal gate. A query emanated from the speaker on the driver’s side, which Zahed answered, and the gate slowly opened. As they passed into the estate, Mixell assessed its defenses. The metal gates transitioned to twenty-foot-tall brick walls that encircled a sprawling three-story residence. In the distance, he spotted three armed men in various locations, each cradling an assault rifle.
Zahed pulled to a stop on a circular driveway outside the home’s entrance. Both men stepped from the car as two armed men emerged from the dwelling. Like Zahed, the men wore white dishdashas, although they also carried AK-47s held ready at the waist. The two men greeted Zahed while eyeing Mixell suspiciously, then motioned for Mixell to follow Zahed inside.
Mixell stepped into a brightly lit foyer occupied by two other men, similarly armed, who searched him for weapons. Finding none, they stepped aside and Zahed led Mixell into a living area filled with several couches and chairs arranged around a low table. Zahed settled onto a couch and motioned Mixell into one opposite him. As Mixell sank into the plush cushions, he was surprised that they were the only men in the room.
“I thought we were meeting the leader of your organization.”
“He will arrive soon.”
Two women entered the room, one carrying a large platter of food while the other carried cups and a pot of tea.
“You must be hungry,” Zahed said. “Eat.”
Mixell and Zahed had finished eating, the dishes cleared away, when four men entered the room: a man Mixell recognized, escorted by three armed men who made no effort to conceal their Uzi submachine guns. Mixell almost smiled at the irony—Arab terrorists carrying weapons manufactured by Israel Military Industries. These three men were different from the four Mixell had encountered earlier. Conscious of his surroundings and potential threats, Mixell noted that there were now ten armed men nearby. But for the moment, he focused on the man without a weapon, who was missing his right arm and walked with a limp.
The rumors were true. The man had been targeted by an American drone and had barely escaped with his life. Mixell rose from the couch to greet Ayman al-Zawahiri.
Zawahiri had succeeded Osama bin Laden as leader of al-Qaeda. After the rise of ISIL and the presumed death of Zawahiri, America’s attention had turned elsewhere and al-Qaeda had slowly regained strength. Additionally, Zawahiri had recently convinced ISIL remnants in Afghanistan and Pakistan to shift allegiance to his leadership, with a goal of unifying all Islamic extremist and jihadist organizations worldwide. Zawahiri yearned for a bold strike that would demonstrate his leadership and his organization’s capabilities, convincing other groups to join the al-Qaeda network.
But even though al-Qaeda had regained strength, it still lacked the ability to inflict the type of damage done on 9/11. Not that Zawahiri didn’t have resources. He had money, but not the right people or relationships. Mixell was a man who could help. As an American, traveling under an alias and with even a minimal disguise, he could move freely through Europe and the United States and had developed the necessary relationships. But to execute his plans, Mixell needed money. The question was—how deep were Zawahiri’s pockets?
Zawahiri studied the American rising to greet him. He was adept at reading men, a trait that had kept him alive through twenty years of Western persecution. It did not take long to realize the man standing before him was a contradiction. He was staring at an infidel in Western attire, a man who could never outwardly be confused as an ally. But the man’s eyes told a different story. Within his dark pupils was a simmering hatred, a visceral desire for revenge. The man had suffered a great injustice, it seemed, and had embarked on an unwavering path of vengeance. It was this journey that Zawahiri wanted to explore further.
For his part, Mixell saw a man who wasn’t much different from himself. Although they were of different races, religions, and cultures, they were men cut from the same cloth. They shared a common enemy, albeit for different reasons. The differences were irrelevant as far as Mixell was concerned; only the common goal mattered. It was Zawahiri’s dedication to this goal—and his ability to fund it—that had drawn him in.
Zawahiri gestured to the couches. “Be seated.”
There was no need for Zahed to translate, since Zawahiri had spoken in English, and was fluent in French as well as his native Arabic.
Mixell returned to his couch as Zawahiri sat opposite him beside Zahed, while the three armed men remained in the room, standing behind Mixell. One of the women entered, offering tea to Mixell and the two men facing him, which they accepted.
After taking a sip of tea, Zawahiri said, “Congratulations, my friend,” although Mixell was certain the man did not yet consider him a friend. “You executed your task in New York well. I could not have asked for a better outcome.”
Mixell nodded his appreciation, then asked, “Do you plan to take credit for the assassination?”
“In due time. If you are successful in your next endeavor, the ambassador’s death will pale in comparison. In the meantime, I do not want to focus America’s attention on my organization any more than it already is. Let them hunt down only the man responsible for the assassination.”
“Fair enough,” Mixell replied. “Regarding this next endeavor, have you made a decision? The timeline is tight. You must authorize the first task within the next three days or the opportunity may not present itself again.”
“I will decide tonight,” Zawahiri replied. “But I have many questions that must be answered first.”
And thus, the interrogation began. Question after question regarding Mixell’s background, the events that led to his incarceration, what he had done since regaining his freedom, and his motive for assisting al-Qaeda. Throughout it all, it was clear that Zawahiri was trying to resolve the basic issue—could he trust him?
After two hours of questions and answers, Zawahiri turned to Zahed and spoke in Arabic. Mixell couldn’t understand their conversation, but sensed the tension in their words. After a few exchanges, Zawahiri spoke to Mixell.
“Step outside for a few minutes.”
As Mixell rose from the couch, the terrorist leader offered a small smile, then took another sip of tea.
This was a dangerous time, Mixell thought. The smile could mean anything.
Zawahiri’s eyes followed the American as he left the room, accompanied by the armed men. Although Mixell claimed not to understand any of the Arabic dialects, it could be a ruse, and Zawahiri wanted to discuss matters with Zahed in private.
“This American,” Zawahiri said. “I do not trust him.”
“He did as we requested,” Zahed replied, “killing the American ambassador to the United Nations to prove his loyalty and his capability.”
“That was but a single act, one that does not confirm his allegiance to the cause. It could easily be a ploy to gain our confidence.”
“Do his motivations matter?”
“It does if there is an armed drone overhead tracking his movements, waiting until the appropriate meeting has been arranged.”
“I think we’ve answered that question. You have arrived and there has been no attack.”
“The Americans are weak. They do not sacrifice their men. As long as he is with us, we are safe. It is when we go our separate ways that we are at our greatest peril.”
Zahed considered Zawahiri’s words, then replied, “I agree with you. There is no way to be certain the American can be trusted. But we are not bringing him into our inner circle. He will learn nothing about our leadership or operations. He has offered valuable services, and you risk only money. We must take what Allah provides and be grateful.”
After a moment of reflection, Zawahiri nodded his agreement. “Bring him to me.”
Mixell entered the room, returning to the couch across from the al-Qaeda leader.
“I will fund both tasks,” Zawahiri said. “As for the first, these are the targets.”
He glanced at Zahed, who pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to the American. Mixell examined the list, which matched his expectations.
“How much do you require for both tasks?” Zawahiri asked.
“What I’ve proposed is not easy to arrange,” Mixell replied. “It will be expensive to purchase the cooperation I require, as well as the equipment. I need sixty million U.S. dollars, up front, with another sixty million upon the successful completion of either task.”
Zawahiri stared at Mixell for a moment, his eyes unreadable. Finally, he said, “If you accomplish either task, I will double the sixty million due. Consider the additional funds a down payment for further work.”
Mixell nodded his understanding as Zawahiri stood and limped from the room without another word, leaving the three armed men behind.
Zahed made no move to leave, and when Mixell asked what the plan was, Zahed said tersely, “We wait.”
A half-hour later, Zahed answered his cell phone. Mixell didn’t understand what was said, but when he saw the relief on Zahed’s face, he connected the dots. Zawahiri had made it safely to his destination. There had been no drone circling above, waiting to eliminate those who had met with him.
Zahed stood. “We can go now. The required funds will be deposited into an account in the morning.”