ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT
A small beachside cafe in a quiet coastal town outside Alexandria might not seem like an obvious place to find a senior Taliban leader enjoying the morning sun. However, Mustafa Walid was not your average Taliban commander. The sixty-five-year-old had forgotten more about war than the younger Taliban would ever know. As a young man, he had studied at Cairo University, and he was there when the Soviets first entered Afghanistan. It didn’t take long for the call of the Mujahedeen to reach Egypt and he answered the call to arms, as did hundreds of other young Egyptian Muslims just like him. He dreamed only of the fight when he was younger, but ideology and principle soon gave way to a sinister version of capitalism. Forty years later and Mustafa still enjoyed the fight, except these days his weapon was information. Having risen through the ranks of the Taliban, Mustafa now controlled most of the money flowing in and out of Afghanistan – as well as another, more dangerous commodity.
Mustafa looked at the watch – a Rolex Submariner – hanging loosely on his wrist.
‘Cheque, thank you,’ he said, squinting up at the waiter who stood silhouetted against the glare. Mustafa stretched out his legs and revelled in the cool breeze coming off the calm blue ocean. His lightweight trousers, boat shoes and collared shirt gave him the appearance of a tanned English gentleman enjoying a Mediterranean vacation.
‘Certainly,’ said the portly waiter as he cleared the breakfast plate and ashtray from the table. ‘Your friends didn’t join you again this morning, sir?’
‘No, they were only here for a short holiday. They left yesterday.’ Mustafa enjoyed the clumsy enquiries of the waiter, who he knew reported back to the ever-watchful Muslim Brotherhood. They were such amateurs, Mustafa thought. Still, he would have to see to it that the waiter met with an accident sometime in the near future; no sense taking risks. A single chime from his pocket alerted him to the SMS that had just arrived on his old Nokia phone. He reached for the phone and, holding it under the table, read the message.
Holiday booking request flashed up on the screen.
Mustafa thought about the message for a time, his attention mostly focused on a small fishing boat that was making its way out of the harbour, the crew on the deck running back and forth as they prepared for the day’s fishing. After a while he turned his attention back to the phone and typed a reply.
Please send traveller details and when they would like to travel.
A message came back to Mustafa in seconds.
Traveller is a library worker from Quandha and she needs to leave soon.
Mustafa considered this. ‘Library’ was code for the CIA and Quandha was the ancient name for Kandahar. This would require a specialist and would not be cheap. The person on the other end of the message was not unknown to Mustafa and would know what was involved.
Approved pending payment, he replied.
Mustafa had barely typed the message and hit the send button before his iPhone, sitting on the table, vibrated.
HSBC: NOV 2010 – Credit Telegraphic
Transfer from 011–547********* USD 350,000
The accountant in Kabul was efficient, that much is true, thought Mustafa. He smiled and looked out at the fishing boats bobbing around gently in the sheltered port. He turned his attention from the iPhone back to the Nokia, looking up only briefly to check that the waiter was still behind the counter. Opening a new SMS, he typed out the name of a young Afghan soldier in Kandahar and pressed send.
Again, the response was instant.
Good, we will make the preparations to send them both on holidays next week.
Mustafa thumbed through his wallet and placed seventy Egyptian pounds on the table to cover his meal and morning coffee. Rising out of the blue wooden chair he set off and crossed over to the esplanade.
‘Until tomorrow then, sir?’ called the nosy waiter to Mustafa’s back as he crossed the busy road.
‘Sure, sure, of course, see you then,’ yelled Mustafa happily, followed by ‘You slimy fat prick’ under his breath. The waiter wouldn’t live to see the next sunrise, he decided. He would sort that out later today.
As Mustafa reached the other side of the road, he looked at the two old men who were using long rods to dab at the water; they gave Mustafa a cursory glance and then went back to their fishing. He walked on for another fifty metres and then pulled the old Nokia out of his pocket. He twisted the case, prising it apart with his thumbs. He dropped the battery on the ground and then threw the phone over the sea wall and into the water. He continued on another few metres and then dropped the SIM card into a drain grate as he passed over it.
Mustafa would take fifty thousand dollars for himself, two hundred thousand would go to the suicide bomber’s family on completion of the mission – setting the family up for life – and the balance would be sent forward to the Taliban commander, Mullah Omar’s, coffers. The suicide bomber would be remembered as a great martyr and the person requesting the hit would be rid of a small problem. Mustafa’s vision ten years prior of establishing a network of Pakistani teenagers all infected with HIV had now given the Taliban a remorseless weapon, but this new addition to the arsenal, the Afghan police and army members who were willing to die in the name of Allah, was going to change the war.