72

MALLORCA, SPAIN —6 DECEMBER

Dr. Ali Haqqani woke before dawn, dressed, and took a pill to calm his nerves.

Then he packed and headed to the airport. He had never been to Israel, and the Pakistani was terrified. He had been given a new name, an elaborate cover story, new credit cards, and a fake passport, all designed to transform him into a wealthy, retired physician from New Delhi —a Christian and a widower —traveling to places he had always read about but never imagined actually seeing with his own eyes.

Hamdi Yaşar had thought of everything, or so he said. Yet Haqqani feared his nerves would betray him. He was not a Christian, of course. Indeed, he was a devout Muslim who considered Christianity a polytheistic religion of pagan dogs. He certainly did not live in the capital of his Indian enemies. He was, unfortunately, a widower, and this, perversely, gave him a shred of hope that he could pull this thing off. He’d studied Christianity and India. He could spout off all kinds of facts and statistics to any border guard who asked him. But his trump card was that he could well up with tears at a moment’s notice at the thought of his dearly departed wife. It was no act. It was the cloud that hung over him every day. Were it not for having been recruited by Kairos to wage jihad against the Jews and the Christians, he could not imagine having the wherewithal to get out of bed each day.

Haqqani boarded Iberia Airlines flight 3917 without incident and sat in first class. The plane lifted off from Palma de Mallorca at 6:30 a.m. On the flight, the pill began to have its effect. Haqqani dozed off easily and was surprised how quickly the ninety minutes to Madrid passed. With a layover of nearly an hour and a half, he bought a newspaper and tried to read it over a leisurely breakfast of soft-boiled eggs and black coffee. Now he thought the pill had been too effective. He was having trouble concentrating. He drank three more cups of coffee. Then, checking his phone and finding no new instructions, he nervously walked to his new gate, cleared through a second security check, and boarded El Al Airlines flight 396.

He spent most of the four-and-a-half-hour flight trying to sleep or holed up in the restroom. Finally, at 3:05 p.m. local time, the Boeing 737-900 touched down in Tel Aviv. Haqqani, a ball of nerves, entered the terminal terrified of being singled out for interrogation. But as it happened, his flight arrived just after two jumbo jets from the U.S. filled with American tourists. Passport control was a beehive of activity, the day after the Jewish Sabbath. He showed his passport but was asked no questions. To his astonishment, he soon had an entry visa, had collected his luggage, and was hailing a taxi.

“The American Colony Hotel,” he told the driver, and before he knew it, they were roaring up Highway 1 for the Holy City.

Haqqani sat in stunned amazement as he looked out the windows on the drive. He could not believe how green and fertile the land was and how many thousands upon thousands of trees he could see. He had always pictured Palestine as a vast desert. Where was the sand? Where were all the camels? None of what he saw could be reconciled to the images he had been raised with. Hadn’t Allah cursed the Jews? Where, then, were the barren wastelands, the piles of refuse, the orphans plagued by flies, the beggars covered in sores?

Up, up, up the taxi climbed into the hills surrounding Jerusalem. Not only were Haqqani’s ears popping with the pressure change, but he found himself more disoriented with every mile. The Jewish towns and villages and the homes they contained were so many and so beautiful. Everywhere he looked he saw construction cranes. New apartments and office buildings were being erected. Even the Muslim villages looked prosperous and bustling with commerce. Every minaret he saw —and he saw so many —confused him all the more. He’d heard there were many Muslims living as citizens in the so-called Jewish state, but he’d imagined them all oppressed and in hiding. He’d never considered the possibility that the followers of Muhammad, peace be upon him, could build their own mosques and worship freely.

Soon, Haqqani reached the American Colony and paid the driver. The moment the cab drove away, however, rather than check into the hotel, he walked down to the main street and hailed another cab, just as he’d been instructed. This one he took to the David Citadel Hotel, a ride of about fifteen minutes. Yet when he arrived and paid this driver, he again failed to enter the hotel and check in. Instead, he hailed a third cab to the Seven Arches Hotel, atop the Mount of Olives.

Twenty minutes later, Haqqani was dropped off for the third time. He nearly wept as he exited the cab and found himself staring down across a valley at the Haram al-Sharif, the gleaming gold Dome of the Rock and the glorious Al-Aqsa Mosque —the Mosque in the Corner to which Muhammad, peace be upon him, had ridden on his Night Journey to heaven. Never in his wildest dreams had the Pakistani physician ever expected to be there in person, and the scene was more beautiful than he could possibly have anticipated.

Fortunately, he’d remembered to text his handler that he was en route, and moments later, a rusty gray Mazda sedan pulled up. The driver engaged him in a series of prearranged code words, and only when the two men were convinced of the other’s identity did Haqqani get into the car.

They did not drive far. To the Pakistani’s surprise, the car slowed down about a thousand feet from the hotel and pulled through a steel gate and into a garage underneath a three-level compound overlooking the Kidron Valley and the city of al-Quds.

“Welcome, habibi, I am so grateful you made it safely,” said an impeccably dressed man in a finely tailored British suit as Haqqani climbed out of the sedan. “What a joy it is —truly, an honor —to finally meet such a hero of the revolution. You have been in my prayers, day and night, for months. Come inside and settle in. We have prepared everything for your comfort and gathered all the supplies you requested.”

The two men embraced, yet Haqqani couldn’t hide his confusion. “You are most kind,” he replied. “But I’m sorry —what was your name again?”

“Ah, forgive me. I know you so well. I have followed your work so closely. But I forget that you and I have only communicated by email and that my face you have never seen. Allow me to introduce myself properly. My name is Mohammad al-Qassab.”