Chapter 2
Sana’a, Yemen
September 14, 2001
Kris sweated in the backseat of a creaking Yemeni government SUV, roaring through the capital, Sana’a. At one in the morning, the streets were deserted. Dust clung to Kris’s hair, scratched his eyes, filled his nose. Even in the middle of the night, the heat tasted like the air was burning.
Since September 11, all Americans in Yemen moved at night, under the glowering auspices of the Yemeni national police.
Clint Williams had arranged for a private CIA jet to fly him directly to Yemen. He was the only passenger. He’d spent the fifteen-hour flight reading everything the FBI had on the incarcerated al-Qaeda terrorist.
Abu Tadmir was the former bodyguard of Bin Laden and the emir, the leader, of one of the guesthouses for Arab fighters traveling to Afghanistan to join with al-Qaeda. His guesthouse was connected to the advanced tactics training camp where the hijackers had most likely received specialized instruction.
On the flight, Kris received a cable from Langley. It had been confirmed: one of the hijackers had stayed at Tadmir’s guesthouse. In fact, the hijacker was called “a friend” of the emir. They’d spent Ramadan together in 1999. They were close.
Finally, the SUV pulled up at the Yemeni federal detention facility. Two Americans in cargo pants, fleece vests, and ball caps waited inside the gates. Gold badges hung on chains around their necks.
“FBI,” his Yemeni driver grunted. He didn’t sound thrilled to see the agents.
Both FBI agents stared Kris down through the dusty windshield. They didn’t say hello as he climbed out of the SUV or came to their side.
Kris hitched his duffel higher on his shoulder. “I’m here to see Abu Tadmir.”
Nothing. It was like the FBI agents were statues.
One agent glared, his eyes narrowing to slits. “You CIA guys have anything you want to pass along? You know, anything you haven’t shared that might save lives?”
The man’s words eviscerated him, sliced him from belly to heart. Everything in him wanted to scream, to vomit, to rip his hair from his head. The names of the hijackers flashed in his mind, cartoon exclamations that followed his every footstep.
He forced his voice to remain steady. Forced steel into his spine when he just wanted to collapse and beg for forgiveness. “I am here on the orders of the president of the United States to get information from Abu Tadmir. I am here to do my job.”
The FBI agents both snorted. “You guys really did a hell of a job already.”
“I am here to help the president.” Fireballs bloomed behind his eyelids. A scream hovered on the edge of his mind. “You can either help me or you can get the fuck out of my way.”
The FBI agents shared a long look.
“The time for blame will come later,” Kris whispered. And when it came, it would come for him.
“You’re Goddamn right it will,” one of the agents said.
They grudgingly led him into the prison, a dank square building of chipped concrete and cinder block. Sandstorms had blasted the dingy mustard paint to shreds, and dust-covered bare bulbs hummed behind rusted cages. Only every other bulb was lit. Down a long hallway, two Yemeni guards waited outside a door marred with black char marks and pocked with large dents.
Kris spoke to the FBI agents’ backs. “I need to secure a confession that al-Qaeda is responsible for the attack.”
“We already know they’re responsible,” one agent snapped as they stopped.
“The president needs this for the international coalition, and to pressure the Taliban.”
“Anything else you CIA types think you can magically summon from Tadmir?” the second agent snorted.
“We need to know everything about the al-Qaeda camps in Afghanistan. Their armaments, their personnel. Capabilities, locations, numbers. Everything, for the invasion.”
“We’ve had this guy for a year. We’ve been questioning him. Everything he’s given us, we’ve sent back to Washington. He hasn’t given up much, and, no offense, but I doubt you are going to be the one to crack him.” The first agent looked him up and down, a cold glare etched on his face.
Kris bristled. Indignity pulled his shoulders back. “Things have changed since you captured him.”
“The attacks? Yeah, they made most of the jihadis jubilant. Victorious. Hardened their resolve. You’re not going to get anything.”
“I’m going to try. You can participate or not. Observe or not. I don’t fucking care. But I have my orders.”
“Well, we’ll go in after you’re done. See if we can salvage the night.” The agent shoved the door to the interrogation room open for Kris.
Abu Tadmir, whose kunya, or jihadist name, meant “father of destruction”, strolled into the interrogation room in the company of two Yemeni prison guards. He was clean, his beard trimmed, and he was fat. Tadmir was obviously doing just fine. Yemeni prison agreed with him. He wasn’t afraid.
The guards wore masks over their faces, hiding their identities, seemingly fearing Tadmir, or fearing him learning their identities.
Tadmir leached arrogance, power, intimidation. Kris had seen it all before, a world away.
Tadmir had been arrested by the Yemenis in a roundup of al-Qaeda suspects following the USS Cole bombing, at the behest of the FBI and the fusion cell working the case. He hadn’t given up much in the year he’d been behind bars.
Tadmir pulled out the rickety metal chair on his side of the interrogation table and dropped into it, slouching. Kris stayed seated, silent. He let Tadmir stare and ignored the way he grinned, laughing, dismissive.
Kris pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to Tadmir. Tadmir took one.
“As-salaam-alaikum.”
“Wa alaikum as-salaam.”
He flicked his lighter, igniting the end of Tadmir’s cigarette. After, he lit his own and took a deep inhale. “My name is Kris. I am with the CIA.” He spoke in Arabic, the words rolling off his tongue, clear and strong. Stronger than he felt.
Tadmir arched one eyebrow. “You speak God’s language?” he asked in Arabic.
“Nam.” Yes.
“Yet you are an infidel?”
“Nam.”
“I will not speak to you in Allah’s language.” He switched to English. It was stilted, halting.
Kris followed him into English. “How are you? You look well.”
Tadmir grinned. He puffed on his cigarette. “Very good. I am very good.”
“I want to check. You are Abu Tadmir, al-Qaeda member and former bodyguard of Osama Bin Laden. Emir of the guesthouse, the House of Leaves, near Tarnak Farms?”
Tadmir smiled again. “I am Abu Tadmir.” Pride shone in his eyes. “Of course I am he.”
Over the past year, Tadmir had only confirmed, through questioning, all information the FBI had been able to gather about him from interrogations of other al-Qaeda operatives, captured al-Qaeda documents, and intercepted communications.
The file stated he admitted information he knew only after being called out in a lie, an arduous process of questioning, challenging, and then, finally, his admission. Back-and-forth, fact-based, closed questions had led to multiple dead ends when the intel the FBI knew simply dried up.
He had to try a different angle. “So, why join al-Qaeda? Why become a jihadi?”
“It is the duty of every Muslim to wage jihad. To fight for Islam. To defend Islam, when invaders and occupiers attack Muslims and take Muslim land. Islam also calls for the end of tyranny, as the Prophet—peace be upon him, all blessings and glory are his—showed in his example. We fight all oppression of Muslims. In Bosnia, in Chechnya, in Afghanistan against the Soviets, against Israel… and against you.”
Tadmir’s eyes gleamed. Kris filed that away as he took a drag of his cigarette. Tadmir enjoyed the spotlight. He enjoyed having an audience. “Where is the oppression?”
Tadmir threw his head back, laughing. Ash dropped from the end of his cigarette. “Where is the oppression? Oh, you are funny. You are a funny man. Muslim holy lands are under oppression. Occupied by filthy Saudi royals who are just puppets for your West. Infidels walk on the holy land of Arabia. Israel, and her Western supporters, attack Muslims every day.” Tadmir switched to Arabic, seemingly not even noticing. “Throughout this century, Muslim lands have been invaded time and again. By soldiers. By the Soviet Union in Afghanistan, by Russia in Chechnya. Americans in the holy lands, fighting Saddam. We could have fought him! We did not need any infidels on our land! But that is what you do. You invade, everywhere. Western culture, Western ideas, Western innovations. We cannot look at the world and see anything but your invasion. This is why Bin Laden issued his fatwa. To liberate the oppressed.”
“America also wants to liberate the oppressed. That’s what we try to do. Did we not help Bin Laden expel the Soviets from Afghanistan?”
Abu Tadmir blew smoke into Kris’s face.
Kris didn’t wave it away. “We want to be a force for good in the world. To help the oppressed. Like it says in the Quran. No man is free if one man is oppressed.”
“You Americans want to be ‘a force for good’. But all the world sees is force.” Tadmir sat back, sucking his cigarette between two fingers. “Only Muslims can save other Muslims. Infidels cannot save Muslims. Besides, you are only interfering in Muslim revolutions. Leave us alone. We will make our own way in the world.”
“How can we leave you alone if you declare war on us?”
“The war can end if you leave the holy lands of the Arabian Peninsula and submit to Islam.”
“Americans are not all going to convert to Islam.” Kris shook his head, smiling.
“Then the war will continue.”
“How is this war, this jihad, fought? You kill anyone? Everyone?”
“No, no.” Tadmir waved his hand, his cigarette wagging through the air. “There are rules to jihad. It must be declared. Bin Laden declared war upon the infidels. He told you how to settle the war. What to do to surrender.”
“Yes, convert to Islam, leave Saudi Arabia.”
“Nam.” Tadmir reached for a new cigarette. Kris had left the pack and the lighter in the center of the table.
Kris leaned back, crossing his legs. He took a drag, frowning. He wanted Tadmir to believe he was thinking hard about what he was saying. Let Tadmir believe he had the upper hand. “Okay, so tell me about tactics in jihad. Who can be targeted?”
“It is war. Jihad targets soldiers. Warriors. Governments. Those who are guilty.”
“Like the embassies in Nairobi and Tanzania? American government buildings?”
“Nam.”
“But there were women and children who died in that attack. Some of them were Muslims.”
“Bombings and martyrdom operations are the weapons we are given in this great war. You have your missiles. We have our bombs. And, in all wars, there are casualties. Sacrifices must be made. Allah will accept these deaths as holy martyrs for the faith. He will reward them in Paradise. Any innocent Muslims will receive the rewards of jihad, as if they were martyring themselves. Their lives are given for the greater cause of jihad.”
“I’m not sure they’d see it that way.”
“They will be delighted in Paradise. What is the problem?”
“How many innocent lives is too many? When does what you’re doing become murder?”
“Murder is not acceptable.” Tadmir frowned, as if Kris had insulted him. “I am not a murderer. Casualties happen in war. But murder, taking innocent lives? That is forbidden.”
Kris blinked. He flicked ash on the table. “Tell me about your friends. Your fellow al-Qaeda fighters. I want to know them. Understand them, like you’re explaining yourself to me.”
Tadmir smiled wide. “You see, I will show you the truth. You will believe.”
Kris smiled back. He pulled a binder out of his bag and opened it up. Pages of pictures, headshots taken from passports and driver’s licenses and ID cards around the world, appeared. “Your friends in al-Qaeda. These are their pictures.”
Tadmir looked over the first page. He frowned. “No, I do not know these people.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Okay, maybe him.” Tadmir pointed to one of the senior commanders, a man he’d already admitted to knowing in the FBI’s files. “I recognize his face. But I do not know his name.”
“Are you certain?”
Tadmir looked up, over the pictures. His eyes glittered. “Of course I am certain.”
“Four months ago, you told my friend that this man is Abu Hafs, Bin Laden’s trusted military advisor. Now you lie to my face? How can I trust you?” Kris laid it on thick, shaking his head and leaning back. Image was important, deeply important, to Arabian cultures and to Muslims. Honor and one’s word were often all an individual had. Being called out as a liar was a stinging insult that left a deep cut of shame.
He’d use that. He’d use that all day long.
“Okay, I am sorry.” Tadmir ducked his head, his cheeks flushing. “You are right. I do know that man.”
“You are only admitting to things you think I already know. Abu Tadmir, I know everything. You have no idea which of your friends I have spoken to, who I have already arrested. Do you think I came to talk to you, all the way from America, because I know nothing? I want to trust you, but you make it difficult. How can I respect you when you lie to my face?”
“Okay, okay. Let me see the book again.” Tadmir pulled the book close, studying picture after picture, shaking his head.
Kris waited, forcing himself to breathe slowly as Tadmir lit another cigarette. Ash filled his nose, his mouth. Echoes of shrieks hung in the silence, clashing like cymbals in his brain.
Tadmir was about to turn the page, move on to the next, when Kris slapped his palm down on the tabletop. “You lie to me again!”
“What?”
“You claim you do not know this man!” Kris pointed to one of the pictures, a small passport photo of a half-smiling Arab near the bottom third of the sheet. The man had glasses and a goatee and looked like a computer programmer. “You truly expect me to believe you do not know Abu Mahraj? The man you spent Ramadan with in 1999? You broke your fast with him every day, sharing your dates and yogurt. And yet you lie to me?”
Tadmir flushed deeper. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I do know him.”
“He is your friend?”
“Nam.”
“You are both in al-Qaeda together?”
Kris stared into Tadmir’s eyes. Abu Mahraj, whose real name was Marwan al-Shehhi, was the lead hijacker of United Airlines Flight 175. The names of the hijackers hadn’t been released to the public yet. Tadmir had no idea.
“This man is also your friend.” Kris pointed to another photo. An unsmiling, square-jawed Egyptian with cold, dark eyes.
“Awag al-Sayyid.” Tadmir bobbed his head. “He was very serious. He was with Abu Mahraj, and they were friends. But I did not like that he never smiled.”
The serious man with the cold eyes, the picture Kris touched, was Mohamed Atta, hijacker of American Airlines Flight 11, which had slammed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center at 8:46 AM, three days before. He wanted to recoil, shake his hand until the evil of Atta left him, shake him off like he could shake off a bad dream.
“When did you last speak with your friends?”
“After Ramadan, they were away training for some time. Training with the Sheikh.”
“Training with Bin Laden?”
“Nam.” Tadmir seemed proud, and he smiled as he blew smoke toward Kris. “I was happy for Abu Mahraj. He seemed happy. We did not talk about it, though. He left Afghanistan, and I came to Yemen on my own mission for the Sheikh. But I was arrested, and I have not spoken to Abu Mahraj since then.”
A year. He hadn’t spoken to al-Shehhi in a year. But the training had happened before that, in 1999. Kris’s heart pounded. His breath sped up. All he could smell, all he could taste, was ash and flame.
“Have you heard about what happened in New York City and Washington?”
Tadmir hesitated. “Nam.”
“Do you know that thousands and thousands of civilians died in those attacks?” The death toll was still rising. Maybe it wouldn’t ever be known. Kris swallowed back vomit. It tasted like ash. He stubbed out his cigarette. The towers tumbled like blocks every time he blinked.
Tadmir took a long drag of his cigarette. He nodded. “You have only yourselves to blame for Muslim hatred. Your foreign policy, your occupation of Muslim lands, your support of Israel.”
“So you support the attacks?”
Another long drag. “No. Those attacks were not allowed under jihad. No Shura council would authorize that. Those are a crime. Murder. Anyone who knows jihad knows they were not allowable. Civilians are not to be targeted.” He frowned. “Clearly, this shows those attacks were the work of Israel and the Americans, framing Muslims.”
Kris stopped breathing. “How so?”
“To justify the invasion of more Muslim land. Where will you invade next? If you try to take Afghanistan, the mujahedeen will rise and they will slaughter you like they slaughtered the Soviets.”
“I know who committed the attacks.” Kris’s voice was calm, soft. Almost a whisper.
“Then why are you here? Go chase them! Why bother me?” Tadmir scoffed.
“I am chasing who committed the attacks.”
“You are not! You are bothering me!” Tadmir waved his hand, as if trying to shoo Kris away.
“You committed the attacks.”
“What?”
“Al-Qaeda is responsible for the deaths of thousands and thousands of people. Innocent lives. Civilians.”
“No—”
“Al-Qaeda hijacked these planes.”
“No—”
“Al-Qaeda murdered all those people.”
“No!” Tadmir slammed both hands down on the table. Cigarette ash went flying. “What kind of Muslim would do such a thing? The Sheikh would not! He is not like you Americans!”
“I know that al-Qaeda committed these attacks. I know it.”
Tadmir snarled, “How? What proof do you have?”
“I was told al-Qaeda did it.”
“By who?”
“You.”
Silence.
Kris pulled a manila folder from his bag and laid out nineteen photos. He placed Marwan al-Shehhi and Mohamed Atta’s photos right in front of Tadmir.
Tadmir’s eyes were wide, so round and huge Kris could see whites all around his dark irises. His gaze flicked from the photos to Kris and back, lingering on al-Shehhi.
“These are the hijackers who murdered thousands.” He tapped al-Shehhi’s photo. “Your friend flew United Airlines 175 into the South Tower in Manhattan.”
Tadmir’s jaw dropped. All the oxygen seemed to disappear, sucked out of the tiny, drab interrogation room. Shock poured from Tadmir, and he stared down at al-Shehhi’s photo as he shook his head, over and over, his mouth hanging open. “How… how is this possible?”
“You tell me. You’re al-Qaeda.”
“Not like this… Allah forgive me, not like this. This is not what I believe in. The Sheikh… he’s gone crazy.”
“These men, they are all al-Qaeda?”
“Yes, all of them. I recognize them all. They were at my guesthouse near Tarnak Farms…” Tears welled in his eyes. One hand reached for al-Shehhi’s photo, his quivering fingers touching the image as if he could touch al-Shehhi’s face so gently. “Why?” he whispered.
Kris stayed silent. His heart raced, pounding out a bassline drumbeat in his mind, hard enough to crack his skull. Blood burned in his veins. Ash filled his nose, his eyes, his lungs, searing everything until he could taste the flames, the jet fuel dripping through the Twin Towers’ superstructure, could feel the singe on his own soul. Across from him, Tadmir wept for the friend he’d lost, and Kris tasted the bitterness of failure and shame.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Tadmir wiped his eyes, blinking. “I am sorry,” he said slowly. “This is not right. It is not what I believe. They were supposed to fight in Israel, in Chechnya. Against soldiers. Governments. Not this. So I will help you. What do you need from me?”
“Everything.”
The FBI agents, who’d been watching the interrogation on closed-circuit TVs, joined him. Together they asked Tadmir for details about the hijackers, their time at the al-Qaeda training camps, their connections to Bin Laden.
Tadmir gave them everything.
He smoked the entire pack of cigarettes, and his eyes kept straying to al-Shehhi’s photo. He shook his head, every time, and then launched into describing al-Qaeda’s defenses and marked on the map where he knew the Taliban had entrenched their own defensive positions.
After twelve hours of listening to Tadmir spill his soul, Kris ducked out. His hands were shaking, his legs, his whole body. He held himself up, one hand on the wall, as he walked toward a dingy window. He had to call Washington.
Williams picked up on the third ring. The satellite connection was scratchy, as if Williams were more than just a world away. “Kris, great job. Really great stuff. Thatcher and I are on the way to the White House to brief the president. Come home. Fly back to DC right away. We need you for what’s coming next.”