Agent Storm: My Life Inside al-Qaeda (32 page)

As Awlaki had requested, I showed her how to send encrypted email using the Mujahideen Secrets encryption software.

‘Does this mean I’m part of the mujahideen?’ she asked me with an intense look.

‘Yes, sister, it does,’ I replied.

She had tears in her eyes. ‘I’m a mujahida,’ she whispered, trembling.

I relayed details of the encounter that same evening in a hotel suite in Copenhagen.

George, the local CIA station chief, was delighted.

‘We’ll pass on the information to Washington and see what the next step will be.’

The British had still not given up hope of diverting me from the mission. In the second half of March I was invited to join my British contacts at the Ice Hotel in the far north of Sweden: a palace of wonders carved entirely out of ice and snow.

Several of my handlers came along: my MI5 handlers Andy and
Kevin, and Emma in her element, decked out in a chic ski outfit and moon boots. Klang, never one to miss a party, also came along. But no Americans were invited.

We went dog sledding through the powdery snow, zoomed around on the ice on four-wheel-drive cars and raced snowmobiles.

The British didn’t discuss Aminah with me during the trip. Perhaps they thought it would have been too obvious and vulgar, perhaps they were wary of Klang. They knew Danish intelligence and the Americans had invested in the Aminah gambit. I think they hoped that after bonding with them in the northern snows I would reconsider.

But the Aminah mission had too much momentum now.

On a spring day in 2010 I was queuing at the check-in at Birmingham airport to catch a flight to Copenhagen for another Aminah planning mission, when I received a call.

It was Kevin, my MI5 handler. He knew where I was.

‘Morten, if you travel now, you have to realize we are not going to see each other again,’ he said.

I stepped away from the check-in counter. To the British, I had chosen the wrong side, and it was a terminal decision.

‘I just want to say we had a fantastic time together,’ Kevin continued with obvious sincerity. ‘We’ve done such good work. It’s really sad to see this happening but you know it’s a bureaucracy and we can’t do anything about it.’

MI5 and MI6 were cutting their ties to me.

I was restless on the flight to Copenhagen. I had grown close to Kevin, Andy, Emma, Sunshine and my other British handlers. The UK was my adopted homeland; and they seemed to understand me better than the Danes. But the break was complete. The Danes told me the Brits had mandated I could no longer open any emails from Awlaki on British soil. From then on I was forced to travel to Copenhagen to check for messages from the cleric.

I had little time to dwell on my divorce from MI5 and MI6. After reaching Copenhagen I was driven to a holiday villa on the southern shore of the Roskilde Fjord, some twenty-five miles west of Copenhagen.

Jed told me that I would need to purchase a suitcase for Aminah.

‘Isn’t that a bit risky – isn’t she just going to think that’s weird?’ I asked.

I came up with an alternative. I would ask Awlaki what Aminah should bring. If she saw the request had come from him there was no way she would be suspicious.

Jed also showed me a wooden cosmetic case they wanted me to give Aminah. He didn’t need to say there was a tracking device embedded somewhere. But it seemed to be inviting trouble.

Klang thought so too.

‘There’s no way we’re going to let you hand her this; if someone drops it and discovers the transponder you’ll be fucked,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I can’t believe the Americans. They just don’t think.’

On 21 April, just before flying to Vienna, I received a reply from Awlaki.

‘She shouldn’t have more than a medium-sized suitcase and a carry-on bag. She should also have on her some cash just in case … She should have with her at least $3k. Also the ticket needs to be round trip just in case she runs into any unexpected problems at the airport.’

Awlaki was expecting me to raise the money through mosques in the UK.

Awlaki’s attention to the smallest detail was extraordinary, especially as just three weeks earlier it had been widely reported the Obama administration had designated him for what was known as ‘targeted killing’. The
New York Times
had reported that the White House had taken ‘the extremely rare if not unprecedented’ step of
approving the assassination
of Awlaki despite his being an American citizen because he was now regarded as actively involved in terror plots.

Jed and George were pleased with Awlaki’s reply. Another hurdle had been overcome, and their project might be the first to put the cleric in the crosshairs. They emailed me, using an encryption tool and referring to Awlaki as ‘Hook’ – one of his nicknames among jihadis.

‘Our conversations about what the Hook might advise for her travel appears to have paid off! … We suggest you can use the Hook’s guidance as a reason to give the sister the suitcase … pls tell the sister that the hook wants her to have 3000 dollars … this is perfect cover for your next trip to see her. have a safe trip and good luck, your brothers.’

It was one of the very few occasions the CIA left a paper trail, however coded the language.

On a breezy spring afternoon I met Aminah in a park in Vienna and strolled with her to a Turkish restaurant. I told her about Awlaki’s suitcase requirements and that he had entrusted me with securing funds for her trip.

Alex flew in from Washington for the debriefing in Roskilde the next day. Apart from Soren, who sat with us, the Danish agents mostly hovered nearby, bringing us coffee and snacks from the kitchen: that said it all about the pecking order.

‘It’s time for the love messages,’ Alex said. Awlaki had sent me a recording for Aminah several weeks previously and had requested Aminah record a video of herself before travelling. Jed fished out a camcorder from his bag and slid it across the table.

It was also time to buy a suitcase.

‘We need to know the exact type, colour, everything,’ Jed said. He suggested a Samsonite model. No doubt it would be substituted for an identical one with a tracking device at the airport when she left for Yemen.

There was a tension in the air. Gone were the attempts at camaraderie, the flashes of humour. There was a lot riding on this. Occasionally, Alex would slip out of the villa and down to the jetty – out of earshot. I could see him gesticulating as he barked into his mobile phone. Orders to be obeyed, no doubt. Jed seemed to be smoking more frequently. But I was worried that in their rush to see this mission through, the CIA would miss crucial details.

The Americans had been unhappy that – on my own initiative – on my previous trip to Vienna I had taken Aminah to a McDonald’s rather than the bar/restaurant they had carefully staked out.

‘This time when we ask you to do something we expect you to do it,’ Alex snapped.

‘I didn’t think it was logical,’ I retorted, annoyed by his arrogance. But I refused to get drawn into an argument.

I sat down to draft Awlaki an email, referring to the
New York Times
article about the approval of targeted killing.

‘May Allah curse the Americans for this – the filthy Kuffar pigs,’ I wrote, as a true jihadi might.

As Alex read the draft, a frown hardened on his oversized forehead.

‘You can’t say that – it’s just not acceptable,’ he said.

To my amazement, it was Anders who spoke next.

‘You know what? That’s the way we have always done it. We Danes like to do it our own way,’ he said acidly.

Alex turned round to face the young Dane but Anders stared back. Without a word Alex got up and walked through the open French windows into the garden.

Later Klang beckoned me into the kitchen: ‘Don’t worry about it, Morten – we’ll just change back the language when our friend leaves.’

But I had another dilemma – one that my handlers in their blissful ignorance of Salafist necessities had overlooked. I could not invite Aminah into some hotel room in Vienna and film her without a veil. It would seriously call into question my religious credentials. There was, however, one possibility.

By now, Fadia and I had moved from Birmingham to the nearby city of Coventry. Raleigh Road was considerably more appealing than Alum Rock in Birmingham, a street of neat pre-war terraced houses. I arrived home from Roskilde with money in my pocket, courtesy of another fictional stint on a Danish construction site, and began laying the foundations of my plan as we prepared dinner one evening.

‘Darling, you remember Sheikh Anwar told me he was looking for a Western wife? Well, I found him one, on Facebook. She’s from Croatia.’

She was surprised.

‘A Western woman who wants to go to Shabwa? How would she survive?’

‘She’s really serious; she’s mad about the Sheikh. So I need to tell you something. I had to go to Vienna to meet her. He asked me to.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ Fadia asked. She was both hurt by the deceit and suspicious about my meeting a young Croatian woman in a far-off city.

‘I didn’t want you involved. Some Western governments think Anwar is a terrorist. And it happened very suddenly.’

Luckily, Fadia rarely followed the news and had no idea that Awlaki was now targeted for assassination by the US.

I looked at her. Those dark almond eyes were glistening with tears.

‘Sometimes I feel I don’t know you,’ she said.

‘I am sorry. But here’s an idea. Anwar wants me to go back again to record a video of her, so he can see her. I can’t go alone. You know it is forbidden by our religion that I should see a woman who is not related to me on my own in a private place. As the Prophet said: “
Never is a man alone with a woman except that Satan is the third party with them.”’

Fadia seemed relieved that my Salafist code excluded the possibility of extramarital misbehaviour.

‘So,’ I continued after a long pause, ‘would you come with me? I would feel my honour preserved and you could help set her at ease. It would be a huge favour for Anwar. And then we can have some time in Vienna together.’

The sales pitch worked.

On 27 April we flew to Vienna. I had calculated that even with Awlaki’s new profile, being involved in sending him a video of a prospective wife did not amount to ‘material support for terrorism’. In any case, Fadia would – unwittingly – be assisting in tracking down a wanted man. We took a room in a modest hotel in central Vienna. Aminah arrived wearing large trendy sunglasses and a black hijab. I introduced her to Fadia and said that as a good Muslim I could not have met her alone in a private place. Thankfully they warmed to each other very quickly. Aminah even seemed reassured by Fadia’s presence.

I asked her again whether she was sure she wanted to marry Awlaki. I needed this to be her call.

The promise of a quarter of a million dollars to act as matchmaker had given me qualms. What was my real motive now – to prevent terror or make money? I sensed the plan was to target Awlaki in a missile strike once he was united with his new wife, and it made me feel uneasy.

On my laptop I showed her the fifty-second video clip Awlaki had recorded. The cleric was dressed in a white tunic and wore around his head a copper-coloured scarf layered like a bandana over a traditional
white
ghuthra
. He was sitting in front of a pink background with a floral motif. The trouble he had gone to was almost touching. He occasionally reached up to adjust his spectacles as he spoke. His tone was a seductive version of his video sermons.

‘This recording is done specifically for Sister Aminah at her request and the brother who is carrying this recording is a trustworthy brother, the brother that is communicating with you.

‘I pray that Allah guides you to that which is best for you … and guides you to choose what is better for you regarding this proposal.’

He also asked her to send him a recorded message.

At first Aminah smiled at these words, and then her eyes began to shine. She was overwhelmed by such familiarity with a man she revered.

Fadia stood behind the camera and told her gently to try to relax. Aminah, with only her face visible, addressed the cleric in a soft halting voice, swallowing her words nervously like a teenager with stagefright.

‘I just want to tell you that right now I feel nervous and this is very awkward for me so I will just tape this just so you can see how I look and just to know I’m okay. I will accept everything what is needed to do now this way that I have chosen … I will send you another message, a private, private message –
Insha’Allah
.’

That was my cue to leave them and leave the room. On the second recording Aminah was a woman transformed. She took off her veil and her blonde hair tumbled down over her black blouse. A clip held back shorter layers – making her seem, not accidentally, much younger. She had coquettishly applied a little mascara and lip gloss. It was seduction by video.

‘Brother, this is me without the headscarf so you can see my hair. I described it to you before. So now you’ve seen me without it and I hope you will be pleased with it –
Insha’Allah
,’ she said, tilting her head to one side.

She ended with a halting Arabic salutation that she must have practised for days.

When she had finished recording the private message with Fadia, I handed Aminah the suitcase – a grey hard-top Samsonite. ‘This is the one Sheikh Anwar recommended,’ I said. She was trembling.

Fadia embraced her and said she should contact her through me if she needed anything or advice on being a wife in Yemen.

Three weeks later, I met Aminah in a McDonald’s near the Yemeni embassy in Vienna. I gave her the $3,000 in cash which supposedly came from ‘the brothers’ in England but in fact was from the US Treasury.

I had shown her how to apply for a course at the Sana’a Institute for Arabic Language. At some point Awlaki’s intermediaries would come to fetch his new bride. ‘The Sheikh says you should take off your hijab before entering the embassy,’ I told her.

Awlaki’s instructions were for her to go to the embassy unveiled so as not to create suspicion. He also wanted her to put on Western clothing for her journey to Yemen. He had even issued a fatwa for me to pass on granting her permission. The need not to arouse suspicion trumped religious rules.