Agent Storm: My Life Inside al-Qaeda (37 page)

Back in the house, my hands shaking, I inserted the thumb drive into my laptop, loaded the Mujahideen Secrets encryption software, and began reading.

‘I did receive the flash you sent me,’ he wrote, adding that it was ‘fine if you don’t want to use Abdul’ for future messages.

Awlaki continued: ‘3 things: If you email me please write down the date on all your messages. Second, keep in mind that it takes a few days for emails to get to me so if you are setting an appointment then give me advance notice. Third: you do not need to write “to the sheikh” when you email Inspire. Anything from your email will be delivered to me.

‘Please respond to this message with what you want to say and give it to the brother,’ the cleric wrote.

‘This brother may be the messenger between us for now. One IMPORTANT note: The brother does not know that he is delivering messages for me and he doesn’t know where I am so do not mention that this message is for me. Just give it to him and he will deliver it where it needs to be delivered and will get to me insha Allah.’

Awlaki was employing a ‘cut-out’ to get his message to me. It was a classic technique. If the young Maribi were captured or followed he could not immediately lead the Americans to Awlaki. He was just one link in a chain and had no idea where the next courier would be going.

‘For future correspondence I believe it would be better if your wife delivers the flash to the brother,’ Awlaki wrote to me. ‘It’s up to you but I believe that you would definitely be watched and that might put you and the brother in jeopardy … The brother says it is not safe for him to enter sanaa frequently. So please mention all what you need to say in the message you send me.’

So much detailed guidance on security told me that Awlaki feared being betrayed and was aware just how important he had become. So he had insisted on several chains of custody.

‘Please let me know what your program is and the latest news from the west,’ he wrote. And he had this request: ‘My wife needs some stuff from sanaa so can your wife buy it for her? We have sent other people before and nothing really suited her taste.’

The cleric had attached a message from Aminah for Fadia:

‘I miss my family big time. Insha’Allah I hope one day I will see them. You probably wonder how I am doing here. I am fine alhamdidullah. Now after one year I did get used on condition we are living but restrictions we have just make our lives complicated … I am learning every day. I did learn to cook some Yemeni meals.’

Her shopping list had little to do with improving her Yemeni cooking.

‘Please send us chocolate inside, Lindtt different flavor – 100g, Kinder Bueno 10 pc, Ferrero Roche. And I would like a parfume. It’s Dolce&Gabbana – Light blue. Box is beautiful sky blue color.’

She really must miss home, I thought.

Then came a very different shopping list – one which must have
been influenced by her husband. Taking Fadia to meet her in Vienna the previous year had turned out to be a useful move. Aminah had some detailed requests for her – clothes and other feminine requirements that I could not possibly have entertained as an upstanding Salafist. ‘I give up of Yemeni clothes. All I have I don’t like and it is too hot to wear it. Fabrics are not good, synthetic, it’s just horrible.

‘Please if you can find some European clothes. I miss it so much,’ she wrote. ‘Dresses should be long, without sleeves … fabric should be light, non-transparent … and if you can find denim mini skirt – tight and very short.

‘Next I need 10 packages of feminine pads …’

And so the list went on.

I pulled out my Danish iPhone and called up Klang, my PET handler, who was thousands of miles away in Denmark. ‘The Agriculture Minister has replied, and he has a message for me,’ I said.

‘Whaaaat?’ Klang replied, not remembering our code name for the cleric. (Awlaki’s father had been Yemen’s Minister for Agriculture.)

‘Holy shit! This is big,’ he exclaimed. We continued the conversation in a Danish dialect we were sure no one in Yemen – or even the US National Security Agency – could understand.

‘Listen, we should meet soon in a warm place,’ Klang said at the end of the call.

I wrote a short reply for Awlaki, shut down my laptop and hurried to the stores. I did not buy everything the cleric and his wife had asked for; in any case the ‘luxury’ stores in Sana’a were a pitiful sight. It was also important that they (especially Aminah) should need to stay in touch for other items. I then went to the al-Hamra restaurant to give the bags and the message to the courier.

When I got there he was outside, chewing khat, addictive leaves consumed by the large majority of Yemeni men which produces a ‘high’ not dissimilar to amphetamines or a quadruple espresso laced with tequila.

‘I couldn’t find everything but I’m going back to Europe soon and will buy the other stuff there,’ I told him. I placed the $300 into his hands. ‘I can’t accept this. Please make sure it gets back to where it needs to,’ I said.

‘I will,’ he replied. He rushed off into the evening.

The next day I sent Awlaki an encrypted email through
Inspire
as he had instructed, to re-establish online communication.

‘Please find a new courier,’
I wrote to him: ‘The guy you sent was chewing khat and this is not something I appreciate.’

Awlaki had previously expressed to me his frustration that so many of his compatriots were addicted to khat. My disapproval would please him as well as show that I was serious about operational security.

Al-Qaeda in Yemen generally frowned on the narcotic but tolerated its consumption in areas they controlled because there was no specific injunction in Islam against it – and because they knew stamping it out would be a fast ticket to losing support. Some of their suicide bombers had even died with
khat-filled cheeks
.

Shortly afterwards an encrypted email came back with a new request: hexamine briquettes and a fridge (most likely for storing explosives), a Leatherman knife and all-terrain sandals. In the same message Aminah suggested that when things were a little calmer my wife and I should come to visit them. Despite a year in Yemen, Aminah still suffered from chronic naivety.

As usual I immediately pasted the message into a draft email account I shared with Danish intelligence so they could read it straight away.

It was time for me to file an interim report. On 28 June I left Sana’a for Malaga in Spain – the ‘warm place’ Klang had promised. I had a renewed sense of purpose. My old tradecraft had not deserted me. I had arrived in the midst of an uprising and still, within a month, had established contact with Awlaki and confirmed his trust in me.

Against all expectations we now had one of the world’s most dangerous men firmly in our sights, and for all the billions the Americans poured into their intelligence services, our tiny Danish outfit was leading the way. But I told myself not to get carried away. The Aminah mission had failed; and arrogance begets mistakes.

True to form, Klang had picked Malaga more for his own pleasure than my comfort.

‘Akhi – what have you done? This is great!’ he exclaimed as I came
out of the arrivals hall. Akhi, which means ‘brother’ in Arabic, was the nickname that PET had recently given me. Klang was sporting mirrored sunglasses, chinos and a polo shirt with a giant Ralph Lauren logo. In contrast Jesper, the frail former banker, had rather worn jeans and a cotton shirt.

In a Costa del Sol hotel I sat down with the Danes in a quiet, shady corner of the poolside restaurant. Soren and Anders looked tanned.

‘You’ve made Big Brother very happy – this is a huge deal for them,’ Klang told me, after we ordered club sandwiches. Apparently I had also made Danish intelligence happy – to the extent that they had sent no fewer than four representatives to Malaga to greet me.

I quickly found out why.

The Americans are willing to give you five million dollars if you lead them to Awlaki,’ Jesper said.

‘I understand,’ I replied, scarcely believing.

They had not been lying about the ‘very significant sum’ and were clearly desperate to find Awlaki. I imagined the White House was now taking an active interest in the pursuit of the man who had become arguably the biggest threat to the West. The sum involved matched that offered by the FBI for some of the most dangerous men in the world.

‘There’s just one thing Jed needs you to help him with,’ Klang said. ‘His bosses are upset you told Awlaki you didn’t trust Abdul as a courier and want you to explain.’

‘It was my judgement call; I knew Awlaki didn’t fully trust him.’

‘Okay,’ said Klang. ‘Just use that language with Jed and we’ll be fine.’

I was puzzled by this sudden anxiety over Abdul’s role.

‘Why the big song and dance?’ I replied. ‘Do you think Abdul’s working for them?’

‘Who knows,’ Klang replied with a shrug, avoiding eye contact and refilling his glass. Carlsberg, I noticed – you can take a Dane out of Denmark …

I was intrigued that Abdul, of all the people I knew in Yemen, might also be a double agent. I had known him for ten years and he had always seemed a committed jihadi, deeply involved with al-Qaeda and hostile to pro-Western Arab governments and the US. But there were perhaps clues. During my most recent stay in Yemen, Abdul seemed
over-enthusiastic in wanting information about Awlaki. He had more cash than ever; and had a new car with no obvious source of earnings. He had also started chewing khat.

Most significant, I thought, was that he now had the same model of phone – a Nokia N900 with a flip keyboard – which Jed had given me. Had the CIA developed Abdul as an informer during my ten months in the wilderness?

For two full days I was debriefed in a suite. Even MI6 had rejoined the fray, sending a young agent to observe the meeting.

Jed asked his question about Abdul and I gave the response we had choreographed. He grunted ‘okay’ and jotted in his notebook.

We went through the list of supplies Awlaki wanted – hexamine briquettes and the fridge.

‘We can’t agree to the hexamine,’ Klang said. It could be adapted to make explosives.

‘So I should just go back empty-handed?’ I shot back at him. ‘Isn’t that going to make me look amateurish? Or worse, make him suspect I’m a Western agent?’

There was an awkward silence. Klang did not appreciate being shot down in front of the CIA.

‘Why don’t I just provide them with wooden briquettes?’

The agents exchanged looks. ‘You know what? You’re not just a pretty face,’ Jesper said with a smirk.

I gave Jed the USB stick Awlaki had used so that it could be sent for analysis, and also handed over the remaining thumb drives I had bought and intended to use for future messages. I thought the Americans might want to install some sort of tracking device on them.

‘Do you think you might be able to travel out to see Awlaki?’ Jed asked me.

‘Possibly, but the security situation has got a lot worse,’ I replied, ‘especially in the south. Al-Qaeda is beginning to take control in some areas, and it’s impossible to know which units to trust in the army.’

In the evening I took a stroll with the Danes and the deferential MI6 agent. In the streets around the hotel stood expensive villas with lush gardens. Sprinkler systems shot a golden mist into the evening sunshine. A lot of Russian money had made it to this part of Spain.

‘You’ll be able to afford one of these properties soon, Akhi,’ Klang said. ‘And you’d better let us come stay.’

We even discussed a joint business venture funded out of my ‘winnings’ – a restaurant or bar on the beach. For the first time I sensed my Danish handlers had more than a professional interest in my success. But I was still a long way from delivering Awlaki to the CIA. And even as we walked among the scent of jasmine and lemon trees, I could not relish the prospect of becoming rich by sending a man who had once been my friend to his death.

Jed had stayed in the hotel: CIA rules dictated he could not be seen in public with me. After we left I caught sight of him at Malaga airport. He walked past pretending not to know me but smiling out of the corner of his mouth.

Days after I left Malaga, I discovered that the US had made an important breakthrough – at the expense of my old Birmingham acquaintance, Ahmed Abdulkadir Warsame. After my telephone call connecting him with Awlaki, he had begun regular contact with AQAP. He shared details on some of these communications with me, which allowed Western intelligence to track his plans. In 2009 he emailed to tell me he wanted to travel to Yemen to meet with AQAP’s leadership and later informed me that Awlaki had invited him to train in Yemen.

Warsame took the offer. In 2010 he travelled to Yemen to broker a weapons deal between AQAP and al-Shabaab. During that visit he met Awlaki and received explosives training. Not yet twenty-five, he had become the main point of liaison between the two groups, funnelling money and communications gear from Somalia to Yemen in exchange for weapons for Somali fighters.

In April 2011, Warsame had boarded a fishing dhow in a small Yemeni harbour to travel back across the Gulf of Aden to Somalia. But the Americans were waiting for him and
took him into custody
on the high seas. Warsame would spend two months on a US Navy amphibious assault ship, the USS
Boxer
, where he proved a rich source.
³

So now I had helped take two of al-Shabaab’s most important operatives out of circulation, men who had no qualms about murdering and maiming civilians, or creating a tide of helpless refugees, if it advanced the cause of their ideology. While the Islamic Courts had at least brought a measure of peace, al-Shabaab had brought little more than terror and suffering.

Awlaki later told me Warsame had acted against all advice – always talking on his mobile phone. I wondered whether a phone I had supplied to Warsame had helped the Americans track his movements.

The next phase of the Awlaki operation was discussed at the Marienlyst Hotel in Helsingør. When I walked into the room there was a new face.

‘Let me introduce you to one of my colleagues in Sana’a. You’ll understand if I don’t introduce him by name,’ Jed said.