Agent Storm: My Life Inside al-Qaeda (45 page)

‘Don’t make a mockery of my intelligence,’ I retorted. ‘Don’t you think I know he is working for the Americans?’

Klang threw up his arms. ‘Fine, yes, he is working for them but as far as the Americans are concerned – you don’t know this, okay?’

Finally my suspicions were confirmed. I had tried to flush Abdul out after the Lisbon meeting with a terse email in which I told him that I had been stopped by Danish security services at Copenhagen airport and warned that they knew about my visit to the south of Yemen. Someone had told them something, I wrote to Abdul, and my guess was that it was him.

Of course, nothing of the sort had happened, but I needed to lay the bait. I had received no reply, and that was confirmation enough for me.

‘I have something for you,’ Jesper said, changing the subject.

He came back clutching a make-up box. ‘A present for Aminah from the Americans.’

It was a large oval box, plastic. When I opened the lid there was a mirror on the underside and beneath were rows of neatly packaged lipsticks, nail varnishes and eye shadow.

‘Be careful how you handle it – it’s a seriously expensive piece of kit,’ Klang said.

Jesper said that if Aminah was engaged or already married to Qasim al-Raymi, one of Wuhayshi’s senior deputies in AQAP and the second most powerful commander, a tracking device inside the make-up box might enable the Americans to target him.

‘If Abu Basir decides to crush the make-up box in front of me and finds the device what am I going to say?’ I asked. I felt uneasy. Two years previously the Danes had judged it too dangerous for me to supply Aminah a similarly modified cosmetics case. Had I become expendable?

‘Just blame it on Abdul and let him be the fall guy,’ Klang replied.

Not for the first time, Klang astonished me with his gall. It was never his problem, always someone else’s. There was a blithe answer for everything.

‘No, I’d never do that,’ I replied. ‘You have just told me he is working for us. We are on the same side.’

He had no answer but instead handed me a new iPhone the Americans had provided.

‘This will allow us to follow your movements in real time. Leave it on all the time. If anything happens you can call us for assistance but only use it in emergencies.’

The Danes also gave me a sports bag with clothing for Aminah.

I caught the television news that night in my room in the summer house. Yemen was the lead:
a new plot by AQAP against US-bound aeroplanes had been thwarted. It had involved the most sophisticated device yet designed by Ibrahim al-Asiri. But the man AQAP had selected for the attack – a Saudi recruit with a British passport – was a mole working for the intelligence services
.
⁶

The Saudi operation had culminated with the agent and another informant – most likely his handler – being whisked out of Yemen. Perhaps that’s why my own mission had been delayed: Western intelligence already had a mole close to AQAP’s senior leadership. But after he was extracted they had turned to me again.

Yemen was in a fog of war, which only complicated matters. It had a new president, Abd Rabbu Mansour Hadi.
What he lacked in a power base he made up for with political manoeuvring and the promise of greater cooperation with Washington
.

His focus was on reversing al-Qaeda’s gains in the south. The group still controlled a stretch of coastline adjacent to some of the world’s busiest shipping lanes, as well as several towns inland. Unless the Yemeni army – starved of supplies and leadership – acted quickly, even Aden might fall to the fundamentalists.

Government forces aided by tribal militia had embarked on a spring offensive. Wuhayshi’s fighters were resisting fiercely, but air strikes were intensifying, aided no doubt by US intelligence, and regime forces were inching towards Jaar.

As I read an account of the battles, I asked myself one simple question.

‘How the hell are Abdul and I going to be able to drive down there in the middle of a war?’

The next day I asked the Danish agents about the $50,000 payment they had promised my family.

‘That’s being processed – you should get it very soon after you return from Yemen,’ Jesper replied.

If
I return, I thought gloomily.

They had me on the hook. They knew I was hungry, focused – and were taking advantage.

Jesper handed over the immigration document for my wife, but rather than permanent status it conferred the right of residence for five years. I was furious. If I died there was no assurance my wife could stay beyond that and she would be in great danger in Yemen if word leaked that I had been an informant.

‘We never promised her permanent resident status,’ Jesper said.

I couldn’t believe my ears. More than any reward, my wife’s security was paramount.

I stormed out of the villa – shouting at Jesper as I left: ‘You know what? I’m done.’ As always, I’d quit first and negotiate later.

I spent that evening in my mother’s house in Korsør. She had known about my work but had been the soul of discretion. I told her about my frustrations.

‘I bet you Abdul is not even in Yemen. And if he’s not there I have a feeling they’ll want me to drive down myself and be killed in the fighting,’ I told her.

It was all beyond her comprehension. Why should I even want to be involved in such a scheme? She looked at me in disbelief. It was far from the first time I had seen that expression.

I called a number Abdul had given me to use in Yemen. His wife answered. ‘My husband is not here,’ she said.

In a fit of pique I ignored calls from Danish intelligence but after two days finally took one from Klang. I told him I’d only meet them if the boss – Tommy Chef – was present. We agreed to meet at the Scandic Hotel in Ringsted, halfway between Korsør and Copenhagen. When I arrived, Tommy Chef was outside the lobby, checking messages on his phone.

‘Hello, Morten. It’s good to see you again. I’m sorry for these misunderstandings. Let’s go inside to talk, just the two of us.’

In his suite he sat down opposite me on a sofa and looked me straight in the eye.

‘I’m sorry for the mix-up. My agents had no authority to promise your wife these documents. There are steps that need to be taken; you can’t just apply straight away for a permanent residence. But I’ve now taken charge of this and I can personally guarantee she will receive permanent residence status. As for the money I can also guarantee you will get it when you come back.’

His voice was calm and even, as if he were clearing up after some mischievous children.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I replied. ‘Abdul is not in the country. How on earth am I supposed to get down to the tribal areas?’ I asked.

‘Yes, we know that. Believe it or not he’s in China, but he’ll get back the day after you arrive in Sana’a. It’s all under control.’

He paused for effect.

‘Morten, this is one of the most important missions in the history of Danish intelligence. Our director, Jakob Scharf, is closely following this. It’s really vital you travel down to do this.’

The counsellor had just become a coach.

I had one more request. I wanted Klang and Jesper to come to Korsør and tell my mother about the mission. I wanted an insurance policy, some incentive for them to protect me. They would know that if something bad happened to me my mother could go to the media and explain what I was really doing in a remote corner of Yemen, hanging out with al-Qaeda’s leadership. What they didn’t know was that she had a copy of the photograph of the three of us in the pool in Reykjavik.

‘Go and do what you need to do in Korsør and then let’s meet for a nice dinner tonight,’ Tommy Chef told me, charm personified. He smiled and placed his hand briefly on my shoulder in reassurance.

My mother lived on a quiet street in Korsør. The back garden was perfectly manicured, with a swing set and slide for the grandchildren who – sadly – rarely visited. She had at last found a gentle, honourable man to share her life with, a man I came to like. The inside of the house was an obstacle course for the clumsy: carefully placed china, cushions and ornaments meticulously arranged.

Klang and Jesper arrived wearing jeans and T-shirts and looking uncomfortable. I was sure this was the first time they had come to
explain to an agent’s mother what her son was doing, like schoolboys wanting permission to go for a bike ride. My mother greeted them with reserved Danish courtesy. Her husband was confined to the kitchen – not permitted to see officials of Denmark’s secret service.

They moved to the living room, picking up the decorative cushions and holding them awkwardly. Light streamed in through the French windows. It was a picture of suburban orderliness.

Klang and Jesper were trying – not very successfully – to grapple with my family background. How could this hooligan have emerged from such genteel surroundings? They did not know the long and painful backstory.

We sat in silence as my mother made coffee. Klang took a sip from one of the delicate china cups and carefully replaced it on the saucer. I was amused to see that he was terrified of breaking something.

‘Mrs Storm,’ he began, with a synthetic cheeriness. ‘You have to know Morten is a real one-off because he knows so many Muslims around the world.’

‘Is it a dangerous job?’ she asked.

‘Yes – but he’s doing this to fight terrorism,’ Jesper said. ‘It’s important for the whole world.’

‘It’s why he got the $250,000 from the Americans,’ Klang interjected.

‘He brought the briefcase here,’ my mother said. ‘You know, even then it didn’t seem real to me that he was working for the intelligence services.’

‘We can’t tell you much more than this but he’s about to go back to Yemen,’ Klang said.

‘Will he be in danger?’ she asked, more insistently.

‘There’s always some risk,’ Klang replied carefully.

My mother looked at me as if to remind me that I had been trouble for as long as she could remember, and now I was thirty-six. But I felt reassured when we drove away at dusk. Both Klang and Jesper had taken a step out of the shadows.

There was a further bonus awaiting me. We joined Tommy Chef at a beach restaurant beside a pretty fishing marina. The house speciality was herring prepared several different ways. Washed down with Sancerre, it was an excellent dinner on the government’s tab.

Tommy Chef dabbed his mouth with a white linen handkerchief. ‘We’ve been doing some thinking, Morten. We’re going to offer you something that has never been offered before to a civilian agent. Once you come back we are going to offer you a job. Because we don’t want you just to stop working after this mission. We want you to continue – not on the frontline but on the cyber jihadi front – infiltrating these guys online.

‘We also thought you could work with Anders to train agents.’

I was ecstatic at the prospect of a job that would put my address book to good use. Just days after I had quit, my future suddenly seemed to be opening up. Married life and approaching middle age were – just possibly – beginning to soften me.

As we left, Tommy Chef put his arm on my shoulder.

‘You are doing all of us a great service.’

‘You know what? We’re going to do this for Amanda,’ I said, referring to the code name of Elizabeth Hanson, the CIA agent who had recruited me and had been killed at Camp Chapman near Khost in Afghanistan in December 2009.

We called the mission ‘Operation Amanda’.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Chinese Whispers

May 2012

11 May 2012. A perfect late-spring dawn. Driving from Helsingør to Copenhagen, I watched the tractors rumbling up and down the immaculate fields. It was the picture of rural peace, at odds with my inner turmoil. My final field trip was underway. I had the ‘modified’ make-up box for Aminah (and Qasim al-Raymi) in my suitcase and a camping fridge for Wuhayshi to send on to Ibrahim al-Asiri, also fitted with a tracking device. I assumed it was the same fridge the CIA had been customizing for Awlaki.

The previous evening all the Danish agents, led by Tommy Chef, had attended a dinner in my honour. It felt awkwardly like a farewell and I was in a maudlin mood. Tommy Chef handed me $5,000 for expenses.

At Copenhagen airport there was one more piece of business. Jesper filled out an official notice stating that a package of hexamine had been confiscated from me. PET were still not comfortable with me providing hexamine to al-Qaeda, but at least Wuhayshi would see that I had tried.

By the time I boarded a connecting flight to Sana’a in Doha, my stress levels were rocketing. I began to second-guess everything: Tommy Chef’s soothing words, the promise of Danish residency for my wife, Abdul’s loyalties and his reaction on receiving my accusatory email. Why had he gone to China, of all places? Was he on the run? And if so from whom? I felt like I was facing a steep climb up a
mountain lined with crevices and dotted with loose boulders. Any one of these hazards could finish me. But reaching the summit – leading Western intelligence to Wuhayshi and al-Asiri – would bring vindication. And – not incidentally – solvency.