Agent Storm: My Life Inside al-Qaeda (47 page)

We will carry out an attack that will
change the face of history
.

Within hours the entire US intelligence apparatus was mobilized to discover the scope of the attack being planned. It was clear an ambitious strike had been set in motion at the top level of al-Qaeda, but precious little was known about how, when or where. The US State Department took the unprecedented step of closing down
more than twenty embassies
and consulates across the Arab and Muslim world.

It soon became clear that the nexus of the threat was Yemen – with the US embassy in Sana’a one of the likeliest targets. The author of the message that triggered the alert was none other than my tour guide in Jaar – Nasir al-Wuhayshi, the leader of AQAP. In one of my last reports, I had told my handlers that Wuhayshi had ordered reconnaissance of the US embassy in Sana’a. Since then he had been appointed as Ayman al-Zawahiri’s deputy – the
number two of al-Qaeda globally
. The man
who had once been Osama bin Laden’s protégé was now the annointed successor to Zawahiri.

Wuhayshi’s creation of an Islamic emirate in the southern tribal areas of Yemen had enhanced his reputation in jihadist circles worldwide. His men had controlled Jaar and an expanse of southern Yemen for fifteen months. They had only retreated in the face of overwhelming firepower brought to bear by Yemeni government forces and loyalist tribal militias – supported by US drone strikes.

Even after being forced to retreat to more remote areas, AQAP had continued with suicide bombings against Yemeni security forces, assassinations of senior military personnel and ambushes of Yemeni troops. As Adil al-Abab noted in one of his last missives before he was killed by a drone, a new generation of jihadis had
been blooded
.

Less clear to Western intelligence were AQAP’s priorities: whether Wuhayshi remained focused on carving out a state based on Islamic law and at the very least denying space to the Yemeni government, or whether, newly installed as al-Qaeda’s number two, he now embraced global jihad as the pre-eminent mission. Perhaps I would have gained a sense of this with another visit or two. Equally, had I been given approval to organize the delivery of the fridge early in 2012, Zawahiri would most likely have been looking for a different deputy.

Since my final mission had been aborted I had turned to cocaine as my comfort blanket. For a few hours the frustration ebbed but as I came down from each high the jitters got worse. I was stressed about money, after sinking so much into Storm Bushcraft but losing both my business partner and a base in Kenya.

For half a decade I had moved back and forth between two worlds and two identities – when one misplaced sentence could have cost me my life. I had switched identity in airport departure and arrival halls around the world, travelling between atheism and hardline Islam, English and Arabic, T-shirts and
thawbs
, between being an agent for Western intelligence and a sworn member of al-Qaeda. As my fellow passengers reclined their seats and started the in-flight movies my brain was always running in fifth gear, focusing on the mission or trying to recall every detail of the one I had just endured.

My life depended on keeping sharp. Most recently my work had entailed maintaining layers of deception: the Western agent pretending to be an al-Qaeda operative pretending to be an outdoor travel entrepreneur.

Even at home – in England or Denmark – I was still on stage, as that well-known militant Islamist Murad Storm. In London or Copenhagen, Luton or Aarhus, Birmingham or Odense, there were enough radicals on the streets to mean I could not let the mask drop for a moment. It had been easy to play the role in the early days, but the further I travelled from my days as a radical fundamentalist, the more challenging it became to play the jihadi with any conviction.

Only when I was in the deep countryside or far-flung nightclubs could I become Morten Storm and knock back a beer. They were not the sorts of places that would attract serious jihadis, I reasoned. Even then I was on edge.

This lifestyle had brought me to the verge of a breakdown. For years I had been fuelled by the need to stop the next attack, by the rush of the spy game and camaraderie with my handlers. But their insistence that I travel alone down to Yemen’s tribal areas unnerved me. Abdul’s warning kept ringing in my ears and I was starting to doubt whether it was worth it. I had tracked down Wuhayshi, at a level of risk bordering on the insane, and Western intelligence had dropped the ball.

I had been lucky, but luck has a habit of running out. It was time to become a backroom boy, one of the analysts who did their best to divine the intentions of terrorists the world over.

On 12 July 2012 I flew from Manchester to Copenhagen to follow up on the offer made to me by Tommy Chef in that seafood restaurant. PET had booked a room at the airport Hilton for the meeting. I was apprehensive: the Danes had broken promises and my final divorce from the Americans had been ugly. It would be prudent, I thought, to have a record. I reached into my pocket to check my iPhone was primed.

Jesper was waiting for me, and told me Klang (restored to his job after a humiliating stint checking the records of would-be refugees) and Anders would arrive soon.

‘Everyone is on vacation,’ Jesper told me, with an eye on the coverage of the Tour de France on a TV in the corner of the room.

He reached for his laptop case and took out a large wad of $100 bills.

‘Here’s $10,000,’
he said to me, handing me the cash, as if it were a perfectly normal thing to do in the middle of a conversation.

‘Is this from the Americans?’ I asked, conscious that I was recording his every word.

‘This is for the trip – that’s all I could do for you, Akhi. I hope it’s good enough,’ Jesper replied. He could see that the cash had not placated me.

‘Akhi, what are we doing?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know – we are on holiday until the Americans get back into it,’ I replied sarcastically.

I still wanted an explanation for events in Doha.

‘I was ready in January. I was down with Abu Basir and ready, and was ready two weeks later to return to Yemen. Why has everything been postponed? It’s not my mistake.’

‘Nobody’s pointing a finger at you; that’s why they gave you the $10,000.’

I made clear to Jesper it would be dangerous for me to return to Yemen.

‘Abdul may be playing a double game. He could also be working for al-Qaeda, as well as the CIA,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s a test,’ I continued. ‘If I go back to Abu Basir and if he asks “Why did you never tell us about Abdul?”…’

I let the consequences of failing such a test hang in the air.

‘Do you really believe Abdul would save me if he’s a traitor to his own brothers in al-Qaeda?’

‘I don’t think the Americans will ever work again with Abdul,’ Jesper offered.

I didn’t believe him but his response was useful nonetheless. The PET agent had just reconfirmed that Abdul had been recruited by the CIA, and I had it on tape.

I told him I thought it possible that Abdul’s warning was an American ploy to remove me from the game and have him replace me as their key informant on al-Qaeda in Yemen.

Jesper said he could not understand why the Americans had rejected my plan to track Wuhayshi using couriers.

‘Jesper, I’m not just talking about Abu Basir [Wuhayshi]. I’m talking about the bomb-maker too. They know I’m the one who would get into those two guys and yet they don’t want to do anything about it. I’m frustrated. It must be something to do with me.’

‘The reason why they stopped it with you is because they said it was too dangerous for you,’ Jesper said.

In Qatar I had been the one who had expressed concern about the dangers in Yemen – not the Americans. Had Jesper simply forgotten that? Was he trying to rewrite history? Or was he just not very bright?

There was a knock. Anders and Klang had arrived.

We called up room service and ordered some sandwiches. Klang got a beer.

I decided to ask them about the position away from the frontline that Tommy Chef had offered.

‘I’d like to take up the job,’
I told them.

‘I’m afraid that was conditional on you fulfilling your mission in Yemen. We can’t provide it to you now,’ Jesper replied.

Just as I had feared they were going to renege on a promise. I felt like I had fulfilled my end of the bargain, before having the rug pulled from under me. No one had ever told me that another actual meeting with Wuhayshi was the quid pro quo for a position.

‘What about my wife? What about her papers?’

‘We are still working on it,’ Jesper said.

I did not believe them.

Klang had come forearmed.
He had another proposal
, though it was unclear whether his superiors had signed off on it. I should offer myself as the point-person for al-Shabaab in Europe. If I was the one arranging safe houses for militants in Europe, Danish intelligence could have eyes and ears on any terrorist plots being hatched.

I did not take the bait.

‘If I retired now, what can I expect?’ I said.

‘If you quit then you should expect PET would be grateful,’ Jesper said, as non-committal as possible.

‘And then we probably would do some sort of agreement to step back, like retirement. Yeah, I think we would be able to do that,’ he added, every inch the former banker.

He and Anders indicated
they could get me a year’s salary in severance pay. Anders seemed to be my only true ally, conscious of the value of intelligence from the frontline.

‘You were just about to get hold of the ones who could carry out an attack against us,’ Anders said – referring to Ibrahim al-Asiri and the AQAP operatives charged with planning attacks overseas.

‘Isn’t it just insane that the Americans stopped me?’ I said.

He nodded.

We discussed other options, but with the possible exception of Anders they were only humouring me.

It was time to leave. The agents embraced me. Anders lingered longer. ‘I know you got cheated over Awlaki,’ he said with real emotion, shaking my hand.

My status with PET was in limbo for weeks. A Western Union wire transfer for £2,466 from Jesper came in on 30 July – my monthly retainer. But of the future there was no word until
a call in mid-August
.

It was Jesper. He began with some pleasantries about who was on vacation and the English summer.

‘Now,’ he said briskly. ‘PET has decided you are eligible for six months’ severance.’

‘You said twelve,’ I replied.

‘That’s all they are willing to approve,’ he said.

I was being jettisoned. But I had some news for them.

‘I’ve contacted the Danish newspaper
Jyllands-Posten
and they want to meet.’

For a few moments there was dead air.

‘I’m going to need to call you back,’ he finally said. He sounded disturbed, no doubt conjuring lurid headlines about lap-dancing clubs in Lisbon and champagne at the taxpayers’ expense.

I had contacted
Jyllands-Posten
because I was fed up with PET’s broken promises. I burned to set the record straight on Awlaki and knew I had the evidence to corroborate my side of the story. And I also thought that going public would offer me protection from any foul play. Abdul’s warning haunted me.

There was another reason. Many of my acquaintances and some of
my family still believed I was a radical extremist associated with terrorists who ought to be behind bars. It was time they knew otherwise. And I wanted to take a stand for other informants risking their lives for Western intelligence.

When Jesper called me back, it was to invite me to a meeting with Tommy Chef – troubleshooter-in-chief – at the Admiral Hotel, overlooking the Copenhagen waterfront.

The following day I flew to the Danish capital, unsure whether Tommy would find a solution or issue veiled threats. He greeted me warmly, but I wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries.

‘What about the job you promised me?’ I asked.

‘Oh, we can’t do that,’ he replied.

He looked out into the harbour at a wooden vessel bobbing gently in the water.

‘That’s a nice ship. Is that what you are going to do? Do you want to learn how to sail?’

I had mentioned that I might try to get work as a contractor in anti-piracy.

‘No, I don’t want to learn how to sail,’ I replied curtly.

He continued staring at the boat, then turned to look at me.

‘Let’s just agree you will call the journalists and tell them not to come.’

‘I’m not sure I can do that. You’ve cheated me and you’ve lied to me. We’re done.’

The meeting had lasted ten minutes.

I walked through Copenhagen, feeling a sense of freedom tinged with apprehension. I was on my own now – and the Danish intelligence service would spare no effort to discredit me. They would certainly renege on the promise of permanent residency for my wife. With the sense that I had broken my chains came isolation and vulnerability.

At least I could take solace from the panic that had clearly set in on the top floor of PET’s headquarters. In the hours before my scheduled meeting with
Jyllands-Posten
on 27 August, Jesper made a series of ever more desperate calls. I recorded them. They would offer me a year’s severance. Rejected. Another call – two years’ salary if I kept silent.
Rejected. And finally came an offer of $270,000 – 1.5 million DKK – that the Kingdom’s long-suffering taxpayers would have to fund to save the agency from embarrassment and – worse – closer political scrutiny.

‘The money you get from us you don’t have to declare to anyone,’ Jesper said.

They were offering me a payoff tax-free. I was no tax lawyer, but that seemed to me illegal under both Danish and UK law.

‘But what really annoys me is the way you treated me last year with Anwar,’ I replied.

‘Yes, yes, but that’s what we’re trying to make up for now,’ he said.

Then came the not so subtle threat about the consequences of my talking to the press.

‘You don’t have a lot of time to think about it because there are some people who are waiting to talk to you … The problem is once you have spoken to them there is no way back.’