Agent Storm: My Life Inside al-Qaeda (50 page)

In my view, Western intelligence would have found it easier to remove Ikrimah from the battlefield by taking advantage of the trust he had in me. And even if we had not been able to target him it is possible that he would have shared information with me, hinting at some of the deadly attacks he was planning.

My retirement also meant that Western intelligence lost a resource in one of its most arduous challenges: detecting small-scale ‘lone-wolf’ attacks. These are the most difficult for counter-terrorism agencies as there is often no trail of communication. Al-Qaeda had seen the advantage,
releasing a video in 2011 entitled
You are Only Responsible for Yourself
, which called for solo attacks
by followers in the West.

The Boston bombings of April 2013 and the murder and attempted beheading of a British soldier, Lee Rigby, on the streets of Woolwich in
South-East London the following month signalled that such attacks could be the wave of the future. In both cases militants based in the West had carried out the attacks independently of any group. I knew their motivation and their path to radicalization because I had made the same journey.

One of the two Woolwich killers –
Michael Adebolajo
, a British-Nigerian convert – had once been a follower of my former group, al-Muhajiroun, and I had come across him at a talk in Luton.

Such ‘lone-wolf’ attacks are virtually impossible to prevent unless there is someone on the ‘inside’ who detects a change of behaviour or appearance, is asked a strange question or confided in. Twice during my career I had informed Western intelligence of terrorist plots by radicalized zealots determined to bring carnage to the streets of Europe – because the plotters had told me of their plans.

Awlaki’s sermons and writings, even from beyond the grave, had provided the inspiration for both the Boston and the Woolwich attacks.
The Boston bombers built pressure-cooker bombs from a recipe in
Inspire
magazine
.
⁵Since his death Awlaki’s sermons have only grown in popularity among radicalized Muslims in the West, their message as simple as it is spellbinding: the United States and its friends are at war with Islam and Allah commands that Muslims must fight back by any means necessary.
⁶

It was a message that had appealed to so many who felt marginalized, discriminated against, rootless – or simply lonely.

After publication of the first story,
Jyllands-Posten
put me up in a country hotel in England, both for my own safety and to keep competing media away. But I felt obliged to go to the local police station.

The well-meaning sergeant behind the desk thought I was unhinged when I told him my story and said I needed protection.

‘Just Google my name,’ I said. ‘Morten Storm.’

Up popped my face splashed across the front page of
Jyllands-Posten
.

In a place where disorderly drunks were the daily fare, I was an unusual subject.

‘Just a moment, sir,’ the sergeant said.

An hour later, two detectives arrived and admitted that they had no idea what to do with me.

‘I’ve never met anyone like you, nor will I again,’ one of them said with a wry smile. So I was passed up the food chain, to my old friends at MI5.

The following day, a middle-aged woman with a plain face and pursed lips, her hair cut in a no-nonsense bob, arrived at the police station. She was accompanied by a man who introduced himself as Keith, a tall and genial fifty-something officer. I spilled out as much of my story as I could, saying that I believed the Americans had tried to get me killed in Yemen. The pair of them took notes but said little.

Occasionally the sergeant would pop his head around the door to see if we needed refreshments. He was quite enjoying the small circus from the world of 007 in his shop.

Neither of the MI5 officers said much until the end of our meeting.

‘You must understand,’ the woman said, ‘that we have no obligations towards you; you are no longer working with us. This is a problem between you, the Danish government and the Americans. I can’t understand why you want to drag us into it.’

I recalled that phone conversation with my MI5 handler Kevin as I had prepared to leave Birmingham airport in April 2010: ‘
Morten – if you travel now, you have to realize we are not going to see each other again
.’

Even so, MI5’s concern at the possible fall-out from further disclosures prompted them to invite me to a follow-up meeting in a nearby city. A large and voluble Londoner called Graham, who must have been close to retirement, joined the party.

MI5 wanted to explore the outlines of a possible deal. Several detectives lurked in the hotel car park and reception as we met in a conference room. This time I was relieved of my mobile phone. The nameless
woman with the sensible shoes probed about future instalments of the
Jyllands-Posten
series. To date only one story had been published. If I would tell the newspaper I wanted nothing else published and refused other requests to talk – including the appearance on
60 Minutes
– British intelligence would consider relocating me to somewhere like Canada or Australia. Alternatively, we might discuss a role as a trainer for informants inside the Muslim community or helping former agents deal with the transition to retirement. They even asked me to write papers on both subjects.

But first there would be a probation period of six months, during which I would have to vanish from the radar. I might only have limited access to my kids, and MI5 would have no financial obligation to me. I recalled the fate of the Danish informant who had helped Klang bust the Vollsmose bomb plot but was then forced to flee into unhappy exile overseas.

There was talk of cosmetic surgery and a place in the witness protection programme. But the thought of changing my appearance – to the point where my children would not recognize me – was beyond the pale.

I said that I would think over their terms, but in the meantime wanted a meeting with the security services psychologist, whom I’d met in Scotland at the team-building exercise four years before.

A couple of weeks later I was invited to a hotel in Manchester. The psychologist I knew as Luke from Aviemore was there. He gave me a hug and seemed genuinely pleased to see me again. But concern was soon etched across his face as I recounted my experiences. I was on the verge of tears.

‘Do you think I am insane to believe the Americans wanted me dead? Am I paranoid?’ I asked.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘You are in a very difficult situation. Fear is not paranoia; it’s based on what could have happened and what still might happen. You may have done the right thing in not going to the south of Yemen. You might well have been killed, and, yes, the Americans might not have cared. And I understand why you decided to go to the media; it’s a form of protection.’

Luke made it abundantly clear that I needed help. My struggle in
processing what I had been through was only just beginning, he said; and while understandable my cocaine use had to stop. He was at pains to cast himself as independent of the security services but I noticed that on occasion the ‘I’ slipped into ‘we’. And he clearly was not at liberty to counsel me or recommend a course of treatment.

It was a long and painful conversation. At least I had been able to talk. He hugged me again at the end.

I still had to give MI5 a response to their proposal. They were already unhappy with me for leaving hotel accommodation that neither
Jyllands-Posten
nor I could afford and returning home. My pervasive distrust of the agencies held me back. I could not spend six months underground, without work, income or protection, for the outside chance of acceptance into the fold.

At a final meeting in a bland hotel conference room, I told Graham that I couldn’t accept MI5’s scheme; there were too many risks and I had some trust issues.

He looked disappointed but not surprised. He shook my hand firmly and grasped my shoulder.

‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘Take care of yourself; I think you know how to look after yourself.’

As I walked home through blustery, rain-swept streets, I began to absorb the scale of the challenge.

I had made the choice to be on my own. I would no longer suffer from false expectations or be deceived by false promises. I could speak freely but would always need to look over my shoulder. I could look at my children and feel I had made some small contribution towards making the world a better place.

In a school project, my son, Osama, decided to make me his subject. He scanned a photograph of me and wrote an essay entitled: ‘My Dad, the Hero’. I had to make sure he deleted the essay from the school computer, but I was also proud. All those tearful farewells suddenly seemed worth it.

Now I would have to start again and deal with my demons. I would also have to adapt to a life without the rush of travelling into terrorist heartlands, and protect my obscurity while at the same time laying out
a story that should have lessons for those charged with keeping Western societies safe.

Passers-by glance at me but can’t know the role I played in protecting their way of life.

With a shrug or a raised eyebrow, I read media stories of individuals I knew and the threats they posed, the attacks they were planning (or indeed had carried out) and the millions of pounds and dollars being spent trying to stop them.
A group I had known in Luton
was convicted in 2013 of plotting to blow up a British army base with a bomb strapped to a toy car – one incident among many.

Occasionally I reach the checkout of a supermarket with my groceries, only to see a newspaper headline about one of my former ‘brothers’ who has finally crossed that Rubicon from talk to terror. As I scan the article for details, the cashier presses coins into my hand and says vacantly, ‘Take care.’

I smile as I leave the shop, muttering to myself, ‘Take care.’

Illustrations