“Malik was far more sophisticated than the other members of al-Qaeda in Iraq,” Dina said. “He’d spent years perfecting his craft against the most formidable counterterrorism forces in the world. Not only was he an expert bomb-maker, he knew how to slip his shahids through even the toughest security. He was thought to have been the mastermind behind some of the insurgency’s deadliest and most spectacular attacks. His crowning achievement was a one-day wave of bombings in the Shiite quarter of Baghdad that killed more than two hundred people.”
Malik’s final attack in Iraq was a bombing of a Shiite mosque that left fifty worshippers dead. By then, he was the target of a massive search operation being carried out by Task Force 6-26, the joint U.S. special operations and intelligence unit. Ten days after the bombing, the task force learned that Malik was hiding in a safe house ten miles north of Baghdad, along with two other senior al-Qaeda figures. That night American F-16 jets attacked the house with a pair of laser-guided bombs, but a search of the ruins produced only two sets of remains. Neither belonged to Malik al-Zubair.
“Apparently, he slipped out of the house a few minutes before the bombs fell,” Dina said. “Later, he told his comrades that Allah had instructed him to leave. The incident only reaffirmed his belief that he had been chosen by God to do great things.”
It was then Malik decided it was time to go international. He had developed a taste for killing Americans in Iraq and wanted to kill them in their homeland, so he traveled to Pakistan to seek funding and support from al-Qaeda’s front office. Bin Laden listened carefully. Then he sent Malik packing.
“Actually,” Dina added hastily, “it’s believed Ayman al-Zawahiri was behind the decision to turn Malik away empty-handed. The Egyptian had several plots under way against the West and didn’t want them threatened by an upstart Palestinian from Zarqa.”
“So Malik went to Yemen and offered his services to Rashid instead?” asked Gabriel.
“Exactly.”
“Proof,” said Gabriel. “Where’s the proof?”
“I’m an intelligence analyst,” Dina said unapologetically. “I rarely have the luxury of absolute proof. What I’m offering you is conjecture, supported by a handful of pertinent facts.”
“For example?”
“Damascus,” she said. “In the autumn of 2008, the Office got a tip from an asset inside Syrian intelligence that Malik was hiding there, moving constantly among a number of safe houses owned by various members of the al-Zubair clan. At Shamron’s urging, the prime minister authorized us to begin planning for Malik’s long-overdue demise. Uzi was still the chief of Special Ops then. He dispatched a team of field operatives to Damascus—a team that included one Mikhail Abramov,” Dina added, with a glance in his direction. “Within a few days, they had Malik under full-time surveillance.”
“Go on, Dina.”
“Malik wasn’t so easy to follow, as Mikhail will tell you. He changed his appearance constantly—facial hair, glasses, hats, clothing, even the way he walked—but the team managed to maintain contact with him. And late on the evening of October 23, they observed Malik entering an apartment owned by a man called Kemel Arwish. Arwish liked to portray himself as a Westernized moderate who wanted to drag his people kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. In truth, he was an Islamist who dabbled at the fringes of al-Qaeda and its affiliates. His ability to travel between the Middle East and the West without suspicion made him valuable as a courier and runner of assorted errands.” Dina looked directly at Gabriel. “Since you’ve been spending a great deal of time familiarizing yourself with Rashid’s CIA files, I trust Kemel’s name and address are familiar to you.”
“Rashid attended a dinner party at Kemel Arwish’s apartment in 2004 when he went to Damascus on behalf of the CIA,” Gabriel said. “He later told his CIA minder that he and Arwish had discussed many interesting ideas on how to tamp down the fires of jihad.”
“And if you believe that one . . .”
“It could be nothing more than a coincidence, Dina.”
“It could be, but I was trained to never believe in coincidences. And so were you.”
“What happened to the operation against Malik?”
“He slipped through our fingers, the same way he slipped away from the Americans in Baghdad. Uzi considered putting Arwish under surveillance, but that turned out not to be necessary. Three days after Malik disappeared, the body of Kemel Arwish was found in the desert east of Damascus. He’d been granted a relatively painless death.”
“Malik had him killed?”
“Maybe it was Malik, maybe it was Rashid. It doesn’t much matter. Arwish was a small fish in a big pond. He’d played the role assigned to him. He’d delivered a message, and after that, he became a liability.”
Gabriel appeared unconvinced. “What else have you got?”
“The design of the suicide belts worn by the shahids in Paris, Copenhagen, and London,” she said. “They were identical to the type of belt Malik used for his attacks during the Second Intifada, which were in turn identical to the type he used in Baghdad.”
“The design didn’t necessarily have to come from Malik. It could have been floating around the sewers of the jihadist underworld for years.”
“There’s no way Malik would have put that design up on the Internet for the world to see. The wiring, the fusing, the shaping of the charge, and the shrapnel are all his innovations. He’s practically telling me that it’s him.”
Gabriel was silent. Dina raised an eyebrow and asked, “No more comments about coincidences?”
Gabriel ignored the remark. “What was his last known location?”
“There were some unconfirmed reports he was back in Zarqa, and our station chief in Turkey heard a nasty rumor he was living in grand fashion in Istanbul. The rumor turned out to be false. As far as the Office is concerned, Malik is a ghost.”
“Even a ghost needs a passport.”
“We believe he’s carrying a Syrian passport that was personally given to him by the great reformer in Damascus. Unfortunately, we have no idea what name he’s using or what he looks like. The last known photograph of Malik was taken more than twenty years ago. It’s useless.”
“Is there someone close to Malik that we can get to? A relative? A friend? An old comrade from his days in Hamas?”
“We tried when Malik was bombing the daylights out of us during the Second Intifada,” Dina said, shaking her head. “There are no al-Zubairs left in Israel or the territories, and the ones in the camp at Zarqa are far too committed to the struggle to collaborate with us.” She paused for a moment. “We might have one thing working in our favor, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I think his network might be running out of money.”
“Says who?”
Dina pointed toward a photograph of Farid Khan, the Covent Garden bomber.
“Says him.”
Chapter 18 Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
IN THE FINAL WEEKS OF his brief but portentous life, Farid Khan, murderer of eighteen innocent souls in the land of his birth, left a series of increasingly desperate postings on an Islamic Internet message board lamenting the fact he didn’t have enough money to buy a proper wedding present for his sister. Apparently, he was considering skipping the wedding to avoid embarrassment. But there was just one problem with the story, Dina pointed out. Allah had blessed the Khan family with four boys, but no girls.
“I believe he was referring to a martyrdom payment—a payment