Page 82 of Whisper

Finally, he was given the chance. He was ordered to a new training camp to join with Tajikistani rebels fighting against the Russians. When Zahawi mentioned the name of the rebel group he’d joined, Kris silently cross-checked his own notes. Zahawi’s rebels had been one of the groups the CIA had directly funneled money to, back when fighting the Soviets using mujahedeen had been the most popular game in town. Had Zahawi been considered an ally then?

When did history shatter into hatred?

“It was that operation that showed me what al-Qaeda had become. That they were the future of Afghanistan, of the jihad. I wanted to join. Be a part of their community.”

“And did you?”

Zahawi had been given the position of externalemirof the Khaldan training camp. He’d managed the recruits, the trainees, and the guesthouses, as well as the recruits’ travel arrangements. Forgeries had been required, as attendees wanted to evade any attempts to track their whereabouts. Zahawi became al-Qaeda’s best forger. After the attendees graduated, he’d sent them back out to the world, to Europe, to America, sometimes with missions, sometime to lie in wait for an opportunity to strike.

“Who came through the Khaldan training camp?”

“Many people. But… what you are asking is, did the martyrs who did the planes operation go through the camp?”

“Yes, Asim, I am asking that.”

Zahawi nodded. “They were chosen by Mokhtar for the operation, and then sent to Khaldan. For advanced training.”

Mokhtar. They’d heard that name before. In videos taken from captured al-Qaeda camps in Afghanistan, the name Mokhtar kept coming up. Bin Laden himself, in one video, praised Mokhtar for his part in the “planes operation”, al-Qaeda’s name for September 11. He was everywhere, in the inner circles of al-Qaeda.

But no one in the CIA knew who he was.

Did Zahawi?

“You said ‘chosen by Mokhtar’. Why was Mokhtar choosing the operatives for the planes operation?”

“The planes operation was his idea. He brought it to Bin Laden and asked for his support. His blessing. And his money. He needed five hundred thousand dollars, he said, to pull it off.”

“So the idea for the attacks was Mokhtar's?”

“Nam.”

“But Bin Laden supported it? Financed it? Trained the operatives at his camps?”

Zahawi nodded. “Some did not want Bin Laden to support Mokhtar's plan. They said he was crazy. That the attacks were not allowed by Allah. That we shouldn’t attack the US. The US helped Muslims in Serbia and Bosnia. They said we needed to focus on jihad close to home, where Muslims were being killed every day. In Chechnya. Israel. Russia.”

“What did you think?”

“IhateAmerica. I wanted Mokhtar's plan to go ahead, and to succeed. I dreamed about it with him, for months. We dreamed of the day of the attacks.” Zahawi exhaled, his voice shaking. “I hate America. Because of America, my life was shredded. I am an exile from this planet, a man without a home. I wasn’t a person to the world until I was a brother with my mujahedeen! Because of America, and Israel. My life, my history, has been taken from me.”

Kris was quiet. “Tell me about after the attacks.”

Zahawi spoke softly, almost reverently. After September 11, after the celebrations, the parties, and the dancing in the streets, the gunshots into the air in celebration, the giddy, almost drunk feeling of exultation, Zahawi, in Afghanistan, had joined together with the rest of the foreign fighters and had begun making preparations for defending their camps and cities form the coming American invasion. “Bin Laden, he had told us that the Americans would only launch missiles, like they did after the embassy bombings in Africa and the attack in Yemen. We did not think the Americans would invade. When we realized they were coming, we tried to buy weapons. Build defensive lines.”

“What happened then?”

Zahawi’s fists clenched the sheet. His heart monitor beeped faster. “The Americans dropped their bombs. The brothers… So many were killed. Death was everywhere we looked, everywhere we turned. We couldn’t bury all of our bodies. We couldn’t find all of our brothers. And we couldn’t survive against the bombs. We had to run.”

How many of those bombs had been guided by Kris and David’s own hands? They’d spent weeks around Afghanistan, painting Taliban and al-Qaeda targets with lasers for the bombers and jets above, had walked the entire front line of the Northern Alliance, meticulously mapping coordinates of enemy positions after staring through their binoculars.

And here they were, from opposite sides of a battlefield at the end of the earth to sitting together in a makeshift hospital in the jungle of Thailand.

It was almost dizzying.

In shaking words, Zahawi detailed the collapse of the Taliban, the collapse of al-Qaeda, and the scattering of their forces. Bin Laden’s exodus to Tora Bora. How Zahawi and so many others had stayed behind, trying to save Kandahar. Kandahar fell, and they escaped over the bodies of their dead, fleeing into Pakistan through the tribal regions. From there, he made his way into the underground al-Qaeda safe house network he had built.

“I hid from everyone. I did everything I could to hide. The American bastards wanted me. I had to stay free.”

“Why do you think the Americans were looking for you?” Kris picked up on Zahawi’s splitting of the Americans from him. In Zahawi’s mind, the Americans were still bad. But Kris, sitting in front of him, offering him water and medicine, listening to his story, seemed to be different.