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  The president’s gaze flicked to Kris. “Director Thatcher says you’re the agency’s number one Afghanistan analyst. That you know that country better than anyone. Tell me. Do you think the Taliban will give up Bin Laden?”

  Everyone looked at him. Everyone.

  The president had issued an ultimatum to the Taliban the day of the attacks: give up Bin Laden, or your government will be destroyed.

  Bin Laden had been granted refuge in Afghanistan since his exile from Sudan. As the president had said, as smoke still rose from Lower Manhattan and the Pentagon, any nation that harbored the terrorists would be treated as an enemy of the United States. “You’re either with us or against us.”

  What Kris said next would shape policy. Shape the world. The unit secretary at CTC still couldn’t remember his name, even after two years working there. He was that inconsequential. The security guards hated his guts. Yet here he was, briefing the president. Deciding the course of history. His palms slicked with sweat. Ice flowed down his spine.

  “Mr. President, the Taliban will never surrender Bin Laden.”

  “Why?” The national security advisor frowned. “If they want to survive, they have to give him up.”

  “It’s not the Pashtunwali way.” Everyone frowned. “The Taliban blend tribal traditions and fundamentalist Islam into their repressive form of totalitarian rule. It has less to do with Islam and more to do with tribalism. Pashtunwali is their ethical code. It’s so ancient, the tribes view Islam as a modern add-on to their worldview. That part of the world has operated on Pashtunwali for millennia. Specifically, melmastia, hospitality and protection of all guests, nanawatai, the right of a fugitive to seek refuge within the tribe, and, badal, blood feuds and revenge.”

  “Shit,” the vice president grumbled. “So he’s going to hide under Taliban skirts and claim tribal law?”

  “The Taliban and al-Qaeda aren’t friends. Mullah Omar repeatedly ordered him to stop antagonizing the US. To stop giving interviews and drawing attention to themselves, and to the other Arab jihadist training camps. When Bin Laden pledged his allegiance to Mullah Omar, he was trying to pave over Omar’s complaints. Fix their relationship. But, right after his pledge, Bin Laden launched the embassy bombings in Africa. Mullah Omar was furious at him when the US attacked the training camps.”

  “Why didn’t he kick Bin Laden out then?”

  “Prince Turki of Saudi Arabia tried to convince Mullah Omar to hand him over, Muslim to Muslim. He flew to Afghanistan on a royal jet, big state visit. But Mullah Omar threw him out. He said he was sickened to see the prince of an Islamic state, and the guardian of the two holy cities of Islam, doing the bidding of the ‘infidel West’. He accused the prince of being a takfiri, an apostate.”

  “Bet that went down well,” the vice president grunted.

  “Turki stomped on the feast Mullah Omar had spread for them and stormed out.”

  “So why not give him up this time? If he didn’t want Bin Laden attacking the US, then why is he willing to die for him now?”

  Kris swallowed, images from the attacks flashing in the darkness behind his eyes every time he blinked. Flame, smoke, and screams. Papers fluttering like rain, falling as if time had slowed. Ash blanketing the world. Bodies falling, jumping. He shook his head. “Bin Laden assassinated General Massoud on September 10. He sent two al-Qaeda bombers, posing as journalists, to his command center. They blew themselves up and decapitated the leadership of the Northern Alliance, and the one man who was a serious threat to Mullah Omar. Under Pashtunwali, Bin Laden paid Omar a blood debt, one the Taliban will be honor bound to return. They will never hand him over, Mr. President.”

  Silence. The president stared at him as if measuring his soul, taking the weight of his words. Finally, he nodded and sat back. “I don’t want to give the Taliban any maneuvering room on the world stage. We’re going to keep demanding they turn over Bin Laden. They’re demanding proof he is responsible. What do we have that we can show the world?”

  “Source reporting from Kandahar and Khost. Jubilation in the streets. Our intercepts before the attacks. We knew they were planning something. We just didn’t—” Thatcher’s voice croaked, choked, and died. He looked down. “Whatever we show as proof will be exposed, Mr. President. We cannot burn sources and methods at this time. Not right before a war.”

  Kris jumped in. “There’s Yemen.”

  “Yemen?” The vice president frowned.

  “The USS Cole bombings. The FBI is running a fusion cell in-country, working on prosecuting the attackers in Yemeni courts. They have an al-Qaeda operative there, someone who used to be Bin Laden’s bodyguard, in jail. We could question him.”

  The president nodded. “Get on it. I want confirmation for the world that Bin Laden was behind these attacks. Something we can show off.”

  “Everything comes down to our response,” the vice president said. “Everything. We have to find these terrorists and we have to stop them. Wherever they are. By whatever means possible.”

  “Geoff,” the president said, turning to the CIA director. “I want the CIA to be the first on the ground. As soon as possible.”

  “Mr. President, we’re on our way.”

  They hurried to the motorcade waiting outside the West Wing. Thatcher huddled with Williams as Kris followed, herded by hulking Secret Service agents.

  Williams turned to Kris. “Great job. Take the last SUV back to your place and pack a bag. You’re going to Yemen. You leave in three hours.”

  Chapter 2

  Sana’a, Yemen

  September 14, 2001

  Kris sweated in the backseat of a creaking Yemeni government SUV, roaring through the capital, Sana’a. At one in the morning, the streets were deserted. Dust clung to Kris’s hair, scratched his eyes, filled his nose. Even in the middle of the night, the heat tasted like the air was burning.

  Since September 11, all Americans in Yemen moved at night, under the glowering auspices of the Yemeni national police.

  Clint Williams had arranged for a private CIA jet to fly him directly to Yemen. He was the only passenger. He’d spent the fifteen-hour flight reading everything the FBI had on the incarcerated al-Qaeda terrorist.

  Abu Tadmir was the former bodyguard of Bin Laden and the emir, the leader, of one of the guesthouses for Arab fighters traveling to Afghanistan to join with al-Qaeda. His guesthouse was connected to the advanced tactics training camp where the hijackers had most likely received specialized instruction.

  On the flight, Kris received a cable from Langley. It had been confirmed: one of the hijackers had stayed at Tadmir’s guesthouse. In fact, the hijacker was called “a friend” of the emir. They’d spent Ramadan together in 1999. They were close.

  Finally, the SUV pulled up at the Yemeni federal detention facility. Two Americans in cargo pants, fleece vests, and ball caps waited inside the gates. Gold badges hung on chains around their necks.

  “FBI,” his Yemeni driver grunted. He didn’t sound thrilled to see the agents.

  Both FBI agents stared Kris down through the dusty windshield. They didn’t say hello as he climbed out of the SUV or came to their side.

  Kris hitched his duffel higher on his shoulder. “I’m here to see Abu Tadmir.”

  Nothing. It was like the FBI agents were statues.

  One agent glared, his eyes narrowing to slits. “You CIA guys have anything you want to pass along? You know, anything you haven’t shared that might save lives?”

  The man’s words eviscerated him, sliced him from belly to heart. Everything in him wanted to scream, to vomit, to rip his hair from his head. The names of the hijackers flashed in his mind, cartoon exclamations that followed his every footstep.

  He forced his voice to remain steady. Forced steel into his spine when he just wanted to collapse and beg for forgiveness. “I am here on the orders of the president of the United States to get information from Abu Tadmir. I am here to do my job.”

  The FBI agents both snorted. �
��You guys really did a hell of a job already.”

  “I am here to help the president.” Fireballs bloomed behind his eyelids. A scream hovered on the edge of his mind. “You can either help me or you can get the fuck out of my way.”

  The FBI agents shared a long look.

  “The time for blame will come later,” Kris whispered. And when it came, it would come for him.

  “You’re Goddamn right it will,” one of the agents said.

  They grudgingly led him into the prison, a dank square building of chipped concrete and cinder block. Sandstorms had blasted the dingy mustard paint to shreds, and dust-covered bare bulbs hummed behind rusted cages. Only every other bulb was lit. Down a long hallway, two Yemeni guards waited outside a door marred with black char marks and pocked with large dents.

  Kris spoke to the FBI agents’ backs. “I need to secure a confession that al-Qaeda is responsible for the attack.”

  “We already know they’re responsible,” one agent snapped as they stopped.

  “The president needs this for the international coalition, and to pressure the Taliban.”

  “Anything else you CIA types think you can magically summon from Tadmir?” the second agent snorted.

  “We need to know everything about the al-Qaeda camps in Afghanistan. Their armaments, their personnel. Capabilities, locations, numbers. Everything, for the invasion.”

  “We’ve had this guy for a year. We’ve been questioning him. Everything he’s given us, we’ve sent back to Washington. He hasn’t given up much, and, no offense, but I doubt you are going to be the one to crack him.” The first agent looked him up and down, a cold glare etched on his face.

  Kris bristled. Indignity pulled his shoulders back. “Things have changed since you captured him.”

  “The attacks? Yeah, they made most of the jihadis jubilant. Victorious. Hardened their resolve. You’re not going to get anything.”

  “I’m going to try. You can participate or not. Observe or not. I don’t fucking care. But I have my orders.”

  “Well, we’ll go in after you’re done. See if we can salvage the night.” The agent shoved the door to the interrogation room open for Kris.

  Abu Tadmir, whose kunya, or jihadist name, meant “father of destruction”, strolled into the interrogation room in the company of two Yemeni prison guards. He was clean, his beard trimmed, and he was fat. Tadmir was obviously doing just fine. Yemeni prison agreed with him. He wasn’t afraid.

  The guards wore masks over their faces, hiding their identities, seemingly fearing Tadmir, or fearing him learning their identities.

  Tadmir leached arrogance, power, intimidation. Kris had seen it all before, a world away.

  Tadmir had been arrested by the Yemenis in a roundup of al-Qaeda suspects following the USS Cole bombing, at the behest of the FBI and the fusion cell working the case. He hadn’t given up much in the year he’d been behind bars.

  Tadmir pulled out the rickety metal chair on his side of the interrogation table and dropped into it, slouching. Kris stayed seated, silent. He let Tadmir stare and ignored the way he grinned, laughing, dismissive.

  Kris pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to Tadmir. Tadmir took one.

  “As-salaam-alaikum.”

  “Wa alaikum as-salaam.”

  He flicked his lighter, igniting the end of Tadmir’s cigarette. After, he lit his own and took a deep inhale. “My name is Kris. I am with the CIA.” He spoke in Arabic, the words rolling off his tongue, clear and strong. Stronger than he felt.

  Tadmir arched one eyebrow. “You speak God’s language?” he asked in Arabic.

  “Nam.” Yes.

  “Yet you are an infidel?”

  “Nam.”

  “I will not speak to you in Allah’s language.” He switched to English. It was stilted, halting.

  Kris followed him into English. “How are you? You look well.”

  Tadmir grinned. He puffed on his cigarette. “Very good. I am very good.”

  “I want to check. You are Abu Tadmir, al-Qaeda member and former bodyguard of Osama Bin Laden. Emir of the guesthouse, the House of Leaves, near Tarnak Farms?”

  Tadmir smiled again. “I am Abu Tadmir.” Pride shone in his eyes. “Of course I am he.”

  Over the past year, Tadmir had only confirmed, through questioning, all information the FBI had been able to gather about him from interrogations of other al-Qaeda operatives, captured al-Qaeda documents, and intercepted communications.

  The file stated he admitted information he knew only after being called out in a lie, an arduous process of questioning, challenging, and then, finally, his admission. Back-and-forth, fact-based, closed questions had led to multiple dead ends when the intel the FBI knew simply dried up.

  He had to try a different angle. “So, why join al-Qaeda? Why become a jihadi?”

  “It is the duty of every Muslim to wage jihad. To fight for Islam. To defend Islam, when invaders and occupiers attack Muslims and take Muslim land. Islam also calls for the end of tyranny, as the Prophet—peace be upon him, all blessings and glory are his—showed in his example. We fight all oppression of Muslims. In Bosnia, in Chechnya, in Afghanistan against the Soviets, against Israel… and against you.”

  Tadmir’s eyes gleamed. Kris filed that away as he took a drag of his cigarette. Tadmir enjoyed the spotlight. He enjoyed having an audience. “Where is the oppression?”

  Tadmir threw his head back, laughing. Ash dropped from the end of his cigarette. “Where is the oppression? Oh, you are funny. You are a funny man. Muslim holy lands are under oppression. Occupied by filthy Saudi royals who are just puppets for your West. Infidels walk on the holy land of Arabia. Israel, and her Western supporters, attack Muslims every day.” Tadmir switched to Arabic, seemingly not even noticing. “Throughout this century, Muslim lands have been invaded time and again. By soldiers. By the Soviet Union in Afghanistan, by Russia in Chechnya. Americans in the holy lands, fighting Saddam. We could have fought him! We did not need any infidels on our land! But that is what you do. You invade, everywhere. Western culture, Western ideas, Western innovations. We cannot look at the world and see anything but your invasion. This is why Bin Laden issued his fatwa. To liberate the oppressed.”

  “America also wants to liberate the oppressed. That’s what we try to do. Did we not help Bin Laden expel the Soviets from Afghanistan?”

  Abu Tadmir blew smoke into Kris’s face.

  Kris didn’t wave it away. “We want to be a force for good in the world. To help the oppressed. Like it says in the Quran. No man is free if one man is oppressed.”

  “You Americans want to be ‘a force for good’. But all the world sees is force.” Tadmir sat back, sucking his cigarette between two fingers. “Only Muslims can save other Muslims. Infidels cannot save Muslims. Besides, you are only interfering in Muslim revolutions. Leave us alone. We will make our own way in the world.”

  “How can we leave you alone if you declare war on us?”

  “The war can end if you leave the holy lands of the Arabian Peninsula and submit to Islam.”

  “Americans are not all going to convert to Islam.” Kris shook his head, smiling.

  “Then the war will continue.”

  “How is this war, this jihad, fought? You kill anyone? Everyone?”

  “No, no.” Tadmir waved his hand, his cigarette wagging through the air. “There are rules to jihad. It must be declared. Bin Laden declared war upon the infidels. He told you how to settle the war. What to do to surrender.”

  “Yes, convert to Islam, leave Saudi Arabia.”

  “Nam.” Tadmir reached for a new cigarette. Kris had left the pack and the lighter in the center of the table.

  Kris leaned back, crossing his legs. He took a drag, frowning. He wanted Tadmir to believe he was thinking hard about what he was saying. Let Tadmir believe he had the upper hand. “Okay, so tell me about tactics in jihad. Who can be targeted?”

  “It is war. Jihad targets soldiers. Warr
iors. Governments. Those who are guilty.”

  “Like the embassies in Nairobi and Tanzania? American government buildings?”

  “Nam.”

  “But there were women and children who died in that attack. Some of them were Muslims.”

  “Bombings and martyrdom operations are the weapons we are given in this great war. You have your missiles. We have our bombs. And, in all wars, there are casualties. Sacrifices must be made. Allah will accept these deaths as holy martyrs for the faith. He will reward them in Paradise. Any innocent Muslims will receive the rewards of jihad, as if they were martyring themselves. Their lives are given for the greater cause of jihad.”

  “I’m not sure they’d see it that way.”

  “They will be delighted in Paradise. What is the problem?”

  “How many innocent lives is too many? When does what you’re doing become murder?”

  “Murder is not acceptable.” Tadmir frowned, as if Kris had insulted him. “I am not a murderer. Casualties happen in war. But murder, taking innocent lives? That is forbidden.”

  Kris blinked. He flicked ash on the table. “Tell me about your friends. Your fellow al-Qaeda fighters. I want to know them. Understand them, like you’re explaining yourself to me.”

  Tadmir smiled wide. “You see, I will show you the truth. You will believe.”

  Kris smiled back. He pulled a binder out of his bag and opened it up. Pages of pictures, headshots taken from passports and driver’s licenses and ID cards around the world, appeared. “Your friends in al-Qaeda. These are their pictures.”

  Tadmir looked over the first page. He frowned. “No, I do not know these people.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Okay, maybe him.” Tadmir pointed to one of the senior commanders, a man he’d already admitted to knowing in the FBI’s files. “I recognize his face. But I do not know his name.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Tadmir looked up, over the pictures. His eyes glittered. “Of course I am certain.”