In a housing section of New Delhi, close to the government and business center, Yuri’s longtime Iraqi contact was just beginning a critical meeting with Hakim Al-Lami, an active upper level al-Qaeda member. In India, Ali Kazar used the name of Abdul Ali Fahad. The al-Qaeda sub-chief had brazenly gotten out of a taxi right in front of C-432 Defense Colony, a two-story cement stucco bungalow, almost indistinguishable from dozens of others jammed in side by side. Nearly every pastel-colored bungalow had a small garden in front, many displaying overflowing bougainvillea vines with riotous colors, a gated driveway and a sleeping shelter on the roof for the hot, unrelenting late spring and early summer days in New Delhi before the summer monsoons.
Inside, the rooms were cool and dark with a mixture of eclectic furnishing. The bungalow was a combination of living quarters and business offices. An office for Fahad, one for his secretary, a small waiting room and the rest of the space in the two-level bungalow provided Fahad with ample living space. His Muslim cook-bearer lived with his wife and one child in two small rooms added onto the back of the bungalow. Fahad liked the added security of having the house constantly occupied by his office and house staffs. After all his years in the Iraqi intelligence service, he had developed a fine sense of personal security. He did not appreciate al-Qaeda members arriving at his office in a taxi in the middle of the day.
The Indian police and Indian Intelligence Bureau were far more effective than they were given credit for, but al-Qaeda paid the money and made the rules. Fahad was a fervent believer in the Golden Rule: “Whoever has the gold makes the rules.” So he would never criticize them. Accommodation was key to survival. Nevertheless, a Muslim immigrant living in the midst of Hindu New Delhi had to be constantly on guard, especially one who was taking money from al-Qaeda.
After bracing himself, Fahad kissed Hakim Al-Lami on both cheeks and led him into his office. Al-Lami was a small man, dark skinned, with a trimmed beard, he wore a western business suit, cut rather well. Fahad wasn’t sure of his nationality but suspected he was a Saudi. Al-Lami only spoke English in Fahad’s presence. The cook/bearer served hot strong tea and biscuits. On a signal from his employer, he immediately left the room.
After they had exchange pleasantries and sipped their tea, Al-Lami said, “We are disappointed. What started so well is now nothing. We have given you one million dollars to use for expenses and to pay your contact in the United States. We started with a series of successful assassinations of the Satan-loving Americans. The killing of the Jewish congressman and the Secretary of the Commerce was very pleasing and led us to put in more money. Your early success was followed much later by the killing of a few prominent citizens and a few local officials, but no bombings even after we had agreed to attacks against unprotected buildings. Now that stupid capitalist press can print nothing to undermine their government. We follow the American media closely and, beyond the killing of a few mayors, we see nothing we have paid for.”
Fahad started to speak but Al-Lami raised his hand and said, “No! No explanations or excuses. I am not now asking you for an accounting or explanation. We want you to come to the usual meeting site in Kathmandu three weeks from today. My superiors will also attend the meeting, and we have some interesting ideas for you to think about. This is not a warning but you must know the level of activity we have paid for over the last six months is disappointing. It must improve.”
Fahad said, “I will make the arrangements. I have received a request for you from my contact in America.” He handed Al-Lami an envelope and said, “Inside are names, photos and addresses of people my contact believes are dangers to him and al-Qaeda. He has already killed one but lost three loyal men in the attack.”
Al-Lami took the envelope without a word, waved aside Fahad’s offer to serve him dinner, and abruptly turned down the hospitality of his guest room. Fahad accepted this rebuff and, on hearing a car stop outside thought, this bastard must have told the taxi to return in 30 minutes. It has been exactly 30 minutes. He never intended to show me the courtesy of allowing me to be his host or share afternoon prayers. I’ll not be able to contact and meet Vladimir Petrov before the meeting, but I can signal him to come to a meeting the next month. At least Kathmandu is a much more pleasant place this time of year and far less strict about sexual enjoyment. Yes, I could use a vacation in the mountain kingdom and I need some more al-Qaeda money.
The next morning the United flight carrying Kathy arrived at Indira Gandhi International Airport. The usual wait for immigrations, customs and the collection of baggage, all delayed by the officiousness of the Indian Civil Service was not a whole lot worse than a foreigner experiences at JFK on a crowded day. Kathy had briefly visited New Delhi in the past on one of her many Asian trips for the CIA.
A seasoned traveler, she knew airports worldwide were the worst part of international travel. Two hours after landing, her taxi pulled up in front of the Oberoi International Hotel. Here, the drive to make money by catering to tourists overcame the natural ponderous nature of the Indian bureaucracy.
Facts and Fictions 