shackles would allow. He stiffened but held his ground. In my peripheral vision I could see his guards grow tense. But I didn’t care. I leaned in to Ramzy’s face and spoke to him man to man.
“Look,” I said, “you knew Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. You and Abu Khalif were sent to Iraq by bin Laden and Khalid Sheikh Mohammed to help him establish al Qaeda in Iraq. Zarqawi was the face, but you and Abu Khalif were the brains. It was your ideas, your strategy, your tactics, your money, and your weapons that put Zarqawi on the map, right?”
Ramzy said nothing, but I went on.
“When Zarqawi was killed by that air strike in ’06, you and Abu Khalif wanted to take the organization in one direction. Abu Ayyub al-Masri and his forces wanted to go in another. For a time, Masri prevailed. But in the end, you and Abu Khalif outlasted him. Abu Khalif became head of AQI. It was he who brought you in as his chief of operations. It was he who decided to expand the mission, change the name, raise the stakes. It was he who ordered you to build an army strong enough to storm Syria and bring Assad’s head back on a platter. And in the end, it was he who broke with bin Laden and later with Zawahiri, and you supported him every step of the way. Am I right?”
Ramzy said nothing, but his eyes told me I was right.
“That must mean Abu Khalif told you to talk to me,” I continued. “Why? Because he’s about to start a new war, a war that’s going toset this region on fire. You don’t want to talk to me about the chemical weapons? Fine. I’ve got two sources. I’ll run the story with or without your comment or his. But I’m giving you something no one else can, something money can’t buy. I’m giving you and your boss the opportunity of a lifetime, the opportunity to be the new face of al Qaeda, to be the new face of global jihad. Forget your blood feud with Zawahiri. Forget all the men in the caves. Their time has come and gone. Your day has arrived. But I can’t do it just by profiling the number two guy. I’m sorry. I can’t. I need to talk to the emir. I need to get him on the record. You know it. He knows it. So give me access —exclusive access —before the war begins, before —”
I caught myself just in time. I was about to say, “Before you’re both dead.” But at the last moment I said, “Before you both go underground forever.”
When I was finished, I gave him a little space, a little time, to take the bait. But Jamal Ramzy did not bite.
“We’re done here, Mr. Collins,” he said through gritted teeth. “But know this: you have made a terrible mistake. You will not write one word about chemical weapons, or you will not live to see it printed. You certainly will not meet Abu Khalif. And you will never presume to lecture me again about what is best for our cause. You are an infidel, Mr. Collins. You and your friends are alive because Abu Khalif chose to keep you alive. You will continue to live until he decides your usefulness to him is over. And when that day comes, he will give me the order, and I will kill you —all of you —and believe me, I will take my time and make you suffer.”
15
Ramzy’s men led us back through the tunnels.
When we emerged aboveground, they put black plastic bags over our heads and led us through the driving rains across one neighborhood after another until they told us to stop.
“Count to one hundred,” one of them ordered, his voice seeming to echo a bit.
“Why?” I asked, worried.
“Just do it, and don’t ask questions.”
I had a lot of questions. Omar, Abdel, and I hadn’t been permitted to talk since we left Ramzy’s lair, and I was eager to know what my colleagues were thinking. How had they wound up with Tariq Baqouba? What did they make of the ISIS commander? Why did they think he wasn’t willing to talk about the chemical weapons? Was he really lying, or was I being misled by more faulty Western intelligence? And what was the deal
“Look,” I said, “you knew Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. You and Abu Khalif were sent to Iraq by bin Laden and Khalid Sheikh Mohammed to help him establish al Qaeda in Iraq. Zarqawi was the face, but you and Abu Khalif were the brains. It was your ideas, your strategy, your tactics, your money, and your weapons that put Zarqawi on the map, right?”
Ramzy said nothing, but I went on.
“When Zarqawi was killed by that air strike in ’06, you and Abu Khalif wanted to take the organization in one direction. Abu Ayyub al-Masri and his forces wanted to go in another. For a time, Masri prevailed. But in the end, you and Abu Khalif outlasted him. Abu Khalif became head of AQI. It was he who brought you in as his chief of operations. It was he who decided to expand the mission, change the name, raise the stakes. It was he who ordered you to build an army strong enough to storm Syria and bring Assad’s head back on a platter. And in the end, it was he who broke with bin Laden and later with Zawahiri, and you supported him every step of the way. Am I right?”
Ramzy said nothing, but his eyes told me I was right.
“That must mean Abu Khalif told you to talk to me,” I continued. “Why? Because he’s about to start a new war, a war that’s going toset this region on fire. You don’t want to talk to me about the chemical weapons? Fine. I’ve got two sources. I’ll run the story with or without your comment or his. But I’m giving you something no one else can, something money can’t buy. I’m giving you and your boss the opportunity of a lifetime, the opportunity to be the new face of al Qaeda, to be the new face of global jihad. Forget your blood feud with Zawahiri. Forget all the men in the caves. Their time has come and gone. Your day has arrived. But I can’t do it just by profiling the number two guy. I’m sorry. I can’t. I need to talk to the emir. I need to get him on the record. You know it. He knows it. So give me access —exclusive access —before the war begins, before —”
I caught myself just in time. I was about to say, “Before you’re both dead.” But at the last moment I said, “Before you both go underground forever.”
When I was finished, I gave him a little space, a little time, to take the bait. But Jamal Ramzy did not bite.
“We’re done here, Mr. Collins,” he said through gritted teeth. “But know this: you have made a terrible mistake. You will not write one word about chemical weapons, or you will not live to see it printed. You certainly will not meet Abu Khalif. And you will never presume to lecture me again about what is best for our cause. You are an infidel, Mr. Collins. You and your friends are alive because Abu Khalif chose to keep you alive. You will continue to live until he decides your usefulness to him is over. And when that day comes, he will give me the order, and I will kill you —all of you —and believe me, I will take my time and make you suffer.”
15
Ramzy’s men led us back through the tunnels.
When we emerged aboveground, they put black plastic bags over our heads and led us through the driving rains across one neighborhood after another until they told us to stop.
“Count to one hundred,” one of them ordered, his voice seeming to echo a bit.
“Why?” I asked, worried.
“Just do it, and don’t ask questions.”
I had a lot of questions. Omar, Abdel, and I hadn’t been permitted to talk since we left Ramzy’s lair, and I was eager to know what my colleagues were thinking. How had they wound up with Tariq Baqouba? What did they make of the ISIS commander? Why did they think he wasn’t willing to talk about the chemical weapons? Was he really lying, or was I being misled by more faulty Western intelligence? And what was the deal
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