88 Days to Kandahar: A CIA Diary (18 page)

The idea of keeping the proceedings secret from the Pakistanis might have seemed ludicrous. There had been no way to avoid their playing host to the meeting, and thus they had been able to choose the venue. Given that this was clearly not a normal meeting area, and given that most organizations do not spend money to plant permanent bugs in temporary quarters used by their own officers, it seemed likely to me that if they wanted to monitor our meeting, they would have to use what we referred to in the business as a “quick-plant” transmitter. Having placed one or two of these myself, I looked under every piece of furniture, searching for the telltale signs; I found none. The most obvious and simple candidate was a small handheld radio buzzer placed on a nightstand, used for summoning the tea-boy. I had seen such devices in ISI facilities any number of times. I had no way of knowing whether it had been tampered with, but in a surfeit of caution I disassembled it, removed the battery, and muffled it in a drawer in the bathroom.

When at last Osmani made his entrance, Jalil swept inside in his
wake. Seeing no chair, he hopped up on the side of the bed, and waited expectantly.

“Haji Mullah,” I began, using Jalil’s Taliban nickname. “I am very sorry.” I went on to explain, falsely, that I was under strict instructions from Washington to deliver my message directly to Mullah Osmani, and to no one else. As much as I would wish to include him in this meeting, I simply had no choice but to ask him to leave. Shocked and crestfallen, Jalil looked desperately to Osmani for support. Mullah Sa’eb looked on impassively: Jalil would get no help from that quarter. At length, the gnomish cleric hopped down from his perch. Head bowed, he limped slowly and petulantly from the room.

Meetings conducted with a translator usually fall into a formal, stately, almost Victorian rhythm, and this one was no exception. I would speak a paragraph at a time, and then wait as the translator conveyed what I’d said. If there is an advantage in that, it is that you have ample time to formulate arguments while your words are being conveyed. When receiving the response, you can devote full attention to the speaker’s body language and expression, and wait for the words to arrive later. Such meetings thus often take on the deliberate cadence of a chess match.

This one started with a rapid exchange of moves. I began: “The
Ulema
have stated that bin Laden should leave Afghanistan, but Mullah Omar has rejected this. In effect, he has declared himself an enemy of America. Will the rest of the Taliban join him as declared enemies of America?”

Osmani saw where this was going, and jumped ahead: “You won’t be able to replace the Taliban with oppositionists,” he said.

“Look,” I countered, “only Afghans can make a permanent solution for Afghanistan. The United States will be able to chase the terrorists away, but without a responsible Afghan government, they can come back. If the Taliban is willing to be that government, this will be acceptable to us; but if not, war will inevitably come, and Afghanistan will again experience the chaos of the early 1990s. Your enemies will return. No one knows how it will turn out. All that is sure is that it will be a disaster for Afghanistan, and the end of the Taliban.”

Waving his hands for emphasis, the outsized mullah launched into a long string of excuses. “Bin Laden,” he said, “has become synonymous in Afghanistan with Islam. The Taliban can’t hand him over publicly any more than they can publicly reject Islam. Neither Omar nor the rest of the
Shura
like the Arabs; they want to cooperate with America, they do, but public threats from the United States have aroused the people and boxed the leadership in politically. Besides,” he complained, “Omar has made a public commitment to bin Laden; he can’t simply renounce it now. He would like to be rid of this man, but his hands are tied. In fact, Omar sent a messenger to bin Laden five days ago; he reminded Osama of the
Ulema
’s decision that he should leave the country. ‘You must deal with them,’ he said.”

Osmani went on: “I can track Osama down and kill him if you like, but I can’t use my own troops. That would be too public; my role would be known. For that, I have to find outside operatives. This will take time,” he ended.

I shook my head. “Washington will see this as a delaying tactic,” I said. “They might have listened to this months ago, before 9/11, but it’s too late now. The United States is preparing for all-out war as we speak. If you want a risk-free solution, you won’t find it. If you want to save the Taliban and your country, you’re going to have to take risks.”

Osmani’s voice took on a desperate tone: “Your threats have created big problems for us. Afghans are reacting emotionally . . .” His voice trailed away.

I cut him off. “What’s done is done. If threats have been made, they can’t be unmade. There’s no point in trying to change the past. The point is to find a way to save Afghanistan.”

The big man paused, and slumped lower in his chair. He had been speaking rapidly and animatedly, but he suddenly looked very tired, played out. There was nothing left to say. He removed his turban, and put it aside. Looking down, he said: “Then you suggest a solution.”

This was the opportunity I’d hoped for.

Years before, while planning a potential military coup in Baghdad, I had read
Coup d’État: A Practical Handbook
, by Edward Luttwak. In it, Luttwak lists the sequential steps that traditionally must occur
for a coup to succeed. I could see them as a checklist in my mind as I spoke.

“Mullah Sa’eb,” I began. “You are the second-ranking member of the Taliban. You are widely respected; you have great power and influence. You command the Taliban forces in and around Kandahar. Only you can save your country. Omar, by your own admission, is bound by his pledge to Osama. He will fall as a result, and he will take the Taliban with him. But you are not bound by such a pledge, nor are the other members of the
Shura
.
You
can take the actions necessary.

“First,” I said, “you must rally your troops and seize control of all key government buildings in Kandahar, as well as the principal roads and intersections. Anyone in a position to resist you must be placed in detention. First among them must be Mullah Omar. No one is suggesting he should be harmed,” I cautioned, “but he cannot be allowed to communicate with anyone. Your most important objective,” I went on, “is to seize Radio Shariat, the voice of the Taliban, and to make an immediate announcement. You must tell all Afghans that you are acting at the direction of the
Ulema
. It was they, after all, who put Omar in power in the first place; he has refused their direction, and now you are forced to seize power to obey their dictates. You must declare that the Arabs are no longer welcome, and demand the departure of al-Qa’ida from Afghanistan.

“Immediately thereafter, you must move against bin Laden. He and those around him will resist violently, and will have to be killed. No one will have to know that you have done this; the Arabs have many enemies. The other Arab fighters, having heard your decree and learned that bin Laden is dead, will get the message: they will flee. As for the fourteen Arabs on the list I have given you, they must be captured and quietly given to us. Again, once they have turned up in American custody, no one need know how they got there. With so many Arabs fleeing, many will assume that they were captured in neighboring countries.

“I understand that this will carry risks for you. But you have already told me you don’t care about your own life. This is your opportunity to save your country.”

I added one final point: “You should know that we can give you anything you need to get this done.” The implication, which the Mullah clearly understood, was that I was prepared to give him large sums of money. He would not rise to the bait.

“I won’t need any assistance,” he said.

The commander began to mull over what I’d said, reacting aloud. He had no problem taking the quiet actions we demanded against bin Laden and the fourteen others. But why did he have to make a public announcement expelling the Arabs?

I explained that the change in Taliban policy to deny safehaven to the Arabs would have to be announced publicly to be effective. Any specific actions they took to implement their policy and to meet our demands, however, could be kept secret, so long as we could see the results.

My promises of secrecy were not quite so ridiculous as they might appear now. Afghanistan at that point had no cell phone system, no international phone service of any kind outside of a handful of government-controlled lines into Pakistan, and no independent media. The country was nearly opaque to the outside world.

Ideally, I knew, Osmani should have moved against bin Laden and the other fourteen
before
publicly announcing the break with al-Qa’ida, which would only alert the Arabs. But this was Afghanistan. I knew that any attempt to arrest bin Laden and the Arabs, even if made in good faith, would not be efficient, quick, or clean. And word of Osmani’s arrest of Mullah Omar and seizure of Radio Shariat would spread quickly among the senior Taliban commanders; it would have to be explained in the context of saving the country from the abuses of the Arab foreigners. Better to get the public announcement first. Once made, it couldn’t be walked back; it would disrupt the Arabs; and it would probably create massive dissension and confusion within the Taliban, which would create opportunities for us, both political and military. Those would be the most achievable goals. If we got bin Laden and the others in the bargain, so much the better.

“All right,” he said. “But if we change our policy on bin Laden and al-Qa’ida, why can we not let the other Arabs remain as refugees?”

I was becoming exasperated, and let it show. Pashtuns are supposed to be xenophobes, after all, and Osmani perhaps more so than most. “Why do you want to invite trouble from the whole world for the sake of a handful of Arabs?” I was waving my arms for emphasis. “Rather than worry about a few Arab refugees, why don’t you concern yourself with the millions of Afghans who have been refugees for years?” The big man laughed, and shook his head slowly.

“You are right,” he said.

I warmed to the subject. “Look,” I said. “We realize we made a big mistake when we abandoned Afghanistan after the Soviets left. We will not make this mistake again. For a friendly Afghan government willing to oppose the terrorists, the United States will provide massive humanitarian relief. We will assist the Afghan refugees to return to their homes.” I was not entirely making this up. A few days before, Condoleezza Rice had journeyed across the river for several hours of briefings on Afghanistan. She had described the post-Soviet abandonment as a mistake, and had asserted we would remain engaged in Afghanistan for the long term.

By now, Osmani was grinning and nodding. “This is very good,” he said. He reiterated the one overt and the two covert elements of the plan. “I will bring your proposal to Omar.”

I nearly fell out of my chair. This was not where I was going at all: the proposed actions had been for Osmani, not Omar. I hadn’t seen this coming. Still, I thought, reflecting quickly, in the unlikely event Omar agreed and actually followed through, it would be all the same to us.

I summed up where we were: First, I stressed, however one might describe what we had done, this was not a negotiation. President Bush’s demands remained as stated; what we had agreed was a possible way for the Taliban to meet those demands. Second, as neither of us had been empowered to reach a binding agreement, we would have to seek the approval of our respective masters. Third, we would need a dedicated means of secure communication—secure, at least, from the Taliban and the Pakistanis. Finally, and most important, I said, fixing my hulking friend with a stare, if Omar should refuse this proposal, as in
all likelihood he would, it was up to Osmani to step in, seize power, and do it himself.

The Mullah looked at me with apparent resolve. “I will do it,” he said.

In an instant, the tension of the previous three hours was cut. Osmani suddenly seemed buoyed and happy, as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He rose to his feet and folded me in a Pashtun man-hug, left arm over my right shoulder, right arm gripping me about the waist. Over the next several minutes, I gave him an Inmarsat, instructing him in its use, and we agreed on time windows when we would be available to speak. At his suggestion, we ripped a pair of Pakistani bank notes, each taking half: these would serve as bona fides if either of us were to send an emissary to the other. Afterwards, we fairly marched together out the door and down the hall, where we were joined by Jalil and “Brigadier Farid,” our ISI host, who had arranged a huge lunch of mutton and rice.

Despite the volume of food, such lunches are usually quick affairs, with little conversation. I watched closely as Osmani ate happily, and with great gusto. When we had finished, he got to his feet. Abdul Salam Zaeef, the Taliban ambassador to Pakistan, would be flying down from Islamabad later that day. Osmani and Jalil would remain in Quetta to receive him, and the three would then travel by road to Kandahar the following morning, October 3. Again I pressed Osmani to respond to me quickly, on October 4 if at all possible. Again the burly man embraced me as though I were a long-lost brother, and turned to leave.

When we arrived at the Quetta airfield, I was informed that General Mahmud would arrive presently to accompany me on his aircraft. I had turned down his offer of the previous day to accompany him to Quetta, where he would be meeting with Taliban foreign minister Wakil Ahmed Muttawakil. He had offered to arrange a separate meeting for me with Mullah Jalil’s boss, but I had had no interest. There was too much to do, and I could ill afford to waste a day. By all accounts, Muttawakil was a comparatively decent fellow, but it was my assessment, based on our intelligence, that he had no influence with Omar or the rest of the senior leadership. He was a mere factotum, given the
thankless task of trying to present the Taliban to the West in the most favorable, or least negative, light possible. He had no independent political power base, and commanded no troops. He would be useless to me—though not to Mahmud, who shared the Taliban envoy’s public relations goal of somehow deflecting the Americans from their current path.