Free Sting of the Drone by Richard A. Clarke

correspondent,” Garrison countered.
    “Right, the next SCUD stud. Who was that guy in the First Gulf War who was always standing outside while everyone ran into the shelters when the SCUD missiles were falling all around him?” Karen said. Garrison suppressed a smile.
    “Well, we could do children made orphans by several different wars, we could try doing something on the drone strikes and how they are often counterproductive, or we could—” Bryce replied.
    “Drones, that’s it, drones. You go to each country where the U.S. is secretly flying drones. There was a great report on it from some university the other day, long thing, it’s on my desk,” Garrison said. “But, Karen, that would cost money. Eight, maybe ten, countries. Team of three, plus Bryce, some local security guys in some of these places, a little baksheesh, you know, walking-around money.”
    “I’ll find the money, including the raise. Give me a budget tomorrow morning, Fred,” she replied. “Nice to meet you, Bryce Duggan.” She kept her eyes on him as he walked back into the newsroom.

 
    7
    SATURDAY, AUGUST 15
    JAMSHED DISTRICT
    KARACHI, PAKISTAN
    “I hate this city,” the older Arab said.
    “You hate everything. That is why it so difficult for you to recruit new followers,” Bahadur replied.
    “We love Islam and we have no problem recruiting. We have enough people in America to do the attacks,” the younger Arab added.
    “Then why do you need us?” Bahadur answered. “If al Qaeda is still so strong, why us? Why don’t you do the attacks in America without us?”
    The older Arab looked Bahadur in the eye for a moment before replying. “We have learned not to expose our men in America. Too many have been lured into thinking they were talking to brothers, getting an assignment, a mission, only to be arrested by the FBI. The new people we have do nothing to risk being identified. They do not visit Islamist Web sites. They go only to the regular mosques. They buy no guns, no bomb material. They do no planning of missions. They wait. Our men will do the missions, but we need someone else to be the controllers, to set up the operations.”
    Bahadur hoped no one had followed the Arabs to this small appliance store in the Jamshed district of the sprawling city. Qazzani gang spotters were out in the neighborhood looking for signs of surveillance.
    “How did you find those people?” Bahadur asked.
    “Our friends in the U.S., the Ikhwan, they are often teachers, or bankers, or doctors. They look for young men who want to do a special Jihad. They send them out of America for vacations, never an Islamic country. Trinidad, Brazil, Mexico. There we meet them. We test them. Those who pass, we instruct on how to wait without attracting attention. Then they go back.”
    The younger man looked to the older Arab for confirmation that he could give more detail and then added, “Some of them we appoint as a cell chief. Each cell chief knows five to ten other men. The men know only their cell chief, but each one of them we give a special code word of his own. We give it when they pledge loyalty to al Qaeda. If someone recruits them to do a mission, if he does not say the code word, the men know the recruiter is FBI.”
    “We need you to build the bombs, to survey the targets, to coordinate the attacks,” the older Arab said, “but we have good people.”
    “These people, they are all Arabs?” Bahadur asked.
    “No, very few. Some are Somalis. Some Nigerians, but my friend,” the younger Arab smiled, “all are Americans. Either they were born there or they became citizens. No visas needed. They all have American passports.”
    Bahadur was beginning to think that perhaps Rashid Qazzani was right to take this contract from al Qaeda. They did need help, but not for everything. In the decade after 9/11 al Qaeda had gone underground in America. They had used good security procedures, cells in which most members knew only a few others. They were