Out In The Cold

By Colton Glass

Putting an agent out into the cold is always a stressful time for a controller, and the longer the agent is out there the greater that stress becomes. John Bonney has been out in the cold for over ten years, buried deep inside Al-Qaeda, climbing his way steadily through its ranks.

 

But a power struggle is now brewing in the organisation. A battle between those happy to continue living off Al-Qaeda's former spoils and reputation, and those committed to making the organisation top of the worlds most wanted list once again.

 

The CIA knows an attack is coming. They think they know when but have no idea what shape it will take or where it will happen. What they are sure of is that it will be what is now labelled a spectacular. An event bigger than 9/11, the US Embassy and Bali bombings all rolled into one. An act so brutal it will eclipse every other atrocity in human history.

 

The only man who may be able to confirm the date, shed some light on the what and the where is John Bonney. But last sign of life, confirmation that he was still alive, and functioning was years ago. The question is, if Bonney's still alive, can they find him - bring him back in, and in the process prevent Armageddon. Even if they can, after all this time, living as one of the enemy there is no guarantee as to which side he's on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Colton Glass Books
• Release date: Apr 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798413874103

Colton Glass

Colton was brought up in the East End of London, one of the poorest areas of the city at the time. After what can only be described as a nightmare childhood, he spent six months living on the streets of South London, before joining the army at age eighteen, serving twenty two years in places like Northern Ireland, the Middle East, Central Africa and the Far East. On Leaving the army he set up a procurement company providing communications and security equipment to the oil exploration industry in the Middle East.The wealth of knowledge and experience he acquired during his life now forms the backbone of the books he writes. ​Colton currently lives in southern Europe with his wife and family.  ​

Book preview

Prologue

There is no denying that Al-Qaeda began life as a made-in-the-USA instrument of terror. Its purpose at the time was to divide and conquer the oil-rich Middle East and counter Iran's growing influence in the region.

The fact the United States has a long and torrid history of backing terrorist groups around the world will surprise only those who watch the news and ignore history.

The U.S. CIA, Central Intelligence Agency first aligned itself with extremist Islam during the Cold War era, but of course, in those days, America saw the world in somewhat more straightforward terms. On one side was the Soviet Union and a rapidly growing `Third World` nationalism. The former colonial countries of Africa, those seeking independence. Countries which in most cases America regarded as nothing more than a tool in the Soviet Union's bid for global domination. On the other side were the western nations, those countries who were either part of, or closely aligned to NATO, the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, and militant political Islam, which at the time America considered an ally in its struggle against the spread of communism.

During Ronald Reagan's term as President, the director of the NSA, National Security Agency, was General William Odom. Odom once commented, by any measure the U.S. has long used terrorism.

In the 1970s, the CIA used the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt as a barrier to both thwart Soviet expansions in the area, while at the same time preventing the spread of Marxist ideology amongst the Arab masses. To this end, the United States openly supported Sarekat Islam against Sukarno in Indonesia and the Jamaat-e-Islami terror group against Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto in Pakistan.

During 1978-79, when the U.S. Senate was trying to pass a new law against international terrorism – in every version it produced, the lawyers informed them, the United States would be in violation.

Lastly, there is Al-Qaeda, and we should not forget, that in direct response to the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, the CIA first gave birth to the organisation through Osama Bin Laden. Then, during the entire 1980s, it breastfed him and Al-Qaeda with funding, weapons and military training. 

Former British Foreign Secretary, Robin Cook, told the House of Commons in London, Al-Qaeda is unquestionably a product of the Western intelligence agencies. Mister Cook went on to explain, "Al-Qaeda, which is an abbreviation of the Arabic term, the database, was originally a computer program containing the details of thousands of Islamist extremists. Those now being trained by the CIA and funded by Saudi Arabia. Its sole purpose at the time was to defeat the Russians in Afghanistan".

The United States relationship with Al-Qaeda has always been something of an on-off, love-hate relationship. And, depending on whether a particular Al-Qaeda group in a given region furthered American interests or not, the U.S. State Department would either continue to fund its activities or aggressively target the group. But in the May of 1988, as the Soviet war in Afghanistan came to an end, and it began to withdraw its battle-weary troops from the region, things began to change, and without its old adversary, Al-Qaeda turned its attentions to the West.

Over the next fourteen years, Al-Qaeda earned a deadly reputation by staging what the West quickly began to term as spectaculars, large-scale attacks on both civilian and military targets. Events such as the U.S. embassy bombings of 1998 in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania and Nairobi, Kenya. The 9/11 attack on New York's Twin Towers in 2001, and the Bali bombing of 2002.

On March 11, 2005, Al-Quds Al-Arabi published extracts from "Al Qaeda's Strategy to the Year 2020". In the paper, Abdel Bari Atwan summarizes this strategy as comprising of five stages to rid the Ummah – the Muslim world, from all forms of oppression:

1. Provoke the United States and the West into invading a Muslim country by staging a massive attack, or string of attacks on U.S. soil which would result in extensive civilian casualties.

2. Incite local resistance to the occupying forces.

3. Expand the conflict to neighbouring countries in an attempt to engage the U.S. and its allies in a long war of attrition.

4. Convert Al-Qaeda from a terrorist organization into an ideology, by introducing a set of operating principles that would be adopted by other countries without the need for direct command or control. And then using these same principles incite attacks against the U.S. and its allies, forcing them to withdraw from the conflict. (As happened with Spain in 2004 following the Madrid train bombings, but which did not have the same effect with the London bombings on 7 July 2005).

5. The U.S. economy will finally collapse by the year 2020, under the strain of multiple engagements in numerous locations, causing the global economic system, which is dependent on the U.S. Dollar to also collapse, leading to worldwide political instability. In turn, this instability will lead to a worldwide jihad led by Al-Qaeda, and the establishing of a Wahhabi Caliphate across the world.

Atwan also noted, regarding the anticipated collapse of the U.S. "If this sounds a little far-fetched, it is sobering to consider that this virtually describes the downfall of the Soviet Union". ¹

However, despite the above publication, and the resulting Al-Qaeda spectaculars, the number of individuals capable of commanding a sizeable insurgent force, is largely unknown. Documents captured following the raid on Bin Laden's compound in 2011, show the core Al-Qaeda membership in 2002 was a mere 170 individuals.

The 2004 BBC documentary, "The Power of Nightmares", suggested that members of Al-Qaeda were so weakly linked together, it gave reason to doubt whether, apart from Osama Bin Laden and a small clique of close associates, that there is an entity that meets the description of Al-Qaeda."

However, in May 2011, following the killing of Osama Bin Laden by U.S. Special Forces, and the appointment of his second in command, the far less charismatic Ayman al-Zawahiri, the organization began to fragment. Its members and supporters began to see Al-Qaeda for what it was, a western made tool which was now being funded by the likes of Saudi Arabia and Qatar to keep the Muslim masses in check. Shortly afterwards, on the eleventh of December 2011, the Americans completed their withdrawal from Iraq, and with the resulting vacuum came the rise of ISI, the Islamic State of Iraq.

Over the next three years, ISI conducted a relentless and barbaric persecution of the Shi'ite Muslim population of Iraq. In 2014, the organization turned its attention to Syria, changed its name to ISIS, the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria, and shortly after began its attacks on the predominantly Christian population of mainland Europe. As a result, ISIS stole the terrorist limelight, leaving a floundering Al-Qaeda to fight an uphill battle to remain relevant. To demonstrate to the world, that it is still a force to be reckoned with, but to achieve this, things would have to change. And as far as the free Christian world was concerned, they were not about to change for the better.

¹ The Al-Qaeda Strategy – Neogaf.com

And So, It Begins

1

Baghdad Iraq 2010

As the glow of the early morning sun sharpens the rooftops in the east of the city, an Arab dressed in a pair of shalwar, kameez, and with a checked Keffiyeh covering his head, bumps his way quietly through the crowd which has been growing steadily for the past thirty minutes. But then, once he was sure they had noticed him, accepted both his presence and apologies for his apparent clumsiness, he crosses the street, melts into the doorway of a burnt-out building and waits patiently for all hell to break loose. Like everyone else here this morning, he knows what’s coming, but unlike them, he won’t get involved, well, not until the time is right.

It’s eighteen minutes later that a Stryker APC – Armoured Personnel Carrier belonging to the U.S. Marine Corps, turns right off the main drag and into the narrow side street where the clumsy Arab and the mob are waiting.

The Arab flicks his tongue across the roof of his mouth before wiping it across his dust covered lips, at least, when the time comes, he will be able to talk. His sweating palms brush lightly against the hem of his kameez, and a second later he pulls at his keffiyeh, ensures that it’s covering the bottom half of his face. As he raises himself to full height, he feels the muscles in his shoulders and legs begin to tighten, it’s now only a matter of time.

The mission of the eleven men inside the Stryker, Lieutenant John Reynolds, the mission commander, Sergeant Richard Edge, Reynolds’ second in command, the driver, Private First-Class Joshua Bennett, two U.S. Marine Corp fire teams, and one civilian, is to quietly remove a radical Sunni cleric whose rhetoric has resulted in several deaths amongst the local Shi’a community. But, as always, it’s near impossible to do anything quietly in Baghdad, especially when you roll up in an eighteen-ton, eight wheeled armoured personnel carrier. But in reality, it wouldn’t have mattered how quietly Reynolds and his team had arrived, even before the Stryker had left its base in the north of the city, the word was out, the cleric's supporters knew it was on its way and had armed themselves with an assortment of bricks, iron bars, and bottles which, along with a somewhat begrudged donation by the local petrol station, had now been turned into deadly home-made petrol bombs.

The Stryker’s engine is at little more than idle as it makes its way steadily along the narrow street, flanked on both sides by flat-roofed two-story buildings, when the clumsy Arab hidden in the rear of a doorway sees a flash, hears a loud whoosh, feels a burning wind roll over his body and the Soviet Makarov 9mm pistol tucked into the rear of his shalwar dig into his back as the pressure wave slams him against what left of the wooden door. The Stryker has received a direct hit from an RPG – Rocket Propelled Grenade.

Inside the vehicle, both Reynolds, who had been in the turret hatch, and Bennett lay dead, slumped in their seats. The good news, if there is such a thing in this kind of situation, is that the nine men in the rear of the vehicle had survived the initial attack with nothing more than cuts and bruises. However, this wasn’t good luck, or the result of a poorly aimed shot from a gifted amateur, no, it had been planned this way, and now with the antenna mount and the two front wheel stations on the right side of the vehicle destroyed, those inside are unable to call for backup or move in any direction – they’re trapped, at the mercy of the fanatical mob.

Seconds later, with his head spinning and still partially deafened by the blast, Sergeant Edge’s training kicks in. With his officer dead, he’s now running the show. The rising temperature and thickening air inside the Stryker, along with the flames he can see licking at what remains of the driver´s hatch confirm Edge´s worst fears, the vehicle’s on fire. Cocking his M4 he raises it to his shoulder and feels his index finger settle against the trigger.

This thing’s now nothing more than a massive pressure cooker, I need to get the men out.

`Lower the rear ramp – heads up and follow me.`

As he watches the Marines spill out onto the street from the cover of his doorway, the Arab spots a muzzle flash on a rooftop to his right. A split second later he hears a high-speed projectile bounce off the armoured hull of the Stryker and the Marine Sergeant scream `SNIPER`. It’s as he watches the Marines frantically search for the sniper’s position, that the Arab decides enough is enough - it was now time. `SERGEANT.`

Edge glances around his team sheltering behind the burning vehicle. They’d also heard the voice, but it wasn't any of them.

The Arab shouts again. `SERGEANT.` But this time louder, his tone more demanding

With his weapon pulled tight into his right shoulder and adrenalin lighting up every nerve in his body, Edge spins around and locks eyes with the Arab who is beckoning him and his men to follow him. Edge hesitates.

The Arab lowers the bottom half of his keffiyeh, raises his eyebrows and cocks his head to one side. `You can stay here and die, or you can follow me – your choice, buddy.`

That one sentence, spoken in perfect English is all it takes to convince Edge. He turns to his team. `Move your arses. Follow that Arab - NOW.`

With the patrol hot on his heels, the Arab moves swiftly through a maze of abandoned houses and narrow alleyways, eventually coming to a stop in a small courtyard.

Edge glances around him, runs his eyes quickly over the multitude of closed doors and high walls that surround them.

It’s a dead end. There’s no way out.

Pivoting on his front foot, Edge raises his M4 and takes aim at the Arab who’s stood astride a steel maintenance cover.

The Arab shakes his head in disbelief. `Really? Give me a hand with this.`

Edge nods to two of his men. `Don’t just stand there, give the man a hand.`

With the hatch cover slid to one side, and no more than a glance the Arab shouts. `Follow me as fast as you can. Last man in, drag the hatch cover over.` Then, like a rabbit he’s gone, into the darkness below.

Edge still has his reservations, but his men, eager to escape the baying mob racing through the alleyways behind them, don't. With the hatch cover back in place and crouching in the choking darkness of a sewer tunnel, the Americans switch on their Maglites. `There he goes.`

The Marines give chase, following their new best friend as fast as they can, which isn’t easy. Even in the dark, like a rat that’s lived in the sewers all his life, he’s moving fast – knows exactly where he’s going.

Thirty minutes later, after a countless number of twists and turns, their guide stops and begins climbing a steel ladder bolted to the concrete wall of an access shaft.

Lit up by his men’s Maglites, Edge follows the Arab's progress to the top of the ladder. Watches him lift a fist sized rock wedged behind the top rung and strike the metal cover above his head three times. Then, replacing the rock, he climbs another two rungs, puts his back against the underside of the hatch cover and straightens his legs. Edge watches the heavy metal cover slowly begin to lift, but then, without warning, it begins moving sideways, at speed and what appears to be under its own steam. Edge feels his eyebrows lift.

Someone’s lending a hand from above.

Dropping his cheek onto the stock of his M4, he takes aim, but as the light from two powerful arc lamps pours into the hole, and his eyes adjust to the glare, Edge sees the tiled walls of the room above, and the muzzles of three Heckler Koch MP5’s being aimed at his head.

Although he doesn't know it, Edge and his team are now safely back in an isolated corner of the Green Zone. In the joint operations centre for British and American Special Forces. The Arab who led them there has spent the previous three months working alone, living amongst Baghdad's Arab community, using the city's aging network of sewers to move around, invisible to both the allied forces and the local Iraqi population. His mission; identify high-value targets for the director of Joint Special Forces.

Today, as luck would have it, or so Edge thinks, the Arab had been in the right place at the right time. But then, as quickly as he appeared, and before Edge has the chance to thank him, he’s gone.

It would take the civilian member of Edge's team, Special Agent Alistair Flynn, two trips to the London Headquarters of MI6, the CIA's opposite number in Britain, and three months of hard bargaining, to find out who the mysterious Arab was, and where he might be.

2

Present Day

January 12th

Cartagena – Spain: 10:28

Kandahar – Afghanistan: 13:58

Haddad’s walk from the city's ancient port, along Calle Mayor with its polished stone pavements, flanked on either side by tall ornate buildings, was, as it’s always been, a most enjoyable experience. But now, as he reaches the end of Calle Carmen, his journey is nearing its end and what follows will not be straightforward by any stretch of the imagination. Stretched out before him is Plaza España. A large grass-covered roundabout which dominates the south side of the city, its surface dotted with a mixture of gigantic three-hundred-year-old rubber trees and brilliant white modernist sculptures. After waiting for the pedestrian lights to turn green, he crosses the road and heads for the Plaza Café.

Sitting alone at one of the tables is a smartly dressed gentleman in a dark blue suit, drinking coffee whilst reading his newspaper. To a passer-by, he’s just another Spanish businessman trying to raise his caffeine levels to the point where they will carry him through another difficult day. But as always, not everything is as it first appears. Vasily Kuznetsov is not a businessman and nor is he Spanish. He’s a different kind of animal, a very dangerous one.

Kuznetsov is a Russian General and the current Director of the FSB, the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, the successor to the former USSR's Committee of State Security, the dreaded KGB. Officially, Kuznetsov's responsibilities rest purely within Russia's borders. He’s responsible for overseeing the country’s counter-intelligence program, along with its internal border security, counterterrorism and surveillance. He also has the authority to investigate any person, or crime, the federal authorities deem serious enough to warrant his attention. Duties he usually carries out from his office on the third floor of the Lubyanka, the enormous yellow brick building which sits on one side of Lubyanka Square in central Moscow. The same structure which once housed the headquarters of the KGB. But today he’s in Spain. Here to attend a unique meeting, a record of which will not be found on any computer, or in any diary.

As recently as thirty years ago, the thought of anyone in the Russian military travelling alone, unsupervised, to a Western country would have been unthinkable. Even more so when the individual in question is a man as powerful as Vasily Kuznetsov. But the end of the Cold War brought with it a gradual softening of attitudes within the Russian government, which in turn had generated a newfound freedom of movement for the Russian people, well, for those who could afford to purchase such luxuries. However, this is not Kuznetsov's first visit to Spain. Like many of his more privileged countrymen, Kuznetsov owns an impressive villa in Torrevieja, a small urbanization some fifty kilometres north of Cartagena, on Spain's eastern shore with the Mediterranean. An area the Spanish not so affectionately refer to as Little Moscow.

Kuznetsov places his coffee cup back on its saucer and folds his newspaper.

Walking along the sidewalk towards him, from the direction of Calle Carmen is a tall, lean man with white hair and olive skin. In fact, for anyone old enough to remember, he bears an uncanny resemblance to the now deceased actor, Omar Sharif, although taller. Kuznetsov smiles to himself.

Brahim Haddad.

The two men have been aware of each other's existence for close to forty years. Kuznetsov had even had Haddad in his sights on more than one occasion but never managed to kill him.

As the Arab draws closer, instead of standing up to greet him, the Russian remains seated. Both know there will be no warm handshake and, given their past, it’s unlikely they will ever become friends. The only things they share is their hatred of America and the ability to speak English.

Haddad smiles. `Good morning General, I take it you had a pleasant drive down.` Haddad's greeting, although slightly sarcastic, is polite and its tone soft, attributes which are obligatory for a well-bred Arab and a man in Haddad's position.

However, the same cannot be said of the Russian's reply, which is abrupt, bordering on rude. `Pleasant enough.`

Haddad turns to the pretty waitress clearing the table behind him. `Perdoneme?`

She turns. `Si Señor?`

`Un espresso y una botella de agua – sin gas – por favor.` Haddad turns back to the table and sees Kuznetsov smile.

`You speak Spanish?`

Haddad takes his seat. `Did you know that we Muslims once ruled this part of Europe?`

Kuznetsov toys with the idea of reminding Haddad of `Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar`, or `El Cid` as the Moors called him, but then decides to let it go. `So?`

The waitress returns with Haddad's coffee and water, places them on the table and leaves.

Haddad slowly shakes his head. `General, unless we can find a way to treat each other with a certain amount of respect and courtesy, this will never work, and if that happens, the only winner will be America. Something I'm sure you will agree is in neither of our interests.` He picks up his coffee cup and takes a sip.

Kuznetsov says nothing, sits staring at Haddad, but his mind is working overtime.

Whatever this Arab’s planning, it obviously isn't going to please the Americans. In which case, it might just shift the balance of power further East, away from Washington and closer to Moscow.

Kuznetsov remains straight faced. `Agreed. So, what is it you want from me, or maybe it's something you require from Mother Russia?`

Haddad shakes his head. `No need to worry General, it's nothing you and Mother Russia haven't done before.’

Kuznetsov forces a smile. It’s becoming easier. `I'm listening.`

As Haddad shares his plans with Kuznetsov in Cartagena, close to 8,000km away in Afghanistan, Babak Zazi Karlani, is walking along Kabul Darwazi, the road that runs through the centre of Kandahar city.

Formerly called Alexandria Arachosia after Alexander the Great who founded the city back in 329 BC, Kandahar is now Afghanistan’s second-largest city, and stands on the eastern side of the Arghandab River.

Due to its strategic importance, sat on the crossroads for the trade routes of southern, central and western Asia, many empires have fought to control it over the centuries, all without much success. In 1978, following the Marxist revolution, the city became a magnet for terrorist groups like the Pakistan-based Haqqani network, Quetta Shura, Hezbi Islami, and of course more recently, Al-Qaeda.

From 1994, a few years after having driven the Soviets out, until 2001, when NATO forces toppled them during ´Operation Enduring Freedom`, Kandahar also served as the capital of the Taliban government. However, like everything in Afghanistan, nothing remains the same for very long, and nothing, including the Taliban or Al-Qaeda, ever really goes away.

Karlani had arrived in Kandahar earlier in the day, leaving the village of Nakhonay, his home for the last twenty-four years at six this morning. Having walked three miles across country to the road that leads north from Quetta, he was lucky enough to get a ride on a truck heading north through Kandahar on its way to Kabul.

Although the village of Nakhonay is a mere eighteen miles south-west of Kandahar, this is only Karlani's second visit to what for him is the big city. However, he isn't here on a cultural or sightseeing tour; he’s searching for someone. It has taken him close to a year to discover the whereabouts of Chinar Barakzia, but now, with his search almost over, about to reach his goal, instead of a feeling of excitement, accomplishment or even relief, he feels empty, like it´s all been pointless, for nothing. He refocuses on the job at hand, he doesn’t have an address for Barakzia, only a description.

A green door set between two shops, a butcher and baker on the northern side of Kabul Darwazi. The door leads up to two apartments, one above each of the two shops. The door you are looking for is on the left - above the Butcher’s.

If he´s lucky, Barakzia will be home – alone. If he’s not, well, his journey to Kandahar will not have been totally wasted, but life will definitely become a little more complicated.

Six feet in height, light framed, carrying no additional weight, Karlani’s dressed in shalwar, loose pyjama-like trousers and a kameez, a long, loose-fitting shirt with a Western-style collar. On his head, he wears a Perahan turban, his lower face framed by a heavy black beard and with sandals on his feet, he’s able to move virtually unnoticed amongst the local population.

He moves to the side of the road, pauses and stares over the canvas topped stalls on the far side of the street. The drapes that hang behind the first-floor windows above both shops are drawn, which means that the rooms behind them are in total darkness. He breathes out heavily.

That’s not a good sign.

Summoning up all of his courage, he pulls back his shoulders, raises himself to full height and walks boldly across the road. He hopes the green door has been left unlocked. Placing his shoulder against it he pushes, hears a faint metallic click, and holds his position as he watches the door swing away from him.

Stretching out before him is a single flight of twenty stairs bordered on either side by a wall that runs from floor to ceiling – the inside walls of the two adjoining shops. Once inside, he leans back against the door, hears a click as the catch reseats itself in the lock housing and taking a deep breath, he begins to climb the stairs.

At the top, directly in front of him, there’s nothing but a blank wall. To his left and right are the two doors that lead into the respective apartments. 

... The door you are looking for is on the left - above the Butcher’s shop.

Careful not to make a sound, Karlani pushes gently down on the handle and leans into the door, but it holds, remains closed, possibly locked by the occupant when they left, or maybe they’re still here, and the door’s been secured from the inside. However, to find out which it is, he will have to knock, but first he needs to prepare himself.

Reaching into the left sleeve of his kameez, Karlani tears off the piece of tape wound around his wrist. A second later an ivory-handled Pesh-Kabz, a Pashtun fighting knife, drops into his right hand. The weapon had been his father's; its sharp point designed primarily to penetrate armour, but its double-edged twelve-inch blade also makes it