Beirut, Lebanon
The Albergo Hotel sits in the heart of Ashrafiyah, the old Christian Beirut. It's one of the hippest boutique hotels in the world. A tiny, discreet lobby. Leather books-real ones. Real antiques in the bar, too. The last time I'd had a drink there, I'd been half afraid to put my glass down for fear I would leave a ring on a buffet that once belonged to a Medici. Like all hip hotels worldwide, the Albergo's rooms are cramped-the less-is-more aesthetic-but the furnishings and little extras make up for the lack of elbow room.
The desk clerk standing behind the Louis XVI ecritoire was elegantly lean: a black wool suit despite the summer heat, with a straight collar and a bright starched white shirt. When I told her my name was Jacques Dumet, she wrote it down neatly in the vellum ledger. She didn't ask for my passport, and I didn't offer her one. My German passport had done all the work it could handle.
As soon as the clerk gave me my key, I went out and caught a taxi to Hamra to an Internet cafe. I ordered a beer and logged in.
Ever since we'd worked on the World Trade Center bombing together, John O'Neill and I had used a kitchen-redecorating chat room to park messages for each other. O'Neill was Captain Crunch. I went by Subzero.
"Time to replace the counters, Captain Crunch," I wrote. "Call me ASAP on 01 1 961 I 33 97 97 or 2 12 ^HH Subzero."
The first was the number of the Albergo; the second, the one the prince said was tied to Ramzi Yousef, the mastermind behind the World Trade Center bombing. I knew O'Neill would immediately trace both. If the prince was right about the New York number, O'Neill's interest would be piqued enough that he would have to know more.
O'Neill called three hours later.
"All right, what is it now? If you're chained to a radiator in some Hizballah basement, I'll be sure to send a card at Christmas."
"Did you trace that New York number?"
"Yeah, you already know that."
"Whose number was it?"
"Fuck off. You already know that, too."
"It's not public, is it? Wanna know how I got it?"
"Okay, you win," O'Neill said. "How did you get it?"
"Can't tell you now, but there's a lot more, trust me."
"Awright, sweetheart, what do you want?"
Unfortunately, I had to cut another corner. There was no way to say it in code and have him understand me.
"Tell me about a David Channing. His father, Oliver Channing, used to work for us. His son may own a company in Maine."
"Why am I going to do this for you?"
Again, I didn't want to say KSM's name over the phone, but I wasn't hearing any give in O'Neill's voice. "You know the guy from Manila you'd love to get your hands on?"
I was counting on O'Neill connecting the "guy from Manila" with KSM.
O'Neill was part of the FBI investigation into KSM when he was plotting to bring down the twelve airplanes in 1994.
"I got his arrest warrant sitting right on my desk."
"Wanna know where he is and what he's doing?"
This time I could hear O'Neill sigh.
"How long you going to be at this number?"