al-Jaheishi waited for the video to download on his laptop, he removed a manila folder from his briefcase. He opened the folder. The top page was a contact sheet filled with small photos, all showing the same two men: Nazir and an American VIP. Grainy black-and-white photos showed the two men as they sat on a sofa in the lobby of a hotel, from a discreet distance. Al-Jaheishi remembered taking the photos, at Nazirâs instruction. The following pages were the transcript of the menâs conversation.
The agents who had accompanied the American had patted down Nazir, then scanned him with a magnetometer, but al-Jaheishi, again at Nazirâs direction, had planted six listening devices around the hotel lobby the evening before, and one, taped to the underside of the sofa they sat on, caught the entire conversation. The transcript of the meeting was twenty-six pages long. The remaining pages in the folder, perhaps a hundred in all, listed the contents of a large shipment of weapons that had arrived a few months later. Each sheet of paper was an individual container, with its contents listed. This, too, al-Jaheishi had been in charge of, again at Nazirâs direction. The American gave them little warning, other than to tell them they would need a crane and the ability to move at least a hundred forty-foot containers. The American had assumed Nazir and his men would be too busy, stressed, or lazy to contemplate the bookkeeping of the arms shipment, but he was wrong. Al-Jaheishi had cataloged everything.
Al-Jaheishi lifted his phone, turned on the camera, then leaned down and framed the first page and snapped a photo. Methodically, as quickly as he could, he moved through the entire sheaf of papers, photographing every one. He saved the photos onto the SIM card, then popped the card from the phone and put it in his pocket.
The video completed downloading to his laptop. He watched the entire thing; it was a little more than twelve minutes long. When it was done, he shut his eyes, trying to control an overwhelming sense of nausea. It was the first time theyâd burned anyone alive. He felt revulsion. At that moment, he wanted to kill himself.
He looked at his hand, first the top, then the palm. Scars ran on both sides. They were pinkish and faded, each about two inches long and half an inch wide. It was the place Nazir had stabbed him so many years ago in Cairo. He felt even worse as he considered the level of degradation and humiliation heâd been willing to tolerate.
Then he heard the words inside his own head: You want to live, Marwan.
He opened his eyes. He was so close.
As he did with all of the videos, al-Jaheishi cleaned up the beginning, adding ISISâs telltale opening: a ten-second clip showing the ISIS logo in bold white across a black screen, with the soft melody of an Arabian folk song playing in the background.
He edited the rest of the tape to remove any moments that appeared to be badly filmed or in some way unprofessional. He cut the remaining video into precise sequencesâcouple moving from trailer, gasoline, immolationâcreating sharp intercuts between them. He then applied a sophisticated film-editing hue to the entire film, similar to what TV news editors did. When he was done, the video was seven minutes long and looked as if it had been made by someone at CNN.
He watched it one last time. As the flames engulfed the American man and woman, al-Jaheishi felt a sense of shame and self-loathing.
âIâm sorry,â he said aloud.
But his words were not intended for the Americans, whose muted screams now filled the room. No, al-Jaheishiâs words were intended for the one in whose name it was happening, the one whom heâd been brought up to believe was not cruel, the one for whom he would now risk everything in order to stop it.
Al-Jaheishi picked up his phone. He breathed deeply, counting to ten, trying to calm his nerves. He hit Speed Dial. The phone rang several
The agents who had accompanied the American had patted down Nazir, then scanned him with a magnetometer, but al-Jaheishi, again at Nazirâs direction, had planted six listening devices around the hotel lobby the evening before, and one, taped to the underside of the sofa they sat on, caught the entire conversation. The transcript of the meeting was twenty-six pages long. The remaining pages in the folder, perhaps a hundred in all, listed the contents of a large shipment of weapons that had arrived a few months later. Each sheet of paper was an individual container, with its contents listed. This, too, al-Jaheishi had been in charge of, again at Nazirâs direction. The American gave them little warning, other than to tell them they would need a crane and the ability to move at least a hundred forty-foot containers. The American had assumed Nazir and his men would be too busy, stressed, or lazy to contemplate the bookkeeping of the arms shipment, but he was wrong. Al-Jaheishi had cataloged everything.
Al-Jaheishi lifted his phone, turned on the camera, then leaned down and framed the first page and snapped a photo. Methodically, as quickly as he could, he moved through the entire sheaf of papers, photographing every one. He saved the photos onto the SIM card, then popped the card from the phone and put it in his pocket.
The video completed downloading to his laptop. He watched the entire thing; it was a little more than twelve minutes long. When it was done, he shut his eyes, trying to control an overwhelming sense of nausea. It was the first time theyâd burned anyone alive. He felt revulsion. At that moment, he wanted to kill himself.
He looked at his hand, first the top, then the palm. Scars ran on both sides. They were pinkish and faded, each about two inches long and half an inch wide. It was the place Nazir had stabbed him so many years ago in Cairo. He felt even worse as he considered the level of degradation and humiliation heâd been willing to tolerate.
Then he heard the words inside his own head: You want to live, Marwan.
He opened his eyes. He was so close.
As he did with all of the videos, al-Jaheishi cleaned up the beginning, adding ISISâs telltale opening: a ten-second clip showing the ISIS logo in bold white across a black screen, with the soft melody of an Arabian folk song playing in the background.
He edited the rest of the tape to remove any moments that appeared to be badly filmed or in some way unprofessional. He cut the remaining video into precise sequencesâcouple moving from trailer, gasoline, immolationâcreating sharp intercuts between them. He then applied a sophisticated film-editing hue to the entire film, similar to what TV news editors did. When he was done, the video was seven minutes long and looked as if it had been made by someone at CNN.
He watched it one last time. As the flames engulfed the American man and woman, al-Jaheishi felt a sense of shame and self-loathing.
âIâm sorry,â he said aloud.
But his words were not intended for the Americans, whose muted screams now filled the room. No, al-Jaheishiâs words were intended for the one in whose name it was happening, the one whom heâd been brought up to believe was not cruel, the one for whom he would now risk everything in order to stop it.
Al-Jaheishi picked up his phone. He breathed deeply, counting to ten, trying to calm his nerves. He hit Speed Dial. The phone rang several
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