Osama Bin Hiding
(And his Love of Dr. Pepper)
by
Nicholas Galt
* * * * *
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Nicholas Galt
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/NicholasGalt
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.
Deep in the cavernous mountains of what I now know were the Hindu Kush somewhere near the Pakistan and Afghanistan boarder was where I found myself. Outside the labyrinth of caves the temperature was pushing 45C as it seemed late in the day. But inside the subterranean hideout it was a pleasant stable temperature. Agreeable considering the journey here.
Six days earlier I started a blindfolded and nerve racking truck ride through the heat of the desert day. Followed by a forced march through low scrub and rocky outcrops at night. Then a scampering up goat tracks that led into the cave system. I was escorted by three Jihadist brandishing automatic rifles. We did share some laughs.
The fear of execution loomed large in my mind like the shadows of the surrounding hills. I wasn’t captured. I was not an enemy. I was a reporter that was picked off the street. Told I will not be hurt. And conveniently coerced via the muzzle of a rifle on this excursion deep behind enemy lines. Places the Coalition did not even know existed. Except through their satellite imagery.
I sat in the dark, the blindfold tightly wrapped around my eyes. Words were exchanged in Arabic and there were only a few I could define. None gladly mentioned sacrifice or infidel.
A man who’s voice I recognised as one of my ‘escorts’ told me to stand and I did. He removed the blindfold and I was greeted by a surprisingly well furnished, for lack of a better word, cave within these mountains.
An intricately woven rug sprawled out across the floor. Shelves had been bolted to the wall to my right and held various religious texts. Gideon’s Bible was one amongst the theological assortment. In a small ante chamber a sleepy guard of what rank I could not discern lay and watched ‘I Dream of Jeanie’ repeats on a small TV. A cable ran out the main door, to what I assume would be a dish. The man roused himself laughing and looked across to me,
‘You American infidels are so silly.’ I smiled, agreeing.
The power was supplied by a generator; I could hear its hum bouncing around the corridors of this subterranean headquarters. Though it was far enough away not to be a nuisance to my ears. Accompanying the sounds were the smell of a mix of fuel and gun oil tainted with the aroma of incense and unwashed men.
‘In one time soon you can have an interview with someone. Ok?’ said my escort in broken English. I nodded and he passed me a notepad and pen. My recording equipment had been thrown out the back of the truck on the first part of this journey. I heard the crack of plastic and lenses as it rolled across the ancient road. They were replaceable items.
‘You will sit once he has sat before you, understand?’ Again I nodded. I didn’t want to move much more than my head just in case it was misread. Misread to the point where I found myself blindfolded again and shot. A Westerners life was cheap, if not a prize. I was still, at this juncture, unsure who I was to meet in this otherworldly situation.
A murmuring could be heard accompanied by footsteps in the geological corridor and I noticed the air changed within the room. The man who was all but asleep in front of the TV quickly came to attention as did my escort. After a heavy nudge in the back from the muzzle of a rifle I too straightened my back.
A man stepped into the room. A quiet looking man dressed in the traditional clothing sporting a thin, greying beard. He smiled genuinely then waved his hand at his foot soldiers. It was then I realised I was face to face with the most wanted man on Earth.
‘Please sit...um?’ The unassuming man looked over my shoulder for the answer.
‘Blake, sir,’ said my escort in a stern and sure manner. Me, I had forgotten who I was for that moment and felt as though I had just stepped through the looking glass. Fallen down a rabbit hole more menacing than Lewis Carroll could have ever fathomed.
‘A seat, please Blake.’ I descended slowly, stopping halfway having noticed that he hadn’t started sitting. I hit the rug unable to stop my downward momentum. The words of my escort’s instructions rattled in my brain for what seemed eons. The man with the beard smiled again and with an air of majesty placed himself cross legged a few feet from me.
In reflection he had allowed me to sit before him. I was his guest. It was a sign of respect.
‘I suspect that you know who I am Blake, yes?’ The man smiled warmly. I nodded.
‘Yes Mr. Bin Laden. You are one of the most recognizable faces on the, the planet,’ my voice quavered slightly and my throat was as dry as the baking desert outside.
‘Please call me Osama.’ He turned to one of the men who had escorted him to the room and said something in Arabic. A few moments later a plate of grapes and a ceramic pitcher of water were laid before us.
‘Please.’ He swept his hand to his front and I obliged. If I was to run an interview I needed to wet the dry creek bed that was my throat.
‘So do you like my confines? This is an extension of what is a maze of ancient dwellings. Though we have made some minor alterations.’ Osama smiled again. I nodded.
‘You may speak freely,’ Osama added and made a quick gesture with his hand. The room soon emptied and there I sat alone with Osama Bin Laden.
‘Mr...Sir...’ I stumbled.
‘Osama,’ he politely corrected.
‘Osama, why am I here?’ Where else would one start? He smiled broadly, shuffled his legs under him and smiled again.
‘You have been chosen as a representative of the Western media to conduct an interview with me. More so deliver an important message.’ I nodded. Where was Alice? I didn’t recall consuming a food with the words ‘Eat Me’ scrawled upon it. Although I had brushed my teeth with local water. ‘Drink Me,’ perhaps?
‘Yes, I am who sits before you and this is not a hallucination, inshallah.’ Osama stated, responding to what must have been written on my face.
‘Shall we begin? Are you comfortable? Do you have pen and paper?’ I nodded. But I was sure I would remember all of this without having to scribe a single syllable.
‘I am not sure where I should begin; everything that is ever written about you is generally speculative.’ My mind was not in reporter mode.
‘Well, I know this to be true. I do have access to all the cable stations of the world.’ Osama threw his thumb toward the TV. The anxious voice of Major Anthony Nelson could be heard, ‘Jeannie!!’
‘I do like this program,’ Osama smiled once more, ‘Ok Blake let me just say I do enjoy what you write, it seems very objective. It is direct, balanced and fair,’ Osama added, dropping a grape into his mouth. I smiled this time.
‘Thank-you Sir, Osama,’ I corrected myself hastily. I straightened my back, had a sip of water and cleared my throat.
‘How have you been able to pervade capture for so long?’ I thought this to be as good as any opening question. He smiled like the Cheshire Cat.
‘Now that is journalism! Understand your subject and drive straight to the heart!’ I was happy to have struck gold on the first swing of the pick.
Osama called out to one of his colleagues, elated, celebratory. And not a few moments later another plate was laid before us. A plate that I would not have suspected to have seen in front of what was arguably the first great villain of this millennia that was still in its infancy.
‘Blake would you like a Mars Bar or maybe some Skittles? I know, maybe we split a Kit Kat.’ I nodded in awe. Osama deftly opened the red wrapper, broke the chocolate in half and gave me my portion.
‘Two fingers each, is that ok?’ Osama bit into his and I followed suit.
With a mouth full of chocolate and wafer crumbs beginning to reside in his beard Osama continued to answer my question.
‘How have I hidden for so long? Well I have a terrific group of people on my team.’ Osama slid his last finger of Kit Kat into his mouth as though he was feeding timber into machinery at a saw mill. And before he could brush the crumbs from his beard his attention had turned to the Skittles on the tray. I watched as his face went through a trial of decisions. Then his eyes darted to another chocolate bar that seemed to have hidden itself previously.
‘Oh Henry! I would not have had that Kit Kat if I knew there was an Oh Henry! bar sitting there!’ The look of disappointment was real. He threw his hands into the air in despair and grabbed at his midriff. I reached for the Oh Henry! Opened it purposely, broke it in half and held the smallest piece in front of him,
‘It is only half,’ I suggested. He accepted and his smile returned as he pushed the log of chocolate between his pursed lips.
‘They are my favourite,’ Osama said, struggling with his words as his mouth gummed up with chocolate and nuts.
‘Where was I? Ah yes! So my team has been excellent. For more than ten years I have been in hiding, only occasionally taunting my adversaries with a poorly edited video.’ I listened intently, all the while enjoying my Oh Henry! Then I remembered something I had read about this man.
‘Sorry, just a small query Osama, aren’t you a diabetic, this chocolate?’ That smile returned,
‘Ha! Never! Lies!’ he laughed. I suppose one should never believe all that they read.
‘You were saying?’ Osama asked. I gathered my thoughts.
‘So is what you have been doing,’ I had to chose my words carefully, ‘with things such as the Twin Towers and other, um, military activities part of your master plan for Islamic domination?’ I swallowed hard, I was not sure if I was getting ahead of myself.
‘Master plan? Those events were just a wake up to the other team. It was to remind them that the game was still on.’ What game I thought?
‘Have you heard of the Crusades Blake?’ I had a superficial knowledge.
‘Well, to put it simply there are two teams. Christians,’ he pointed to me, ‘and Muslims, yes?’ I shook my head positively.
‘And we have been fighting it out for near on a thousand years,’ offered Osama smacking his lips together and picking at a rogue nut that had lodged itself between his incisor and molar.
‘That is the only problem with Oh Henry! The nuts get stuck,’ Osama laughed then paused as his determination for the wedged nut found ground. A moment later he had successfully levered it out of his tooth and onto his tongue.
‘And we have been chasing each other around for years. Have you also heard of the I.T.H.A.S.G.A.?’ Osama queried. But before I could answer he called out into the stone corridor once more. A moment later a colleague entered the room and cleared the two plates before quickly exiting. Not a breath later a different man entered the room with another plate. He bent down and placed it between Osama and I. There before us were two bottles of Dr Pepper. Osama offered the drink to me with a simple point of one hand and reached for his bottle with the other. I did not want to offend.
‘Straws!’ he screamed into the corridor. Promptly a man returned and two straws were pushed into our open bottles of pop.
‘I do like this flavor, not many do,’ commented Osama.
‘I think it tastes a little like medicine to be honest,’ I disagreed. Osama threw a dark glance at me, his teeth clenching his straw. I was unsure what to do, would another order be barked into the corridor? Off with his head!
‘How funny Blake, that’s what I used to think,’ He slurped at his drink, ‘you have to give these things a chance.’ I sighed inwardly. Dr Pepper was not going to kill me that day.
‘Yes, I suppose you are right. So, you were saying about the Crusades and some acronym?’ I reminded my host.
‘Yes, slurp, hmm. Burp! Excuse me? So the Crusades, it is a game that the two sides have been playing along time. There were small gaps in history where one side played better than the other. And I believe we are at one of those times now’
I listened as he described his war on the West as a game. An overused metaphor perhaps. And that currently Islam was winning. He lost me in the historical facts and figures but I politely nodded and agreed, feigning my knowledge on the subject. But it was all getting beyond me. What if he quizzed me? I was the reporter and I was supposed to know all this stuff, right?
Three more Dr Peppers later bloated and high on sugar I interrupted Osama,
‘Ok, I see. However, you keep talking about this religious war as a game. Isn’t it more than that? Isn’t it part of your beliefs, every day life, seated deep within your bones?’ Osama grinned then broke out into laughter. I twitched nervously then joined in as though I was supposed to have made a joke.
‘Blake, Blake, Blake. My faith in my religion is unwavering. Not a man would dispute this. But this game is older than we are and nearly as old as Christ himself. And most certainly older than the Prophet Mohammed!’ His laughter wanned. He searched his mind for what seemed to be a missing piece of my puzzlement.
‘I.T.H.A.S.G.A.! I forgot! I did not explain what that means! Ha! How silly of me.’ Osama clapped his hands and an attendant appeared in the doorway. Osama had a short discussion in Arabic with the man and the man silently disappeared. I was looking forward to seeing what would arrive, maybe another plate of sugary sweets? A sixer of Budweiser? None would’ve surprised me.
Osama turned toward me,
‘Sorry, where was I? Ah yes! I.T.H.A.S.G.A. that is the game, the body. And Islam and Christianity are the teams, yes? You can’t play with countries because there are too many and they’re always changing boundaries!’ I nodded, still a little lost. He continued.
‘And we have played this for many, many years.’ This much I understood.
The attendant arrived holding a small gilded box. Osama thanked him and the man retreated to his post out of site.
‘Intercontinental Theatre of Hide and Seek Gaming Association is the answer to the acronym!’ A coy grin had formed on Osama’s lips. And a twinkle sparkled in his eye. I had nothing to say. Hide and seek, this was what the ‘terrorists’ and the Coalition were getting up to? I wasn’t sure I believed it
Osama opened the box and passed me a card that lay inside and this is what it had written on it;
‘As you have taken so long to find me thus far, here I have for you a clue upon this card. Read it careful and read it twice, because my next reminder won’t be as nice. I have packed for Stan and now watch movies with a bad abbot. So come and find me, you infidel maggots.’
I looked into the bearded, thin face of Osama and his grin was from ear to ear.
‘The game is still on Blake! Take that clue card back to your world and pass it to the President because to be honest, we are getting sick of hiding. We want to go seek!’ I shrugged my shoulders and nodded at the same time. Was this real? Had I heard what was spoken to me? Was he Tweedledee and I Tweedledum?
Osama said goodbye to me and the following day I was taken back to the city from where I was nabbed from the street at the beginning of my ordeal.
I passed the card with the clue on it to the authorities and not six weeks later Osama Bin Laden was found and killed in a town in Pakistan, Abbottabad. Maybe the clue was a little easy? Christ, I had figured it out on my six day journey from the Hindu Kush Mountains back to civilisation.
Then four days after the demise of my Dr. Pepper host Osama I received a letter in the mail. I turned it over in my hands and opened it. It wasn’t the usual bill. I removed the small card that had been placed within. On one side of the card were written in bold the letters, I.T.H.A.S.G.A.
I flipped the card over and this is what I read,
‘We are counting to three years Blake. Hide!’