Hunting the Jackal by Billy Waugh

Author:Billy Waugh
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2004-07-14T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

A cloud of dust flew up behind the big white Mercedes like a contrail from a B-52 as I jogged up a street in the al-Riyadh section of Khartoum, Sudan, in February of 1992. I’d seen both before—the car and the dust—so I wasn’t surprised when the Mercedes pulled up in front of the house next to me and I found myself face-to-face with the man in the driver’s seat. He was driving alone, as was his habit, and in the moments before the dust overtook the car and continued its billowy flight up the road, he looked me square in the face. I returned the favor, locking on to the dark, heavy-lidded eyes of Usama bin Laden.

I always knew when bin Laden was behind the wheel of that white four-door Mercedes 300 with Sudanese plate number 0990; the man zoomed in and out of those dusty streets like greased shit. Traffic laws were pretty loose in Sudan, and this character drove like he owned the place. At that point in time, it wasn’t far from the truth.

I know what he thought when he looked at me, a sixty-two-year-old American jogging down this dusty street: What in the hell is that old American bastard doing out here? It was the first of many times I came within ten feet and face-to-face with him over the eighteen months that I jogged past his house as he was either coming or going, so I’m guessing it didn’t take him long to figure out what I was doing. He was a bright man, and seeing an old white man like me, running up the street near his house, was bound to raise suspicions. I didn’t give a good goddamn about suspicions, though—I was entitled to be there, and I had a job to do.

I jogged past him and continued my run, up past his house and the squadron of huge Afghan guards standing on high alert at the perimeter of the property. Even though their boss roamed freely, these guys were ready for action. Their job was to protect UBL, and I have to say they did their jobs well. With their long beards and fierce dark eyes, these men meant business. They wore local clothing rather than the long garments common in Afghanistan. They searched constantly and vigilantly, in a manner befitting men who believed they were protecting not only their boss but their messiah. Without being too obvious, I could see and count four or five guards at ground level. I could only imagine how many others might be on the roof and in the upper stories of this large, three-storied residence. As I continued jogging and watching, I knew I was being watched, and watched closely. It’s a feeling I know well, and a feeling I’ve learned to recognize and relish. These men, I knew, were putting the equation together in their minds: An American passing close to the residence of Usama bin Laden meant their boss was of interest to the United States.

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