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Wondery Plus subscribers can binge full seasons of The Spy Who early and ad-free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. August 20th, 1998. The Arabian Sea. On the darkened bridge of a US Navy cruiser, the order to fire has just come in. It's been 13 days since al-Qaeda bombed the US embassies in Tanzania and Nairobi. Now, America's about to strike back.
Tomahawk MSN 104. The personnel on the bridge check the readings on the illuminated panels in front of them. The captain looks out the window towards the bow. 5, 4, 2, 1, launch. A Tomahawk cruise missile roars out of the launcher. It arcs into the night sky, powered by its fiery exhaust.
The missile blasts over the sea at more than 500 miles per hour and enters Pakistani airspace. And it's got company. 70 Tomahawk missiles are now tearing towards the same target. By the time they reach Afghanistan, the missiles are shedding altitude fast. Their targets now in sight. The terrorist training camps near the city of Khost. Camps that are home to several hundred jihadis, including Ayman Deen.
Missiles rain down and unleash their payload of flame and fury. We get support from Dove. Hey everyone, this is your girl Kiki Palmer, host of the Wondery podcast. Baby, this is Kiki Palmer. Listen up, because there's some messed up stuff we gotta talk about. Currently, race-based hair discrimination is still legal in some states in the U.S.,
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From Wondery, I'm Raza Jafri, and this is The Spy Who. In the last episode, Eamon Dean signed up to fight in Bosnia at the age of 16 before swearing allegiance to Osama bin Laden in Afghanistan. But after seeing the carnage caused by al-Qaeda's bombing of the American embassy in Nairobi, Dean wants to find a way out of the terrorist movement he's part of. You're listening to The Spy Who Betrayed Bin Laden, episode two.
August 21st, 1998. The Farooq terrorist training camp in Khost, Afghanistan. The morning after America's Tomahawk missile strikes. Amid the ruins of the camp, Eamon Dean scoops his mangled glasses off the floor. One shattered lens remains. He peers through it and sees the devastation in focus for the first time. The camp's been flattened. The ground is pockmarked with blackened craters.
The soil is stained with the blood of the fallen. Dean feels lucky to be alive. Around him, the survivors are hurriedly packing up and burying the dead. They think the US will follow the missile strike with a ground invasion, so they want to get to another camp before the showdown begins. Nearby, an Egyptian man drags a heavy crate towards a flatbed truck. He looks at Dean. "Hey, Eamon. Can you help me, brother?" "Yes, sorry. I can't see much without my glasses."
I have to go back to Pakistan to fix them. Dean bends down to help lift the crate. What is in this? Books? Documents? Computers? Everyone here is thinking about weapons, but we can always get more. Our knowledge. That can't be replaced so easily. They heave the crate onto the truck. The Egyptian stops to wipe his brow. Say...
When do you think you'll go to Pakistan to fix your glasses? Soon, God willing. I'm useless without them. Hmm. In that case, I've got an errand for you. What's that? The Egyptian passed the crate. I'm going to copy all our tactics. Contacts, blueprints, onto computer disks so they aren't lost if there's another airstrike. I need someone to take those disks to a contact in Peshawar who can keep them safe.
Will you deliver them? Of course. The Egyptian smiles, convinced that Dean can be trusted to deliver Al-Qaeda's greatest secrets. August 1998. Ayman Deans steps off the bus and into the bustle of Peshawar. After months in Afghanistan, the noise and verve of the Pakistani city is overwhelming. The narrow streets are crowded with men wearing shalwar kameez. Motorbikes and auto rickshaws come from every direction.
The aroma of frying meat and wood smoke wafts out of the chapli kebab houses. Everywhere, there are tiny stores with open fronts selling food, clothes and tea. It's normality, and Din's missed it. The people here aren't spending their days plotting destruction and cheering when others get blown apart. They're living the best they can, and Din longs to be just like them. But al-Khaida won't just let him walk away, and they still have his passport.
Dean should focus on the task at hand, finding an optician to repair his glasses. But instead, he finds himself drawn to something else, an internet cafe. Inside, he can see a handful of grimy PCs on plastic tables. Dean thinks of the computer disks in his backpack, the disks containing Al-Khaida's greatest secrets. An idea grips him. He heads into the cafe. Dean approaches the owner. Do you copy floppy disks?
Yes, 450 rupees per disc. It's hideously expensive, but Dean knows this is his only opportunity to copy these discs. Before he must deliver them, he looks behind him to check if anyone's watching. He sees no one. Okay, I need two discs copied. Dean removes the discs from his backpack and hands them over to the cafe owner. The owner turns to his PC and begins copying them.
Dean waits at the counter, wondering what to do with the duplicates. He hasn't a clue, but he senses that somehow there'll be insurance. The owner finishes the copies. Dean hides them at the bottom of his backpack and heads back onto the street. That evening, a guesthouse in Peshawar. Dean pulls the original discs out of his backpack and hands them to the Al-Qaeda operative who owns the guesthouse. "I was asked to bring these to you for safekeeping."
The Al-Qaeda operative stares at the disks. What's on them? Our bomb blueprints. Strategies. Manuals. After the American missile attacks, it was felt that we should have copies of this information somewhere safe. The operative nods. Yes, that is wise. Just then, a guest enters the room. Dean blinks in shock. It's Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. The terrorist known as KSM. The man who persuaded Dean to head to Afghanistan after Bosnia.
Khalid? KSM hugs Dean. I'm happy to see you are still in our ranks, brother. Dean forces a smile and tries to push away his doubts about the cause. Dean eases himself free of KSM's embrace. KSM grins. Ah, brother. What a time to be here together. Jihad is coming of age. The American strikes have energized Muslims just as we prayed. Our numbers are growing. The embassy bombings are just the start, inshallah.
Dean looks at him. "But are we ready for the consequences? Not us, but all Muslims. Think of how this will affect all Arabs and those caught in the fighting." KSM looks at Dean with uncomprehending eyes. "Jihad's time has come. As Sheikh bin Laden said, jihad is not about saving Muslim lives. It's about saving souls. The Ummah must be ready to suffer." The Al-Qaeda operative chimes in. "It's the only way.
All America understands is force, Dean lets the discussion slide. But their disregard for Muslim lives only confirms his doubts. He joined the cause to defend Muslims, not to unleash war. He and KSM were once on the same side, but now there's a gulf between them. Several weeks later, the Darunta camp near Jalalabad, Afghanistan. Dean and another apprentice hurry into the camp's chemical weapons lab.
They've been walking by the lake, and the other apprentice has just had a brainwave. The apprentice grabs a piece of chalk and starts to draw on the blackboard. Eamon, we've been thinking all wrong. The problem is how to mix the chemicals to create the poison gas. If we do it at the target, our operative could die before the reaction is finished. Dean shrugs. Yes, that's why mortars are the best delivery mechanism. The apprentice spins around to face Dean. No! No!
Dean starts to pace about the room, totally absorbed in this engineering puzzle.
It's no longer about building a bomb, it's about cracking a fiendish dilemma. And he relishes the challenge. I get what you're saying, but it won't work. Why not? The chemicals need time to mix to produce the gas. The explosion would disperse the chemicals before they can mix. The apprentice looks crestfallen and slumps into a chair. But then Dean's eyes widen. But what if the chemicals were kept in separate glass vials?
If we did that, we could use a small electrical charge to shatter the glass. That would allow the chemicals to mix before the explosion that disperses the gas. The apprentice leaps up. That's it! That is the answer! We can do this! Do what? Dean and the apprentice turn to see jihadi bomb maker Abu Habab at the doorway. The apprentice rushes to him. We've solved how to make a chemical bomb. We keep the substances in separate vials, then use a charge to shatter the vials so they mix...
Abu Khaba approaches the blackboard. Of course. Yes. Yes, you're right. You just imagine if we had used this in Nairobi. The mention of the attack in Nairobi snaps Dean back to reality. In his desire to solve the problem and prove his intelligence, he's just become the midwife to a terrifying chemical weapon. A weapon that Al-Qaeda will now use however it wishes. He decides he must leave before he does more harm.
A few weeks later, Dean clings to his cap as he pushes through howling wind blasting through the terrorist camp. He's got a plan to get his passport back without raising suspicion. Dean enters the chemical weapons lab. Inside, Abu-Khabab's rearranging the jars that lie on the shelves. He looks at Dean. "You're early? Have you even eaten breakfast? I wanted to talk to you first. What about?" Dean's imagined this conversation in his head over and over.
He knows that if his request arouses suspicion, it could be the end of him. Do you recall how I got typhoid and malaria last year? How could I forget? I was about to lose my finest student. Well, um, the doctors told me to come back in a year for more tests in case there's damage to my liver. Yes, I remember. Well, it's been a year. More. I'm wondering if I should go get those tests. But maybe it's not safe to make such a journey now.
Abu-Habab strokes his beard. No, no, you should go. I need you fit and healthy. I don't need another episode like last year. Well, I'm in no hurry, but if you think it's okay, can you ask for my passport to be returned to me so I can make the journey? Sure, I'll make the arrangements. Two weeks later, Doha, Qatar. Dean is in the passenger seat of the car owned by his friend Ahmed. It's 48 hours since he arrived here and he's finally starting to relax. Ahmed glances at Dean.
So what now? Will you stay here, in Qatar? Maybe I'm thinking of going to university. University? I think I'd like to teach history, or maybe I'd meet a devout woman and get married. Sorry, I should answer this. As Ahmed answers his cell phone, Dean stares out the window at the skyscrapers glistening in the hot sun. After so long in Afghanistan, he feels like he's been transported into the future. Ahmed hangs up. Dean notices he looks worried.
Something wrong? That was state security. They've ordered me to bring you to them. I have no choice. Dean feels fear. The security services must know he was in Al-Qaeda. He looks at Ahmed with pleading eyes. Just do me one favor. One. In my luggage, there is a leather pouch with two computer disks inside. Please, hide them. Make sure no one finds them. I will. I promise.
With that, Ahmed starts driving towards the state security building on the edge of the city. And they both know Dean might not make it out of there alive. My dad works in B2B marketing. He came by my school for career day and said he was a big ROAS man. Then he told everyone how much he loved calculating his return on ad spend.
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December 1998, Qatar State Security Headquarters, Doha. Ayman Deen stands as a guard enters the room. "The Colonel wants to see you." It's nine days since Deen was taken into custody, but he doesn't feel like a prisoner. He sells a small office with a comfy sofa and a view of the city. After Afghanistan, it's luxury. Deen follows the guard down to the office of the Colonel, who heads the Kingdom's security service.
Dean enters the Colonel's vast office. It's as big as a tennis court. Photos of the Colonel hobnobbing with the emir cover the walls. The Colonel leaps out of his leather armchair to greet Dean. "Welcome, welcome. Please, sit." They sit.
The Colonel smiles at Dean. "We are thankful for the information you've given us. Your cooperation was a surprise. The movement I joined has lost its way. Nothing in the Quran justifies the actions of Al-Qaeda. I have no reason to protect them." "I'm glad, but I also fear that word of your presence here in Qatar will spread." "Regretfully, I doubt we can protect you from your former comrades."
Also, if Saudi or Bahrain demand your extradition, it would be hard for us to refuse. The colonel leans forward. It would be better for you to go to a bigger intelligence service. The Americans, French, and British would like to meet you. It's your choice where to go, but you must choose now. Dean sinks back into his chair. I'm not going to the Americans.
They just chew people up and spit them out. France? I don't know the language and I feel no affinity for the French. The British seem professional. Or maybe I've seen too many movies. But I think they understand Arabs more. Also, my grandfather fought for Britain against the Ottomans in World War I, so there is that. Okay, I choose Britain. Very good. You fly tonight. I'll have your friend Ahmed come here and take you to the airport.
Later that same day, Ahmed leads Dean into his home. They should be on their way to the airport, but Ahmed's made a detour. Ahmed stands in the hallway, looking shamefaced. Amen, I'm sorry. It's my fault this is happening to you. State security said if I didn't help them, there would be consequences for me. Dean places a hand on Ahmed's shoulder. It's okay. Just tell me, did you hide the discs as I asked? Ahmed smiles and kneels down by a flowerpot.
He digs at the sand in the pot with his hands to reveal the leather pouch containing the discs. Dean hugs him. "You kept the discs safe. That's all that matters, my friend." Ahmed checks the time. "We must go. They'll get suspicious if we're late." Early morning the next day. London Heathrow Airport. Dean walks with the other passengers down the seemingly endless corridor that leads to border control.
He's visited London before, running small errands for Al-Qaeda. He wonders what it'd be like to live here permanently. Suddenly, two men appear by his sides. The white-haired man on his left speaks without looking at him. "Mr. Dean, we've been expecting you. Follow us, please." They lead Dean through a security door, down a deserted corridor, and into an interview room. The white-haired man sits opposite him. "I'm Tom. I work for the security service."
You might know of us as MI5, and that's Harry. He's from the Secret Intelligence Service, sometimes called MI6. Dean looks at the MI6 man. He's more banker than Bond. So you're the 007, Tom smirks, in his dreams. MI6 handles foreign intelligence gathering. We at MI5 are domestic security. But the line's blurry, especially when it comes to international terrorism. Anyhow, we're delighted to have you here.
The MI6 man breaks his silence. We're aware that your medical tests showed you have liver problems, so we've arranged treatment at a private hospital. We have many questions, but you must be tired, so they can wait until tomorrow. Actually, there's something you should know. There's a plot to kidnap Westerners in Yemen. Tom leans forward. Go on.
I met this teenager in Jalalabad. He's the stepson of a cleric here in London, Abu Hamza. He's got hooks for hands. Yes, we're aware of him. And he provides funds for the training camps in Afghanistan. That is very interesting. Well, his stepson's now in Yemen. His cell plans to kidnap foreigners at a church. It's part of an armed campaign to drive infidels out of Yemen. When is this happening? I don't know. Okay.
We need to get you somewhere where we can properly go over what you know about this. We have a car waiting outside. Harry will go with you. Tom leads Dean down the corridor and out of the building, where a car with blacked-out windows is waiting. That's your ride. I'll come and see you once we're settled. Dean opens the car door to get in, but then stops and reaches into his coat pocket. He pulls out the leather pouch with the computer disks and hands them to Tom. For you.
Computer disks. What's on them? Details of al-Qaeda camps, methods, bombs, formulas, and more. Dean gets into the car, leaving Tom staring open-mouthed at the intelligence gold mine he has in his hands. One month later, London. In the corridor of a shabby hotel in King's Cross, Dean knocks on the door of one of the rooms.
MI5's Tom opens the door and ushers him inside. Dean's here for another debrief with Tom, but today there's a new face in the room. A portly man in a double-breasted, pinstripe suit. "Amen, this is Richard from MI6." "As-salamu alaykum, Khayyaf al-Hal." Dean is shocked at being greeted in Arabic by the MI6 officer. "You speak Arabic?" "I spent time visiting tribal camps in the interior desert of Saudi."
I wanted to thank you in person for the information you've given us. The material on those discs is invaluable and, well, alarming, as is this. Richard hands Dean a photocopy of a Time magazine article. It's an interview with Osama bin Laden. One quote's highlighted in yellow. Bin Laden proclaiming how he hopes to obtain chemical and nuclear weapons. Richard sits forward. What he says won't be theory much longer. But this country's asleep to the threat.
It'd probably need a plot to blow up Buckingham Palace to get an English court to take notice. We need to know what they're planning, and that's why we need you. You spent two years at the heart of Al-Qaeda. Tom picks up the thread. You've already helped us by telling your contacts here in London that you're here receiving medical treatment. That's really helped us identify who to run surveillance on. But we still need to understand their networks better. You can help us do that. You want me to spy on them?
Dean wonders what happens if he doesn't agree to help. He decides not to ask. Richard nods.
"We can get you a medical visa. Also, it seems your father had a British passport, so we can get one for you." Dean sits up. His father died when he was four and this isn't news to him. "He did? I didn't know that. Looks like he did some work for the Foreign Office." Dean wonders what kind of work, and then notices Richard and Tom looking at him expectantly. "Oh, you want to know if I will spy for you? Um, yes."
Okay, but just a few weeks and then I get a normal life.
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Find what piques your imagination with Audible. New members can try Audible free for 30 days. Visit audible.com slash imagine or text imagine to 500-500. That's audible.com slash imagine or text imagine to 500-500. February 1999, Tooting High Street, South London. In an halal fast food restaurant, Eamon Dean bites into his fried chicken.
He's just given a talk to a radical Islamic group about his experiences, and they've now come here together for dinner. I'm one of the groups taking a keen interest in Dean's work with bomb-maker Abu Khabab. His name is Sajid Badat, and he's a 19-year-old with round glasses and thick beard. Badat looks at Dean. What is Abu Khabab like? I mean, as a person? Oh, he's caring. He's very concerned about the well-being of his apprentices.
It was him who helped me get medical treatment when I was dying of typhoid and malaria. I'd like to be one of his apprentices. He's doing important work. Bosnia proves we need to build weapons to defend ourselves from future persecution. Could you introduce me? Dean takes another bite of chicken. He wants to tell Berdat not to repeat his own mistakes, but he can't. His task is to maintain his cover and observe, not to intervene. I'll see what I can do. Dean resumes his meal.
Since agreeing to help MI5, he's met plenty of young British men like Badat. They feel alienated from both their immigrant parents' traditional Islam and the Western society they live in, and seek answers in the hellfire sermons of radical clerics. Dean just hopes MI5 is right, that the intelligences gathering outweighs the risk of him inspiring more jihadis. Several days later, King's Cross, London. Dean enters the phone booth and gags.
There's a splatter of cold sick covering the floor. He pinches his nose to hold back the stench and dials the number MI5 gave him. I need directions. Head north. First right, then left, then left again. Then go south. At the church. Cool. Understood. Dean hangs up, leaves the booth, and follows the directions. It's after dark, and away from the streetlights, figures lurk in the shadows of this rundown area.
He walks past drug dealers, sex workers, pimps and drunks. But he's not on edge, because he knows there are eyes on him. He goes through this performance every time he meets his case officers. First, he calls from the pre-arranged phone booth to get directions to another phone booth. While he follows the directions, an MI5 counter surveillance crew checks no one's following him. Dean reaches the second phone booth and is relieved to find it only smells of wet cigarettes.
He calls the number and gets directions to the safe house. A sure sign that MI5 are confident he's not being tailed. Fifteen minutes later, Dean's in a safe house and ready to brief his case officers on what he's learned. MI6's portly and pinstriped officer, Richard, lights a cigar and smiles at Dean. So, what has the cat dragged in this time? I met a 19-year-old called Sajid Badat at the tooting circle.
He's clever and wants to go make bombs in Afghanistan. He wants me to write him a letter of introduction to Abu Khabab. Did you write one? No, I thought you'd want to make that call. Yes, we'll think over it. It might be too late anyhow. I've not seen him around recently. You think he's gone to Afghanistan? Maybe. When I visited Finsbury Park Mosque, I saw a group of men with sleeping bags in the basement. I think they were waiting to be sent to Afghanistan.
Richard exchanges a look with MI5's white-haired case officer, Tom. Tom takes over the questioning. "What about Abu Hamza? You speak to him while at the mosque?" Hamza's the hook-handed cleric who controls Finsbury Park Mosque and he's suspected of orchestrating the kidnapping of 16 Western tourists in Yemen. But the evidence MI5 has against him can't be used in court. All it has are intercepts of his satellite calls with the kidnappers.
So they're hoping Dean can uncover something they can use to bring Hamza to justice. I spoke with him. He confirmed he was in regular contact with the hostage takers in Yemen. He said the plan was never to harm the hostages, but to use them as leverage to get his stepson freed by the Yemenis. But the plan fell apart when the Yemeni army stormed their hideout. Richard shakes his head. Four of the hostages died in the assault. At least that confirms what we know from intercepts of his calls. Dean looks at Tom.
"So what are you going to do about Hamza?" Tom shrugs. "I don't know. What we know can't be used in court, but it could still prove useful." A few days later, Shepherd's Bush, West London. It's dawn, and two police vans are cruising slowly down a residential street of terrorist houses. Inside the vans, officers from the Metropolitan Police's Anti-Terrorism Branch ready themselves for action. The vans stop outside one of the houses.
The unarmed officers move into position near the steps leading to the front door. One officer hurries up the steps. He gets into position and swings a steel battering ram. The door bursts open. Officers charge inside. Police! Police! Police officers! The officers soon re-emerge with Abu Hamza in tow.
One officer reads him his rights. Abu Hamza, you are being arrested under the Prevention of Terrorism Act on suspicion of commission, instigation and preparation of acts of terrorism in Yemen. The police then bundle Abu Hamza into one of the vans and drive away. But after four days of questioning, he walks free.
Three months later, in a suite at a smart Mayfair hotel, Dean's eating a lunch of sandwiches with Richard. And the pinstriped MI6 officer is in a jolly mood. Well done on the intelligence you gathered about Abu Hamza. Made an important contribution to the decision to arrest him. But you let him go. Richard adds all the ham and mustard sandwiches to his plate. Not us. The courts. Well, we couldn't share your evidence with the courts, could we now? That would expose you.
But without that and our intercepts, the judge had to release him. We did our job. The court system is, alas, beyond our control. Dean glances at the sandwiches, and then at Richard. What's really happening here? MI5's not here, and we're in a nice hotel for once. There's got to be a reason. Richard smiles, very perceptive. And yes, there is a reason. Your work here in London has given us inroads into the terrorist networks in our country.
But the roots of the problem are not here. They're in the Middle East. Pakistan. Afghanistan. So we're hoping you would be willing to go back to Afghanistan for us. Yes. Richard nearly drops his sandwich in shock. Yes. Oh, well, marvelous. I expected more dilly-dallying on your part, to be honest. I had the feeling you'd ask me to go back at some point. So I've already thought it over. Answer's yes.
But I need a watertight cover story. Indeed. Well, first, we need a reason for you to return. I could say I need to recharge my spirituality after so long living among Western infidels. That's nice. Play on their prejudices. But if you're going to supply us with information, you'll also need an excuse to leave on a regular basis. I could say I've started a business to help fund the cause. You can't just say that. A business must exist in case someone checks. Dean thinks for a moment, and then hits on an idea.
Honey. Another Al-Qaeda member had this idea of selling honey from the Himalayas to rich Saudis. I could do that. My brother, Muheddin, is in Saudi. He could handle the sales. That would work very well. Lots of reason to travel with an export business. What do I do if anyone in the camp gets suspicious? We'll provide training, but if you're interrogated, tell as much of the truth as possible. Don't get entangled in fiction.
If anyone accuses you or asks too many questions, go to a superior and complain about their intrusive and suspicious questioning. So make them out to be the spy? Precisely. Take off your glasses. What? Just do it. Dean removes his glasses. Richard points at the hotel room door. Read that sign. Dean looks at the sign.
He can see it's red writing on a white background, but the words themselves are just a blurry smear. "I can't make out even one word." "Good. I only take one pair of glasses with you. If you need to get out, break your glasses so you have reason to go to Peshawar. We'll also get you a number to call in an emergency." Dean smiles. "Don't bother. What am I going to do? Ask to borrow a satellite phone?" "No."
If things go that bad, you just won't ever hear from me again.
but our scenes are written using the best available sources. So even if a scene or conversation has been recreated for dramatic effect, it's still based on biographical research. We've used various sources to make this series, including Nine Lives, My Time as MI6's Top Spy in Al-Qaeda, by Eamon Dean. Throughout his life, Dean has used other names, including his birth name and the name he used while a member of Al-Qaeda.
Eamon Dean is the name he adopted after finishing his spy career, and we've used it throughout this series for clarity. The Spy Who is hosted by me, Raza Jafri. Our show is produced by Vespucci, with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant for Wondery. For Yellow Ant, this episode was researched by Marina Watson and Louise Byrne. Our managing producer is Jay Priest.
For Vespucci, our senior producer is Natalia Rodriguez and our sound designer is Ivor Manley. Thomas Currie is the supervising producer. Music supervision is Scott Velasquez for Frizz and Sync. Executive producers for Vespucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turkin.
Executive producer for Yellow Ant is Tristan Donovan. Our managing producer for Wondery is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Jessica Radburn and Marshall Louis.
