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Theme Changer

 Topic: Undercover jihadi

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  • Undercover jihadi
     OP - June 21, 2014, 07:24 PM

    Double agent jihadi: To his extremist 'brothers' he was a Muslim convert hungering to commit atrocities in Britain. In truth, he was a spy for MI5. In a new book he blows the cover on his terrifying double life...

    Quote
    As we raced through the desert in a cloud of dust, I knew I was on my way into the lion’s den, about to put my head in its jaws. I was in the lawless, fly-blown state of Yemen on the Arabian Peninsula, and, Kalashnikov in hand, being driven to meet one of Al Qaeda’s top figures, a man tipped as the successor of Bin Laden.

    To the fighters I was with, I was Murad al-Danmarki, a brother jihadist.

    Later that night in January 2012, after being greeted as a trusted friend, I was asked to go one step further in my commitment to the cause and take an oath of allegiance to the Al Qaeda leader Nasir al-Wuhayshi. With no choice, I intoned: ‘I will be true to Leader of the Faithful, and will fight Allah’s cause.’

    It was done. This ginger-haired, white-skinned Westerner — a one-time juvenile delinquent, biker gang member and jailbird, now a convert to Islam — was a signed-up member of Al Qaeda, dedicated to the destruction of kuffars [infidels], particularly in the U.S. and Britain.

    Except I wasn’t. For five long years I had kept up this pose as a militant jihadist. In reality I was a spy, working undercover for Western intelligence agencies.

    I’d seen enough videos of brutal executions by Al Qaeda to know my fate if discovered  — a savage and slow beheading or crucifixion, my body left hanging for days.

    Avoiding such a grisly end depended on keeping sharp. In London, Luton and Birmingham, where I operated, there were so many radicals on the streets I could not let the mask  drop for a moment. Even my wife, Fadia, had no idea who I really was, nor my children.

    I moved constantly back and forth between two worlds and two identities — when one misplaced sentence or an overheard phone conversation could cost me my life. I switched identity in airport departure and arrival halls, flipping between atheism and hardline Islam, English and Arabic, T-shirts and robes.

    And it worked. Information I supplied had helped foil bomb plots.  I planted the equipment that directed American drone missiles against some of the most dangerous men on the planet.

    It was a ruthless game. An MI5 psychologist checking on my suitability as a spy once asked me: ‘What would you do if you were with Al  Qaeda and ordered to execute a prisoner?’ Before I could reply, he told me what I knew was the only answer: ‘You’d kill him to avoid attracting any  suspicion or doubt.’

    For years I had been fuelled by the need to stop the next attack, by the adrenaline rush and camaraderie with my handlers. But this lifestyle had brought me to the verge of a breakdown. It was time to opt out before it was too late.

    My real name is Morten Storm and I was born in Denmark in 1976, a working-class boy with a drunk for a father and a violent stepfather who beat both me and my mother. I was  13 when I attempted my first armed robbery, holding up a shop with a hand gun.

    It was the start of a downward spiral into crime, violence and prison. I smuggled, consumed ridiculous amounts of drugs and delighted in street brawls. Hailed at the age of  20 as ‘Denmark’s youngest psychopath’, I joined a biker gang known as  the Bandidos, deadly rivals of the Hell’s Angels, whom they fought  with guns and knives at every opportunity.

    But I began to worry that the constant fixes of violence and drugs would eventually kill me. After one fight in which I hit a man with a  baseball bat, I couldn’t get the sound of his knees and arms cracking out  of my head. Perhaps I really was  turning into a psychopath, and that made me start questioning the  purpose of my life.

    Then one day, I went into a library and, though I had never been  religious, I picked up a life of the Prophet Muhammad.

    I knew about Islam through immigrants I met on the streets, and had always envied the strength of their families and the bonds that united them while facing poverty and discrimination.

    Now I was utterly absorbed as I read about the Prophet’s dignity and simplicity and the way he had fought for what he believed in. His words set out a system of belief that was both merciful and compassionate, offered absolution for sins and a pathway to a more fulfilling life. Islam could help me rein in my instincts and gain some self-discipline. I was converted.

    I joined a mosque, where an imam welcomed me, and I declared my new-found faith — ‘There is no God  but God, and Muhammad is his  messenger.’ He replied: ‘You are now a Muslim. Your sins are forgiven and you are my brother.’

    A Muslim friend told me with a grin that I ought to be circumcised, ‘but it’s not compulsory. It’s more  important that you now take a  Muslim name’.

    ‘You should be “Murad”,’ he said. ‘It means “goal” or “achievement”.’ It seemed appropriate.

    After that I prayed five times a  day and wore an Islamic cap as I  zealously soaked up the prescriptions of Islam. I felt a sense of stability I  had never had before.

    As part of this new life, I decided to move to England. At the Regent’s Park Mosque in London I was welcomed as a convert and encouraged to continue my studies in a Muslim country. A ticket to Yemen was offered, and I went. There, I was drawn deeper than ever into the intricacies of my new religion.

    After the best part of a year, I returned to London. In Brixton, Hounslow, Shepherd’s Bush and Finchley, I came across mosques energised by a new militancy. Angry young men were looking to inflict revenge on the West for what they saw as its persecution of Muslims in many parts of the world.

    Some began wearing combat fatigues to the mosque, among them a Jamaican-Englishman called Richard Reid, who years later would be jailed as the ‘shoe bomber’ for trying to blow up a plane with explosive powder hidden in his footwear.

    Soon London — and especially the mosque at Finsbury Park — was the clearing-house for dozens of militants intent on acts of terrorism. They often had similar backgrounds: difficult or violent childhoods, little education and few prospects, no job and a lot of resentments. Just like me, in fact.

    Now I was utterly absorbed as I read about the Prophet’s dignity and simplicity and the way he had fought for what he believed in. His words set out a system of belief that was both merciful and compassionate, offered absolution for sins and a pathway to a more fulfilling life. Islam could help me rein in my instincts and gain some self-discipline. I was converted.

    I joined a mosque, where an imam welcomed me, and I declared my new-found faith — ‘There is no God  but God, and Muhammad is his  messenger.’ He replied: ‘You are now a Muslim. Your sins are forgiven and you are my brother.’

    A Muslim friend told me with a grin that I ought to be circumcised, ‘but it’s not compulsory. It’s more  important that you now take a  Muslim name’.

    ‘You should be “Murad”,’ he said. ‘It means “goal” or “achievement”.’ It seemed appropriate.

    After that I prayed five times a  day and wore an Islamic cap as I  zealously soaked up the prescriptions of Islam. I felt a sense of stability I  had never had before.

    As part of this new life, I decided to move to England. At the Regent’s Park Mosque in London I was welcomed as a convert and encouraged to continue my studies in a Muslim country. A ticket to Yemen was offered, and I went. There, I was drawn deeper than ever into the intricacies of my new religion.

    After the best part of a year, I returned to London. In Brixton, Hounslow, Shepherd’s Bush and Finchley, I came across mosques energised by a new militancy. Angry young men were looking to inflict revenge on the West for what they saw as its persecution of Muslims in many parts of the world.

    Some began wearing combat fatigues to the mosque, among them a Jamaican-Englishman called Richard Reid, who years later would be jailed as the ‘shoe bomber’ for trying to blow up a plane with explosive powder hidden in his footwear.

    Soon London — and especially the mosque at Finsbury Park — was the clearing-house for dozens of militants intent on acts of terrorism. They often had similar backgrounds: difficult or violent childhoods, little education and few prospects, no job and a lot of resentments. Just like me, in fact.

    I, too, was increasingly radicalised. When I first became a Muslim, my view had been that jihad was a defensive duty rather than offensive  warfare against other faiths. But now I was shifting towards support for taking up arms to defend the faith, crossing the line from talk to action.

    I was back in Yemen with plans to travel to Osama Bin Laden’s camps in Afghanistan when the Twin Towers  in New York were attacked. I had  to make a decision. Whose side  was I on? With important Islamic clerics pronouncing that it was now permissible to kill civilians in pursuit of jihad and President Bush declaring, ‘You are either with us or with the terrorists’, I had no option. I could not side with the kuffar.

    Bin Laden became my hero. When my son was born in May 2002 I named him Osama. The following year, the  Bush-Blair invasion of Iraq seemed like another declaration of war against Muslims and another reason to embrace jihad.

    My commitment to the cause went beyond words. Back in Denmark I joined other would-be jihadists for training at paintball sites where we practised suicide-style attacks. Although I did not know it at the time, my activities and my militant messages online were being  monitored by Danish intelligence.

    In 2003, I returned to England and set up home in Luton, where the  U.S. occupation of Iraq was fuelling more radicalism.

    Talk of jihad was common, and after so much time in the Arab world among its militant leaders, I soon built up a following.

    No level of violence or brutality seemed excessive as justifiable retribution for the invasion of Muslim lands. We took satisfaction from watching the video of kidnapped American civilian Nick Berg having his head sawn off in Iraq. I even managed to find a religious justification for the 2005 London Tube and bus bombings in which 52 people died and many hundreds were injured.

    Yet deep down I was having nagging doubts about this targeting of civilians. To my mind, non-Muslims were fellow human beings, albeit misguided ones. I didn’t see the need to kill them.

    I was lost for words when an  Englishman I was working with as a nightclub bouncer asked me: ‘Why does Allah want people to kill other people? Don’t you think He would prefer you to teach them to read?’

    His question troubled me. I realised that, since becoming a Muslim, I had learned to see enemies everywhere. I was defining myself by what I loathed, to distract myself from the anger and frustration that had been part of me since childhood. Wasn’t it better to reconcile than to hate?

    But I put these thoughts aside as my network of extremist contacts round the world continued to grow. There were many youngsters in the West desperate to get to places like Somalia and Yemen to take up arms for the cause. I was desperate to become one of them myself.

    I made plans to go to Somalia and was within days of departing when I was warned by Islamists there that it was too dangerous. I was devastated. Why was Allah, the all-knowing,  making it so hard for me to serve Him by giving my life?

    And from that, other questions began to run though my head. Had I got Islam wrong? Was the true  faith being distorted by militant preachers? One of its precepts is  predestination — that Allah has decided everything, past, present and future. In which case, where was the capacity to make a difference if we were just helpless puppets?

    Into my laptop I typed ‘Contradictions in the Koran’. And up came more than a million hits. Suddenly my faith was a house of cards that just came tumbling down.

    I could no longer see any justification for jihadist attacks such as the Twin Towers and London 7/7. If they were in Allah’s preordained plan, then I no longer wanted any part of it. But I felt I couldn’t just walk away.

    I knew so much about my militant ‘brothers’ and their plans to wreak more terror. I needed to stop them from taking the lives of more innocents.

    Not so long before, I had been  quietly approached by PET, the Danish security and intelligence service. Like its counterparts, MI5, MI6 and the CIA, it was finding it difficult to penetrate rapidly growing terrorism networks. Inside information was hard to come by.

    When they had first contacted me, I had sent them away with a flea in their ear. But what should I do now, after turning my back on Islam and jihad? If I called them and offered my services, there would be no turning back for me, no middle ground. I would have to lead a double life, one in which a single mistake could cost  me my life.

    But the alternative seemed worse. How could I stand by as people I knew brought carnage to Europe? So I made contact.

    At my first meeting with two agents, I turned down the offer of coffee or water and ordered a bacon sandwich and a beer, both forbidden in Islam.  It was my way of saying: ‘I’m on your side.’ I felt like a weight had been lifted from me.

    ‘I’ve decided I’m no longer a Muslim,’ I told them. ‘The religion that became my life has lost its meaning. I am  ready to help you in the fight  against terrorism.’ 

    The task they set me was to go about my normal life among these people, keep my eyes and ears open, and report back on any potential threat.  My initial arrangement was with the Danes, but soon it was agreed I should also report to MI5 in England, who set me up in the Alum Rock area of Birmingham, which had become a hotspot for Islamist radicals.

    I needed a cover story to allay any suspicions about the cash I was receiving, so I was set up as a taxi driver. MI5 even bought me a Mercedes, with leather-trimmed seats. But taxi-driving wasn’t my cup of tea and I gave it up.

    With my wife Fadia, I lived in a rundown council house on a street littered with discarded needles and rubbish. She was far from happy, but for her sake, and mine, I couldn’t explain why. It was the price of my living a lie.

    I had some preliminary training. Later, MI5 taught me counter-surveillance in Edinburgh and MI6 took me to a secret facility near Portsmouth harbour for role-playing games. It turned out I was a natural problem-solver.

    I was let loose on the streets, where I used my connections and my  credentials as an outspoken militant of many years’ standing to immerse myself in the extremist scene.

    My lifeline was the mobile phone with which I communicated with my handlers several times each day, running through information and ideas but always being careful with our language in case anyone was listening in.

    Getting my ‘fellow’ extremists to open up was not difficult. Most loved nothing better than to chat. Soon my knowledge of the militant scene in the UK and my Rolodex of jihadists  was generating results.

    Hassan Tabbakh was a Syrian in his mid-30s, who confided to me that he had been learning how to build bombs and showed me sketches of targets  in London, including Oxford Street and the area around Parliament.

    ‘Brother, what do you think? Will it work?’ he asked, inviting me to join the plot. He was a physics graduate, and I had little doubt he would be  able to build the bombs. The question was when.

    I alerted MI5 and discovered Tabbakh had not even been on their radar. He was the archetypal ‘lone-wolf terrorist’, the sort that are most difficult to detect. ‘We need you to stick very close to him,’ I was told, and I did.

    As part of the operation to gain his trust, MI5 even staged the detaining of me at Gatwick airport — which further burnished my credentials among the militants in Birmingham.

    Wary of blowing my cover, MI5 took elaborate steps to mask my role by shifting suspicion on to another of his associates. Tabbakh was arrested in December 2007 and later convicted of making bombs to launch a terrorist attack.

    One killer was off the streets, thanks to me. There would be many others.

    But my role was taking a personal  toll. The espionage business was all-consuming, and even when things were slow, I found it difficult to switch off. Occasionally, I took long drives into the countryside for a pint in a pub and a chat with ordinary people. For a few precious minutes I just needed to drop the mask or I’d have gone mad.

    Many of the Islamic extremists I moved among turned out to be  blowhards, talking big but thankfully doing nothing.

    An exception was a British-Pakistani I knew only as Saheer. I discovered he was in his late 20s and already had a conviction for armed robbery. Like a growing number of young Muslims, he had been radicalised while in prison.

    ‘Brother, we need to fight back against the kuffar,’ he said, as we shared a yogurt cake in a Moroccan cafe. ‘Murad, I’d like to do a martyrdom operation. I want to die in an attack. I want to be killed “fee sabeel Allah” [for the sake of Allah].’

    His chosen target was the office of  a Danish newspaper that had run a controversial cartoon of the Prophet Muhammad, which is why he was talking to me. As I listened to him outline plans, I told myself be neither dismissive nor overly eager to help. I had to go slowly and let this play out.

    Later, I called ‘Sunshine’, a vivacious woman in her early 30s who was one of my MI5 handlers. She met me in a Sainsbury’s car park near Birmingham and drove me to a large warehouse, one of MI5’s secret operations centres.

    Andy, my chief handler, was waiting for me. I told him about Saheer. ‘He’s really dangerous, a total psycho. What the hell am I supposed to do?’  Andy replied: ‘You need to keep talking to him.’

    Saheer was MI5’s worst nightmare — a savvy career criminal who was morphing into a jihadi with a death wish. And he was very security conscious. He only spoke to me when we were alone and outdoors, and each time he patted me down for any devices.

    ‘Just a precaution, brother,’ he’d say. But he was sharing his plans only with me. If he was arrested, not only would my cover be blown, but we would not get a conviction. It was  all hearsay and I might be accused of entrapment.

    I changed tack. I told him that a respected imam I’d met in Yemen had declared it permissible to sell drugs to raise money for jihad. And to find the cash for the weapons he needed, he did just that.

    He asked me to join him on the Denmark attack, saying: ‘This is the best, Murad. We get to be shuhada [martyrs].’

    ‘I’m with you, brother. We are mujahideen and this is what we fight for. This is paradise,’ I replied, summoning up all the conviction I could manage. In my head I was thinking, how am I going to get out of this?

    The day of our departure for Denmark loomed, but my MI5  handlers still kept me in the dark about what they were planning. I couldn’t sleep for worry as I contemplated what might happen.

    A week before we were due to leave, British police arrested Saheer as he sold drugs on the streets of Birmingham. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. He later received a lengthy prison sentence.

    For me, though, there were much bigger fish to fry. My principal target in all my years under cover was a highly dangerous radical on the run in the Yemen. The CIA were desperate to get him — and, as I will explain on Monday, they saw me as the one person who could hook him.


    This edited extract is from Agent Storm by Morten Storm with Paul Cruickshank and Tim Lister

    `But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
     `Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: `we're all mad here. I'm mad.  You're mad.'
     `How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.
     `You must be,' said the Cat, `or you wouldn't have come here.'
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #1 - June 21, 2014, 07:53 PM

    that was one amazing read, thanks for posting QSE.
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #2 - June 21, 2014, 08:01 PM

    And according to the author, more to come on Monday.

    `But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
     `Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: `we're all mad here. I'm mad.  You're mad.'
     `How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.
     `You must be,' said the Cat, `or you wouldn't have come here.'
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #3 - June 21, 2014, 08:39 PM

    Unfortunately he is in bed with right-wing Muslim bashers now and has made some very derogatory remarks against anything "Muslim". On other occasions he seems to be more level-headed.

    He also has a LOT of criticism of Danish security agency PET who he says used a lot of money on partying and buying prostitutes. Which wouldn't surprise me really. Our control with what our security organisations are doing is outrageously bad. And of course classified way more than remotely needed.

    He has been known to support Danish Defence League.

    Danish Never-Moose adopted by the kind people on the CEMB-forum
    Ex-Muslim chat (Unaffliated with CEMB). Safari users: Use "#ex-muslims" as the channel name. CEMB chat thread.
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #4 - June 24, 2014, 02:39 PM

    Right, so I've just found part two and three. Gave part three a read, I have to say I felt like what I was reading wasn't the truth. I suppose it could just have been edited to come across as more sensational, but I just got a feeling of fantasy.

    'How I helped kill Al Qaeda's terrorist mastermind 'the Sheikh': The nerve-shredding story of an MI5 spy posing as a fanatic

    Quote
    To his extremist ‘brothers’ he was a white Muslim convert eager to commit atrocities. In truth, as he reveals in a gripping new book, Morten Storm was an MI5 spy. Here, in our second extract, how he tracked down a top target.

    The sheikh, as everyone called him, was an impressive man — tall in his tribal white robes, a sword on his hip, a scholar and a philosopher with natural authority. American-born but of Arab origin, he had fled the U.S. in the aftermath of 9/11, worried he was being targeted by the FBI.


    Now, in hiding in the desolate ‘Empty Quarter’ of Yemen, a favourite training ground for Islamic militants dreaming of holy war, he was the spiritual guide of jihad and one of Al Qaeda’s key figures – every bit as influential and charismatic as Osama Bin Laden himself.



    It was there in Yemen that in 2009 I travelled to see the Sheikh — real name Anwar al-Awlaki — whom I had known already for several years. 


    Ostensibly I was a trusted fellow jihadist, a white convert to Islam who had taken up the cause with passion and pursued it in the mosques and on the streets of Britain.


    In reality, I had rejected the faith two years earlier and taken on the highly dangerous role of an undercover spy for the British Secret Intelligence Service and the CIA. Increasingly Awlaki was on their — and therefore my — radar.


    He was constantly on the move from one safe house to another. From these he delivered messages of hate in emails and over the internet.


    Once he had condemned the 9/11 attacks on the U.S. as un-Islamic, but no longer.


    ‘I pray that Allah destroys America and all its allies,’ he declared, a military camouflage jacket over his robe and a Kalashnikov over his shoulder.


    ‘We will implement the rule of Allah on Earth by the tip of the sword whether the masses like it or not.’
    He was not concerned that civilians would suffer and die as a consequence. The cause justified the means.


    ‘The Americans want me dead,’ he told me when we were together, all the more so because Yemen had once had him behind bars but then let him go.


    American unmanned drones wandered the skies looking for him. And no wonder, since Al Qaeda’s spiritual guide had also become its quartermaster.


    He told me with pride how his men had ambushed Yemeni government forces and netted heavy weapons, including anti-tank rockets, to send to Islamist fighters in Somalia.


    He urged me to go back home to Europe and recruit militants to come to Yemen to get training for a campaign of terrorist attacks against the West.

    In the days when I was a cheerleader for Islamic militancy with a wish to become a martyr for the cause myself, I would have been sympathetic — although I had been troubled by the targeting of civilians.   



    But sickened by the growing number of acts of terrorism against innocents, I had made the momentous decision to switch sides.


    I had put my intimate insider’s knowledge of the extremists, built up over years, at the disposal of Western intelligence agencies to try to thwart any more terrorist atrocities. My job now was to find, track and inform on people whose beliefs I had shared not so long ago.


    And at the top of that target list was Awlaki, my one-time ‘brother’ and friend. He trusted me completely, so much so that we communicated through a shared email account in which we hid messages to each other as drafts.


    I brought him supplies he requested, such as night-vision goggles and a laptop – one that, unknown to him, included a tracking device, courtesy of my new friends, the CIA.


    He then introduced me to a special encryption software he called ‘Mujahideen Secrets 2.0’ with a unique, secret digital code to lock and unlock messages. I passed it to my CIA handlers, who were thrilled as they built up their dossier on him.


    Then suddenly an event in Texas accelerated Awlaki to the top of the CIA’s list of urgent targets. On  November 5 2009, 39-year-old U.S. major Nidal Hasan, an army psychiatrist, entered the Fort Hood military base and shot dead 13 people and injured 30 more.


    It turned out he was an Awlaki disciple who had been exchanging emails with him about whether it was permissible for a Muslim to serve in the American army. Hasan wrote that he could not wait to join Awlaki in the afterlife, where they could talk over non-alcoholic wine.



    The FBI had routinely intercepted the emails but passed them as harmless.

     Not any more.


    U.S. agencies were now poring over everything connected to Awlaki — who responded on his website by declaring: ‘Nidal Hasan is a hero,’ and, in an uncompromising clarion call, encouraging other Muslims in America to follow his example.


    I had seen at first hand Awlaki’s hold over his followers in the West.

    In March of that year I had organised a secret fundraising call via Skype with a group of British-Pakistani supporters in Rochdale. Among them were several doctors eager to contribute to jihad.


    They listened spellbound to Awlaki’s assured answers on a variety of religious topics. MI5 had given its blessing to the event to bolster my credentials in militant circles, on the condition no funds raised reached the cleric.

    I still have a recording of the event. Awlaki was as adept at fundraising as any American politician: ‘The enemy is oppressing the Muslims.


    ‘It becomes important for every brother and sister who knows the Haq [truth] to act upon it . . . if Allah has blessed you with wealth then you should support the Islamic causes, whether we are talking about Somalia, Afghanistan or Iraq . . . and not just sit on the sidelines and watch.

    ‘When it comes to Yemen because it’s not on the news, it’s being forgotten, and therefore I would encourage every brother who has the capability to assist.’

    But now — in lionising Nidal Hasan — Awlaki had crossed the Rubicon. ‘It’s time to take him out,’ my CIA handlers told me, using the information I had gleaned about his whereabouts.


    But he proved to be an elusive target. A cruise missile strike hit a meeting of senior Al Qaeda figures he had been expected to attend, and first reports indicated Awlaki had been killed.


    But I got an encrypted email from him that read: ‘Phew. Maaaaaan – that was close.’


    Shortly afterwards, a young Nigerian Muslim tried to detonate a device made of explosive white powder in his underwear in a plane flying from Amsterdam to Detroit.  It didn’t work and he was arrested.


    It turned out his martyrdom mission had been orchestrated by Awlaki, whose parting advice to the would-be martyr had been for him to wait until the plane was over the U.S. before bringing it down. Americans had only just been spared another 9/11-style attack on the homeland.



    No wonder that the Obama White House had taken ‘the extremely rare if not unprecedented’ step of approving the assassination of an American citizen because he was now actively involved in terror plots.


    In Washington, intelligence officers studied satellite images of the village in Yemen where I had visited him: I was able to point out his personal compound. Shortly after, it was raided by Yemeni special forces intent on taking him out. Al Qaeda later claimed US special forces were involved too.


    Unfortunately he was not there that day, though some of his followers were and they died — including one I knew and liked.

    This news deeply unsettled me. For the first time it came home to me that my work as an informant was killing people, and I had no say in who was targeted and who was not. I felt guilty, while also cursing my naivety in not realising this  was bound to happen and preparing for it.


    I realised that the stakes were now too high and the urgency too great for me to wallow in self-recrimination for long. If I had doubts then, Awlaki soon dispelled them by formally declaring war on the U.S.


    ‘America as a whole has turned into a nation of evil,’ he announced in a recorded message. ‘Jihad against America is binding upon myself, just as it is binding on every other able Muslim.’


    Through all this, he never suspected that I was working for those trying to stop him. In an exchange of emails, he told me I was one of the few ‘brothers’ he could count on. ‘I care about you,’ he wrote.


    His words touched me, and I began to wonder if there was some way I might reel him in quietly and present him to the authorities, a captive and no longer a threat, but at least alive.


    The key might be that he had asked me to help find a wife for him in the West.


    Through Facebook, I had alighted on a blonde and beautiful Croatian named Irena who changed her name to Aminah after converting to Islam. She was as fanatical as he was and desperate to join his cause.


    The CIA’s plan was to plant a tracking device in her luggage when she travelled to Yemen to meet and marry him and for her to unwittingly lead us to him. I was offered £145,000 ($250,000) as my reward for setting this up.

    All went smoothly getting Aminah and her secretly tagged luggage to Yemen.


    But then it all went wrong.



    Difficult upbringing: At the age of 20, following a childhood filled with crime, he was labelled 'Denmark's youngest psychopath' before he 'found the prophet Muhammad'


    On the instructions of the cautious Al Qaeda courier who had met her, she dumped the suitcase instead of taking it with her into the desert. No tracking device made the journey with her to Awlaki’s home.


    After the failure of this mission, the Americans froze contact with me, and for a while my double life as a spy went quiet. Then early in 2011, they were back in touch.


    They were desperate by now. Awlaki had been exposed as the brains behind an ingenious plot to blow up U.S.-bound cargo planes with explosives concealed in printer cartridges, which was only foiled by a last-minute intelligence tip. Three young men radicalised by him had also tried to blow up New York subway trains at rush hour in September 2009.


    He really was bringing jihad to the American homeland, and it must have seemed only a matter of time before he succeeded. By now, Bin Laden was gone, killed in a raid by U.S. special forces on his home in Pakistan. But Awlaki was rapidly taking his place as the great bogeyman of the West.


    One of my handlers told me he was U.S. Public Enemy No 1, but taking him out would not be easy. US military drones over Yemen locked on to a pick-up truck he was thought to be in, only for him to switch vehicles moments before the missiles struck. So I was tasked to find him — and a ‘very significant sum’ was on the table if I could lead them to him.


    The plan was for me to go back into Yemen and make personal contact with my old ‘brother’.
    I was given intensive weapons training for what lay ahead, on submachine guns, pump-action guns and Kalashnikovs. I was taught to shoot left-handed and right-handed, and how to fire out of windows while driving. If I came under sustained fire I should hide under the steering wheel because the engine block offered protection against incoming fire.

    A psychologist asked me a battery of questions and I told him I felt torn about going after Awlaki because he’d been my friend and I knew he would give his life for me.


    ‘That’s normal,’ he said, before okaying me for the operation, ‘it’s only human to have a conscience.’


    A fellow agent told me: ‘You are doing the most dangerous job in the world so make sure you demand what you need.


    And when you are over there, don’t sit with the terrorists because the Americans won’t hesitate to kill you if you are with their target.’ It was a chilling reminder that I was dispensable.


    'I contacted Awlaki through the Mujahideen Secrets software, signing in as ‘Polar Bear’, the private nickname he had given me because of my Scandinavian origins. Then I flew to Yemen.


    I knew meeting him face-to-face was going to be very difficult. He was in deep hiding now, and I was diverted through numerous couriers as I tried to reach him. In his email messages he was very jumpy, though anxious to see me. He gave me a long shopping list of things he and Aminah needed, including bras and feminine pads for her and even a fridge.


    It was a slow business, but bit by bit I was getting one of the world’s most dangerous men firmly in my sights.



    Reports came to me that ‘Big Brother’, as the CIA was known, was very happy with what I was doing, so much so that they were offering £2.9 million ($5 million) if I could get a fix on him. My plan was for him eventually to invite me to his desert hideout. Initially, though, the route to him would have to be through the supplies he had asked me for.


    They would, of course, be fitted with tracking devices, including a satellite transponder in the fridge. I made the arrangements, and then waited for him to make contact. Finally a rendezvous was fixed with one of his men in the car park of a KFC restaurant in Sana’a, the Yemen capital.


    I waited nervously, Colonel Sanders in his apron staring down at me from a brightly lit hoarding among the mosques and minarets.


    A courier appeared and I handed over a sports bag with some of the supplies. I received an encrypted email from Awlaki three days later confirming he had the stuff. He also asked for a New York Times article he’d heard about which claimed Al Qaeda in Yemen was buying up castor beans to make ricin, a poison, and attack the U.S. I shuddered.


    It seemed like he had some sort of biological or chemical attack against the West in the works.

    I realised it didn’t matter any longer how he was stopped, as long as he was. In August I took a break and went home to holiday with my children in Europe — I had a son, Osama, and a daughter, Sarah by first wife, Karima.


    Time with them was sacrosanct — even if it disrupted the mission to neutralise the most wanted terrorist in Al Qaeda.


    In my absence, an item Awlaki had asked me for was picked up by his people, and the Americans had monitored the handover as a way of tracking him. The mission was going according to plan.
    When I returned from holiday, I would be able to travel into  Yemen’s badlands to meet him, and . . . bingo!


    Instead, one late-September day, I turned on the television and saw breaking news. CIA drones had taken off from Saudi Arabia and zeroed in on a group of pick-up trucks in the Yemeni desert.


    A clutch of Hellfire missiles were launched, and Awlaki and six other Al Qaeda operatives were killed instantly. The U.S. had finally liquidated the man it considered an urgent and present danger  and I had played my part.


    But as I shall tell tomorrow, the pressure of my secret life was becoming unbearable, and far from helping to protect me, my spymasters were soon to double-cross me.


    `But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
     `Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: `we're all mad here. I'm mad.  You're mad.'
     `How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.
     `You must be,' said the Cat, `or you wouldn't have come here.'
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #5 - June 24, 2014, 02:43 PM

    My CIA handlers cheated me out of $5million... then set a trap to murder me: He was the spy who'd risked everything to bring down top terrorists. His reward? to become a target himself

    Quote
    Being a double agent and living a constant lie was never easy. On the outside I was Murad Storm, Muslim convert and zealot, a man who had pledged to wage holy war against all kuffars [infidels] in the name of Allah.


    Beneath the mask was the real me — Morten Storm, who had turned against the faith he once so stridently professed and was now an undercover agent for western intelligence agencies, spying on my Islamic contacts in Britain and around the world to prevent terrorist outrages.

    I struggled with these twin roles. The loneliness, the deceit and the mistrust gnawed at me.



    I could tell my wife, Fadia, nothing and had to deceive her constantly. She was left believing I was still the fanatical jihadist I had been when we met and married. It was a necessary deceit — to protect us both.


    If she knew about my real work and let it slip, her life could be in danger, as could her family back in Yemen.


    The same went for my children, Osama and Sarah. I longed to tell them that my Islamic robes, my beard, my prayers were all a sham, and I was secretly working for the good guys against terrorists. But I never could. Such knowledge would only have put them in danger.

    I created a fiction to explain my frequent absences — that I was helping to build a retreat in the Kenyan bush for pious young Muslim men to attend.


    The truth was that I was risking my life infiltrating extremist Islamic groups in Britain, Somalia and elsewhere in order to neutralise them.

    I remember one evening sitting down with Fadia to watch a George Clooney spy thriller set in the Middle East. I was soon absorbed in the film, recognising the tradecraft of espionage it tried to recreate, especially the mistrust among some its characters.

    I was desperate to point to the screen and tell her: ‘That’s how I feel.’ But I knew it was impossible. The pressure was such that I even resorted to self-medicating with cocaine, snorting it joylessly on my own.

    In Yemen, I had met an honourable tribal leader named Abdullah Mehdar, who passionately wanted his country to become an Islamic state with Sharia law, but had no interest in attacking the West.

    Later he got caught up in a special forces raid against a truly dangerous terrorist, for which I provided the intelligence, and was shot dead. I was upset.


    He was no global jihadist with dreams of bringing carnage to the streets of Europe or the skies of America, like some of those I was happy to see taken out of the game.



    This was a man I’d liked and had broken bread with, and I was responsible for his death. I was plunged into a dark mood, paralysed with guilt, and couldn’t even run basic errands such as going to the supermarket.

    But this was the business I had got myself into, and I just had to get on with it.

    And it was a business in which increasingly I learned never to totally trust my handlers.


    One morning I got into my car, a venerable old Jaguar, and noticed that the panels above the glove compartment had come loose. Had a bug been hidden there by my MI5 ‘friends’ to keep tabs on me?

    At a rundown hotel in Birmingham, I had a meeting with the MI5 station chief, who assured me: ‘Morten, we trust you. On my son’s life, we wouldn’t do something like that.’


    I doubted he even had a son, and from that point on I presumed my car, my phone and my home were bugged.

    I had to face the fact that loyalty was not exactly overflowing in the secret intelligence world, where no one got results by fair play. I might be discarded or betrayed at any moment as priorities shifted and demands intensified.


    For my handlers, the first, ruthless rule was that ends always justify means.


    And even if they weren’t playing, there was always the chance that one of them would get careless, or I would slip up — and be unmasked by the groups I had infiltrated. And then my fate didn’t even bear thinking about.

    In the end it was ‘Big Brother’ — the CIA — who did the dirty on me. Their number one target had been an out-of-control American-Yemeni terrorist cleric named Anwar al-Awlaki.


    He and I had been close friends, and in many ways I’d admired him — until he simply became too dangerous. In the end, as I explained yesterday, I was instrumental in tracking him down. He was killed in the desert by a missile strike.

    But then the Americans denied my part in finding him, claiming that another source had been the crucial one. I didn’t believe them. A senior Western intelligence official had briefed the media that a messenger boy had led them to Awlaki.


    But their description of the boy was almost identical to the young courier Awlaki had sent a few weeks previously to pick up items I had brought to Yemen. The timing of the arrest described by the official was the same as when this pick-up took place.



    Yet they refused to give me the credit or the $5 million they had promised me for this operation. As one of my British intelligence contacts had warned me might happen, I had been ‘f***ed over’.

    I was furious. I was being cheated by the people for whom I’d been risking my life on the front line of the war against terror for five years — and now my part was being disowned.

    In an angry meeting with them they tried to soft-soap me with flattery. President Obama knew all about me, I was told, ‘so the right people know your contributions, putting your b***s on the line, day in day out. And we are thankful.

    ‘But it’s like being at the World Cup, you’re moving down the field and you’re in the position to score, the other guy could have passed it to you but he didn’t, he took the shot, he scores. And that’s what happened.’

    However let down I felt, I had no real choice but to accept this. But something had changed in me and the weeks after Awlaki’s death were a dark time. I felt guilty about his killing. In my sleep he would come to me, reprimanding me for what I had done.

    I brooded incessantly over the behaviour of the Americans, who were now writing me off as damaged goods and a loose cannon. But I was desperate to prove them wrong. I wanted them to take notice of me again, to show them I was still in the game.

    So I went back to work with PET, the Danish intelligence service, who had been my first employer in the espionage business.

    There was now a new Al Qaeda danger man in Yemen to target by the name of Nasir al-Wuhayshi and I went back into the field to try to make contact with him.

    I still had all my contacts among the militants here in Europe, and was introduced to yet more young warriors full of enthusiasm to be martyrs. They were ticking time bombs every one of them — but they were also my route into his circle.

    I posed as someone wanting to avenge Awlaki’s death. ‘His death must be revenged with the kuffar’s bloodshed,’ I wrote to Wuhayshi. ‘He requested me to find brothers in Europe to come to Yemen for training with the intention of returning to their countries to become martyrs.’

    I was always apprehensive before going on missions, but more so this time. I was now effectively a freelance, without the backing of the big boys. That meant a further layer of danger — no one watching my back.  I was also at extra risk of doing something stupid in my desperation to prove the CIA wrong about me.

    Nonetheless, I flew into Yemen and eventually made contact with Wuhayshi’s people. I made the trip into bandit territory, the remote town of Jaar where the black banners of Al Qaeda fluttered everywhere and mujahideen fighters milled around the streets.

    It was here that I had to swear an oath of allegiance to Al Qaeda (as I described in the first part of this series). To say no would have raised suspicion.



    I hardly slept that night — death might be around any corner. I even feared I might talk in my sleep and reveal myself to my ‘brothers’.

    In the morning, there was a new horror. I realised that I had left my backpack in the car that had brought me here. Inside was a USB stick with incriminating evidence on it. I’d forgotten about it.


    Game over, I thought. I pictured my wife and children back in Europe and wondered how they would take the news of my death. They might never even get to know which side I was really on and what I had done.

    But then the bag was returned to me with a cheery: ‘You left this in the car.’ When I was alone, I looked inside, and there was the USB stick. I could have screamed with relief. But was this a sign? Was it time to get out before it was too late?


    I finally met Wuhayshi, and he was anxious for me to continue my work bringing him recruits from Europe. So, too, were my Danish handlers when I got back home.

    Wuhayshi had requested supplies, which could easily be fitted with hidden trackers and transmitters. I said I was willing to return to Yemen with them. Suddenly the CIA were back on the scene, with a hit list and promises of cash again.

    There would be a million dollars if I could lead them to Wuhayshi, and similar rewards for other terrorists (including one who was working with the most wanted woman in the world — Samantha Lewthwaite, mother of four and the widow of a 7/7 London bomber, who was on the run in East Africa).

    But I was understandably suspicious. ‘What guarantee do I have they won’t screw me over again?’ I asked. ‘You don’t,’ I was told. Nor could I get any guarantees that my family would be looked after if I was killed.

    I considered my options. I was back on first-name terms with one of Al Qaeda’s most important men, with every chance of getting to plant an electronic tag on him. But still I was getting little support from my handlers. And the situation in Yemen was getting more treacherous by the day.

    I did go back — to what I soon realised was now a double danger. Not only might Al Qaeda catch me out, but I also got a whispered warning that there was an unpleasant edge to the CIA’s insistence that I had to see Wuhayshi personally in his hideout to deliver the supplies he’d asked for.

    The suggestion I heard from a source was that they planned to take him out while I was with him.

    ‘They’ll kill you, too, and tell the world you were a terrorist like the others,’ I was told. It seems I had become expendable and could well be heading into a trap.

    So there and then I called it a day. ‘I’m not going,’ I told my handlers — and in that moment in May 2012 the curtain dropped on my life as a double agent.

    It was an anti-climactic way to end more than five years on the espionage frontline. Yet it was the Americans who would suffer most. Through me, they had had the opportunity to remove Wuhayshi and other key Al Qaeda personnel in the War on Terror.

    At a level of risk bordering on the insane, I had tracked him down but Western intelligence had dropped the ball. They would come to regret this. Wuhayshi went on to mastermind many terrorist atrocities, was promoted to Al Qaeda’s second in command worldwide, and is still at large.

    As for my future, at first I hoped to become a backroom boy, one of the analysts trying to divine the intentions of terrorists from behind a desk. But that never happened.



    There were more broken promises. My request of Danish permanent residence for my wife, Fadia, mysteriously became more complicated. I was offered just six months’ severance pay for all the risk I had been through and all the success I’d had.

    I decided it was time to go public with my story. After receiving the whispered warning that the CIA had the intention to kill me while I was with the terrorists, I had become fearful for my life and it was the best insurance policy I could think of.

    Before this happened, I told Fadia everything. The strain of my lifestyle had long affected our marriage, and it wasn’t going to get any better. I warned her that once my story was out, plenty of people would want me dead. Our world would shrink; we would always be on our guard.

    She was traumatised. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Could you not trust me? Five years of endless lies. And have you any idea how lonely I was? You were hardly ever there, and when you were, your mind was always somewhere else.’

    I tried to explain that I wanted to protect her, that it was better she knew nothing. ‘But I’m your wife,’ she said, looking at me through eyes swollen with tears.


    Meanwhile, the threat I had tried to counter goes on as Al Qaeda’s black banners continue to flutter defiantly all over the world.

    For Britain, my retirement also meant that Western intelligence lost a resource in one of its most arduous challenges — detecting small-scale ‘lone-wolf’ attacks such as the butchering of British soldier Lee Rigby in Woolwich last year.

    As for me, ever since ‘coming out’, I know that although I am in hiding, I always need to be looking over my shoulder. But, then, in this world beset by terrorism, so do we all.


    `But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
     `Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: `we're all mad here. I'm mad.  You're mad.'
     `How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.
     `You must be,' said the Cat, `or you wouldn't have come here.'
  • Agent Storm: My Life Inside al-Qaeda
     Reply #6 - July 07, 2014, 01:50 PM

    http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/jul/02/agent-storm-al-qaeda-morten-storm-review

    Agent Storm: My Life Inside al-Qaeda by Morten Storm – review

    Jason Burke on a revelatory account by a biker turned Islamist militant turned spy

    Morten Storm is a former biker turned European militant Islamist blowhard, turned al-Qaida associate close to some of the most senior operational extremists in the world, turned spy, turned whistleblower. This is, it's not unfair to say, an unusual combination.

    Agent Storm: My Life Inside al-Qaeda
    by Morten Storm, Paul Cruickshank, Tim Lister

    Storm grew up in a tough, working-class coastal Danish town. His alcoholic father left home, his stepfather beat him and he committed his first armed robbery at 13. There followed multiple expulsions, special schools and a promising career as a boxer curtailed by indiscipline. By his mid teens, he was involved in a local street gang mainly composed of local Palestinian, Turks and Iranian immigrants. "I gravitated to [them]. I felt like an outsider in Korsor and I always identified with the underdog," he says early in this fascinating account of a decade or so spent inside both militant Sunni Muslim activism and security services' counterterrorism.

    Leaving the neighbourhood street toughs, Storm graduated to the Bandidos, a biker gang, and enjoyed much violence, casual sex and drugs. At the age of 21, in 1997, however, he found a biography of the prophet Muhammad in a local library. The "dignity and simplicity" of Muhammad's life appealed to Storm, as did "his story of battling the odds, fighting for a cause"; the cause also brought with it "a sense of solidarity and loyalty".

    The gangster declared himself a Muslim and enjoyed the comradeship of other Muslims he knew from the neighbourhood. None of them took the strictures of faith very seriously or knew many of its teachings. They celebrated his conversion by going on a drinking binge.

    But another bout of jail – and exposure to much more rigorous and radicalised Muslims behind bars – hardened Storm's Islamic faith and changed his perception of the world beyond Demark. When he fled to London to avoid angry members of his former gang, he ended up in Regent's Park mosque; then he was offered a Saudi-funded scholarship to study Arabic and his new faith at an ultra-conservative religious school in Yemen. He accepted and this first journey to the Middle East marked the real start of his extraordinary journey through 15 years of extremism in Britain, Denmark and the Yemen. Accounts of "My Time in al-Qaida" are numerous enough for them to constitute a sub-genre, but there are no others in which the main protagonist has also played such an extensive role for western security services, and, more crucially, is prepared to reveal so much.

    Tim Lister and Paul Cruickshank, the two CNN journalists who have written the book with Storm, have done a fine job of giving context to his extraordinary story and appear to have tested much of his account. The result is a credible narrative that illuminates both violent Islamic extremism and the intelligence community's efforts to fight it. Neither the Islamists nor the spooks come out of it particularly well.

    After learning Arabic and soaking up the teachings of some of the most conservative contemporary Islamic thinkers, Storm left Yemen for the UK. This was the end of the 1990s and London was home to many exiled radicals calling for violence overseas. The Danish convert quickly found new friends, some of whom went on to commit terrorist acts, and he spent time with Omar Bakri Mohammed Fostok, the leader of the Al-Muhajiroun group. British activism existed on the very margins – cultural, political, social – of mainstream society. Staying in grubby flats in run-down council estates, living off welfare and petty (or occasionally more serious) crime, Storm and his associates inhabited a world of overstayed visas, violent online videos, idolised preachers, frustration and alienation.

    Throughout the book, militant activism is revealed to be amateurish but nonetheless a threat. While the Islamic societies and the links between the brothers created a surrogate family or "fictive kin", and were a form of cultish "closed society", they were also connected to a global network of contacts who shared an ideology and a purpose. Storm's own credentials as a militant were reaffirmed continually by his apparent closeness to well-known activists and ideologues.

    The most prominent of these, and a central character in his account, is Anwar al-Awlaki, a charismatic US-born radical cleric of Yemeni origins who would eventually be regarded as second only to Osama bin Laden in posing the greatest threat to western security. Al-Awlaki, the son of a senior figure in a major local tribe, invited Storm to dinner when the young Danish convert was back in Yemen in early 2006, and impressed him greatly.

    Even so, Storm was beginning to doubt the message. He was troubled by what he saw as an incoherence within Islam on the question of free will and predestination. According to Agent Storm, however, his biggest problem was presented by the indiscriminate violence of the movement. He "began to reconsider some of the justifications for the killing and maiming of civilians", he writes. "Now I thought of the twin towers, Bali, Madrid in 2004, London in 2005 … If they were part of Allah's preordained plan, I now wanted no part of it. My loss of faith was as frightening as it was sudden."

    Storm was not alone, and Lister and Cruickshank miss an opportunity to point out that tens of millions of people across the Islamic world, including very many who had been broadly sympathetic to the aims of the extremists in the period following the US and British invasion of Iraq, were having the same doubts. From Morocco to Malaysia, levels of support that were high in 2004 or 2005 had declined by 2007.

    Both MI5 and PET, the Danish intelligence service, had previously attempted to recruit Storm, with no success. Having repudiated his former "brothers", he dug out a card with a number on it and called. From here on, the narrative gathers pace, becoming a spy thriller written in spy-thriller prose. Detailed accounts by participants of how western intelligence agencies attempted to kill major al-Qaida figures are rare, and Storm's descriptions of meetings, training sessions and discussions are revelatory. He recounts a series of episodes working as an informant for MI5 (back to the dingy flats and the mosques), for PET in Denmark and, eventually, for the CIA.

    Storm's portrayal of the spooks is unflattering. From the philandering, flashy, hard-drinking PET, to the stand‑offish, rule-obsessed Brits, to the arrogant, wealthy CIA, no one comes out well. The degree to which the agencies conform to national stereotype is jarring, but his account of the lavish post-mission "debriefing" sessions with Danish handlers in luxury hotels in Bangkok and Lisbon is nonetheless more than plausible. Indeed, much has subsequently been confirmed by internal official inquiries in Denmark. Storm, astonishingly, taped meetings with the CIA by leaving his iPhone recording and this material, too, corroborates his story.

    His relationship with all the agencies eventually fell apart after the CIA set out to kill Al-Awlaqi. The cleric's vehicle was destroyed by a missile fired from an unmanned drone in September 2011. Storm claims that a flash drive he delivered to Al-Awlaqi led the Americans to their target. The CIA denied this and Storm lost out on a promised $5m reward. He had fallen out with MI5 and MI6 long before, in part because they suspected he had become involved in an assassination attempt, something prohibited by UK law. His relationship with the PET ended in acrimony too, as he went public with his story.

    Storm repeatedly insists that he was led into radical Islamic violence by a "quest to fight for the underdog". Equally important, perhaps, was his desire to be one of the team, to be liked, even to be admired by the gangsters, the aspirant militants in the UK, the hardened networks in the Arab Peninsula and the security services. Terrorism is less a matter of faceless organisations than a social activity – one which, in nature if not purpose or justification, is much like any other.

    • To order Agent Storm for £13.59 with free UK p&p call Guardian book service on 0330 333 6846 or go to guardianbookshop.co.uk.
  • Agent Storm: My Life Inside al-Qaeda
     Reply #7 - July 07, 2014, 01:57 PM

    Mods, do you want to merge this with my thread?

    http://www.councilofexmuslims.com/index.php?topic=26632.msg759230#msg759230

    `But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
     `Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: `we're all mad here. I'm mad.  You're mad.'
     `How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.
     `You must be,' said the Cat, `or you wouldn't have come here.'
  • Agent Storm: My Life Inside al-Qaeda
     Reply #8 - July 07, 2014, 01:59 PM

    .
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #9 - July 07, 2014, 02:18 PM

    I'm currently reading it. What is deeply depressing is just how central Britain has been to extremist / jihadi Islam over the last 20 years or so. Its been something of a hub for this. Its actually frightening.

    "we can smell traitors and country haters"


    God is Love.
    Love is Blind. Stevie Wonder is blind. Therefore, Stevie Wonder is God.

  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #10 - July 07, 2014, 02:21 PM

    there's a bit about when he came to London and he used to argue with Cat Stevens / Yusuf Islam on a couple of occasions over Islam. He was a takfiri Salafi who disliked how Yusuf / Cat had become a sufi.


    "we can smell traitors and country haters"


    God is Love.
    Love is Blind. Stevie Wonder is blind. Therefore, Stevie Wonder is God.

  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #11 - July 07, 2014, 04:32 PM

    Fascinating stuff.

    "Blessed are they who can laugh at themselves, for they shall never cease to be amused."
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #12 - July 07, 2014, 06:58 PM

    Thanks for sharing, very interesting. I can't imagine living such a life...
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #13 - July 07, 2014, 11:26 PM

    Right, so I've just found part two and three. Gave part three a read, I have to say I felt like what I was reading wasn't the truth. I suppose it could just have been edited to come across as more sensational, but I just got a feeling of fantasy.

    No one else get this?

    `But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
     `Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: `we're all mad here. I'm mad.  You're mad.'
     `How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.
     `You must be,' said the Cat, `or you wouldn't have come here.'
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #14 - July 07, 2014, 11:34 PM

    I'm currently reading it. What is deeply depressing is just how central Britain has been to extremist / jihadi Islam over the last 20 years or so. Its been something of a hub for this. Its actually frightening.

    Heavy presence of salafism(and similar groups)+english being lingua franca
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #15 - July 08, 2014, 12:05 AM

    No one else get this?


    no but saw him on a tv interview and felt the same way, somethings not right dunno what it is yet, havent read the articles ..  i'm not much help lol

  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #16 - July 08, 2014, 12:11 AM

    maybe he has to cover up lots of sensitive information between stories and fill gaps with bits of fiction..   just a random guess, cant wait to read it later
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #17 - July 08, 2014, 12:59 AM

    Related: On the frontline in Syria: the Danish gangster who turned jihadi

    `But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
     `Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: `we're all mad here. I'm mad.  You're mad.'
     `How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.
     `You must be,' said the Cat, `or you wouldn't have come here.'
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #18 - July 08, 2014, 07:25 AM

    Hmm..... Mr. Storm...

    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yaY_MBTCd_c


    Now I wonder about guys like this one..

    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sJnC27Ae75U

    which agent could he be??

    Do not let silence become your legacy.. Question everything   
    I renounced my faith to become a kafir, 
    the beloved betrayed me and turned in to  a Muslim
     
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #19 - July 08, 2014, 08:36 AM

    Agent for green Muslims grin12?
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #20 - July 08, 2014, 09:10 AM

    ^oh that guy, his real name is 'i'm a tw*t'   lol
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #21 - July 08, 2014, 09:15 AM

    Started a thread with links to a documentary following a Danish-Moroccan man (a well known gangster) as he leaves the country to fight in Syria.

    http://www.councilofexmuslims.com/index.php?topic=26755.msg763934;topicseen#new

    `But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
     `Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: `we're all mad here. I'm mad.  You're mad.'
     `How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.
     `You must be,' said the Cat, `or you wouldn't have come here.'
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #22 - November 20, 2014, 07:54 PM

    Morten Storm gives fiery testimony in terror case

    Quote
    In court, Storm testified about his online interactions with Mansour, known in Denmark as ‘The Bookseller from Brønshøj’. Storm said that Mansour sent him private messages on Facebook after Storm changed his profile picture to the controversial Kurt Westergaard drawing of Muhammad wearing a bomb as a turban. After Storm responded that Muhammad was “a paedophile and a jerk”, he says that he and Mansour traded online insults that culminated in Mansour posting a photo of Storm with the text ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’.
     
    As Storm recounted the exchange, the court proceedings were disrupted several times by angry Mansour supporters.
     
    According to Politiken, when Storm began explaining that the prophet Muhammad married a 6-year-old girl when he was 56 and had sex with her when she was nine, Muslims in the room yelled derogatory comments at Storm. Politiken said that among Mansour’s supporters were three women covered in head-to-toe niqabs and seven men with long Salafist beards.
     
    Part of the correspondence between Storm and Mansour included the latter writing that Storm “will be tortured and go to hell”.
     
    “The masters you serve will not be able to save you,” Mansour wrote before adding that “the Muslims are ready to kill you”.


    Behead those who reject sahih ahadtith finmad

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  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #23 - November 20, 2014, 09:21 PM

    Quote
    In a Frederiksberg courtroom on Monday, Storm managed to further enrage Muslims by insulting the prophet Muhammad.


    I shouldn't laugh, but that is kind of funny.

    This guy is nuts.

    "we can smell traitors and country haters"


    God is Love.
    Love is Blind. Stevie Wonder is blind. Therefore, Stevie Wonder is God.

  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #24 - November 20, 2014, 09:58 PM

    I shouldn't laugh, but that is kind of funny.

    This guy is nuts.



    He ain't lying exactly though is he?

    If the truth hurts, re-evaluate your position don't get defensive and accuse people of the non-crime of "offence". 
  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #25 - November 24, 2014, 08:18 PM

    It will be interesting to read the court's conclusion.

    Morten Storm can be very provocative and sometimes a jerk himself.

    He has signed a movie contract Roll Eyes And got a gig at educating US police.

    He has the usual uncanny right-wing bedfellows although to me it seems like he has toned that down a bit.

    Of course he gets some love from his former co-religionists too:

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  • Undercover jihadi
     Reply #26 - December 02, 2014, 12:06 PM

    In Sharia, even with the extreme salafi interpretation, if a prisoner of war converts, its forbidden to harm them. This should have been said by the psychologist who obviously is an idiot. In such a case, Storm should've asked the prisoner to utter words that would save their lives. Then Storm could tell AQ that its forbidden to harm the prisoner based on Sharia,and he would've had a solid argument to make. The only group that has broken with this is IS,which is one of the disagreements they've had with other fanatical groups which includes AQ.
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