I’m not really a jogger. This was a code: whenever my source set a time for an appointment, I would double the number; if he said “p.m.,” that really meant “a.m.,” and vice versa. At 8 a.m., according to the text, I should leave my apartment, turn on my old Nokia, put in the SIM card she’d given me, and wait for my source to call.
A short while before the appointed time, wearing sneakers, a black pullover, and a warm jacket, I walked to a park near my apartment. The winter sky was blue and the air was chilly. I’d left my smartphones at home and carried only the old Nokia in my jacket pocket. Although we’d arranged the call, there was no guarantee it would happen. I strolled through the park, feeling antsy. I’d likely have just a few minutes on the phone with him; it was a onetime shot. He might tell me what I wanted to know or he might say nothing. He might tell me never to call him again.
The phone rang. I fumbled to answer it.
“As’salam alaikum. How are you?” he asked in Arabic.
“I’m okay. And you?”
“All well. But what is urgent? What disaster are you working on this time?” He was laughing.
I started laughing too, relieved that he was in a joking mood. “Tell me about Mohammed from Kuwait, the man in black.”
Silence.
“Are you there?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m here.” His tone was serious. “Who told you?”
“Told me what?”
“That he is Kuwaiti and that his name is Mohammed?”
“I can’t tell you,” I said. “You know I can’t.”
There was another silence.
“Interesting,” he said after a while. “So I assume the British dogs are spreading these rumors to get their lies out and hide the truth about him?”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “What lies? What truth?”
Silence again.
I decided to take a risk. “Do you mean the Somalia story?”
“So they told you about the Somalia story?” he asked. “Dogs! I knew it. They’re trying to create their own narrative.”
Walking through the park with my headphones on, I opened my small black notepad and wrote “Somalia.”
“So tell me the true story then,” I said.
“He had suffered a lot. The British intelligence was after him and closed many doors to him. It’s too long a story to tell over the phone now.”
“I need to know the truth. How else can I write it?”
His tone grew serious again. “Listen, you know I admire your guts and honesty, but be careful. You’ve upset some people in Turkey.” He meant the intelligence services and government officials. “The man you are touching now, if you don’t write the narrative the Brits dictate, that will piss them off as well. No more shopping at Harrods.” He started laughing again.
I told him I didn’t have much time for Harrods anyway and that he shouldn’t worry.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I want the truth. But I need his full name to get the right information about what you said happened to him.” Another silence. “Listen, the story will come out soon, anyway. So help me get it right.”
“You’re crazy, but okay. I need to get back to you. Keep walking for a few more minutes.”
The line went dead. I walked around the park, pulling my jacket tight against the wind. I felt this was my best shot at getting Jihadi John’s name. Just then, my phone buzzed, and a text message appeared on the screen in English: “Go to London, Emwazi had tried to solve his problems with help of a group, ask CAGE. Delete this message and throw away this SIM now. Wa’alaikum as’ salam.” I could barely believe it. For the first time, I had a possible last name for Jihadi John, the masked man, casually dropped in a text.
I looked around to see if anyone was watching, then noted down the information, took the SIM card out, and threw it away. Back home, I called Peter and Adam and said I might have something but needed to get back to the United Kingdom. I also shared the new information with both of them, using an encrypted messaging program. My next call was to CAGE, a British advocacy group that campaigns against rendition, unlawful detention, and other government abuses in the name of fighting terrorism. I had been in contact with the group before, while working on other stories. I said I wanted to talk to them about a case they’d worked on.
“What case are you talking about?” the CAGE staffer asked.
“Is there a case of a man called Mohammed Emwazi?” I asked. “It might be related to Somalia.”
The man said he would check the files. He called me back soon after. Yes, he said, they had worked on a case involving a man of that name a couple of years ago. He invited me to come to London to discuss it with Asim Qureshi, the research director of CAGE. I booked a flight.
I had spoken to Qureshi before. He’s a lawyer who has worked on cases involving detainees in Guantánamo and secret prisons around the world. British-born but of Pakistani descent, he speaks with a fine English accent, drinks his black tea with milk, and enjoys scones with clotted cream. Yet he’d told me that some people doubted he was truly British because of the nature of his work.
Founded in 2003 as Cageprisoners.com, CAGE has built a track record as an advocacy group for Muslim prisoners. It was among the groups pointing out alleged torture in Guantánamo, and in the past decade and a half many who didn’t trust other organizations have come to CAGE with stories of mistreatment and injustice. That’s partly because CAGE doesn’t shy away from speaking to young men like Emwazi, who have been in trouble with police in terror-related cases.
In fact, CAGE itself has had problems with the British authorities. Since March 2014, the group has been operating without a bank account and, according to its website, is “under constant pressure and scrutiny from politicians and various government agencies. Despite these difficulties, alhamdulillah we have been able to work on major cases of significance in the War on Terror and continue to advocate for due process and the rule of law.”
Qureshi and I met at a coffee shop close to CAGE’s office. He explained that the group had been in touch in the past with somebody called Mohammed Emwazi, who had been in trouble with British authorities. “But this case was many years ago. Why are you interested in it now?” he asked.
I didn’t want to tell him about my suspicions, given that so far I had only one source. But I needed to collect as much information as possible, and I wanted to be as truthful as I could. “I’m looking into a case that’s related to Syria, and his name came up,” I said. This was true. I asked if CAGE had any contacts for his family.
He shook his head. “We haven’t been in touch with this man in years.” Qureshi added that he’d had to go back through the archives to refresh his memory of Emwazi’s case.
“Why don’t you start from the beginning,” I said.