We agreed to regroup via Skype within the next few hours. I typed up my notes and took a quick shower. I realized that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so I called the night porter at the little bed and breakfast where I was staying and asked if he had anything warm to eat.
“I am afraid all I could offer you is a cheese sandwich and a banana,” he said. I told him that would be okay, and I ordered a pot of chamomile tea as well.
I played some music on my cell phone to calm myself down. I was especially worried about the British authorities leaking our story to British news organizations. The night porter arrived with the sandwich, banana, and chamomile tea on a wooden tray.
“I’m sorry we don’t have any warm food to offer you, but I found some crisps and shortbread,” he said, setting the tray down on the table.
There go my good intentions for better nutrition, I told myself. I was in the midst of tipping the porter when I received a Skype call from Peter.
“There is an update. Adam told his source what we found out, and after some back and forth he said we wouldn’t be wrong if we wrote that it was Emwazi.” I had pushed my earbuds deep into my ears so as not to miss any of what he said.
Even though I already had two sources, having someone from the U.S. or British government confirm or at least not disavow our findings was very important.
“Adam’s source was quite shocked when he heard what we had found out,” Peter continued. “At first he didn’t want to say anything, but when we told him we had two sources, he at least didn’t deny it.”
Hearing this, I was in shock myself. “We’ll now reach out officially to U.S. authorities and also the United Kingdom, so you may want to tell CAGE as well,” Peter said.
I told him I would and that I would also try to make contact with Emwazi’s family.
He agreed. “Now, get something to eat and get some sleep. We have some intense days ahead.”
After we hung up, I sent a message to the CAGE people asking if we could meet. I told them it was very important and that soon there could be something breaking in the media. I wanted them to read the message first thing in the morning and get back to me right away. I drank the cup of chamomile tea and fell into a deep sleep, leaving the cheese sandwich and the rest of the food on the tray untouched.
The next morning, Asim Qureshi called and said he could pass by my hotel, as he had something to do in the neighborhood. When he arrived, I told him what we had learned: that the Mohammed Emwazi who had reached out to him some years ago was Jihadi John. He seemed astonished. I told him that now we were also reaching out to British authorities and that he should be prepared for a big reaction.
I showed him a video of Jihadi John and made him listen to the jihadist’s words. “What do you think has happened to him?” I asked Qureshi.
He said he couldn’t answer that question. “This is a young man who was ready to exhaust every single kind of avenue within the machinery of the state to bring a change for his personal situation,” Qureshi said. Ultimately, Emwazi felt “actions were taken to criminalize him, and he had no way to do something against these actions.”
I’d found an address for Emwazi’s family on the Internet. “I think they should know that this might break soon,” I told Qureshi. “I’d like to give them a chance to react beforehand.”
He said he understood but that he couldn’t help me get in touch with them. Emwazi’s friend confirmed the address I had, but he too said he wouldn’t be able to help me connect with them.
After Qureshi left, I went back to my computer and saw an update from Adam: “The Brits are upset. They are scheduled to have a conversation with our bosses.” He meant the Post’s executive editor, Marty Baron; the national editors; and Peter. “We didn’t tell them that you are the reporter on the ground, but be aware there might be more eyes on you soon.”
He added that they wanted to pull the story together as quickly as possible and that I should write my part and send it to him. I sat in the room for hours, noting down everything I had and wondering what the conversation with the editors would lead to.
I then left the hotel, taking all my notes and my computer with me. I walked to the main road, watching my surroundings and trying to figure out if anyone was following me. I stopped a taxi and gave the driver the address of Emwazi’s family.
The Emwazi family lived in a largely well-to-do West London neighborhood called Ladbroke Grove, in a semidetached house on a diverse block, nothing like the banlieues I’d explored outside Paris. There was no light on in the house, and, when I knocked, no answer. It was early afternoon. A neighbor who looked Southeast Asian came out to collect a package from a delivery service. I asked if she knew the Emwazis.
She said not much, that everyone here kept to themselves. But she mentioned that she hadn’t seen them in some days.
I thanked her and spent a few minutes in front of the house. How much pain had Mohammed Emwazi brought to various families, including his own? His friend had told me that the family had done everything to give Mohammed an excellent education. His sisters had gone to school, too, and at least one had been to university. He had grown up very differently from the Kouachi brothers or Hayat Boumeddiene. But I had no idea what might have gone on in his family as long as I couldn’t speak to them.
My phone rang. It was Peter. “Any luck with the family?”
I told him there was no one at the house. He asked me to let him know when I could Skype, as there was some news.
Back at the hotel, he filled me in. “There was a conversation with the British authorities. They still didn’t want to give any comment, but they asked us not to publish the story.”
“Why?” I asked.
“They said this could endanger the life of John Cantlie, the hostage. What do you say? Could this endanger his life? The editors would like to hear your opinion.”
This was something I hadn’t expected. I was still upset that we hadn’t succeeded in the Kassig case, and now this.
“Please give me a few hours,” I told Peter. “I can’t give you a clear answer now.”
There was one person I did want to ask: Emwazi’s friend. I was able to arrange another meeting with him and my old source at the coffee shop with the Indian and Arabic music outside London.
“You look even worse than the last time,” my source said when I arrived. Emwazi’s friend was already sitting there and drinking a juice cocktail.
“Well, it’s not like I’m on honeymoon.”
“I pray for the day you will call me from your honeymoon,” he answered and opened his hands as if he were praying.
We all started laughing. I told him that I hadn’t laughed in days. I had indeed been very exhausted, and my stomach ached from the tension.
I asked both of them if they thought Cantlie’s life might be in danger if we published the story. The two men looked at each other.
“No, I don’t think so,” Emwazi’s friend said.