Intercept by Patrick Robinson

death of literally dozens of al-Qaeda warriors trying to make their way back into the Hindu Kush and the Swat Valley, for the onward progression of the jihad.
    Right now there were two camps a few miles south of Kalam, right on the river, which were essentially closed for training owing to this shortage of instructors. The five men talked endlessly about the Valley, and the need for a Big Plan, a major strike against the West. And they talked of the crushing defeats in Baghdad, the disappointments of the Ayatollahs in Iran, and the overwhelming desire they had for another Great Victory.
    And, as ever, they talked of the possible return of young leaders still incarcerated in Guantanamo. In particular, Captain Amin had begged Allah, at mid-morning prayers, for the safe return one day of his beloved nephew, Ibrahim Sharif, the only son of his own sister Anandi:
    Almighty God, to whom all things are possible, we beg of you to rescue your faithful servant Ibrahim—for he will rise up and hold his sword against your enemies, and he will not falter, nor will he lose heart, nor fall into despair, until you, who have power over all things, gather him home unto your kingdom.
    The clock high on the ramparts of the Cunningham Tower stood at two minutes after 1 p.m., and all five men had heard its single resonant chime, the same metalic clang which had tolled out the hour after midday and midnight since the year 1900 when the tower was completed to mark the Diamond Jubilee of the reign of Victoria, Queen of Great Britain, Empress of India, and ruler of the Domains Beyond the Seas, including Peshawar.
    The great bell’s haughty echo of the old empire had scarcely died away on the warm mountain wind when sound came from the side door of the courtyard that led out into the alleyway—three sharp taps and then a pause, then two more and another pause, then a single crack on the heavy wooden gate. The entrance code was accurate. Whoever wanted entry was an insider.
    Kaiser Rashid was on his feet in an instant, drawing his curved combat knife as he walked toward the gate. He peered through a small glass peep-hole, smiled, re-sheathed his knife, and drew back the two black cast-iron bolts that barred the door. Outside stood an elderly Pathan tribesman, with a hard, nut-brown, wrinkled face, holding the reins of his camel.
    He and Kaiser exchanged the traditional Muslim greeting, bowing their heads and touching their foreheads, before bringing down their hands in an arc, the gesture of respect:
    “ Salam alaikum (peace be with you), Kaiser.”
“ Wa alaikum as salaam (and also unto you), Ali.”
    He handed Kaiser a brown sealed envelope, and added, “From Islamabad, e-mail from the USA. I left last night.”
    “Will you stay for dinner? You must be tired. I’ll have someone take care of the camel.”
    “I cannot today. I have to keep going, up to the Valley. This is important news.”
    Kaiser said he understood, and wished him well before closing and bolting the gate.
    Shakir Khan opened the envelope and stared at the message. “Allah has heard our cries,” he said softly. “And now He has answered our prayers. The Americans have given in to world pressure and allowed our poor brave jihadists at last to be taken from the Guantanamo Hell, to stand before a civilian court of justice and demand either a fair trial or liberty, the rights of every man.”

    Captain Amin stood up and raised his eyes to the sky. He clasped his hands together and called to the azure blue heavens above the northwest frontier, “Allah is great. Ibrahim and his friends will come home. God has heard our plea. Almighty God, you have saved them from the oppressor!”
    Shakir Khan held in his hand a printout of the Supreme Court verdict. Carefully he read out the words of Justice Kennedy, the ones that rendered jihadist terrorists regular rights like any other U.S. citizen . . . the words that had appalled the president himself. Not to mention all of his key