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Madrid: Atocha Train Station, 11 March 2004

He could not be described as an attractive man.

Short and stocky, excessive facial hair and squint-eyed, he appeared unintelligent—almost a little comical. Yet, over the past decade, he had ordered the murder of countless infidels. Violent explosions had torn his victims apart: their remains simultaneously shredded into projectiles of raw meat gruesomely plastered on concrete walls, bits of human flesh driven into crevices, and blood splattered onto the bewildered faces of the few nearby who somehow had survived.

From the relative safety of his hiding place in Peshawar, eight thousand kilometres from Madrid, his orders to proceed with the attack would trigger explosions killing nearly two hundred civilians and injuring thousands. Now, it was just minutes away, carried out in the name of the jihadist struggle—the Holy War.

Justification was far from the mind of Rashid al-Muhasib. Long ago, he’d abandoned any question of why. In the far reaches of his meticulous mind, he recalled that many years earlier, at his home in Jeddah, his mentor Osama bin Laden had paused during their evening meal and devoted the next hour to an impassioned articulation of mujahideen history.

To the ears of the young schoolboy who would soon follow in his master’s long shadow, travelling eventually to Pakistan and, much later, becoming one of al-Zawahiri’s most trusted lieutenants, the experience had been transcending. In his protégé’s thinking, bin Laden’s monologue that day had not been an attempt at vindication; it had not been presented as offering extenuating circumstances. The boy had been left in no doubt. It was a call to arms for all jihadists.

More than two decades had passed.

The previous day, Rashid al-Muhasib had spoken briefly to his field commander in Spain—giving him authority to proceed. Their foot soldiers were well prepared and ready, he was assured.

On 11 March 2004, on the outskirts of Madrid at Alcalá and Guadalajara, the terrorists boarded early morning trains crowded with commuters. Working quickly, they planted backpacks and gym bags of Goma-2 ECO high explosives on board, exiting the carriages before the trains departed for Atocha. Using mobile phones, they would simultaneously trigger the detonators hidden inside their improvised devices.

The explosions were scheduled for 7:40 a.m.

At National Police Headquarters in Madrid, GEO Group 60 Inspector Raphael Robles was fidgeting. For several days, his department had been on high alert. Intelligence services had picked up online chatter indicating that unidentified terrorists were planning an attack—but the intended target and timing were unknown to them.

Robles knew the target and the precise timing.

He knew all about it, of course. He’d masterminded the attack. Knowing the consequences, he was determined that the bombings that morning would proceed as planned. There would be blame for the atrocities; a manhunt for the perpetrators would commence immediately. Robles was aware that all of Spain’s security forces, including his own special forces group, would become involved in feverish levels of investigative activity to identify the terrorists and bring them to justice. He would be among the senior investigators.

At GEO 60, the National Police Special Group for Operations, his job was to track and subvert terrorist activity. To Robles, limiting GEO’s scope to hunt down domestic terrorists was one of the many absurd contradictions that weakened the country’s security efforts. In the turf war that had followed declaration of the country’s new constitution, Spain’s military-based Civil Guard had zealously protected its historical role of policing foreign terrorist activities.

For Robles, the distinction was artificial; yet he was content with it. The lack of effectiveness it created was convenient. It could be exploited. In the meantime, at GEO Group 60, he had a well-trained elite force of investigators at his disposal. Robles was aware that he was in a unique position of power. His credentials were beyond reproach. For months, he had planned details of the operation; he’d planned his personal safety for just as long. Police and intelligence services would seek to root out the ringleaders; they’d be determined to dismantle the terrorist cells and destroy their lines of command infrastructure—to eradicate the threat of future attacks. Over the next few weeks and months, to ensure his own survival, he would be able to exploit operational weaknesses within Spain’s political infrastructure and inside its security forces. He would employ diversionary tactics to frustrate the police investigations.

He was a terrorist mastermind—one of the most dangerous and successful in Spain’s long and often violent history.

With luck, the impunity he enjoyed as a senior GEO officer would hold. However, Robles had no intention of relying on luck. It wasn’t in his nature. Self-interested factions of the government were unaware that, unwittingly, they’d become pawns in his scheme. In three days, Spain would hold national elections. He didn’t care which political party won; he wanted to destroy the whole damned democratic apparatus.

The ace card he’d put into play was a stroke of genius; he was confident. Basque separatists would come under immediate suspicion. Robles knew their modus operandi. He intended to divert attention and resources away from foreign terrorist groups. Certain people within the government would leap at the chance to blame ETA—while, in the process, feeding disinformation to their political masters. For the politicians, the temptation to blame an easy scapegoat would be far too great.

Al-Qaeda also would be suspected as a possible perpetrator, of course. His diversions would gain Robles enough time to confound the investigators and wipe away any tracks that might lead to him.

His phone rang.

There had been an explosion at the Atocha train station, his officer said. “It’s a terrorist bomb.”

Glancing at his watch, Robles saw that the time was 7:41 a.m. Seconds later, other frantic reports arrived. In total, four commuter trains had been attacked; ten separate explosions were reported.

Already crying, his officer at the scene could not contain his emotions. “Hundreds of bodies,” he sobbed. “Thousands injured. I’ve never seen anything like it. Blood everywhere. Women and children too, lying in bits. How could a human being do this?”

Robles carefully replaced the cap of his fountain pen and positioned it deliberately on his desk—precisely where he liked it. Breathing in deeply, he transitioned within seconds from al-Qaeda terrorist mastermind to his role as a senior officer of Group 60. He knew the script he had to follow and unemotionally proceeded to do it.

While others around him at that moment were still reeling from the shock of the horrendous news, Robles used the time to galvanize his squad into action. They were dispatched within minutes to the shocking scenes of carnage at Atocha. There was nothing they could do for the dead, the maimed, or the injured. That was the job of others. Their job was to collect evidence and track down those guilty. There would be no relaxing until their job was done.

Robles called his superior officer and reported that GEO 60’s antiterrorist group was operational.

He declared resolutely, “We’ll find the bastards, sir.

“We will find them.”