The Towers Still Stand

by Daniel Rosenberg

  The Director had listened to this speech with less and less patience as it went on. He’d known the Sheik had never truly believed the September 11 plan would work, and that he might push back on any attempt to get it back in motion at this point. But he hadn’t expected this bad of a reaction. After spending several years devoted to the fabulous plan he’d developed, and then seeing it all break down just minutes before the sacred battle was to be won, the Director wasn’t about to let Bin Laden walk away from another attempt without putting up a good fight. The Director wasn’t always good at holding back his anger, even from the Sheik, but this time, he thought fast and came up with a plan even as he spoke.

  “I agree about the wicked house of Saud,” the Director responded, as the Sheik nodded. “We will strike them with a vicious blow. But I leave the planning and direction to you, your highness. I am headed to the United States.”

  The Sheik’s eyebrows rose, just as they had years ago when the Director had first proposed the hijackings and suicide missions into buildings, with the Director himself as one of the pilots, though not on one of the suicide planes. The Director’s plane was to have landed, with the Director then emerging to declare victory over the infidels. The Sheik had rejected that plan with obvious distaste, and now he looked skeptical again. “What do you propose?” the Sheik asked.

  A few minutes later, after the Director had told him the new plan, the Sheik’s beard was wagging as he nodded his head.

  CHAPTER 4

  Virgil’s Decision

  It was 5 p.m. on September 14 when Virgil shut the door of his office and headed out through the underground hallways toward the east exit of the White House. He carried a small brown wrinkled briefcase that looked like it had been stuffed under airplane seats more than once, and nothing else. He was alone.

  Leaving at 5 was a first for Virgil. In fact, the last three nights he’d been in his office until the early morning hours. He could easily do so today; there was plenty of work to do. But he was leaving. He’d had enough for now.

  He walked by the guardhouse and out of the east gate of the complex onto the sidewalk, passing huge buses lined up to carry the last White House tourists of the day back to their hotels. It was another pleasant late summer day in D.C., with the temperature around 70 and a few puffy clouds overhead. The sun was beginning to sink in the west, where a large jet plane arched up into the sky from National Airport across the Potomac River. Like any true Washingtonian, Virgil didn’t even notice the plane taking off. It was so much a part of the Washington scenery it wasn’t even worth mentioning.

  Virgil limped through the little park across from the White House, where the omnipresent protesters stood with their signs urging the United States to exit the United Nations, and then turned north onto Connecticut Avenue. He always tried to walk the mile and a half from work back home. It was uphill, so it gave him a bit of a workout. And walking always seemed to help his leg, although his limp never went completely away.

  This was a pleasant change, he thought; walking the streets in actual daylight. No one noticed him. He looked like any other office dweller hurrying home at the end of the day. All around him the typical noise of the city flowed – taxis honking, planes taking off one after the other, tour groups chattering, hotel doormen blowing their whistles. He blended easily into the scene, and no one would have known he was a top adviser to the President. As he waited for the light to change at M Street, he glanced over at a Washington Post newspaper machine. The headline, which he’d already seen this morning, screamed out at him again: “America Mourns Terrorism Victims.” Above the fold of the paper but below the headline were photographs of the passengers and crew of the two planes, arranged in rows like someone’s high school yearbook. He knew the photos continued below the fold where they couldn’t be seen through the newspaper box. Virgil looked quickly away and walked across the street when the light changed.

  Cheney and Rice, along with Tenet from the CIA, had led various meetings he’d been to since the terrorist attack, and a consensus had been reached. The attack appeared to have links to Al-Qaeda, judging from the histories Virgil and his team had been able to research about the Middle Eastern men on the planes. Both planes had been hijacked, but it was unclear what their aim had been. The collision apparently was an accident, judging from the black box recording they’d listened to that revealed the struggle in the cockpit of Flight 175. But what the hijackers had planned to do with the planes if they hadn’t collided remained unclear. Although Virgil had persisted in arguing that the hijackers had buildings and monuments in mind, others weren’t so sure. One school of thought was that the hijackers meant to land the planes somewhere – perhaps at JFK or National airports – and start killing passengers one by one until certain demands were met, such as pulling U.S. troops out of Saudi Arabia or releasing Palestinian prisoners from Israel.

  What absolutely no one could prove, but which kept getting bandied about, was the Iraq connection. Cheney, in particular, was instrumental in pursuing this line of thought, and already had evidence, or so he said, that Atta had been in Germany meeting with a representative of the Iraq government sometime last year. While Virgil believed in pursuing any evidence, he was skeptical about Cheney’s claim, because it seemed unlikely that Saddam Hussein and Al-Qaeda – sworn enemies – would have anything to do with each other.

  When he’d mentioned this to Cheney, the Vice President had glared at him with those penetrating eyes and replied, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Virgil still didn’t buy it.

  Tenet, the CIA Director, had pushed for a warning to the Taliban to give up Osama Bin Laden or face invasion. Bush and Cheney seemed hesitant to go that far, but had ultimately agreed that a major strike on Bin Laden was necessary. Bush, in particular, was impatient to take some action, noting that the U.S. hadn’t done so after the U.S.S. Cole bombing last year and perhaps, by hesitating then, had unwittingly encouraged Bin Laden to think he could get away with more. “We need to stop swatting at flies and take the fight to Bin Laden,” Bush had said firmly, striking the table with his fist for emphasis.

  Today, Bush and Cheney had authorized a strike against Bin Laden and had asked the Joint Chiefs of Staff to recommend plans for doing so. But they didn’t want to move too swiftly, for fear of making the same mistake as the Clinton administration in 1998, when it had bombed Bin Laden-linked sites in Sudan only to find out Bin Laden hadn’t been in any of them. The Joint Chiefs of Staff, along with Tenet and with help from Virgil, were to formulate a plan that would identify the exact whereabouts of Bin Laden and get actual boots on the ground to track him down and kill him.

  This was all well and good, Virgil thought as he crossed DuPont Circle heading north. What he couldn’t tolerate was the secrecy the administration was imposing on any information about the Sept. 11 incident, as it was coming to be known. He was convinced the nation was at immediate risk of another terror attack and that it was the government’s responsibility to take appropriate action to prevent one – even if it meant shutting down every airport in the country. Everything he knew about Bin Laden and his outfit convinced him that Sept. 11 was just the beginning of a major blow from the group and that there might well be cells right now in the country preparing for a second strike.

  Bush and Cheney were certainly taking the right steps by imposing new security measures on planes, but these measures – such as impenetrable cockpit doors – would take months to implement. Between now and then, who knows what might happen, Virgil thought. And the President and Vice President, he believed, needed to allow more information out about the threat so the public could judge just what sort of danger it may be in.

  “Why are you insisting we play down the implications here?” Virgil had asked Bush and Cheney earlier that day as they sat across from each other in the Oval Office. “Why are we pretending this isn’t a huge threat to domestic security? It’s one thing to make sure we don’t have panic, but it’s another thing to put people in dange
r. Remember what the hijackers said: ‘We have some planes.’ Some! That doesn’t mean just two. It means more. We have to go through the flight manifests of every plane in the air at that time and do background checks on every passenger with Middle Eastern origins…” His voice had gotten louder and louder as he spoke, his face turning the color of a rare steak, his words coming faster and faster.

  Bush opened his mouth to interrupt, but before he could speak, Cheney broke in.

  “Virgil,” he had said angrily, staring him down. “We’re not putting people in danger. You know we’re taking the appropriate measures. Heck, you were the one who argued to hit Bin Laden, and now we’re doing it, aren’t we? We’ve done the due diligence, and we haven’t found any sign of an immediate threat to the country. What’s the sense of crying wolf? I agree – let’s check the flight manifests. You’re doing that, right? It’s worth knowing, but I can assure you that anyone who was on a flight Tuesday morning has landed by now. And no other planes were hijacked. Besides,” he added, as if to himself, “hijacking two planes at the same time was one hell of an operation. Who’d think of trying to do more than that?”

  There’d been a moment of silence while Bush and Cheney stared at him, waiting for a reaction.

  “Have it your way,” Virgil had finally said, resignedly. “I’m putting together a memo with my recommendations and you’ll have it on your desks over the weekend. Once it’s done, I’ll shut up. Take it for what it is.” He’d gotten up and left.

  Now he had to decide whether to make the memo to Bush and Cheney public. Doing so went against everything he had stood for over the years – being a team player, keeping the confidence of others and staying behind the scenes. His mind was torn, and he realized he’d have to talk to Harry to work things out. The problem was, he knew what Harry would tell him.

  As he thought through all this, he walked west down Bancroft Place, a one block, narrow street lined on both sides with four- and five-story brick 19th-century town homes. The street was narrow enough that it felt like walking along a hallway, with the town homes serving as walls. It was a comfortable feeling.

  Halfway up the sloping street, Virgil turned right and up the short walkway to the town home he and his wife shared, a five-story affair where they’d raised the kids. Now it seemed rather large for just the two of them, but Linda still used the first floor as her law office, and didn’t want to give that up. She was the one who’d lobbied him to buy the place back in the late 1970s for a veritable song when the kids were toddlers, and it had proved a great investment. Now, five flights of stairs and two entire floors that Virgil and Linda didn’t really need seemed a bit much. But Virgil was happy they still had all five stories. The tiny outdoor porch at the front of the attic gave a wonderful view of the city, including the Washington Monument.

  The interior door to Linda’s office was open and the lights were off. He remembered now; she had a dinner meeting and wouldn’t be home until later. The house was silent. Sometimes he missed the noise and chaos of having the kids around, even though it had driven him nuts back when they were little. He thought about the boys for a minute. Keith was in business school in Chicago and Kevin was a senior at Amherst. Neither had been home for the summer except for an odd week here and there.

  He climbed up the back stairs used by servants in days gone by to what used to be a maid’s bedroom. The small, oddly-shaped room was now Virgil’s home office, and was crammed with bookshelves bursting with volumes. A small couch sat in one corner, and Virgil, seeing it, felt exhaustion wash over him. He hadn’t had a normal night’s sleep since the plane collision, and now, seeing the couch, he couldn’t resist reclining on it. “Just for a few minutes,” he thought, gathering the white Afghan blanket over himself and curling up among the throw pillows. In minutes, he was deeply asleep.

  Fire. He saw fire. A huge explosion billowing out of a skyscraper. Black smoke rising toward the sky. Pieces of metal falling to the ground and flames leaping out of windows.

  Virgil jerked himself awake, sweating. He looked at the digital clock on the table. Only an hour had passed. Even in his sleep he couldn’t escape. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. Just a dream, but it had seemed so true. And the burning building had looked like one he knew. Which one? He thought back and tried to remember every detail of the dream. His memory wasn’t perfect, but he was pretty certain the building he’d seen burning had been the Empire State Building.

  He reached for the phone and dialed the familiar number. Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang and he came downstairs to let Harry in.

  “If you don’t do it, you’re hurting the country,” Harry said firmly. The two men were sitting at the kitchen table over glasses of bourbon. The sunlight was fading outside. “Think about it. I can pitch a fit on CNN till I’m blue in the face, and it doesn’t mean a thing. I’m just some talking head who used to be in the Defense Department. But you’re an insider. You’ve got access to stuff you’re not even telling me about – I know how that goes. Stop thinking so damn much – that’s always been your problem. Stop thinking and do something!” He stopped and took a sip of bourbon.

  Virgil got up and turned on the overhead light. He re-filled his glass. “You want some more?” he asked Harry, but Harry waved him off.

  “Don’t try to duck the issue, Virge,” Harry said. “You need to make up your mind. You knew what I’d tell you when you called me over here. So why did you bother calling me in the first place? Did you think I’d changed my mind?”

  “OK, OK,” Virgil replied. “I did know what you’d say. You’d tell me I think too much.”

  “Damn right,” Harry said animatedly.

  “It’s not as easy as you think, Harry. I hate leakers. I’ve seen them in every administration I’ve worked for. Instead of trying to resolve things, they throw up everything they know all over the Washington Post or the New York Times. Then they write books about how they were right and the President was wrong, and then they go out and make speeches for $25,000 a throw. And now I’m supposed to be one of those bastards? That’s just not me.”

  “Get off your high horse, now, Virge,” Harry said. “Stop making this about you being a team player. Because the team isn’t those guys in the Oval Office. The team you’re on is the United States team. If that analogy doesn’t work, think about football. If you’re on a team and the coach is calling the wrong play, and you lose, and then he calls it again, don’t you have to speak up?”

  Virgil put his chin on his hand and looked down at the wooden kitchen table. It seemed easy for Harry to talk about taking action, but he was out of the loop and didn’t have to go back and face angry bosses the next day. Of course, he thought, if Harry were in his position, maybe he’d do just that. Harry was the type of person who did what he thought was right, and lived with the consequences.

  “Harry, I don’t even know what I think anymore,” he said with a deep sigh. “Cheney’s been around as long as I’ve been, and no one’s more paranoid than that guy. If he’s not sweating this, why am I? And he’s right you know. If I released that memo, it would cause panic.” But even as he said this, the images of his dream reappeared in his mind – the black smoke rising from the Empire State building.

  “Maybe panic is what this country needs,” Harry said, leaning over the table toward him. “I don’t mean run out in the streets tearing your clothes off kind of panic. I mean people need to stop feeling so damn comfortable. I know the country’s pretty worked up right now. We have 150 Americans just killed by terrorists. Like Oklahoma City in 1995. But the anger doesn’t last. I mean, who talks about Timothy McVeigh these days, now that he’s executed? Pretty soon the newspapers will be full of shark stories again, and articles about that damn congressman and his dead girlfriend. People have a short attention span around here, Virge, and I mean in the White House and Capitol, too, not just in the streets. We’re living in a very, very dangerous time. If you think there’s imminent danger and you don’t say anything about it, you
’re being the opposite of a team player.”

  “There’s no ‘I’ in team, right?” Virgil said, with a wry smile.

  “Fuckin A, Virge.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Nancy at Home

  CNN blared in Nancy’s small but neat apartment as she cooked dinner for herself and her 12-year-old daughter, Joanna. The kitchen was part of the living and dining room, and a small window over the sink provided a less-than-lovely view into the brick walls of the building next door.

  “Today, Osama bin Laden released what he called a ‘Message to the World’ in which he explicitly threatened Saudi Arabia with an attack,” the CNN anchor read. “Bin Laden didn’t claim responsibility for the airline hijacking and collision in New York last week, but he did give credit to the hijackers, or ‘holy warriors,’ as he described them, for striking against the United States, which the terrorist leader called a ‘despicable evil empire.’ “

  “In his message, Bin Laden blasted the government of Saudi Arabia and other Arab governments in the region, saying, quote, ‘The removal of these governments is an obligation upon us…and a necessary step to make the Shariah the supreme law and regain Palestine.’ He said Saudi Arabia is ruled by infidels who helped the United States humiliate Palestinians, and that the regime has committed crimes against Islam that, quote, ‘nullify its validity before God…’ “

  Nancy shook her head and quit listening as she reached for a spatula. She had become used to cooking for just two. Her divorce had finalized six months earlier, and her ex-husband now lived in New Jersey. It was close enough that Joanna could spend some weekends with her dad, but this wasn’t one of them, for which Nancy was thankful. After the terror attack last week, she felt better having Joanna close to her. She clicked off the little TV on the kitchen counter, not wanting Joanna to hear more about this stuff than she already had.