The Towers Still Stand

by Daniel Rosenberg

  Harry tapped his fingers impatiently on the table as Virgil sorted through the briefcase.

  “No worries, Virge,” Harry said. “Look, just get to the point.”

  “Ah, here they are,” Virgil said, pulling out two color photos printed on paper. They were a bit wrinkled, but the images were clear. Two Arab men, both clean cut and intelligent looking, wearing Western clothing.

  “This one here is Ziad Jarrah, and this one is Hani Hanjour,” Virgil said. “One was on a plane headed from Dulles to Los Angeles on the morning of the collision, and the other was on a plane from Newark to San Francisco. We’ve done some research on both of them, and their criminal records are clean, but we believe both had spent some time in the Middle East before 2001 and may have been involved with Al-Qaeda. There’s evidence they attended training camps. They entered the United States early this decade and they’ve pretty much not made a peep.”

  “All right, then,” Harry said impatiently. “Why should I care?”

  “Because I shared these photos with the FBI in Chicago and the suspect told the FBI he recognized both the guys in the photos,” Virgil said. “He said they’re the ones who’ve been paying him to be the courier of combo locks onto planes.”

  Harry uttered a low whistle of surprise.

  “Now that’s really somethin,” he said, slowly breaking into a smile. “Nice job, Virge. I reckon you really stumbled onto something. This doesn’t sound like a drug deal to me. So you think these fellas wanted to get weapons onto planes, maybe recreate what happened that day?”

  Virgil nodded. “That’s my sense of things,” he said. “The problem is, we don’t know where either of these guys are. The Chicago operation got busted, so they could have gone anywhere in the country.”

  “What do we do?” Harry asked.

  “Well, we’ve put their photos out over the FBI hotline, and the entire agency is looking for them,” Virgil said. “But we’ll have to assume they’re living under assumed names, and they’re probably pretty good at disguising themselves. We’re definitely going to have a big job trying to find these guys.”

  “We need to warn the airports,” Harry said.

  “Done,” Virgil said. “Already done. Every airport security team in the country will be on the lookout for anything suspicious, like what we saw in Chicago. And we sent the photos of these guys to the FAA. I think we’re doing everything we can.”

  “Good, good,” Harry said, nodding. “Nice work, Virge. I know this stuff isn’t really in my bag of tricks, but I’m glad you’re on it. Any sense of the timing?”

  The door opened and Susie poked her head in. “Sir? I think you need to start walking over to Sen. McCain’s office now,” she said.

  “Yep – I’m coming,” Harry said, getting up cumbersomely from the low chair. “John McCain, John McCain,” he said. “I’m sure going to get sick of that little son of a bitch. Come to think of it, I already am. Ah well, I knew he’d be a pain in the ass when I took this job. OK, Susie, here I come. Virge, you can go back now. Thanks for the update.”

  “No problem, Harry,” Virgil said. “We’ll keep you posted. Oh – one more thing. I think we have a lead on that New York Times reporter kidnapped in Iraq.”

  Harry turned around as he left the room. “Huh? Oh yeah – good luck with that. See ya later.”

  Back in his office later that afternoon, Virgil tried to connect with his Iraqi contact, but the phone just rang and rang – no answer from Kanaan. Virgil looked at his watch. It was pretty late over there, he reflected.

  He thought back on the progress he’d made with Kanaan over the last week. Kanaan had quite a network, and his contacts had been like a bunch of little rabbits scurrying around the outskirts of Bagdhad, looking for evidence. Someone found someone else who had seen the getaway car as it left the scene of the school bombing, and they’d searched a large area for it. Someone else knew that Al-Qaeda had some hideouts northeast of town, and that helped focus the search on that area, a fertile part of the country dotted with groves of palm trees that now was one of the most dangerous parts of Iraq due to Al-Qaeda attacks. Any American venturing into that region wouldn’t go without a fully-equipped group of military guards for protection, and even that might not help. But Kanaan’s contacts had no such qualms. They were locals who lived close to the land, knew the area well and could get around without too much notice, though, like everyone, they had to be careful for roadside bombs.

  Yesterday, one of Kanaan’s scouts said he’d seen the getaway SUV on a road near Baqubah, about 30 miles northeast of Bagdhad and one of the most dangerous cities in the country, an area where the terrorist leader al-Zarqawi had been very active prior to his death. Al-Zarqawi’s death hadn’t changed things much in this part of the country. Sunni insurgents had recently captured the region from the Iraqi army, and the city of Baqubah was under siege. The scout had followed the SUV to a remote area where it turned off the road onto a dirt path. Kanaan had emailed Virgil asking what to do next, and Virgil had been trying all day to get him on the phone.

  Meanwhile, Virgil had used his Department of Defense network to connect with U.S. military in the area, and the U.S. Army commander for the district now knew where the kidnappers might be hiding. Typically, the military didn’t stage raids on militants to free hostages, but in this case, with all the publicity surrounding the fact that the victim was a New York Times reporter, Virgil figured there was a chance they would break precedent.

  As Virgil ruminated, his phone rang.

  “Virgil here,” he said quickly into the phone. He was hoping it would be Kanaan. He wanted to tell the man to hold off on further action. No use giving the kidnappers any sense they were under surveillance. He wanted the U.S. military to make the next move.

  “Virgil,” said a familiar voice. Virgil recognized it as General Rod Davies, a man who had the irritating habit of never identifying himself when he called. Luckily, Virgil was pretty used to this by now. The two of them had worked together for many years. Davies was one of the few military guys who’d forgiven Virgil for his breach of conduct in 2001, giving him the benefit of the doubt. Like Harry, Davies believed Virgil had done what he’d done out of concern for his country, not for his own devious purposes. There were many others who disagreed with that perception.

  “General,” Virgil replied. “What’s going on?” He suddenly felt nervous, as if the general were going to tell him something had gone wrong. The general was a man of few words, and pretty direct, so Virgil figured he’d find out soon enough.

  “Virgil, we’ve got pretty good intelligence that the reporter is where your people say she is,” the general said in his usual unemotional tone. “Our air patrols think they’ve identified the house where she’s being kept. I just want you to know that we’re going to send some troops in there tonight.”

  “Great!” Virgil replied, “Thanks for the heads up.” Suddenly sweat broke out on his forehead as he realized all the things that could go wrong. “Take care,” he told the general, as Nancy’s face rose in his mind. “Keep her safe.”

  “That’s affirmative,” the general said and hung up.

  Virgil balled up a piece of paper on his desk and tossed it toward the wastebasket. It missed. “Dammit,” he said.

  CHAPTER 20

  Nancy in Iraq

  Night fell around a compound on the outskirts of Baqubah, and several men in black clothes patrolled outside the mud huts nestled among the palm groves. The men carried small arms – no machine guns. The stars had begun to peep out on this cloudless, cool winter evening, and the smell of citrus wafted in from nearby fruit groves. Frogs croaked in the distance, and sometimes, from farther away, came the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Sunni militants were still fighting government forces for control of the area, and had made a great deal of progress recently. Soon, the nearby city would belong Al-Qaeda.

  Inside a primitive mud building, candlelight flickered in the front room. Evening prayers had ended, and several
militants had laid small mattresses on the floor. Ram squatted on his haunches amidst the men, holding a cup of his cinnamon tea and taking sips now and then. As always, he was wrapped in a white robe, and his beard grew wild and untrimmed. There were flecks of gray in it that hadn’t been there until recently. As he drank his tea, he mumbled to himself, and his men looked at each other questioningly. Ram tended to be quiet at most times, but he’d been quieter than ever today. It was as if he smelled trouble in the air.

  Nancy was locked in her empty room, where she’d lived the last three weeks. She’d spent about an hour pacing around, counting her steps, trying to feel newfound strength in her gimpy leg. But she’d grown tired and was discouraged that the leg hadn’t healed more quickly. It still was tough to make it to 1,000 steps. She’d been allowed to write another letter to Joanna and her parents, but Ram had forced her to add stuff about the plight of the Palestinians, as well as the captured Iraqis in U.S. military prisons, calling for their release and for the immediate withdrawal of U.S. troops from all holy Muslim lands. Nancy felt like a tool writing a letter dictated by Ram, but what choice did she have? It was her only chance to communicate with her family and let them know she was OK. If indeed he was actually sending the letters, which she could only hope.

  Over the last week, since discovering the drawings in the book, escape had seemed more and more important. It was urgent that she get back in touch with Virgil about what she’d seen. He might be the only one in the government who’d recognize the importance. She’d outlined some plans in her mind – noting when her captors seemed to sleep and which windows might be ones she could climb through if she got the chance. But there was little opportunity. When she did go outside, it was always with Ram and armed guards, and they typically tied her wrist to the wrist of one of the guards. And she was always kept blindfolded on those expeditions. Even if she could somehow get away, her leg would keep her from moving too far, and she wouldn’t have any idea where she was. Were American troops nearby? Who knew? The sound of gunfire not far off made it clear she was near a war zone.

  Upon reflection, she realized she was probably safest staying where she was, especially with the area nearby evidently at war. They’d treated her well, aside from Ram’s outbursts, which were becoming less and less frequent. The man seemed to have withdrawn into himself of late, and Nancy couldn’t tell why. Perhaps he was discouraged by the lack of response to the kidnapping – no one had met his demands. Or perhaps he was concerned about being found. Just yesterday, he’d mentioned to a guard that they should consider moving her to a different compound. Perhaps that would happen soon, and then there’d probably be even less chance for her to be found. Her growing complacency troubled her. She was a reporter, dammit! She should be able to figure a way out of this one. The phrase “Stockholm Syndrome” flashed through her mind again, and she balled up her fists, vowing not to let that happen.

  She thought she heard voices in the other room. It wasn’t unusual for Ram and his men to talk after dark, but the voices sounded excited. She put her head to the door and listened carefully through the crack, where a tiny, flickering light came through. “Put out the lights,” she thought she heard someone say, though her Arabic was still flimsy. It had gotten better after three weeks here.

  The crack between the door and the wall darkened. How she wished she had windows in her little room! She kept her ear pressed to the door, and now she thought she heard something else, but it must be a dream, because it sounded like the steady clop, clop, clop of helicopter propellers. There were shouts now from the front room, and from outside, she heard the sound of gunfire. Could this be a rescue attempt? Her heart began beating so loudly she could hear it in her ears. What should she do? Try to break out? But that could be more dangerous than staying put. If this were a rescue, she could be in huge danger, either from friendly fire or from her kidnappers. She’d heard many stories of hostages dying in just this type of situation. And what if she was wrong? What if this was a fight between two groups of insurgents? She could be caught in between. Part of her wanted to yell for help, and part of her wanted to crawl under her bed and put her hands over her ears until all this noise was over.

  Before she could think further, she lost her power to decide. The door to her room burst open, and Ram rushed in – she could tell it was him even in the dark. He picked her up roughly – at twice her weight he easily snatched her up, clutching her tightly. He whispered, “Quiet. No noise out of you.” But he didn’t take time to blindfold her or put anything over her mouth. He moved quickly but stealthily through the front room, and now there could be no doubt – someone was trying to rescue her. She heard more calls outside, and another short burst of gunfire. She decided this must be a rescue attempt. Why else would Ram seem so harried? And who but the allied military would have helicopters? The “whap-whap-whap” of rotors punctuated the air, but Ram – breathing hard - carried her quickly out of the house and in the direction away from the noises, into a grove of palms behind the mud hut. “Shh,” he whispered to her again.

  To hell with that, Nancy thought. She made a snap choice to risk all on the possibility that someone was trying to save her life. “We’re here – over here!” she yelled. Ram swore and clamped a hairy arm over her mouth. Nancy struggled in his arms, trying to pull his hand off her mouth to yell again. But his hand held tight, and she kicked her legs uselessly as he pulled her further into the dark. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!” she thought, realizing this really was it. She might well die right here. And if she died, she’d never get the message out to Virgil about the two towers being in danger. She realized it wasn’t just her own life that hung in the balance, but possibly the lives of thousands.

  American voices rang out in the distance. “What was that?” someone shouted. Now there was no doubt in her mind – this was a rescue attempt. She kicked Ram harder and at the same time scratched her nails – which she hadn’t cut since her kidnapping – against his bare arm. She felt warm blood flow out of his wound, but he just swore and kept moving into the trees.

  “She’s over there – I heard her,” someone else yelled. “Let’s go!” Nancy heard the sounds of pursuing feet behind her.

  “Put down the woman!” a voice from behind yelled in Arabic. “Let her go!”

  Nancy struggled again to escape Ram’s grip, but it was pointless. He squeezed her tightly, one arm around her neck.

  “They may kill me,” he whispered to her, moving his hand. “But they won’t get you alive.” Suddenly, a burst of unbearable pain penetrated her chest and screamed.

  A shot rang, and Ram groaned, dropping Nancy into the wet dirt below the palm trees. She crumpled in searing pain. Warm fluid flowed from her chest, making her shirt wet and sticky. Her breath became a gurgling gasp. Ram’s motionless body lay nearby.

  Someone ran up and crouched next to her. “Stay still,” said an American voice. “Everything’s going to be OK. We have to get you to the helicopter – quickly.” As if to emphasize his point, gunfire rang out from somewhere in the distance. The soldier took her wrist to measure her pulse.

  “Hey, Doc, we need help over here!” the soldier called. Someone ran up, a man with a small box. He opened it and began taking equipment out.

  “She’s got a chest wound,” the first voice said rapidly. “Wrap it up quick so we can get her on the copter. We’re taking fire.”

  “Got it,” the second voice replied, sounding closer now. “Is it a gunshot? Did we hit her?”

  “No – looks like the guy had a knife. Here it is in the dirt.”

  But the voices, and even the world, seemed distant to Nancy. She couldn’t get enough air into her lungs, and warm liquid filled the back of her throat, making it feel like she was gargling. She started to choke, and the doctor shoved something into her mouth.

  “No, no…” she managed, twisting her head to keep him from inserting the tube into her mouth. Wait! Focus! She needed to tell them something important. What was it? Her chest b
urned from lack of oxygen, and lights flashed in her brain. Her thoughts swirled. But she had to try.

  “I have to get you ventilated,” the man said quickly as he fumbled with his equipment. “Just stay still. We’re helping you.”

  Suddenly, the blackness and flashes in her mind went away, and a memory came. She was 12, and her father took her to New York on vacation. She remembered her first view of Manhattan, dominated at the far end by…

  “Two…” she moaned through the pain. “Two towers. Tell Virgil.”

  “What?” the man said, putting his ear to her mouth.

  “Virgil…Walker,” Nancy croaked again. It was very difficult to talk. “Tell him. Two towers.”

  “Virgil Walker – two towers. Got it,” the man said. “Did you hear that, Billy? She said tell Virgil Walker about the two towers. OK, lady, stay still. This might hurt a little.” He stuck something in her mouth and then she felt a needle prick her arm. She slipped out of consciousness.

  The doctor felt his patient go limp. “OK, she’s sedated and ventilated, and I’ve wrapped up her chest. Let’s move,” he said to the other soldier. The two of them lifted her and walked quickly away, holding her carefully between them. More shots rang, closer than before.

  “We’ll be lucky if we don’t get hit on the way up. Think she’ll make it?”

  “Doesn’t look good,” the doctor said, shaking his head as they approached a copter. They handed Nancy to the medical team inside, quickly stating the meds they’d given her and the type of wound they’d found. With a nod, the leader of the team in the helicopter took over her care, closed the copter door and the two rescuers headed quickly toward the other copter.

  “What was that she said when you were on the ground with her?” the soldier asked as they ran. Another soldier was standing on the ground next to it, motioning to them impatiently with his gun. Behind them, the helicopter with Nancy aboard took off, rotors blowing dirt around the area.