“Yeah, he’s a foreign correspondent. One of those guys they bring out every time there’s some kind of terrorist act,” Segal said.
The foreign correspondent joined three other people on the set; two men and a woman.
On the TV screen, the commentator asked Peter Olson about what he had seen in Pakistan, and Olson answered in short, clipped sentences, painting a graphic picture with words, a picture of violence and surprise and much else.
“Peter, what do you make of the fact that the body, supposedly bin Laden’s, was buried at sea? Isn’t that bound to raise questions about whether it was, in fact, bin Laden?” The question came from one of the other men, a well-known commentator, Andrew Evans. He was affiliated with right-wing media and gave the camera a frozen smile.
Segal watched Olson’s face closely. He saw a brief expression of anger and suspected the anger was less in reaction to the question and more about the weaseling way it was put, slipping in that little word supposedly.
“There is no supposedly to it,” Olson said. “It was bin Laden, as confirmed by the photos of the body. Shared with appropriate people in the intelligence community all over the world, and as confirmed by DNA tests as well. The identity has not been challenged by any source. Credible or otherwise. Not anyone in the Al-Qaeda organization, not anyone in any other Muslim group, not by members of the extended family in Saudi Arabia. Not anyone.”
Peter Olson’s answer made the right-wing commentator slither back in his seat like a snake hit by a garden rake. Segal smiled. I’ve seen Peter Olson before. Recently? Where?
The host resumed. “One aspect of this incident that I find interesting is the report that we—the U.S. government, that is—did not have 100 percent confirmation before the raid that bin Laden was really living there. Is that your understanding, Peter?”
Peter Olson drummed a finger on the armrest of his chair.
“I know I’ve seen this guy’s face somewhere,” Dinah said. “Not just on shows like this. I feel like I’ve seen him more recently.”
Segal said, “Me too.” He glanced at her as she took another swig of beer.
Olson spoke. “I don’t want to say too much until I’ve had a chance to interview more sources. But yes, that is my understanding. From what I’ve heard so far, the team, headed by the CIA, tracked the movements of a man known to have been in personal service to bin Laden. They had been watching him for some time. Traced him to this compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan. The compound had all the characteristics that would be needed to accommodate bin Laden and his family. They watched the compound for months. They had satellite pictures of a tall individual walking in one of the rooftop courtyards. However, the resolution from a satellite photo is only so good. And they could not get photos from the ground because the walls were too high.”
“Why not fly a plane over. Or maybe a helicopter or drone?” the other man asked. The woman commentator nodded.
“Too risky. The last thing they wanted was to spook bin Laden, to have him get away and hide. Then it could be another ten-year search before we found him again. Or maybe we never would.”
“And I suppose for the same reason we could not enlist the help of the Pakistani government or intelligence network?”
“Right,” Peter answered. “Given that he was living in Pakistan, there was simply no way we could know in advance whom we could trust and not trust with that kind of information.”
At this point, the video feed of the commentators was replaced by a series of photographs. “Could you describe what we’re seeing here, Peter?” the host prompted.
Peter filled in details. He described the compound as displayed in the photos. First, the walls surrounding it, then the interior, describing the rather squalid-looking rooms within the buildings themselves. Various people in military garb could be seen poking around. In one picture of the inner courtyard, where one of the helicopters had landed and subsequently been destroyed, Segal caught sight of a woman dressed in field garb; vaguely military in appearance. She had straight, dark hair sticking out from a cap. Segal studied the lines of her face.
“Did you see that woman?” he asked Dinah.
“Yeah, I saw her.”
“Is she the same woman as in that picture with Francis? The one Andrew Roche showed us at the VA hospital?”
“Exactly what I was thinking, boss,” Dinah said, setting her beer down on the bar.
Another picture flashed on the screen. It was the courtyard from a different angle, giving Segal another view of the woman. This one was closer and more head-on. The woman removed her glasses. Bingo, Segal thought.
“Yeah, that’s our girl,” Dinah said.
The host began to wrap up that segment of his program. “And thank you, Peter. Thanks once again for joining us this evening. I understand you are off on a tour to promote your latest book about the war in Afghanistan.”
Before Peter Olson could answer, Dinah’s face lit up. “That’s where I’ve seen this guy before. The window of Malaprop’s Bookstore! You know, where they line up the books and pictures of the authors coming to give talks. He was on a poster.”
“You mean he’s coming to Asheville?” Segal asked.
Dinah smirked, “Sooner or later, everyone comes to Asheville.” She already had her phone out, looking up the Malaprop’s website. After a couple of minutes, she said, “In this case, sooner. Like tomorrow. He’s giving a talk there about his book.”
“Good. We’ll corner him and question him about Francis. If he knows that lady, maybe he knows our man, too,” Segal said.
“Maybe he’s already in town tonight,” Dinah said. “This program is rebroadcast from yesterday.”
He downed his beer and then headed out with Dinah in the lead.
From the manager at Malaprop’s, Dinah found out that Peter Olson was staying at the Hotel Indigo. Then, she found out that the desk clerk at the hotel had made a dinner reservation for Olson at a tapas place called Zambra on Walnut Street.
Another address conveniently close to the nexus of all things, Segal thought. In fact, Zambra was around the corner from Malaprop’s. It was an upscale restaurant, clean, a perfect place to meet a foreign correspondent. The lighting was subdued and the furnishings dark and exotic. Segal followed Dinah, case files under his arm. He passed the bar, entering a larger room filling with patrons. Peter Olson was at a table near the window. He was turned away from the table with his legs crossed, wearing a dark suit with a white shirt open at the collar, no tie. On the table was a small glass of red wine. In his lap, he held a folded magazine. Segal was pleased to see that no one else was at the table with him. When Dinah approached and introduced them, Olson rose and shook their hands. He didn’t seem at all upset to be interrupted.
“We’re hoping you might be able to help us solve a mystery,” Segal said.
“Sounds more interesting than the magazine I was reading.” Olson smiled and motioned that they should join him. Dinah took the window and Segal slid into his chair. The waitress came, and before Segal could decline Dinah ordered several tapas dishes for them.
Segal leaned forward and placed a manila folder on the table. From it, he withdrew a pair of pictures from their visit to the VA hospital; the two that showed Francis Elah and Andrew Roche in Afghanistan with the mystery woman in the background.
When Olson studied the pictures, his face changed from the welcoming smile to something else, something more serious. Segal thought it looked like a combination of fear and surprise and interest—definitely interest. “Do you recognize anyone in these photos?” Segal asked.
Peter Olson stared first at Segal and then Dinah. “I don’t know either of the two men in the foreground. I am acquainted with the woman. You don’t see many pictures of her.” He picked up the photos and studied them. “Clearly taken in Afghanistan.”
“Yes, we saw footage of you on the news. Shots of you in Pakistan checking out the compound where bin Laden was killed. We thought we saw this woman there, too.
”
Olson nodded. “I can’t wait to hear what this has to do with Asheville, North Carolina,” he said sitting back. He folded his hands on the table as if ready for a good story.
Segal glanced at Dinah. They had talked about how much to tell this guy and had decided to let him know basically everything, possibly excluding some of the more graphic details. They hoped he could bring some perspective to help them make sense of what they were seeing. Besides that, this guy was a professional reporter. He would expect some degree of information trading and would know how to keep his mouth shut where and when it was appropriate.
Segal told him about the murder of Chickey Atley, and how Atley was associated with Creatures 2.0, trainers of special animals. He told him about looking for Francis Elah, who had gone missing while on a special government project with a specially trained crow, Richard, who was back home in Asheville, even though Francis had not yet surfaced. He told him about their interview with Andrew Roche at the VA hospital, which was where they came across the picture of the woman who apparently knew Francis in Afghanistan.
When Segal paused, Peter Olson took a sip of his wine. “Is there more?” he asked.
Segal turned to Dinah. She gave a slight shrug.
Segal leaned in closer. “Look, what I’ve shared so far is information we turned up as a result of a fairly routine local investigation. At least it started out that way. This next part I’m less comfortable with. We may be getting into national security information, which I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to have in the first place. Whatever we share with you has to remain confidential.”
“You told me you saw the news footage of me with U.S. and Pakistani intelligence personnel in Abbottabad. I am the only member of the news media—any news media anywhere in the world—to be given access to that site. That should tell you everything you need to know. Do you know how many contacts and sources I’ve had to cultivate over the years to earn that level of trust? If I had not proven over and over that I can be trusted with information, do you think I would have earned that position?”
At that point, the waiter brought out the first of their tapas dishes. Without taking his eyes off Segal, Olson reached down and picked up a piece of crostini bearing a generous application of olive oil and some sort of pâté. He took a bite with an audible crunch.
After a few beats, Segal said, “Good point, Mr. Olson.”
“Call me Peter.”
Segal opened the folder again and took out a picture of the camera Richard had removed from the other crow, the one he killed on the roof of the Grove Arcade.
“What exactly am I looking at?” Olson asked. He took a drink of wine and picked up another piece of crostini.
“It’s a camera that can be attached to the head of a crow, making it possible to see what the bird is looking at,” Dinah said. She said this in a casual manner between bites.
Olson put the crostini down. He stared straight ahead and finally blinked. “And you say this man, Francis Elah, is or was an animal trainer?”
Segal nodded.
“Do you think he could have trained the crow to do something like fly from one building to another? I mean, a specific building?”
“I’m pretty sure from what we’ve seen that Francis Elah could easily get Richard to do that.”
Dinah snorted. “Tell him about the raccoon and the cigarettes.”
“We can talk about raccoons another time. Right now, I would like to know what you’re thinking.”
Olson grimaced. “Now, it’s my turn to wonder how much to disclose.” He touched a napkin to his lips. “You told me you’ve been watching the news about the raid that got bin Laden? You may not realize this was the culmination of ten years of work by a group in the U.S. intelligence community. That’s ten years of gathering information. Ten years of logging information. Ten years of following every possible lead, even every rumor they heard. They were desperate to find bin Laden. Here’s the guy that masterminded 9/11. We wage a war in Afghanistan, mostly just to find him and bring him to justice. And he vanishes without a trace.”
“I remember reading they had him cornered sometime in the early part of the war,” Segal said. Like most Americans, he was woefully fuzzy on exactly what had happened in that conflict.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Olson said. “There were a few junctures where some people thought we were close. It was confusing. I was there, on the ground. I had excellent sources in the government and elsewhere, but I could not swear how close we were. In any case, about the time we pushed the Taliban fighters and Al-Qaeda back into the mountains, the war in Iraq started—or rather, we started it.”
“And then all bets were off?” Segal asked.
“No, not all. We definitely entered a time when the focus of the military operation was off finding bin Laden. Some people would say we didn’t really have a military focus in Afghanistan after that.”
“Speaking as one who was there,” Dinah said, “I would be one of those people.”
Olson gave her an appraising look. “As far as the military effort, I would have to agree with you. However, let’s talk about the intelligence community. All those years, and all the time leading up to the raid on the compound in Abbottabad, a task force was working on locating bin Laden. For that group, there was no lack of focus—not ever, not for a day, nor for an hour. Their job was to find Osama bin Laden, and they finally did. As you know.”
Segal picked up his napkin and played with it. “And this group was part of the Office of Naval Intelligence?”
“No, the group was run out of the CIA, although they had close ties with ONI and all the other intel groups. And close ties in that community are a rare thing, I assure you.”
“And that woman in the pictures? She had something to do with this group?” Dinah asked.
“That woman was the group. Nancy Lund. She was the one in charge from day one. She was the one that put all the pieces of the puzzle together.” Olson’s eyes lit up.
“What are the chances we could call her and find out if she knows anything about Francis Elah. Or anything that could help us?” Segal asked.
Olson grinned. “I would say your chances are very slim. There are just too many secrets, and those secrets include an interconnected web of sources. If you start pulling at one thread in the story, you don’t know what else is going to unravel. It’s much easier for people like Nancy Lund to say nothing at all. Hard to get in trouble keeping your mouth shut.”
“But you know her pretty well, right?” Dinah said.
“If it wasn’t for Nancy, I would never have gotten into the compound to get those pictures you saw on the news. I had other contacts, but it was Nancy who convinced them it was important to have a journalist there. And that the journalist should be me.”
“So, you could ask her about this?” Dinah cocked her head.
Olson put his palms together. “I’ll have to think about it.” He looked at Segal and must have seen the disappointment on his face. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want to help you. And it’s not that I don’t feel this is important. Nancy and her team have been generous with their information. If your man Francis was involved with the operation in some capacity, they have not shared it with me. If they have not shared it with me, I have to assume there is a reason. A lot of people think that reporters push everyone for information all the time. That’s not how you gain people’s confidence in a lasting relationship.”
Segal let that soak in. It was pretty clear he was giving them advice, as well as explaining his own situation. “Suppose we leave contacts and information aside for the time being,” Segal said. “Knowing what you know, and knowing what we’ve told you about what’s going on here in Asheville, what do you think Francis could have been doing over there?” Segal raised his hand, already knowing Peter Olson would shake his head. “And before you tell me you don’t like to speculate without all the facts, let me say, we can use all the ideas we can get.”
“All right, then
.” Olson pushed the tapas dish away. “You might have caught the discussion on that news program about what happened after they suspected bin Laden was in the compound in Abbottabad. They struggled to find a way to confirm it really was bin Laden. They certainly didn’t want to do anything to spook him because then they would have to start the whole search over again. That meant they couldn’t fly planes or drones at low altitude over the compound. They definitely couldn’t ask the people in the neighborhood. They didn’t want to involve the Pakistani government because, regardless of what the official position was, there were factions that had more sympathy for bin Laden than for the U.S. So, the official story is that the raid by the SEALs was ordered without definite confirmation. That part has always bothered me. It’s a big step to take without confirmation.”
“I see where you’re going with this. The CIA gets Francis over there. Francis sends Richard to take pictures with his special camera. The CIA gets their confirmation, and no one thinks anything about a bird flying around.”
Olson nodded. “Makes sense to me.”
Dinah chowed down her tapas.
Finally, Segal said, “It does, although it’s hard to imagine someone from Asheville getting caught up in international affairs on the other side of the world.”
“Unless you count soldiers as people,” Dinah said.
“Good point,” Segal said. Like many ex-military people, Dinah said so little about that part of her life that it was easy to forget she had been over there. “But in your case, what happened in Afghanistan stayed in Afghanistan. Assuming we’re right about Francis and what he did, it still doesn’t tell us what’s going on here at home.” He addressed the first part of this to Dinah, the second part to Olson.
Olson squinted and polished off his wine. “That I don’t know. I think you can assume something went wrong, either between Francis and the enemy or between Francis and the government. Any way you look at it, Francis has made some powerful enemies, and if you’re getting involved with this, you may be getting in the way of the same people.” Olson enumerated, ticking them off on his fingers: “The Taliban, Al-Qaeda, Muslim Brotherhood, CIA, U.S. military, military intelligence. Take your pick. I wouldn’t want any of those guys looking for me.”
As the Crow Dies Page 17