Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

  Worn out, she returned to her corner office at the end of the hall, plopped into her seat, kicked off her heels, and spun to look outside. Floodlights illuminated the predecessor to the Air Force SR-71, the last remaining A-12 “up on a stick and not in a museum” as Duncan lamented every time he saw it.

  Unhappy with herself for not finding anything, she tried to console herself that there was no such missing file on the president. She didn’t like disappointing Duncan, and his request to locate a mythical file hurt. Duncan had done so much for her, but the file simply didn’t exist. He would understand.

  She’d been going nonstop once she was confirmed as the Chief of the NE Division, and she felt exhausted and defeated. She didn’t want to go to the garage where her smartphone was to send Duncan a message that she failed. Even SIS couldn’t bring cell phones into the building, and she was in no hurry to make the half-mile trek to her car and send him the bad news.

  She spun around to face her desk and saw the three-cushion sofa that was her bed the previous night. Not comfortable, but it’ll do, she thought.

  She had little appetite. The cafeteria, with its 100 tiny ponytail palms in the windows, was closed for the evening. I’d go for Mexican, but I promised Duncan I’d stay on campus, she thought with a sigh.

  Nazy reflected how far she came since leaving Jordan and meeting Duncan. Everything about him thrilled her. For seven years, she worked with other high-powered executives and agents in the intelligence community, but none had what Duncan did— her heart. He was the most exciting man she ever met. Everything around her reminded her of him.

  The sofa brought back sweet memories of Duncan and her in that room naked, curled together under a blanket, listening to Moody Blues. Nazy scanned the opposite wall and its bookcase of reference materials. It resembled the racks of books when Duncan was in school at Newport. Nazy hadn’t thought much about the five shelves filled with a variety of history books left from her predecessor, some related to the art of intelligence-gathering or fighting terrorists.

  In stockinged feet, she walked to the racks of books. “Maybe there’s a sleeping aid here,” she said.

  Titles on top, such as The Art of War Gaming; Data Mining and Predictive Analysis: Intelligence Gathering and Crime Analysis; The Strategy of Conflict; Psychology of Intelligence Analysis; International Terrorism: Challenge and Response; A Place Among the Nations; Fighting Terrorism: How Democracies Can Defeat Domestic and International Terrorism; A Durable Peace: Israel and Its Place among the Nations; stirred her curiosity.

  “A big Netanyahu fan,” she said, taking down Terrorism: How the West Can Win and thumbing through the pages. She would have to read that someday, if her schedule ever slowed down.

  Nazy returned the book and scanned the second, third, and fourth shelves’ titles, noting The Art of the Long View: Planning for the Future in an Uncertain World.

  On the next shelf, she saw The Campaigns of Napoleon; Nimitz; The Peloponnesian War; From Beirut to Jerusalem; Peacekeeper; Crisis of Islam: Holy War and Unholy Terror.

  “Similar and overflow from the top,” she murmured.

  She crouched down, unladylike in a dress, balancing on the balls of her feet with her bosom crushed against her knees. “Biographies?” She fingered the titles. “I won’t be reading MacArthur, Napoleon, Gandhi, Lenin, or Mandela anytime soon. Jefferson, Washington, Truman. Maybe Teddy Roosevelt, Churchill, and Kennedy.”

  Her eyes suddenly locked on several narrows books in the corner. One spine was so dark, she couldn’t read the title or author, but the other two caught her off guard. The author’s name seemed out of sync with the others. She smiled.

  “OK. With all these great books, why would you have two autobiographies from the current president in the darkest corner of the bookshelf? In plain sight.”

  With a delicate finger, she rocked the two books toward her, grasped them, and stood. Though she knew she was alone, she subconsciously looked around her office. The outer door was closed, and the secretary was long gone. All the safes were closed, with red magnetic signs reading Closed and Locked.

  This has to be it, she thought, slipping into the heavy leather chair behind her desk. She flipped open the first book and thumbed through the pages, expecting paper to fall out or to find a hollowed area with a key or thumb drive inside.

  Nothing occurred. She set that book aside and flipped through the pages of the next one with the same result. Something was different, though. The pages were slicker and whiter than other mass-market books, and the print was different.

  She looked closer, and one corner of her mouth rose in a wry grin. She began reading. When she turned to the center of the book, she saw a copy of a British passport issued to the president with his name and picture inside—evidence of the bearer’s nationality and immigration status from one of the territories of the United Kingdom.

  Nazy was shocked. Her heart raced, and she found it difficult to blink. She couldn’t resolve the conflict of the documents she held and the person she saw on TV, who’d been crafted by the media into a smooth, erudite Harvard attorney constantly, viciously attacked by right-wing elements.

  With a large breath, she recovered and blinked her eyes several times. After a moment, she flipped through the pages and saw copies of embassy dispatches, college applications, matriculation-exemption documents, Social Security number applications, close-up and long-distance photographs. Other pages showed copies of attendance rosters at socialist and communist gatherings, church sign-in sheets, and license applications. There were visa applications and over forty dispatches from Islamabad.

  She read fragments of the tiny print. It was clear, but some documents warranted a magnifying glass. She had 300 pages of material on bond paper held between the hardbound covers of two books.

  “Something the S&T could have assembled,” she said softly. Then it struck her. She drew her hand to her mouth.

  “It’s true. Oh, my word, it’s all true.”

  Pausing for a moment, she said, “These might be the only documents that can prove the president’s detractors were right.”

  She glanced around the room, as another worm of an idea crept into her consciousness. There were many questions about how the old NE Division chief died. Rumors that an ex-wife killed him had circulated for a few days, but the crushing workload and the high tempo at the Agency meant that rumors died quickly.

  However, some wondered not only how he died but why.

  Nazy knew the material in those books were the reason the former chief’s life ended so abruptly. When she heard a knock at her door, she jumped.

  “Ms. Cunningham?” asked a familiar voice, galvanizing her thoughts and actions.

  She quickly closed the book and smoothed her suit front. “Come in, Sir.”

  When Director of Central Intelligence Carey strolled in, Nazy was stunned, and she felt a jolt of adrenalin race through her. “Director Carey, I thought you were out of the country. What can I do for you at this late hour, Sir?” She remained the consummate professional although her knees were banging together.

  The DCI rarely wandered down to the sixth floor, and he was never in the building at night. She wondered if he intercepted Duncan’s messages.

  “I noticed you were still here. You and your people have been burning the midnight oil lately.” He laughed internally and smiled before composing himself and closing the door behind him.

  “Yes, Sir. Someone said the information coming out of the CTC is like trying to take a sip from a fire hose. It was too much to analyze all at once. We got through the last of it today. My report went to the deputy and should be on your desk soon.”

  “That’s very good.” He waved his hands downward. “Have a seat, Nazy.”

  He always mispronounced her name as NAY-zee, while everyone else called her NAH-zee. Someone once told her he was from a certain part of Massachusetts where people had trouble with A’s and R’s.

  He wedged himself into one of the two leather-bound
office chairs facing the desk. “I see you’re reading our president’s book.”

  She hid her concern when she thought he might reach for it. To avoid temptation, she smiled and put the books in the bottom desk drawer. “Yes, Sir. Part of my professional reading. He’s had an interesting life.” As she waited, her knees were knocking together so loudly she thought they sounded like cymbals. She struggled not to shake.

  He studied her for a few seconds. Finally, he took a deep breath. “Nazy, from what I’ve heard, you and your team have done very well over the last couple of months. Your selection as Chief NE has been validated several times over. You found the gem in that illegal documents release that forced DOD to move up the raid schedule. You also found—what was it?—ten others that showed there were WMD in Iraq that were moved to Syria. That State didn’t share those dispatches with us was treasonous, and I’ve talked to the Secretary about it. I’m not sure anything will come of it, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, Sir.” She tried not to smile. The room felt colder after he walked in, as if evil emanated from him like perfume.

  “I’m sorry the president’s Muslim-outreach initiative didn’t catch on. I thought you’d benefit greatly from that. I thought the Agency would benefit, too.”

  “Director Carey, Sir, I’m not sure you’re aware that I renounced Islam eight years ago. I thought I could provide some guidance to possibly locate some good Muslims suitable for recruitment. I believe unless you have someone like me, who renounced Islam, the Agency will always have trouble hiring and integrating Muslims into the IC. They won’t be able to pass a polygraph, and, if they haven’t renounced Islam and Sharia, I don’t believe you can trust them with national secrets.” She couldn’t believe she just said that.

  The DCI had an agenda. Lowering his eyes and voice, he said, “Your assessment was on target on that. It looks like over the last couple of years, just about everything you touched has been golden. The deputies agree you have the Midas touch.”

  “Thank you, Sir. That’s most kind. In all fairness, my team made it happen. It has always been a team effort. It wasn’t just the Nazy Cunningham show.”

  Retaining his submissive posture, he picked at his cuticles. “Well, the president thinks you were instrumental in Osama bin Laden’s takedown. Your analysis with his wives identified the compound, and NE and CTC surveilled it. You found the dispatches that mentioned that town in Pakistan as a special-interest location before the CTC. He was very interested in the analyst who forced him to authorize a raid before we were sure. He didn’t want to do it unless we were 100% sure. We were never going to be that certain. He wasn’t happy when I told him. I probably shouldn’t tell you, but just between us girls, he was furious at me, and, by extension, you.”

  “I’m very sorry, Director Carey.”

  He raised his head to look into her eyes, then flipped his hand dismissively. “It worked out, and now he’s a hero. He came to recognize that you were a key part of the team that made him look like a hero.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “He wanted to know if it was a fluke on your part or if you were a superstar. I said you were in the Beatles category of superstar, that you also found Iraq’s WMD in Syria when everyone else was looking at Iran, and your other successes in Saudi are what catapulted you into the chief’s position and SIS.”

  “Thank you, Sir. Those successes were team events. I appreciate the kind words.” She kept it short, sweet, and team-oriented as Duncan always advised her.

  “Nazy, the network you developed was, and still is, producing actionable intelligence. That’s very hard to sustain. It takes a rare officer who can go in and survive scrutiny for a long time and leave a functioning network after the case O leaves.”

  Nazy’s sensitivities were in full-suspicion mode. He wanted something, and she knew it wasn't a date. “Thank you, Director Carey.” It seemed he was taking a lot of time to arrange his thoughts and what to say next.

  “Nazy, I need a couple of favors.”

  Here it comes, she thought. “What do you need, Sir?”

  The DCI sucked a lungful of air. “First, the president wants to give you a medal—the Intelligence Medal of Merit.”

  Her knees stopped shaking for a moment, as if warm air suddenly blew up her skirt and stopped her shivering. “Sir, thank you for your trust and confidence in me. I appreciate the accolades, but I really don’t think I deserve something like that.”

  “Well, Nazy, I nominated you for the medal, and it’s been approved. The president wants to give it to you in person, at the White House at noon this coming Tuesday. I know you had a speaking engagement at the Marine Corps War College during that time, but I would greatly appreciate it if you’d change your plans and attend the ceremony at the White House.”

  “Director Carey, thank you again for your trust and confidence in me. I suppose putting it in the mail or having you present it to me privately isn’t an option?” Her mind raced. Is this a trap? Does he somehow know I have the file? Why this, and why now? It’s too much too fast.

  “Sir, I’m not comfortable breaking my cover for a political ceremony. It’s not that important to me. If there was some way I didn’t have to go….” She realized he asked for more than one favor. “Sir, you had another favor?”

  He looked as if he appreciated the change in subject. He wasn’t accustomed to a Muslim woman who was so direct and strong. He hadn’t believed a Muslima could walk away from Islam, but she didn’t act like any other Muslima he ever met. She wasn’t easily intimidated by him or any man.

  The rumor about her was that she might be gay, but the men and women who asked her out always struck out. She was different but always professional. He needed her help. He assumed offering the medal would make her ready to do anything for him, but he was wrong. He needed to ask his question in a different way. All he could do was toss the dice and see if she would play.

  “Nazy, I’m sure you’ve heard some of the rumors surrounding our president.”

  She wasn’t sure what that meant. “Clarification, Director Carey? I’m not sure what we’re talking about. I know of no presidential rumors.”

  “He asked me to see if there was a file on him. Republicans erroneously repeat the charge that he went to Pakistan.”

  “Director Carey, he stated he went to Pakistan in his book.”

  “Would there be a file on him?”

  Her mind raced. “Sir, we don’t track intel on US citizens. That’s the purview of the FBI. If we have anything in dispatch, it gets pushed to them via our FBI liaison. If there was anything, there would be a record of when, where it went, and who received it. I’ve never seen or heard anything. This might be the CIA, but it would be hard to keep a secret like that in this place.”

  “Could you get into the database and see if there was anything on him, any information transferred to the FBI? I’m unfamiliar with the actual process.”

  “Sir, I’ll ask the deputy if he could give me some direction. I’m….”

  “I’d rather we kept this between you and me for right now. If there was anything, I’d think it would be in the NE. Would there be anything on his father, for example?”

  “I understand his father was a British subject. I could see if his name is in the database. I could e-mail you my findings.”

  “Nazy, this is unofficial. If you find anything, just stick your head in the office and tell me. I think it should be a quick check of the file database. If there is a file, where is it, and where did it go?” He thought it would be perfect to have the bitch who screwed up the president’s plan to wait and kill Osama bin Laden later to be the same one who exposed the file on the president. There had to be some record of the file transferred to the personal file of the DCI.

  Though he thought she was good-looking, she was a bitch to make him work so hard for his requests. She was much stronger than she seemed and wasn't as easy to manipulate as he thought.

  “Sir, that shouldn’t be difficult to ascertain
,” she said. “I’ll get on your calendar and report what, if anything, I find.”

  He smiled and stood. “Thank you, Nazy. Go home, have a good weekend, and practice what you’ll say to him.” He reached over the desk to shake her hand. “Congratulations.” Her firm, confident grip surprised him.

  As he turned to leave, he kept his back toward her as he said, “I’ll tell him I caught you reading his book when I told you about the medal. He’ll get a thrill out of that.” He walked to the door.

  Nazy, still standing, wondered if that was all he was after.

  Suddenly Carey stopped and turned. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Absolutely, Sir.”

  “There’ll be a big announcement on Monday and a ceremony on Tuesday. I really hope you’re there. I would consider it a personal favor. Thanks again, and good night.”

  Then DCI Carey turned and was gone.

  Was that it? she wondered. He wanted to ask me something else.

  Kicking off her heels, she ran to the door and locked it.

  Back behind her desk, she withdrew the two books from the bottom drawer and took a magnifying glass from the center drawer. As she read, she could barely focus on the copies of the documents before her.

  *

  Nazy could not sleep. She sat up from the sofa, her head in her hands.“I have to get out of here. I have to get these to Duncan.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  2300 June 10, 2011

  USS Stockdale, DDG-106

  Carl Vinson Carrier Strike Group Indian Ocean

  The gray HH-60 lifted off from Spot 3 of USS Carl Vinson, heading for the fantail of USS Stockdale, three miles south. The Landing Signal Enlisted guided the aircraft onto the flight deck. His lighted coveralls and illuminated wands marked the X on the darkened ship. The pilot flew a slow, coordinated angled approach to the landing spot.

  The LSE signaled Stop Forward Motion by crossing the wands overhead, and then, in a single motion, brought the crossed wands to his knees to signal Land Here. The pilot deftly obeyed and landed easily, the tail wheel touching down first, then the mains.