I remembered him because he had been one of the agents who had been investigating Anthony, on my original case. I also remember him because he perjured himself during my initial bond hearing. But, I was past holding a grudge. What I wasn't past was a room full of people, one of them being a guy who already had made it clear he didn't like or trust me. A guy like that will run his mouth to the wrong people at the wrong time and somebody like me will end up with 9 grams of lead poisoning. In addition, Jim had wanted me to testify against all sorts of people, and that wasn't what the 'War on Terror' was all about. No thanks, Jim. Your help will not be needed. And besides, he didn't have jurisdiction anyway. This was an international matter.
I was seated next to my attorney, and there were several other agents from the various intelligence agencies in the room. People were walking in and out of the room as if it was another day at the office. There was not even the slightest hint of security consciousness. None of these people would last a minute ln the field. It was all just fun to play 'secret agent' to them. In front of me was Dave Watson, of the Naval Investigative Service. I was dressed in an orange prison suit, handcuffs still on my wrists, shackles still attached to my ankles. So, there was a lot of trust being shared by everyone. Every person in the room was trying to look like the most important person in the room. I was starting to get embarrassed. Was this what u. S. Intelligence has become? How far we fall.
I turned to Gary, "I thought we were clear about only talking to one person?"
My attorney just shrugged. One of those 'my bad' kind of spineless shrugs, as if he had no choice in the matter. This was becoming a circus. I also realized that my attorney was no longer working for me. He was part of the machine. Just as we were about to begin, the AUSA Bill McMurray, from the original federal case, appeared to greet me.
"I don't know what's going on here, and it's none of my concern, but when you finish your Federal sentence you will have forty-five days to leave the country before I come after you for aiding Anthony in the Murder for Hire conspiracy. You will have to find a host country that will accept you." Then the guy turns on the heels of his 12-dollar shoes and wheels on out like he just got elected president of the hair club for men. I bet he had looked forward to that moment for several years. Practiced in the mirror and everything.
My attorney didn't say a word. He looked like he wanted to talk, but just couldn't find the right words. We call that being in over your head. Probably best, because when he did speak it was incoherent and bumbling.
What went on for the next hour seemed almost surreal. They asked me questions, and when I answered, I was barked at by Jim. He would snap that they already knew everything that I was saying, and then he would protest that they didn't have any way to verify what I was saying. So, I was either correct - in which case they already knew what I was telling them; or I was wrong because they had no way to corroborate my findings. They claimed that they didn't know who Nasser was. Hadn't heard of Celafia Jihad. And I thought that was a rather dubious position for them to take because Nasser and the other AQ boys were being held at the request of the u.s. Government.
For every answer I gave, the reply was, "We already know that," or "That's not important to us." So I wasn't sure what they wanted me to say.
I decided against arguing. When you debate a room full of idiots, they don't realize that they're idiots, and you become one for trying. So I just slid the pile of notes across the table to Dave Watson, the NIS guy. He nodded to me and took all of the notes. I also decided not to tell them about my 'shirt.' Perhaps my back-up plan would be used for a different purpose. I didn't know what was really going on. Was I in the middle of a turf war between agencies, or something less interesting? Was it possible that they thought I was making everything up? I guess that was possible, except that we had been right about the Dutch Embassy bombing, and I also had verifiable intel about several of the AQ boys. All of it could be checked-up on. But then, I am a low-life criminal, and am not to be trusted.
It was my impression that they were finding a way to write me off. They were going to ignore 6 months of intelligence gathering. I realized that we had learned nothing from the failures leading up to 9/11.
At any rate, Dave took my notes at the end of the meeting. He then told me in a lower voice that he would do what he could to get me signed on as an asset. That's government speak for, 'an expendable agent who was not trained by the u.s. and therefore will be left out in the cold if things go tits-up.'
So the meeting ended, and I was sent back to the detention center.
And I am sad to say, I was never interviewed again.
That night my attorney told me that they all believed that I was being opportunistic and withholding, all at the same time. They thought that I was spoon feeding them, trying to cut some deal to reduce my sentence.
"Opportunistic? I didn't ever ask for anything," I snapped. "But you could have told them about the training camps, and other stuff," my attorney said. Yes, it seemed as though he was on their side.
"I gave them intel for six months, at a pretty good personal risk, and then handed them all of my notes. I haven't even seen that stuff in nearly a month . . . what do they expect? And another thing, why was Jim Christi there? He has nothing to do with international terrorism."
"I'm not really sure why Jim was-"
I interrupted, "And while we're on the subject, why was there more than one person there at all? And why was that debriefing done at the Federal Building where all kinds of people we don't know sawall of us in an office together?"
"That's how they do it," my attorney tried to explain. And now he was taking an accusatory tone with me.
"I risked my life in Ibiza, and for six more months in Madrid. They asked me to do this, Gary. I didn't ask them for the privilege of infiltrating a terrorist organization. They came to me. This is being handled unprofessionally, and I am getting the feeling that you're on their side."
He didn't respond. We'll take that as a yes.
"I'll call you tomorrow," I said and then I hung-up the phone.
The next day my attorney informed me of my next court date, for sentencing. He told me that it was very important that I didn't say anything about what had happened in Spain. I was not to talk about anything that was discussed at the debriefing. I was to keep it shut. He assured me that the Judge probably knew all about what happened, but that they didn't want it becoming a public affair. You know, keep it off the record for the good of the Nation. If you want me to clam-up just say it, but don't wave the flag in my face . . . it's insulting.
He told me that he had spoken to Dave Watson, and that my intelligence had checked-out. He didn't say, 'Sorry for not believing in you,' or 'I should have listened more closely.' No, none of that. He told me that they thought I was reliable again. They would all be working behind the scenes to get me back to Spain as quickly as possible. They needed eyes on Nasser.
"It shouldn't take longer than six months, tops," he said on several occasions.
So, I did as I was told. I stood in front of Chief Judge A. Joe Fish, and was quiet the entire time.
He asked me if I had anything to say that might affect my sentencing. I noticed my attorney nervously watching me, scared that I might suddenly talk. I said, "No, your Honor."
The Judge then rambled on about enhancing my sentence from the original range of 41-46 months to a new range of 70-87 months. The reason for this was that I was being enhanced for several aggravating factors including: Leadership role in the offense, the possession of 5-7 guns, and Obstruction of Justice. All of that was in clear violation of the Extradition Treaty, but we didn't say anything . . . we, my attorney and I, just stood silent. Remember: My original charge was one (1) count of 'Felon in Possession of a Firearm.' And that was all I had pled guilty to.
If the Judge had been informed about my circumstance in Spain, he sure had a good poker face because we couldn't tell. In fact, he said, "I see no reason, based on your activities after pleading
guilty, not to sentence you to the maximum that the guideline will allow of 87 months."
And that was that. I got sentenced to 7 years and 3 months in Federal prison for going to a gun show while on State probation. That seemed to be more than just the 'pound of flesh' that my attorney had promised me. It also seemed a lot higher than the 6 months he had spoken of so often. But, I was still being told that I was going to be inserted back into Spain to continue my work.
"Six months, tops." That was in September of 2003.
I informed my lawyer that we should appeal the sentence, and he seemed to agree, but said that he still believed what he was being told by intelligence agents. I think that he was a bit too trusting because he never filed a 'Notice of Appeal' in my case. Then again, perhaps it was I who was being too trusting of Gary.
Off I went to prison.
End of operation.
The funny part is that even after getting to prison, I was still being told by my attorney 'six months.' Gary still believed that I would be heading back to Spain, any day. Or, at least, he was telling me that to keep me passive and quiet. Looking back now, I believe that he was sincere. I think he was taking the government's word . . . a silly choice for a solicitor.
But you know me and my naive patriotic foolishness. My dumb ass still thought that I was going back. I mean, how could they possibly overlook all of my intel? How would they explain this oversight if things ever went down that could have been prevented? How would they answer the questions from the families of those future victims?
Could the U. S. Government, the Chief Judge, the NIS, the CIA, the State Department, the FBI, and everyone peripherally involved answer the question: Why did you let us die?
Why is our son dead?
Who let our daughter die? Who killed our father ?
Why did my mommy have to die?
EPILOGUE
Within a couple of months the realization that I was not important to the u.s. Government finally set in. I was no longer on an intelligence operation, trying to infiltrate al Qaeda. No more AQ breakfasts. No more Nasser. No more 'Secret Group of al Qaeda.' And no more Salafia Jihad. No more anything.
I settled into prison life. It wasn't that much different from the Legion. My attorney created a memorandum that summed up what had occurred in Spain, and had it sent to Congressman Pete Sessions, from Texas. His people deferred the matter to the FBI, and tried to distance their office from any of it. I kept silent.
A petition for Pardon/Commutation of Sentence was sent to the U. S. Pardon attorney, on my behalf. I was still in the process of fighting the legality of my enhancements by an appeal process known as § 2255. In 99% of all cases, the 2255 is either rejected, or is not ruled on until the convicted person is done with his entire sentence. The Pardon attorney wrote me a letter that said they would only present the President with my Pardon application when all of my legal action was finished . . . which would be after I was out of prison. And it wouldn't do much good then. Dead end here, dead end there. I stayed silent.
I was asked, by my attorney, to write down a couple of chapters about my experiences in Spain, living with the terrorists and all that. He actually whispered to me during a phone conversation that he had 'spoken' to some people in the literary field, and that there would be a substantial amount of money involved.
I still believed in my country. I still wanted to serve.
I remained silent.
I submitted a request to be able to return to military service and fight in Iraq. I figured they could use the help, as they were having enough trouble convincing people to join the military when CNN was showing the daily body count along side the high-definition carnage, live from Iraq. You could almost taste the fear on everyone's mind. I received a nice letter back, rejecting my request. I was getting punch drunk. And still, I did not talk.
The strange thing about a boxer is: He knows before it all begins that he is going to be hit the second the fight starts. He knows it will hurt, that it will be dangerous, and that it could damage him forever. And yet, he does it anyway. Most boxers don't ever get rich. They get broken and traumatized, but they still love the fight. They just don't have any other way. Even if you put them in a nice suit, with a nice corner office, and a cute secretary with a nice voice, and a nice Volvo with good environment friendly fuel economy . . . he would never be nice. He would never be happy. The boxer needs the fight in order to live; in order to feel a sense of purpose.
In the second week of March, 2004, I was walking by the TV room on the way to my cell and some people were crowding into the small room to see something. Like the rest of the sheep, I followed them in and watched as the photographs came in from Madrid, Spain, where there had been several train bombings.
I squeezed into the room and found a spot in the back corner. There were bodies all twisted and bent mixed with metal, and rubber, and blood, and panic, and tears, and . . . innocence.
The first reports that came in were assuming it was the work of ETA(Euskadi Ta Askatasuna, the Basque Separatists), but I knew that this had nothing to do with them. I sighed numbly to myself and then looked at my watch. March 11th, 2004. The Hajj pilgrimage had ended just two weeks ago. I didn't want to be right this time. I didn't want to believe that maybe I could have somehow made a difference. I didn't want to have been a good intelligence source . . . a good spy, or an asset. Not this time.
I just wanted to be a failure.
Over the next couple of days the information came rolling In. There was a van. There was a tape. There were cellphones and residue and video images. And there were warnings. It was in fact al Qaeda taking responsibility for the attacks.
It was Celafia Jihad, of which I had been chosen to be a part. It was the group which was led by my friend. Led by Nasser. The group I had infiltrated, and which I could have been instrumental in understanding and dismantling.
I called Gary and he was going nuts. "You were right, you were exactly right! You called it almost nine months ago!"
"Now what?" I asked flatly. How many more had to die?
"They want you to go to work, again!" he claimed.
"Set it up, Gary. I'll do it."
But that never came to fruition.
They said they were worried that I would just run again. They needed assurances and guarantees that I couldn't possibly give. All I had was my word.
I'd lost everything else. And again, as the dead were being counted and pieced together, the families being destroyed one phone call at a time . . . I remained without a voice, silent as a distant planet. As quiet as an old radio in some attic collecting dust.
Again, I continued my new life as a Federal inmate.
In London, during July of 2005, several buses were bombed. The organization that eventually took responsibility was, 'The Secret Group of al Qaeda.' They had alleged ties with some of the Madrid bombing suspects and al Qaeda members. Well . . . of course they did. I didn't call my former attorney this time. What was the point? He just wanted to go on the interview circuit and get rich off of my mess. I started to feel sick to my stomach. I started to wonder if I was being a good patriot by being silent, or if I was an accomplice to mass murder. Had I become the very monster that Nasser said he was trying to defeat? Or was I something much worse?
Was I being quiet because I was strong willed and patriotic, putting the greater good of National security above my personal well being? Or was I staying silent because I didn't care any more? Was I scared to tell the story? What if nobody believed me? What if they retaliated against my family? What if they humiliated me? What if they tried to kill me? What if . . . ?
And then I realized that I too am a boxer. I am here, on this earth for one purpose . . . to fight. All of us have a path that we choose among the myriad possibilities out there. Some of us become doctors, others aspire to build hospitals. Some like civil service, others like food service. People sell shoes, and
scientists design better rubber for the soles of shoes. People clean the air
, others box it up and sell it. One way or another, everyone changes our perceptions of the world through their chosen path, good or bad.
I fight. It's the only thing that I do, and I do it in every aspect of my life. Whether it is chess, or in the jungle, or the affection of a beautiful girl . . . I fight. with a pistol or a pen, I fight. And I will continue to do so. It is all that I can do. I can't stop fighting because I couldn't live with losing.
For that reason I have chosen to not be silent.
I have decided to fight again. And as sure as the setting of the sun is, I know that this will be painful to everyone involved. I still have to do it. I'm ready for the character bashing. Matter of fact, I'll save them all a little time . . . I'm a bad guy. I'll carry a machine-gun for cash. I'll fight somebody else's war if the money's right. I'm no longer a patriot. And I don't mind running up a credit card debt that I probably won't ever pay back. The last check I'll ever write will be to the mortician . . . and it's probably going to bounce.
Call me a monster.
I'm okay with that.
I have my own set of rules. Not your rules, most likely—but rules that keep me going. But I'm certainly not going to lay down. Not on this one.
This is my fight.
My own perfect nightmare.
The fight is the only thing left which they cannot take from me. Even in death. But remember this: If you don't get me, you had better leave a light on late at night.
Now . . . I am the walking ghost.
N ICHOLAS B LACK
About the Author:
Controversial novelist Nicholas Black is the author of several fiction and non-fiction works including Soul's Harbor: True Adventures of Medic-13, The Last American Mercenary, and See Jack Die. A former bodyguard and Security Consultant in Mexico, Central America, Spain, France, and Northern Africa, he also served in the coveted French Foreign Legion while on the run from the federal government for refusing to cooperate with a murder investigation.
Walking Ghost: Welcome to Terrorist University Page 12